Naval Power and Expeditionary Wars: Peripheral Campaigns and New Theatres of Naval Warfare

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Naval Power and Expeditionary Warfare

This book examines the nature and character of naval expeditionary warfare, in particular in peripheral campaigns, and the contribution of such campaigns to the achievement of strategic victory. Naval powers, which can lack the massive ground forces to win in the main theatre, often choose a secondary theatre accessible to them by sea and difficult for their enemies to reach by land, giving the sea power and its expeditionary forces the advantage. The technical term for these theatres is “peripheral operations.” The subject of peripheral campaigns in naval expeditionary warfare is central to the British, the US, and the Australian way of war in the past and in the future. All three are reluctant to engage large land forces because of the high human and economic costs. Instead, they rely as much as possible on sea and air power, and the latter is most often in the form of carrier-based aviation. In order to exert pressure on their enemies, they have often opened additional theatres in on-going, regional, and civil wars. This book contains 13 case studies by some of the foremost naval historians from the United States, Great Britain, and Australia whose collected chapters examine the most important peripheral operations of the last two centuries. This book will be of much interest to students of naval warfare, military history, strategic studies, and security studies. Bruce A. Elleman is Research Professor in the Maritime History Department at the U.S. Naval War College. S.C.M. Paine is a Professor in the Strategy and Policy Department at the U.S. Naval War College.

Cass Series: Naval Policy and History Series Editor: Geoffrey Till

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ISSN 1366-9478

This series consists primarily of original manuscripts by research scholars in the general area of naval policy and history, without national or chronological limitations. It will from time to time also include collections of important articles as well as reprints of classic works.   1 Austro-Hungarian Naval Policy, 1904–1914 Milan N. Vego

  7 The Italian Navy and Fascist Expansionism, 1935–1940 Robert Mallett

  2 Far-Flung Lines Studies in imperial defence in honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman Edited by Keith Neilson and Greg Kennedy

  8 The Merchant Marine and International Affairs, 1850–1950 Edited by Greg Kennedy

  3 Maritime Strategy and Continental Wars Rear Admiral Raja Menon   4 The Royal Navy and German Naval Disarmament 1942–1947 Chris Madsen   5 Naval Strategy and Operations in Narrow Seas Milan N. Vego   6 The Pen and Ink Sailor Charles Middleton and the King’s Navy, 1778–1813 John E. Talbott

  9 Naval Strategy in Northeast Asia Geo-strategic goals, policies and prospects Duk-Ki Kim 10 Naval Policy and Strategy in the Mediterranean Sea Past, present and future Edited by John B. Hattendorf 11 Stalin’s Ocean-Going Fleet Soviet naval strategy and shipbuilding programmes, 1935–1953 Jürgen Rohwer and Mikhail S. Monakov

12 Imperial Defence, 1868–1887 Donald Mackenzie Schurman; edited by John Beeler

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13 Technology and Naval Combat in the Twentieth Century and Beyond Edited by Phillips Payson O’Brien 14 The Royal Navy and Nuclear Weapons Richard Moore 15 The Royal Navy and the Capital Ship in the Interwar Period An operational perspective Joseph Moretz 16 Chinese Grand Strategy and Maritime Power Thomas M. Kane 17 Britain’s Anti-Submarine Capability, 1919–1939 George Franklin 18 Britain, France and the Naval Arms Trade in the Baltic, 1919–1939 Grand strategy and failure Donald Stoker 19 Naval Mutinies of the Twentieth Century An international perspective Edited by Christopher Bell and Bruce Elleman 20 The Road to Oran Anglo-French naval relations, September 1939–July1940 David Brown

21 The Secret War Against Sweden US and British submarine deception and political control in the 1980s Ola Tunander 22 Royal Navy Strategy in the Far East, 1919–1939 Planning for a war against Japan Andrew Field 23 Seapower A guide for the twenty-first century Geoffrey Till 24 Britain’s Economic Blockade of Germany, 1914–1919 Eric W. Osborne 25 A Life of Admiral of the Fleet Andrew Cunningham A twentieth-century naval leader Michael Simpson 26 Navies in Northern Waters, 1721–2000 Edited by Rolf Hobson and Tom Kristiansen 27 German Naval Strategy, 1856–1888 Forerunners to Tirpitz David Olivier 28 British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000 Influences and actions Edited by Greg Kennedy 29 The Rise and Fall of the Soviet Navy in the Baltic, 1921–1940 Gunnar Aselius

30 The Royal Navy, 1930–1990 Innovation and defence Edited by Richard Harding

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31 The Royal Navy and Maritime Power in the Twentieth Century Edited by Ian Speller 32 Dreadnought Gunnery and the Battle of Jutland The question of fire control John Brooks 33 Greek Naval Strategy and Policy, 1910–1919 Zisis Fotakis 34 Naval Blockades and Seapower Strategies and counter-strategies, 1805–2005 Edited by Bruce A. Elleman and Sarah C.M. Paine 35 The Pacific Campaign in World War II From Pearl Harbor to Guadalcanal William Bruce Johnson 36 Anti-Submarine Warfare in World War I British naval aviation and the defeat of the U-boats John J. Abbatiello 37 The Royal Navy and Anti-Submarine Warfare, 1944–49 Malcolm Llewellyn-Jones 38 The Development of British Naval Thinking Essays in memory of Bryan Ranft Edited by Geoffrey Till

39 Educating the Royal Navy 18th and 19th century education for officers H.W. Dickinson 40 Chinese Naval Strategy in the 21st Century The turn to Mahan James R. Holmes and Toshi Yoshihara 41 Naval Coalition Warfare From the Napoleonic War to Operation Iraqi Freedom Edited by Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine 42 Operational Warfare at Sea Theory and practice Milan Vego 43 Naval Peacekeeping and Humanitarian Operations Stability from the sea Edited by James J. Wirtz and Jeffrey A. Larsen 44 Indian Naval Strategy in the 21st Century James R. Holmes, Andrew C. Winner, and Toshi Yoshihara 45 Seapower A guide for the twenty-first century (second edition) Geoffrey Till 46 Naval Power and Expeditionary Warfare Peripheral campaigns and new theatres of naval warfare Edited by Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine

Naval Power and Expeditionary Warfare Downloaded by [INFLIBNET Centre] at 06:24 25 September 2012

Peripheral campaigns and new theatres of naval warfare Edited by Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine

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First published 2011 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2011. To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. © 2011 Selection and editorial matter, Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine; individual contributors, their contributions The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN 0-203-83321-X Master e-book ISBN

ISBN13: 978-0-415-54608-9 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-83321-6 (ebk)

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Contents



List of contributors Foreword

ix xii

J ohn B . H attendorf



Acknowledgments

  1 Introduction

xiv 1

B ruce A . E lleman and S . C . M . P aine

  2 Legal issues in expeditionary campaigns

5

E ric T albot J ensen

  3 Festering the Spanish ulcer: The Royal Navy and the Peninsular War, 1808–1814

15

M ichael D uffy

  4 The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854

29

A ndrew D . L ambert

  5 Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation

45

R obin P rior

  6 The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918

58

P aul G . H alpern

  7 Pearl Harbor and beyond: Japan’s peripheral strategy to defeat China S . C . M . P aine

70

viii   Contents   8 A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre: Guadalcanal and World War II in the Pacific

84

B radford A . L ee

  9 The New Guinea campaign during World War II

99

D a v id S te v ens

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10 Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea

113

D onald C hisholm

11 Naval operations in peripheral conflicts: The Malayan Emergency (1948–1960) and Confrontation (1962–1966)

129

J effrey G rey

12 China’s 1974 naval expedition to the Paracel Islands

141

B ruce A . E lleman

13 “Always expect the unexpected”: The Falklands/Malvinas war of 1982

152

E ric G ro v e

14 The maritime campaign in Iraq

167

P eter J ones

15 U.S. naval operations and contemporary geopolitics: The War on Terror and the New Great Game in the early-twenty-first century

182

J ohn R ee v e

16 Conclusions: Naval expeditionary warfare and the future of sea power

197

B ruce A . E lleman and S . C . M . P aine



Selected bibliography Index

213 222

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Contributors

Donald Chisholm is Professor of Joint Military Operations, U.S. Naval War College. He is the author of Coordination Without Hierarchy: Informal Structures in Multi-Organizational Systems (1989); and Waiting for Dead Men’s Shoes: Origins and Development of the U.S. Navy’s Officer Personnel System, 1793–1941 (2001), for which he received the 2001 RADM Samuel Eliot Morison Award for Distinguished Contribution to Naval Literature. Michael Duffy has recently retired from his position as Associate Professor, Head of History, and Director of the Centre for Maritime Historical Studies at the University of Exeter but remains a University Fellow. His published books include The Military Revolution and the State, 1500–1800 (1980); Soldiers, Sugar and Seapower: The British Expeditions to the West Indies and the War Against Revolutionary France (1987); Parameters of British Naval Power 1650–1850 (1992); The Glorious First of June: A Naval Battle and its Aftermath, edited with Roger Morriss (2003); Touch and Take: The Battle of Trafalgar 21 October 1805 (2005); and, with R. Mackay, Hawke, Nelson and British Naval Leadership in the Age of Sail 1747–1805 (2009). Bruce A. Elleman is Research Professor in the Maritime History Department, Center for Naval Warfare Studies, U.S. Naval War College. He is the author of Diplomacy and Deception: The Secret History of Sino-Soviet Diplomatic Relations, 1917–1927 (1997); Modern Chinese Warfare, 1795–1989 (2001, translated into Chinese); Wilson and China: A Revised History of the Shandong Question (2002); Japanese–American Civilian Prisoner Exchanges and Detention Camps, 1941–45 (2006); and Moscow and the Emergence of Communist Power in China, 1925–30: The Nanchang Uprising and the Birth of the Red Army (2009). Jeffrey Grey is Professor of History in the School of Humanities and Social Sciences, University College, Australian Defence Force Academy in Canberra. He is the author of numerous articles and chapters, and either the author or editor of 26 books in the fields of Australian and comparative and international military history, including The Commonwealth Armies and the Korean War (1988); Australian Brass (1992); The Oxford Companion to Australian Military History

x   Contributors

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(with Peter Dennis) (1995); Emergency and Confrontation (with Peter Dennis) (1996); Up Top (1998); A Military History of Australia (1990, 1999, 2008); The Australian Army (2001, 2006); and The Last Word? (2003). Eric Grove is Professor of Naval History and Director of the Centre for International Security and War Studies, University of Salford. He was a civilian lecturer at the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth (1971–1984); Vice President of the Society for Nautical Research, Member of Council of the Navy Records Society, and Fellow of the Royal Historical Society. He is the author or editor of over 20 books including: Vanguard to Trident: British Naval Policy Since World War II (1987); The Future of Sea Power (1990); The Price of Disobedience: The Battle of the River Plate Reconsidered (2000); and The Royal Navy Since 1815: A New Short History (2005). Paul G. Halpern is Emeritus Professor in the Department of History, Florida State University, Tallahassee, Florida. His books include The Mediterranean Naval ­Situation, 1908–1914 (1971); The Naval War in the Mediterranean, 1914–1918 (1987); A Naval History of World War I (1994); Anton Haus: Österreich-Ungarns Grossadmiral (1998) and The Battle of Otranto Straits May 15th 1917 (2004). John B. Hattendorf is Ernest J. King Professor of Maritime History and Chairman of the Maritime History Department, Center for Naval Warfare Studies, U.S. Naval War College. He is the author, co-author, editor, or co-editor of more than 40 volumes on maritime history, including England in the War of the Spanish Succession (1987); Naval History and Maritime Strategy: Collected Essays (2000); The Evolution of the U.S. Navy’s Maritime Strategy 1977–1986 (2004); U.S. Naval Strategy: Selected Documents (2006–2008); and the Oxford Encyclopedia of Maritime History, 4 vols. (2007), winner of the 2008 Dartmouth Medal for outstanding reference work. Eric Talbot Jensen is Visiting Assistant Professor at Fordham Law School in New York City. He spent 20 years in the US Army, serving as the Chief of the Army’s International Law Branch; Deputy Legal Advisor for Task Force Baghdad; Professor of International and Operational Law at The Judge Advocate General’s Legal Center and School; legal advisor to UNPREDEP in Skopje, Macedonia; and legal advisor in Bosnia in support of Operation Joint Endeavor/Guard. Peter Jones is a Rear Admiral in the Royal Australian Navy. During Operation Iraqi Freedom, the then Captain Jones was both Commander Australian Surface Task Group and the Coalition Maritime Interception Operations Screen Commander. He has contributed to numerous naval history and strategy publications and is the Strategic J6 (Communications) in the Australian Defence Force. Andrew D. Lambert is Laughton Professor of Naval History, Department of War Studies, King’s College, London. His books include The Crimean War:

Contributors   xi

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British Grand Strategy Against Russia 1853–1856 (1990); The Last Sailing Battlefleet: Maintaining Naval Mastery 1815–1850 (1991); The Foundations of Naval History: Sir John Laughton, the Royal Navy and the Historical Profession (1998); Nelson: Britannia’s God of War (2004); Admirals: The Naval Commanders Who Made Britain Great (2008); and The Gates of Hell: Sir John Franklin’s Tragic Quest for the North-West Passage (2009). Bradford A. Lee is Professor in the Strategy and Policy Department, U.S. Naval War College. Author of Britain and the Sino-Japanese War, 1937–1939: A Study in the Dilemmas of British Decline (1973); Strategic Logic and Political Rationality: Essays in Honor of Michael I. Handel (co-editor) (2003); and “The Cold War as a Coalition Struggle,” in Naval Coalition Warfare: From the Napoleonic War to Operation Iraqi Freedom, Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine, eds. (2008). S.C.M. Paine is Professor in the Strategy and Policy Department, U.S. Naval War College. She is the author of Imperial Rivals: China, Russia and Their Disputed Frontiers (1996), the winner of the Jelavich Book Prize; The SinoJapanese War of 1894–1895: Perceptions, Power and Primacy (2002); and co-editor with Bruce A. Elleman of Naval Blockades and Seapower: Strategies and Counter-Strategies, 1805–2005 (2006) and Naval Coalition Warfare: From the Napoleonic War to Operation Iraqi Freedom (2008). Robin Prior was until recently Professor and Head of the School of Humanities and Social Sciences (and previously of the School of History), University of New South Wales, Australian Defence Force Academy. His publications include: Churchill’s World Crisis as History (1983); Gallipoli: The End of the Myth (2009); and four books with Trevor Wilson: Command on the Western Front: The Military Career of General Sir Henry Rawlinson 1914–1918 (1992); Passchendaele: The Untold Story (1996); The First World War (1999); and The Somme (2005). John Reeve is Senior Lecturer and Osborne Fellow in Naval History at the University of New South Wales, Australian Defence Force Academy, Canberra, and a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society. An Associate Editor of The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004), he is the author or co-editor of Charles I and the Road to Personal Rule (1989), The Face of Naval Battle: The Human Experience of Modern War at Sea (with David Stevens, 2003), and Sea Power Ashore and in the Air (with David Stevens, 2007). David Stevens is a former Australian naval officer and the author or editor of several books on naval strategy and history, including U-Boat Far From Home (1997), The Royal Australian Navy (2001), The Face of Naval Battle: The Human Experience of Modern War at Sea (with John Reeve, 2003), and The Royal Australian Navy in World War II (revised and expanded second edition, 2004), A Critical Vulnerability (2005) and Sea Power Ashore and In the Air (with John Reeve, 2007).

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Foreword

This volume of historical case studies is an innovative effort to explore more thoroughly some key concepts about the nature and character of naval campaigns fought for limited strategic and operational objectives. The concept of expeditionary warfare and the idea of a peripheral campaign in warfare are well-known to military professionals, but they have rarely been considered together with a focus on linking their functions in naval history. Expeditionary warfare is a traditional concept that has its remote origins in the maritime raiding of the ancient and medieval eras. In its most modern and sophisticated applications, it is the projection of power across the oceans and it is carried out by what the American armed forces have come to describe as “rapid deployment forces.” In the first decade of the twenty-first century, the term is often used to describe joint-service military operations that are sent to distant places. Typically, such operations are supported by warships that are available on short notice. Such forces are either already forward-deployed in the distant theatre of operations or are readily available to put to sea from their home bases for such assignments. Additionally, the landing forces that are put ashore from ships in distant places are usually sustained from the sea while undertaking their mission. To some writers, the term “peripheral campaign” is a pejorative one used to dismiss a campaign as irrelevant. In military theory, as well as in this volume, a peripheral campaign is one that is an indirect assault on an enemy. A peripheral campaign is not the central campaign in major war, but, as a subsidiary operation to the main campaign, may nevertheless have decisive and important results by employing an indirect approach. Such campaigns are particularly important in warfare for undertaking limited and clearly defined strategic and operational objectives. This work provides insightful historical case studies that build and expand upon the theoretical base that the British military historian and theorist MajorGeneral Sir Charles Callwell (1859–1928) laid in his 1905 work Military Operations and Maritime Preponderance1 and that was complemented by the work of the contemporary naval historian and strategist Sir Julian Corbett (1854–1922) in his 1911 study, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy.2 As these classic writers on the subject pointed out a century ago, expeditionary warfare is a

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Foreword   xiii method of exercising sea power when that power has command of the sea. Several decades later, Sir Basil Liddell Hart (1895–1970) expounded further upon some of the ideas behind the concept of peripheral campaigns in his thinking about British warfare and indirect strategy.3 In this volume of collaborative scholarship, undertaken as a research project in the Maritime History Department at the U.S. Naval War College, Dr. Bruce Elleman and Dr. Sarah Paine have brought together thirteen case studies that provide comparative insights from a century-and-a-half of world-wide naval experience of expeditionary warfare. The range of individual case studies with the accompanying comparative analysis on this often overlooked topic contributes to historical understanding and also makes a contribution to the theory and understanding of naval warfare. These historical case studies and the collective analysis of them are relevant to current and future thinking about naval operations. However, the conclusions and views expressed by the contributors to, and the editors of, this volume do not in any way reflect any official view of the U.S. Naval War College, the U.S. Navy, the U.S. Department of Defense, or any other agency. The volume is intended only as an academic contribution to both scholarship and to professional naval thinking. John B. Hattendorf Ernest J. King Professor of Maritime History Chairman, Maritime History Department Naval War College4

Notes 1 Charles E. Callwell, Military Operations and Maritime Preponderance: Their Relations and Interdependence, with an introduction and notes by Colin S. Gray. Classics of Sea Power series (Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1996). 2 Julian S. Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, annotated with an introduction by Eric J. Grove. Classics of Sea Power series (Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1988). 3 Basil Liddell Hart, The British Way in Warfare (London: Faber and Faber, 1932); Strategy: the Indirect Approach. Third edition, enlarged (London: Faber and Faber, 1954). 4 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author and are not necessarily those of the U.S. government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College.

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Acknowledgments

The editors and contributors would like to thank Rear Admiral Mark Anderson RN, Rear Admiral Allan Du Toit RAN, Rear Admiral James Goldrick RAN, Captain Nick Hine RN, Sub-Lieutenant Ben Jenson RAN, Captain Peter Leavy RAN, Commodore Peter Lockwood RAN, Ms. Rhonda Payget, Captain John R. Peterson USN, and Commodore Phil Spedding RAN. At the NWC we benefited from the support of John B. Hattendorf, Robert Rubel, John Maurer, John Garofano, and Mary Ann Peters, and we owe a considerable debt to Alice Juda, Wayne Rowe, Robin Lima, and Bob Schnare for library assistance. At Routledge, we are grateful to Andrew Humphrys and to the series editor, Geoffrey Till. We are especially indebted to Andrew Marshall, Office of Net Assessment, for his ongoing support for this book project.

1 Introduction

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Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine1

Expeditionary warfare entails the deployment of forces far from their normal base of operations and, in the case of an ongoing hot war, to a theatre non-­ contiguous with the main theatre. Execution requires enormous logistical capabilities to transport, land, and sustain forces, often at great distance, that usually only a Great Power can muster. D-Day, Inchon, and Gallipoli represent a spectrum of the most famous examples of expeditionary warfare, with outcomes ranging from strategic success to operational success to both strategic and operational failure. Expeditionary warfare is the preferred method of warfare for naval powers, whose goals include keeping all fighting overseas and far from home territory. Naval dominance provides the luxury of fighting in so-called “away games,” rather than the costly home games that devastate one’s own territory and, in doing so, degrade the ability to remain in the war. If a naval power can leverage the sanctuary provided by its oceanic moat to maintain the health of its civilian economy during hostilities, this positions it to outlast a continental adversary in a protracted war aiming at victory through the exhaustion of the enemy. Sea powers often conduct naval expeditionary campaigns on peripheral fronts as an indirect but economical way to exert pressure on land powers, whose superior or more numerous land forces they do not wish to engage directly. Over time, as their unmolested economies continue to grow and as military operations increasingly interfere with the economies of their enemies or the allies of their enemies, the economic balance of power shifts toward the sea power. In other words, expeditionary warfare, the military operation, often works in tandem with an economic strategy. The subject of this work is the military component. Through World War II, all the cases studies examined concern peripheral operations as Sir Julian Corbett understood them: campaigns in peripheral theatres in ongoing hot wars. From the Korean War onward, however, wars have taken place within an overarching cold war: the East–West Cold War, the SinoSoviet split, or the Muslim extremist–Western clash of civilizations. As Eric Jensen discusses in Chapter 2, most expeditionary warfare campaigns are “nonconsensual,” meaning that the government with sovereignty over the destination area of the expedition did not “consent” to the invasion. In contrast, the Inchon landing was “consensual” in that the South Korean government welcomed the

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2   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine landing. Prior to the advent of modern international law, which generally rejects change by military force, coercion was given far more legal latitude. The notion of “consensual” campaigns is comparatively new and involves many levels of cooperation, including the formulation of acceptable Rules of Engagement (ROEs), entry and exit permits, down to permission to deliver mail. The thirteen case studies have been arranged in chronological order. Michael Duffy focuses on the peripheral campaign that Britain’s greatest naval theorist, Sir Julian Corbett, used as the model for his discussion of peripheral operations, the Duke of Wellington’s expeditionary campaign on the Iberian Peninsula against Napoleon. Beginning in August 1808, not long after Britain gained sea control with its stunning naval victory at Trafalgar in 1805, over 30,000 British troops landed in Portugal to fight with local forces in Portugal and Spain against the French occupation. During the next five years, the Royal Navy acted as a force multiplier for land forces by delivering and protecting Wellington’s supplies by sea, disrupting enemy shipping, destroying coastal roads, and conducting shore bombardment. The Peninsular War constitutes the most protracted large-scale campaign of littoral warfare ever fought by the Royal Navy. In the Crimean War, the Royal Navy’s White Sea Campaign of 1854 took expeditionary warfare north of the Arctic Circle. Andrew Lambert shows how this most peripheral of theatres kept Russian warships and potential privateers bottled up at Archangel and how Britain’s destruction of Kola threatened all Russian coastal towns in the far north. As a result, fewer than 1,000 men under British command tied down Russian defenses for the entire theatre so that they could not be diverted to the main theatre in the Crimea. Incredibly, Britain and France defeated Russia on its home territory. In contrast to the previous two case studies, Robin Prior’s examination of Gallipoli presents a negative example. After the initial naval bombardment of Constantinople failed, the original intent not to use and land forces at all escalated to the deployment of 80,000 Commonwealth and French troops. During nine months of bitter combat while the British command remained either unwilling or unable to coordinate joint or combined operations, the opposing Ottoman force grew to 400,000. Given the rapidly ascending topography, with the Ottoman forces in possession of the high ground, Commonwealth forces suffered enormous casualties. The campaign did not relieve pressure on other theatres, because Ottomans forces were irrelevant to the main front in France and Flanders. A simultaneous British expeditionary campaign in Mesopotamia (modern-day Iraq) also failed to provide benefits commensurate to its costs. Paul G. Halpern concludes that too few Germans were engaged in Mesopotamia to allow significant attrition. Although the campaign did protect the oil fields in Persia, it tied up too many British troops in the pursuit of other territorial objectives. Not only was Mesopotamia peripheral to the war in Europe, but it was also peripheral even to the main Ottoman concerns in Syria, Palestine, and Bulgaria. Following World War I, naval expeditionary warfare arguably came into its own. In operations that occurred virtually simultaneously with the attack on

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Introduction   3 Pearl Harbor, Japanese naval expeditionary forces landed in Thailand, on the Malay Peninsula, and on Guam; and began bombing Singapore and Wake Island, and attacking Clark Air Base in the Philippines, Hong Kong, and the international settlement at Shanghai. As S.C.M. Paine demonstrates, although operationally brilliant, none of these theatres solved Japan’s quagmire in China. Japan’s strategy, rather than cutting off foreign aid to China (the intended strategic outcome), delivered Great-Power allies to China and, for the first time, put the Japanese home islands at risk. The U.S. responded to Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor with an attrition strategy grinding down Japanese forces in peripheral theatres. The most important of these was Guadalcanal, where Japan lost too many irreplaceable pilots either to remain on the offensive or ultimately defend the home islands. Bradford Lee explains that naval aviators constituted Japan’s operational center of gravity in the Pacific and their destruction, particularly at Guadalcanal, made that campaign strategically pivotal. David Stevens focuses on alliance politics in another geographically peripheral theatre in the Pacific. Although MacArthur’s campaign to protect New Guinea was peripheral to the outcome of the wider Pacific war, it remained crucial for Australian security. U.S. involvement served to shore up its alliance with Australia and New Zealand, therefore U.S. naval expeditionary forces fought hard to help Australia prevent Japan from overrunning New Guinea. Allied logistical capabilities far exceeded those of Japan and produced lopsided casualty rates, imposing unsustainable losses on Japan. Korea, although geographically peripheral to Europe, became a major hot war of the Cold War. Donald Chisholm examines MacArthur’s potentially war-winning strategy to use Inchon as the operational “hammer” against Pusan as the operational “anvil.” As MacArthur later explained, he envisioned Inchon as a turning movement deep into the flank and rear of the enemy that would sever his supply lines and encircle all of his forces south of Seoul. I had made that decision in previous campaigns, but none more fraught with danger, none that promised to be more vitally conclusive if successful. Immediately after World War II, British Commonwealth forces participated in expeditionary campaigns to quell a communist insurgency on the Malay Peninsula, the so-called Emergency (1948–1960), and to halt Indonesian aggression against the Malayan portion of Borneo, an island split among Indonesian, Malaysian, and Bruneian sovereignty, the so-called Konfrontasi (1962–1966). According to Jeffrey Grey, expeditionary naval forces proved much more important against Indonesia during Konfrontasi than during the Malaya Emergency. In the latter, the insurgency remained entirely internal with no outside support, while in Konfrontasi, Indonesia depended on its navy to reach the theatre, and so was vulnerable to Commonwealth interdiction. In 1974, China, a land power, used its naval forces to occupy the Paracel Islands, then under South Vietnamese sovereignty. As Bruce Elleman discusses,

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4   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine Chinese naval expeditionary forces took advantage of North and South Vietnam’s ongoing civil war to claim the Paracel Islands. As shown during the 1979 Sino-Vietnamese border war, this expeditionary campaign was peripheral to the PRC’s larger conflict with the Soviet bloc, which included North Vietnam. The Cold War also forms the essential backdrop to the British naval expedition against Argentina in the 1982 Falklands War. Eric Grove details the long post-World War II British naval downsizing and withdrawal of naval forces to the west of the Suez Canal. Argentina falsely interpreted this as a fatal weakening of Britain’s out-of-area naval capabilities. In the event, equipment bought to counter the Soviet Union in Europe proved capable of retaking the Falkland Islands. Argentina also failed to understand the politics in London, where the Royal Navy was eager to counter downsizing by demonstrating operational effectiveness against Argentina to a risk-averse British electorate. Rear Admiral Peter Jones of the Royal Australian Navy emphasizes the diversity of missions undertaken by an integrated multinational naval force in the expeditionary campaign in the Iraq War. These missions included maritime fire support, around-the-clock air cover from six carrier air groups, and the prevention of sea mining by Iraqi forces. Coalition sea control allowed for the build-up and sustainment of land, air, and naval forces. It also made possible the seizure of the vital offshore oil terminals before the Saddam Hussein government could create an environmental catastrophe by releasing oil into the Gulf. The final case study focuses on the on-going Global War on Terror. John Reeve provides a wide-ranging analysis of the greater Middle East in the context of a rivalry between continental and maritime coalitions. Since the attacks of 11 September 2001, the United States has engaged in a variety of peripheral initiatives ranging from expeditionary warfare to lower-intensity presence operations. These initiatives have depended on the flexibility of naval expeditionary power to escalate incrementally. Reeve categorizes the United States with other maritime powers like Portugal and Britain, which, for the past 500 years, have relied on sea power to influence events on the littoral stretching from the Persian Gulf to East Asia. The concluding chapter puts the common characteristics of the thirteen case studies into an operational and strategic context. It shows how the operational factors of time, space, and force contributed to operational success, and then analyzes the relationship between operational and strategic success. It extracts common factors to explain strategic success and failure. Finally, it concludes with an evaluation of the continuing relevance of these ideas given the enormous technological changes in recent decades.

Note 1 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of the U.S. Government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College.

2 Legal issues in expeditionary campaigns

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Eric Talbot Jensen

Over the past several decades, legal issues in military operations have dramatically increased, creating a growing reliance by commanders and staffs on their military legal advisors.1 This is certainly the case in expeditionary warfare, which can be defined as “Military operations which can be initiated at short notice, consisting of forward deployed, or rapidly deployable, self-sustaining forces tailored to achieve a clearly stated objective at a distance from home base.”2 Expeditionary forces are often deployed in peripheral campaigns, which are called “peripheral” because they take place in secondary theatres, not the main front. Naval powers, in particular, have engaged in numerous peripheral campaigns. Historically, naval expeditionary campaigns have been both non-consensual and consensual, meaning the government with sovereignty over the theatre either opposes or welcomes the expeditionary campaign. Each type has unique legal aspects.

Legal considerations prior to non-consensual campaigns Throughout history, most cases of expeditionary warfare have entailed non-­ consensual invasions of “enemy” territory. The first legal question in such military operations is the applicable legal authority to use force. Under current international law, states may only use force with authorization from the United Nations Security Council3 or in self-defense from an actual or imminent armed attack.4 Although policy decisions often influence the use of force, international law requires justification under one of these legal theories. Once a non-consensual campaign begins, the actions of the armed forces are governed by the legal regime known as the law of armed conflict (LOAC), including numerous Geneva Conventions beginning in 1863, and the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907. Because the LOAC is comprehensive, non-­ consensual campaigns often have less legal ambiguity than consensual ones.5 The LOAC is a well-developed body of law integrated into the training of most militaries. It includes provisions concerning the protection of civilians, the legitimate methods to conduct warfare, and restraints on specific weapons. The practical

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6   E.T. Jensen application of these laws of war typically fall under Rules of Engagement (ROE). In the earliest planning stages of a non-consensual campaign, commanders and staffs must conduct a mission analysis to determine the necessary level of force to accomplish the mission and to set an ROE appropriate for the size and type of force. The ROE requires a close analysis to ensure compliance with the LOAC. The ROE may be more but not less restrictive than the LOAC. The ROE must clearly distinguish hostile forces from other forces and private persons, and allow adequate measures to destroy declared hostile forces. The ROE may also differentiate among the enemy’s ground, air, and naval forces. Not all persons encountered will be enemy forces. ROE provisions typically provide the jurisdiction to stop and inspect ships, detain individuals, establish warning procedures, and set limitations on the use of weapons systems. Detention rules should be clearly promulgated (whether in the ROE or some other document). Many operations require the protection of some persons or groups, such as allies. In other instances, forces may have the obligation to protect local civilians or Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) workers. Finally, the ROE in non-consensual campaigns must establish rules for self-defense, including the authority to engage individuals in response to pre-defined hostile acts and demonstrations of hostile intent. Non-consensual campaigns usually do not require compliance with the host nation’s local laws, but familiarity with them is still necessary because local civilians may still want to function under them. Contracting officers will need to issue formal contracts to pay for locally obtained supplies. Generally, there is an immediate need for local translators, consultants, and intelligence gatherers, whose employment will require contracts.6 For planning purposes, it is necessary to determine whether local law-enforcement and other paramilitary personnel should be considered friendly or hostile forces. Because the LOAC contains numerous provisions for the conduct of an occupation, the commander and staff need to understand what constitutes an occupation and to plan for its potential requirements. Under international law and the LOAC, the legal standard for occupation is based on the facts, not on a policy decision.7 Even if these rules are not applied as a matter of law, familiarity with the provisions of occupation law will assist the commander in conducting military operations.

Initial entry in a non-consensual campaign Training and flexibility are the hallmarks of successful ROE in any operation. The initial entry in a non-consensual campaign is critical for the application of ROE. Differentiation of hostile forces from non-hostile forces or civilians requires careful training and enforcement. As the mission begins and the situation develops, authorization requests for changes in the ROE may be necessary. For example, various armed groups may need to be added to or removed from the list of hostile forces. Dissemination of any ROE changes will be difficult in

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Legal issues in expeditionary campaigns   7 the best of circumstances, and training under any new rules will be vital but challenging. Along with the well-known rules on prisoners of war, the LOAC also allows for the internment of civilians who pose a security risk.8 A strictly naval campaign may require some adjustments to the standard LOAC, but most states have guidance on such issues. An invading military must remain sensitive to the effect of its military operations on the local civilian population and civilian property. The attitude of the local populace may affect the sending state’s ability to purchase or contract goods and real estate. The LOAC allows for the requisition of private goods with receipt and promise of future payment.9 In cases of military necessity, real estate may be occupied and civilians displaced. Acquiring local services can be difficult, since the local populace generally cannot be impressed into the service of the sending state. Civilian workers from the sending state or third states can provide these services, but their presence in the conflict zone raises additional legal problems.10 While few provisions of the LOAC apply to the environment,11 sending state rules may still bind the military despite exceptions and exemptions for active military hostilities. In modern times, most nations do not pay claims for wartime damage. Some claims originating from the conflict zone will have nothing to do with the conduct of the conflict, however, and must be handled properly. As soon as possible, therefore, the sending state should establish claims procedures in order to resolve complaints by the local populace. Extensive legal investigations are unlikely during the initial stage of the nonconsensual campaign. As soon as possible, however, there should be investigations of alleged LOAC or other legal violations. Under the LOAC, nations have the responsibility to investigate alleged violations of the Geneva Conventions.12 Other legal requirements may also mandate investigations.13

Continuing operations in non-consensual campaigns Under LOAC and international human rights law, as a non-consensual operation stabilizes, the invading forces must begin to apply the local state’s domestic laws as far as possible under international legal norms. Therefore, the closer the operation moves toward closure, the more careful the local commander must be to enforce local domestic laws. The transition from active hostilities to steady-state or stability operations raises a number of legal issues. The more protracted the operation, the greater the likelihood that the sending state will become the occupier, with all the attendant legal requirements. Commanders and staff must be sensitive to the situation of the local population and before too long must assure the delivery of such essential services as police, medical care, sanitation, electricity, and food and water distribution. Once an occupier, the military must take action to maintain these services. Immediately after an area is free of hostile fire, and often even before the fighting is over, ports and borders must reopen to allow goods and services to

8   E.T. Jensen flow. The return to normality requires a secure environment so that civilian and non-governmental organizations can enter the country and begin to rebuild civil society and re-establish the rule of law.

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Legal considerations prior to consensual campaigns Unlike non-consensual operations, when the invading forces are usually opposed to the central government, in consensual operations the host government is still functioning and sovereign. During consensual operations, therefore, host-nation law is binding on all persons in its territory, unless negotiated otherwise, making the legal issues even more diverse and complex. The success of expeditionary forces depends, in part, on familiarity with and adherence to host-nation domestic laws. The degree of local consent can cover a wide spectrum, ranging from whole-hearted to begrudging, as indicated by the host nation’s invitation, permission, or acquiescence. Typically, legal authority for a military to take action in a consensual campaign comes in the form of an official signed agreement14 or a grant of authority by the United Nations Security Council.15 Sometimes the lack of official opposition either to an offer of assistance or to a threat of non-consensual operations can be construed as de facto authorization.16 In planning a consensual campaign, pre-existing bilateral agreements are particularly important, and may solve many potential legal difficulties. Customary international law, or law that applies generally to all nations, such as the Law of the Sea, may also affect operations.17 Neither international nor domestic law allow for military forces of one country to move freely within the borders of another country. Indeed, such crossborder incursions, whether on land, air, or sea, can often be considered an act of war.18 Host-country consent for an expeditionary campaign does not relieve the sending state’s military forces of the requirement to coordinate with the host government for the peaceful deployment of military forces and their movement within the host territory. These restrictions also affect sea and air forces.19 Naval expeditionary campaigns depend on free access, not only to territorial waters and corresponding ports, but sometimes also to navigable inland waters. In consensual campaigns, this requires an explicit commitment by the host nation concerning the free movement of weapons and other materiel that might otherwise be subject to its domestic laws.20 Likewise, one nation’s aircraft normally needs permission to enter the airspace of another nation. These normal legal restrictions must be modified to accommodate expeditionary forces. Prior to deployment, the status of military forces should be negotiated. If authorization comes under a United Nations Security Council Resolution or as part of a United Nations Peacekeeping force, standard status of forces agreements (SOFA) may already be in place.21 Sometimes time does not permit detailed negotiations. According to an after-action law review article:22 While the lack of SOFA coverage is not the optimal situation, the reality of today’s high operations tempo, combined with a variety of other reasons

Legal issues in expeditionary campaigns   9

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results in occasions where even active duty military members deploy without the benefit of a SOFA, or without a detailed agreement, such as during Operation Uphold Democracy and other operations in the Republic of Haiti during 1994 and 1995. Subject to prior agreements, sending-state forces are generally not exempt from normal entry and exit regulations, including passport and visa requirements. Many SOFAs modify these requirements to allow entry and exit with only military identification and a copy of deployment orders. Even topics as mundane as the authority to wear uniforms and carry weapons need to be carefully considered in the planning stages of a consensual campaign. There is no right under international or most domestic law for foreign forces to wear their uniforms or carry their weapons in the territory of another state without permission from the host state. Few topics are as controversial in consensual campaigns as the ROE, the application of force,23 and especially the right to exercise personal and collective self-defense.24 The proliferation of non-state fighters as well as civilian NGO personnel has greatly complicated the legal requirements for the use of force. Although counterintuitive, planning for the use of force and crafting understandable and effective ROE are more difficult in consensual than in non-consensual operations. In operations where there is no declared and uniformed enemy, applying force is left to the rules of self-defense and the individual judgment of each soldier, sailor, pilot, and marine.25 Innocent victims caught up in the use of force always present difficult problems in consensual campaigns. The right to self-defense requires the right to detain individuals who present a threat. In planning the campaign, the sending state should seek agreement with the host nation detailing the authority of the sending state forces to detain individuals and describing the circumstances under which they may do so. The agreement should stipulate how long individuals can be detained, whether they should be handed over to the host government, and the conditions of detention. Foreign forces may have to interact with local police, military, or security forces. This requires an understanding of local practices and the basic legal rules under which host state military and police function. If the mission envisions combined actions, such as patrols or military operations, the applicable ROE will need to be harmonized with those of the host-country forces. A natural outgrowth of the rules for self-defense concern the defense of others. The mission agreement should detail when sending-state forces can defend others, when they must do so, and when they are prohibited from doing so. For instance, the sending state may have a duty to defend host-state government officials or members of the military, police, or certain NGO personnel. The host state may authorize the defense of journalists, the public, and foreign visitors. In other situations, self-defense may be limited to the sending state’s forces. The application of force may leave sending state military personnel liable to criminal sanction by the host nation. Therefore, in many SOFAs, the host state agrees to waive criminal jurisdiction in certain cases, particularly for actions

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10   E.T. Jensen taken as a matter of military duty.26 Military members’ potential risk under hostnation criminal laws should be a matter of great importance in the planning stages of the campaign. Likewise, prior negotiations should focus on immunity from civil suits in order to keep the members of the sending state force completely out of host-nation courts. Alternatively, military planners must arrange for legal representation for any sued force members. Wherever military forces deploy, they rely on classified information systems to receive and transmit data. For this equipment to enter and leave the country without inspection may require special authorization from the host state. Hoststate legal restraints on information gathering and the use of human intelligence teams may also entail some advanced coordination in the planning stages.27 The import and export of military goods and materiel also require authorization. Normally, such goods are subject to the host nation’s import and export regulations. Mission success may depend on relief from those requirements.28 Even if the host state agrees to unlimited imports and exports, it may not waive their right of inspection, which may not be acceptable in all circumstances. Since militaries have never been able to take all their supplies with them, they must purchase goods and services locally. Coordination with the host nation should ensure that local businesses are willing to make the transactions. Adhering to local customs, duties, and import taxes can be difficult. As a general rule of international law, one state cannot tax another state, but differentiating a “tax” from a “fee” or other acceptable “charge” may require negotiation prior to deployment. Even if the host nation agrees to a tax exemption, the specifics still need to be worked out. Options include a point-of-sale exemption, which is preferred by sending states, or a reimbursement method, which is preferred by host states. Mail delivery can become a surprisingly controversial topic if a military post office receives and sends mail directly without going through the host nation’s postal system. Such issues may not apply to military operations of very short duration, but could worsen the longer the operation continues. Most nations have extensive domestic laws governing telecommunications. Whatever the mission, the sending state must communicate with its deployed forces and the deployed forces must communicate with each other. Many of these communications must remain private and immune from eavesdropping. Therefore, permission to use encryption systems and specific bandwidths will need to be coordinated. Likewise, host-state legal recognition of both professional and personal licenses should be coordinated so that the host state recognizes driving licenses, licenses to operate other equipment, etc. Professional licenses pertain to such medical personnel as nurses, doctors, and physician assistants, and such legal personnel as attorneys and paralegals. This can be especially important during humanitarian relief operations. Finally, hiring contractors to perform services or supply goods can be difficult. Some contractors may be local and others may come from the sending state. In addition to potential hiring, tax, and labor rules, the authorization for a civil-

Legal issues in expeditionary campaigns   11 ian contractor to use force (even if just for self-defense) needs close attention in the planning stage.

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Initial entry in consensual campaigns Thus, the ROE must be appropriately tailored for the operation and coordinated with the host nation. As sending-state forces begin to apply the ROE, commanders must review and adjust the ROE based on the situation on the ground. Usually the situation is fluid and requires rapid adjustment to actual circumstances.29 These concerns immediately arise in the establishment of port security and local security for any forces in country. Even if the host nation has agreed to provide local security, most commanders will still want a quick reaction force. Such a force will need a clear understanding of host-nation law-enforcement and local security practices, as well as of local laws on the use of force. This is even more important if the sending state is providing its own local security. Questions such as how to deal with common thieves and other law-breakers require close attention. While some intelligence assets will probably be on the ground prior to the initial entry, these may not be tactical assets and may not be under the direct control of the sending-state force commander. As the forces arrive, their intelligence collection must comply with host-nation law and agreements, and with the sending state’s domestic legislation. These operations require continuous oversight and legal review, particularly during the initial entry phase. Every base camp or semi-permanent station requires an Environmental Baseline Study. Environmental considerations are significant even at port facilities and have serious repercussions if not addressed immediately. The study must document the conditions in any area occupied by forces. Claims procedures may help resolve future disagreements, but the documentation upon arrival makes that process much more reliable and objective.

Continuing operations in consensual campaigns The longer an expeditionary campaign lasts, the more it will rely on procuring goods and services locally, ranging from intelligence operations to janitorial services to the purchase of local food products. Employment of local citizens sometimes entails adherence to local laws regulating the minimum wage, the formation of unions, the right to strike, and medical and other benefits. An apparatus to resolve claims made by the local population will become a significant part of every operation. It also benefits the sending-state forces by demonstrating good will.30 Therefore, upon arrival, an effective and accessible claims system should immediately be established. This requires coordination with the host nation and also depends on prior agreements regulating the use of currency, the freedom of movement, etc. Recent operations have demonstrated that a successful claims program should be administered locally through access­ ible processes that are well published and responsive.

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12   E.T. Jensen Sending-state forces must be willing to work with NGOs, the United Nations, and other international organizations. The longer the deployment and the more settled the situation, the greater the interaction with NGOs will become.31 They perform a multitude of functions and represent a variety of states and organizations, creating many legal issues. Legal issues concerning the use of funds or support for NGOs have been prominent in recent operations.32 To reiterate, in consensual expeditionary campaigns, the host nation laws are still in effect and the sending state must either comply with those laws or obtain exemptions or exceptions to them. Mission success generally requires some accommodation by the host nation. The nature of the mission and the legal authority to perform the mission may directly affect the host nation’s willingness to cooperate with the sending state. Regardless, the numerous legal issues entailed by such an operations can, to a great extent, be anticipated and agreement or accommodation sought.

Conclusion In modern expeditionary campaigns, understanding the legal status of forces is very important. To conduct a legal campaign requires legal advisors on the staff at all levels, including those close to the commander. Issue spotting is often as important as issue solving in a military operation. The legal advisor must provide legal advice in a way that complies with the law and facilitates the operation, so that, in doing so, compliance becomes a force multiplier. The legal basis for conducting naval expeditionary campaigns has changed dramatically over time. Numerous international conventions, including at Geneva and The Hague, were later incorporated by the United Nations, which has its own legal requirements. With the end of the Cold War and following 9/11, in particular, the size and complexity of naval expeditionary campaigns have grown rapidly.

Notes   1 Jack M. Beard, “Law and War in the Virtual Era,” American Journal of International Law, 103 (2009), 409, 418; Michael M. Kramer and Michael N. Schmitt, “Lawyers on Horseback? Thoughts on Judge Advocates and Civil-Military Relations,” UCLA Law Review, 55 (2008), 1407, 1409.   2 Royal Australian Navy Doctrine 1, Australian Maritime Doctrine, Sea Power ­Centre—Australia, Canberra, 2010.   3 S.C. Res. 678, U.N. Doc. S/RES/678 (29 November 1990).   4 UN Charter, art. 51; see Eric Talbot Jensen, “Computer Attacks on Critical National Infrastructure: A Use of Force Invoking the Right to Self-Defense,” 38 Stanford Journal of International Law, 207, 217–220 (2002).   5 Department of Defense, Directive: Law of War Program, No. 2311.01E, 4 (9 May 2006).   6 The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., CLAMO, Forged in the Fire: Legal Lessons Learned During Military Operations 1994–2008, 204 (2008); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Opera-

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Legal issues in expeditionary campaigns   13 tions in Kosovo 1999–2001: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 73–74 (2001); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in the Balkans 1995–1998: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 141 (1998).   7 Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field, 12 August 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3114, 75 U.N.T.S. 31; Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of Wounded, Sick and Shipwrecked Members of Armed Forces at Sea, 12 August 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3217, 75 U.N.T.S. 85; Geneva Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War, 12 August 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3316, 75 U.N.T.S. 135; Geneva Convention Relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War, 12 August 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3516, 75 U.N.T.S. 287.   8 Geneva Convention Relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War art. 78, 12 August 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3516, 75 U.N.T.S. 287.   9 Convention (IV) respecting the Laws and Customs of War on Land and its annex: Regulations Concerning the Laws and Customs of War on Land. The Hague, 18 October 1907. 10 Geneva Convention Relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War art. 4, 12 August 1949, 6 U.S.T. 3316, 75 U.N.T.S. 135 [hereinafter Geneva Convention on Prisoners of War]. 11 Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and relating to the Protection of Victims of International Armed Conflicts (Protocol I), 8 June 1977, arts. 35, 55, available at www.icrc.org/Web/Eng/siteeng0.nsf/htmlall/genevaconventions#a4 (click on Additional Protocol I). 12 Geneva Convention on Prisoners of War, arts. 129, 130. 13 The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., CLAMO, Forged in the Fire: Legal Lessons Learned During Military Operations 1994–2008, 99 (2008); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., CLAMO, Legal Lessons Learned From Afghanistan and Iraq: Volume I Major Combat Operations (11 September 2001–1 May 2003), 60 (2004); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in the Balkans 1995–1998: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 116 (1998). 14 General Framework Agreement for Peace in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bosn. & Herz.Croat.-Yugo., 14 December 1995, 35 I.L.M. 75 [hereinafter Dayton Accords]. 15 S.C. Res. 1035, U.N. Doc. S/RES/1035 (21 December 1995) (Bosnia and Herzegovina—UNMIBH); S.C. Res. 814, U.N. Doc. S/RES/814 (26 March 1993) (Somalia— UNOSOM II); S.C. Res. 794, ¶ 7, U.N. Doc. S/RES/794 (3 December 1992) (Somalia—UNOSOM I); S.C. Res. 743, U.N. Doc. S/RES/743 (21 February 1992) (UNPROFOR); Protocol to the Egyptian–Israeli Peace Treaty, Egypt-Israel, 3 August 1981, T.I.A.S. 10557. 16 Warren Christopher, “Restoring Democracy to Haiti,” In the Stream of History: Shaping Foreign Policy for a New Era (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 181; Elaine Sciolino, “Mission to Haiti: Diplomacy; on the Brink of War, a Tense Battle of Wills,” New York Times, 20 September 1994, A1. 17 President Reagan’s Statement on United States Ocean Policy, 19 WEEKLY COMP. PRES. DOC. 383 (10 March 1983), 22 I.L.M. 461, 464 (1983). 18 G.A. Res. 3314 (XXIX), Annex, Definition of Aggression, art. 3, U.N. Doc. A/9619 (14 December 1974). 19 Department of the Navy et al., The Commander’s Handbook on the Law of Naval Operations, 2–5 (2007) [hereinafter Commander’s Handbook]. 20 Ibid., 1–10. 21 Convention on the Safety of United Nations and Associated Personnel, 9 December 1994, 2051 U.N.T.S. 363. The Secretary-General, Report of the Secretary-General on the Model Status-of-Forces Agreement for Peace-Keeping Operations, Annex, delivered to the General Assembly, U.N. Doc. A/45/594 (9 October 1990).

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14   E.T. Jensen 22 Major Lisa L Turner and Major Lynn G. Norton, “Civilians at the Tip of the Spear,” 51 A.F. L. Rev. 1, 97 (2001). 23 Int’l and Operational L. Dep’t, The Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. & Sch., U.S. Army, Operational Law Handbook, 73 (Captain Brian Bill et al., eds., 2009) [hereinafter Operational Law Handbook]; The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., CLAMO, Forged in the Fire: Legal Lessons Learned During Military Operations 1994–2008, 143 (2008); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., Ctr. For L. and Military Operations [hereinafter CLAMO], Legal Lessons Learned From Afghanistan and Iraq: Volume I Major Combat Operations (11 September 2001–1 May 2003), 80–81 (2004); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in the Balkans 1995–1998: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 59, 60 (1998); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Haiti 1994–1995: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 34–35, 37 (1995). 24 Joint Chiefs of Staff, Instr. 3121.01B, The Standing Rules of Engagement/Standing Rules for the Use of Force for U.S. Forces (13 June 2005). 25 Major Mark S. Martins, “Rules of Engagement for Land Forces: A Matter of Training, Not Lawyering,” Military Law Review, 143; 1 (1994). 26 Dieter Fleck, ed., The Handbook of the Law of Visiting Forces (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 536. 27 Operational Law Handbook, 103. 28 Lizette Alvarez, “Long Iraq Tours Can Make Home a Trying Front,” New York Times, 23 February 2007, A1. 29 Operational Law Handbook, 93; The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., CLAMO, Forged in the Fire: Legal Lessons Learned During Military Operations 1994–2008, 143 (2008); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Sch., CLAMO, Legal Lessons Learned From Afghanistan and Iraq: Volume I Major Combat Operations (11 September 2001–1 May 2003), 89–92 (2004). 30 The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Ctr. and Sch., CLAMO, Forged in the Fire: Legal Lessons Learned During Military Operations 1994–2008, 240 (2008); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Legal Sch., CLAMO, Legal Lessons Learned From Afghanistan and Iraq: Volume I Major Combat Operations (11 September 2001–1 May 2003), 175 (2004); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Kosovo 1999–2001: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 69 (2001); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Central America: Hurricane Mitch Relief Efforts, 1998–1999: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 111 (2000); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in the Balkans 1995–1998: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 155 (1998); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Haiti 1994–1995: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 144 (1995). 31 The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Central America: Hurricane Mitch Relief Efforts, 1998–1999: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 37 (2000); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in the Balkans 1995–1998: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 135 (1998); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Haiti 1994–1995: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 85 (1995). 32 The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Kosovo 1999–2001: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 126–127, 207 (2001); The U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Sch., CLAMO, Law and Military Operations in Central America: Hurricane Mitch Relief Efforts, 1998–1999: Lessons Learned for Judge Advocates, 88 (2000).

3 Festering the Spanish ulcer The Royal Navy and the Peninsular War, 1808–1814 Downloaded by [INFLIBNET Centre] at 06:24 25 September 2012

Michael Duffy

When Wellington (then Sir Arthur Wellesley) disembarked his expedition in Portugal in August 1808, the British had undertaken little serious campaigning in the Iberian Peninsula for 100 years. The most recent attempted landings to attack Ferrol and Cadiz in 1800 had been dismal failures, which reflected the basic problem of British expeditionary warfare—total dependence on the navy’s ability to land, provide support, and, when necessary, evacuate the troops and their equipment. British sea power enabled the government to get reinforcements to the critical spot by sea far faster than the French could by land. Wellesley’s 10,700-strong expedition preparing at Cork for South America was diverted to the Peninsula, followed immediately by 5,000 men from Ramsgate and Harwich, 5,000 from Gibraltar, and shortly 11,000 newly returned from the Baltic. Wellesley’s force sailed on 13 July 1808 under naval escort, and began landing on 1 August. Within five weeks, nearly 33,000 men landed in Portugal.1

Opening the peripheral campaign on the Iberian Peninsula The first task of the Royal Navy was to establish area maritime ascendancy (later called “sea control”), without which nothing could be done. The Spanish fleet at Ferrol, Cartagena, and Cadiz; Portuguese and Russian squadrons at Lisbon; and the French squadron of Trafalgar survivors, all had to be secured. The Portuguese fleet was persuaded to leave Lisbon for Brazil when Napoleon invaded in November 1807. The Spanish revolt against Napoleon’s replacement of the Bourbon King of Spain by his own brother Joseph in May 1808 took the Spanish fleet from French control, though Spain lacked the resources to move its ships out of danger; the suspicious Spanish even refused to allow British ships and troops into Cadiz to help when they forced the surrender of the French squadron in June. The ships of the British naval blockade were the first to respond to the Spanish and Portuguese insurrections against their French occupiers. London’s first news of the 2 May Madrid rising came from HMS Superb, which left Gibraltar on 11 May and arrived at Portsmouth on 23 May. The next day a schooner arrived from Admiral Purvis off Cadiz with more detail and news of

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16   M. Duffy local reactions.2 On 11 June, the sloop Talbot off Oporto realized that Portuguese town was in insurrection, and soon blockading ships were being deluged with requests for assistance in arms and men, which they did their best to supply. On the next day, Admiral Charles Cotton, commanding the Lisbon station, reported that the French garrison in Lisbon was only 4,000 men and that there was an opportunity for 5,000–6,000 British troops in cooperation with the fleet to “give to our possession the whole of the maritime means now collected in the Tagus [River].”3 Wellesley’s 1808 campaign was a model amphibious operation, which he repeatedly instanced to other expeditionary commanders, declaring that: I recommend to your attention my first campaign in Portugal. I kept the sea always on my flank; the transports attended the movements of the army as a magazine; and I had at all times, and every day, a short and easy communication with them. The army, therefore, could never be distressed for provisions or stores, however limited its means of land transport; and in case of necessity it might have embarked at any point of the coast.4 The navy’s part in the operation began even before Wellesley’s arrival, when Admiral Cotton reconnoitered possible landing places. He chose Mondego Bay, occupying the protecting fort at the mouth of the Mondego River with 350 marines from his fleet and stationing a ship of the line offshore as cover. Wellesley agreed, since the only other suitable spot nearer Lisbon at Peniche was covered by a strong fort with a French garrison. Even so, the landing was difficult, taking five days in the large Atlantic surf along the coast. Wellesley was fortunate that the French concentrating at Lisbon were far away and the population so friendly as to lend their efforts to those of the sailors in getting men and supplies from the boats to the shore. Once ashore, Wellesley needed the cooperation of the navy to give his army mobility. He brought 564 horses with him—sufficient only to mount his staff and two squadrons of dragoons, and to pull 18 gun carriages, their ammunition wagons, four camp-equipment wagons, and three forge carts. The country was too poor to feed his army: Wellesley listed his needs as 307 carts to carry ten days’ provisions, two carts for the medical department, and 642 mules to carry three days’ bread, his reserves of artillery and musket ammunition, and entrenching tools. These forces took time to assemble. When Wellesley marched for Lisbon on 10 August, his unmounted cavalry had to leave behind their saddles, and the infantry their packs, in order to carry a supply of four days’ bread and two day’s meat. He took the more difficult coast road in order to maintain contact with the fleet, and eight transports escorted by the 74-gun Alfred accompanied the army along the coast carrying their saddles, packs, and stores. Twice, on 14 and 20 August, he called for supply from the ships. Three transports were sent ahead to join Cotton and the blockading fleet at the mouth of the Tagus, in order to create a diversion by threatening a landing. Wellesley also kept transports at hand, in

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Festering the Spanish ulcer   17 case he needed to turn any position the enemy might take near Lisbon, as well as Alfred, in case he might need its 24-pounders as siege artillery to take the fortress at Peniche.5 The other advantage of marching along the coast was that reinforcements could be landed close to the advancing front line. While the 5,000 Gibraltar contingent followed him in landing in Mondego Bay on 6–8 August, 4,500 more from Harwich and Ramsgate landed further south at the mouth of the Maceira river on 19–20 August, and marched up in time to take part in the decisive victory at Vimiero on 21 August. This enabled Wellesley to field 18,000 British, and 2,000 Portuguese troops, who had joined him, against the 13,000 the French commander Junot had concentrated—having left 6,000 in Lisbon against Cotton’s threatened sea attack. Beaten and cut off, Junot was happy to sign the Convention of Cintra on 30 August by which he agreed to evacuate Portugal and have his army returned to France on British transports.6

The dependence of expeditionary warfare on conditions at sea The 1808 expedition to Portugal was the first fully successful British expedition against the French on mainland Europe during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. For the Royal Navy, conditions had been far from favorable. But only about 70 men had drowned when boats overturned in the surf, and the fleet of transports, grown to nearly 240 with 11,000 troops not yet disembarked, was fortunate to survive a change of wind on the night before the battle that turned the coast into a lee shore. Its reward for a successful operation was the removal of the Russian squadron sheltering at Lisbon to British protection. The overall success of the operation proved that, notwithstanding the debacles of 1800, the Royal Navy could land and support an army for successful operations in the Iberian Peninsula. This success gave the army greater confidence in the navy, in particular after Wellesley wrote to the First Lord of the Admiralty warmly praising its exertions.7 Within five months, the navy faced an even greater test. In the first British manual on expeditionary warfare, Thomas More Molyneux described it as the most difficult form of warfare, and re-embarkation in the face of the enemy as its most dangerous aspect: “The difficulty . . . to be got over,” he wrote, “is to know how not only to invade with success; but likewise to retreat with safety.”8 The success rate of contested evacuations was poor—most recently entire expeditions were forced to surrender at Yorktown in 1781 and Ostend in 1798, while at the Helder in 1799 and at Buenos Aires in 1807, the army  was allowed to embark unmolested only after signing humiliating capitulations. The crunch came when the army moved into Spain to help drive out the French. In August 1808, the navy rescued 10,000 from a 12,000-strong Spanish army which had been sent at French request to garrison Denmark, and brought it back to Santandar.9 The navy also took 13,000 British troops to Corunna who advanced to link up with 20,000 brought up by Sir John Moore from Portugal.

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18   M. Duffy Then Napoleon’s massive counterstroke smashed through the Spanish armies, forcing the British into a hurried retreat. The crisis showed the mobility and flexibility of the Royal Navy to react to a situation that seemingly changed by the day. The navy had assembled the transports to Vigo Bay, which was far larger and more sheltered than Corunna from both the weather and from a French squadron of nine of the line and three frigates known to be preparing to sail from Brest. By the end of December 1808, there were 245 ships totaling over 60,000 tons. Moore initially, on 28 November, planned to embark only his Corunna contingent at Vigo while his main army fell back to Portugal, but chased by the French, he decided on 28 December to embark his whole army at Vigo. Unprepared for such a large amphibious withdrawal, there were not enough transports for them all. Fortunately, the Admiralty had decided to send a large squadron to guard against the danger from Brest. With remarkable rapidity, eleven of the line, three 50s (one of which struck a rock and sank on entering), and four frigates arrived. Many of these came from the Baltic fleet just returned for the winter, and three of the line from the Tagus; most of the orders went out to Portsmouth, Plymouth, and the Tagus on 8–9 December, and the last ship arrived on 28 December. Large crews rowing their many boats speeded evacuation, and the big warships made a vast addition to troop-carrying capacity. While the navy and its transports waited, Moore changed his plans yet again. To get his guns and wagons to Vigo in midwinter, he had to take the long way round via Lugo and Compostella, sending his light brigades over the more direct mountain route to stop the French getting there first, but as the weather deteriorated the discipline of his army collapsed. Fearing it would disintegrate before it reached Vigo, on 3 January 1809, Moore decided to summon the transports around to the Biscay coast to embark his troops at Betanzos Bay, between Corunna and Ferrol. Betanzos had two wide beaches for speedy evacuation, but a limited defensive capacity, and its anchorage was within cannon shot from two shores. Moore needed to distance himself from his pursuers to allow time to load his troops. When the French evaded Moore’s attempt to entice them into a crippling battle at Lugo on 8 January, he withdrew silently overnight and, after a 36-hour forced march, got one day ahead of them, but, when he reached the coast on 11 January, he found Betanzos Bay empty and only 26 transports and two warships at Corunna. Moore’s change of destination to an embarkation point 143 miles (124 nautical miles) away around Cape Finisterre caught the navy temporarily unable to respond. When his message arrived on 8 January, the fleet was wind-bound and could not depart for Betanzos until the 13th, leaving behind sufficient transports and naval escort to take off the light brigades when they arrived at Vigo between 12–23 January. Arriving on the evening of 14 January, the Royal Navy found that Moore had changed his embarkation point yet again, moving on to await both the fleet and the French in a more defensible position outside Corunna. There he re-equipped his ragged troops from the British depots, loaded his sick and his ordnance stores on the few transports available, and blew up his reserve powder. The position of

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Festering the Spanish ulcer   19 his army was, however, precarious—strung out along the heights overlooking the port and its bay outside the fortifications in order to keep the French artillery at a distance. Despite the poor winds, the capable and energetic leaders of fleet, Admiral Sir Samuel Hood and Transport Board commissioner Captain James Bowen, got their warships and transports to the army within ten days of receiving its call; they swiftly organized and supervised the evacuation. On the 15th and morning of the 16th, the artillery and cavalry were put on board the ships, though 2,000 horses had to be slaughtered on the beach. The infantry, defending the heights, were due to start embarking on the afternoon of the 16th when the French attacked—fortunately, in a sense, for what Moore feared most was that they would wait until he was halfway through the embarkation and then overwhelm the remainder. The bloody British victory, though it cost Moore his life, bought a little more time for the infantry to evacuate before the French pressed forward again. They did so efficiently under cover of darkness. When hold-ups emerged in trying to find their appointed ships in the dark, a system was improvised whereby ships that had room to receive troops were ordered to show lights at the fore-topmast head and to extinguish them when they were full, and the boats rowed to the nearest lighted ship available. When daylight broke, the lights were replaced by an ensign for the same purpose and the loading process continued. Most of the troops were embarked by the morning of the 17th, leaving only the rearguard whose two brigades withdrew into the town. One of these was embarked during the 17th, but the last one, 2,300 strong, could not have kept the French off while it embarked, particularly since the transports were forced out of the harbor by French artillery fire on the afternoon of the 17th and they were then reliant on the small boats of the naval squadron, which could only move 500 people at a time. Their successful evacuation was made possible, however, by the town’s population, which joined with the Spanish garrison in manning the ramparts; this effort kept the French at bay until the last man got off via the sally-port of the citadel, at 1 a.m. on 18 January. In all, 25,097 rank and file, including the sick, were embarked at Corunna, and about 3,100 at Vigo. They were Britain’s only field army, whose loss might have brought down the government and forced Britain to seek peace as it had after the surrender at Yorktown in 1781. The survival of the army was a closerun thing. The area commander, Admiral De Courcy, said that, at one point during the evacuation, he would have been happy to settle for the loss of 50 transports and that, but for the wind staying from the south, none would have escaped. In fact, only five transports were bilged and two burnt in the hasty flight from the harbor when the French opened fire. In the final count, the army lost only 700–800 killed and wounded in the battle on the 16th (and the wounded were evacuated), nine drowned in the embarkation, and another 296 perished when their transports were wrecked, one on the Cornish coast and the other on the Breton coast, when their luck with the weather ran out and the fleet was hit by a wild winter storm near the end of their voyage home.10

20   M. Duffy

Transition from a land to a sea strategy

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The successful withdrawal at Corunna gave confidence to the British army that in the worst of crises—a contested re-embarkation—the Royal Navy could get them off. Wellesley surely had this in mind in rejecting repeated pressure from a fearful British government to re-embark his army before Massena’s offensive in 1810, declaring that: The British army ought to remain in the field in Portugal as long as may be practicable, and consistent with its safety. . . . If you will let us have a large fleet of ships of war, and 45,000 disposable tons of transports, I shall try, and I think I shall bring them all off.11 In the army’s absence, it was left to the navy to support Spanish efforts to resist the French offensive. Frigates, sloops, and brigs ranged the Biscay and northern Atlantic coasts of Spain and the coast of Catalonia, supported by the occasional ship of the line on the latter. They put ashore seamen and marines, and used their firepower to help protect coastal towns and villages that came under attack. British warships also destroyed bridges, lengths of coastal roads, and coast batteries to interrupt French communications, and successfully landed thousands of muskets together with ammunition and powder to arm local insurgents when insurrection spread again behind the advancing French. In March 1809, two frigates helped in the recapture of Vigo, landing seamen, arms, ammunition, and ships’ guns for blockading; they later moved in to provide close fire support to breach the town walls. In April, the presence of five British frigates and a garrison of 274 seamen and marines in the castle of Castro helped deter the approach of a French division to Vigo. Consequently, the need to send troops back to protect his rear stopped Marshal Soult’s invasion of Portugal at Oporto, from which he was then shortly evicted by a reinforced British army under Wellesley during May. In June 1809, the same force at Vigo contributed a contingent and a gunboat to the Spanish army that repulsed the advance of Marshal Ney at Sampayo. After this defeat, Ney withdrew from Galicia, abandoning Corunna and Ferrol, which enabled the navy at last to provide four of the line to help the Spanish to refit and send their squadron of five of the line and 11 smaller warships from Ferrol to Cadiz.12 In Catalonia, naval firepower and shore parties helped keep the strategic port of Rosas out of French hands from July to December 1808, but the navy’s most crucial contribution was its interruption of French coastal traffic bringing supplies to Barcelona. The Catalan capital was also its largest port and commercial city, with a population of 100,000—the largest in Spain—that needed a 12,000man French garrison to control it, but the city could not feed itself and had to be supplied from France. It was blockaded by Catalan insurgents by land, who ambushed French foraging parties, and by the British navy at sea. Frigates and sloops patrolled the coast, seizing coastal shipping and destroying shore batteries.

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Festering the Spanish ulcer   21 The preferred French solution to feeding Barcelona was to send convoys loaded with many months’ supplies protected by units of their Toulon fleet, hoping to take advantage of the British being blown off station by the weather. In November 1808, and again during April 1809, this was done successfully, but the British Mediterranean fleet was waiting when the next convoy sailed in October, and quickly succeeded in driving off the escort, forcing two French ships of the line ashore, and captured or destroyed the entire convoy. The only remaining alternative was to send large convoys of supplies by wagons overland, but this was very costly in money and effort. The first convoy of over 1,000 wagons in March 1810 required three divisions to protect it from guerrilla attack—two to clear the road and the third as escort. The next convoy in June required five divisions, or 25,000 troops. Not only did the 59,000-strong French army of Catalonia not have enough supplies to sustain an offensive, but its manpower was also tied down mainly in convoy escorts. The strain hamstrung French offensive operations in Catalonia throughout 1810.13

The Iberian tipping point: 1810–1811 The years 1810–1811 were the most critical of the war. Napoleon, having withdrawn troops in 1809 to defeat Austria in a new war, sent massive reinforcements totaling 140,000 men to his armies in Spain to complete the conquest of the peninsula. The blow first fell on the Spanish. Crushing defeats of their two largest armies in central Spain in November 1809 opened the way for a French offensive in the south, which conquered Andalusia in January 1810. Only the last-minute arrival of the small Army of Extremadura enabled Cadiz to hold out when the French arrived on 5 February. The hard-pressed Spanish were forced at last to ask for British help to defend their main naval base and temporary capital. Between 11–17 February 1810, the Royal Navy escorted in 2,500 Anglo-­ Portuguese troops from Lisbon and Gibraltar, and before the end of the month, 3,000 Spanish troops from Ayamonte on the Portuguese border. By April 1810, there were 11 British ships of the line, two frigates, and four bomb vessels helping defend Cadiz in a siege that was to last until August 1812. British naval presence was vital to the defense of Cadiz, which lay on a long sandy spit at the end of the Isla de Leon so that it could only be won by the French with waterborne assistance. The navy ensured that there would be no interference from French warships coming from Toulon or the French Atlantic coast ports. It escorted in convoys, which kept the defenders supplied with food, munitions, and troops. Its presence strengthened the morale of the defenders and provided them with practical assistance by helping guard the island from attack from the north side of the bay, where the French built and operated gunboats. Warships’ boats and, by October 1810, 16 gunboats crewed by 512 seamen, patrolled these waters and on occasion attacked the French siege works. British seamen furthermore helped man Spanish ships of the line used as floating batteries. Even as the Royal Navy continued to bring in British and Spanish reinforcements, its operations became more aggressive, landing troops behind the enemy

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22   M. Duffy lines to raid their communications, one of which in March 1811 resulted in a bloody though barren victory over a French division at Barossa. The crisis at last persuaded the Spanish to withdraw their fleet from their remaining naval bases at Cadiz and Cartagena so that they would not fall into French hands. British help in providing both seamen and pay for Spanish artificers to make the ships seaworthy enabled ships to be sent to Minorca and Havana. Of even greater importance, this continued resistance in southern Andalusia tied down French forces which might have been used to invade southern Portugal and occupy the south bank of the Tagus—the move most feared by Wellesley (Viscount Wellington after his 1809 victory at Talavera) as he sought to hold back the next massive French offensive against Lisbon. The Royal Navy was the bedrock of Wellington’s plans for the defense of Lisbon in 1810–1811.14 As early as October 1809, he had begun discussions with Admiral Berkeley, the new station commander, on possible evacuation sites. Berkeley rode the ground with Wellington and his chief engineer, Colonel Fletcher (Moore’s chief engineer at Corunna), when they worked out defensive lines to stop the French advance. Again, the fleet withdrawn from the Baltic for the winter was called into service, and Berkeley had 11 of the line in November 1810, rising to 20 with 10 smaller ships in the following March. This huge resource in armaments, boats, and men (8,800 rising to over 13,000) protected Wellington’s flanks from waterborne attack at each end of the Lines of Torres Vedras. A flotilla of over 20 gunboats, mortar vessels, and armed flatboats manned by the fleet’s seamen controlled the up-river reaches of the Tagus, and seamen with naval guns manned islands in the river. Ships’ boats and flatboats moved troops across the Tagus whenever a threat appeared to its south side: 1,500 on 1 November and 14,000 on 18 November. In January 1811, 6,000 Spanish troops were brought across to man the lines and returned again a fortnight later. Ashore, the navy operated the telegraph system conveying messages along the lines. When, in November 1810, Wellington asked for the navy to help release troops by manning the final line of defenses around the embarkation point at St. Julien, the forts around Lisbon and the Almada heights on the south side of the Tagus estuary, Berkeley supplied 2,000 men in a battalion of marines and a brigade of seamen from the Fleet, the latter eventually replaced by a separate battalion of marines and marine artillery sent out by the Admiralty. Lastly, the navy provided the key to defeating the French invasion of Portugal. Wellington remembered his own difficulties in finding provisions in 1808, when he had noted that “Portugal never fed itself during more than 7 months out of 12.”15 To defeat him, the French needed a very large army in Iberian conditions and Wellington planned to use its size against it. He ordered a scorched earth policy as he retreated, moving the population with their possessions and transport behind the Lines of Torres Vedras.16 So when Marshal Massena reached the lines in October 1810 with 65,000 of his 86,000 field army, he found himself in a wasted country and in increasing need of provisions. Crammed into the territory behind the lines were an estimated 420,000 people, including 87,000

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Festering the Spanish ulcer   23 allied troops, also in need of provisions. Wellington turned the campaign into a struggle for survival: Who would starve first? Thanks to the navy’s ability to keep open the sea lanes to supply the allies and shut out the French, this was a contest Wellington was not going to lose. The vast fleet of transports and storeships in Lisbon harbor—256 (75,487 tons) by March 181017—was not only the escape route both for the British and as much of the Portuguese army as possible, but it also contained the provisions and stores of Wellington’s army. Naval stores of salt provisions and biscuit supplied those on shore. The navy convoyed transports and private shipping with fresh meat from Oporto or Vigo, wheat or flour from Britain, Algiers, Cadiz, and increasingly from the United States: in 1810, 88,696 barrels of flour were shipped from America to Portugal, rising to 529,105 barrels in 1811.18 Even with the Royal Navy’s support, the civilian population around Lisbon could not avoid great hardship. But the French army suffered far more. Indeed, in December 1810, Wellington could write almost gleefully that given Massena’s troops’ great difficulties in subsisting and keeping up their communications, it was more advantageous to leave them where they were: Their numbers are certainly diminishing daily while they do us no mischief; on the contrary, we are nearer our resources than ever we were, and they leave the whole of the north of Spain open to the operations of the guerrillas.19 When Massena finally retreated back to the border in March 1811, he had lost 25,000 men.20 In the meantime, the navy continued finding ways of “carrying on a desultory and distracting kind of warfare against the French upon the coast.”21 To gun running and attacks on coastal shipping were increasingly added combined operations with British and Spanish troops and guerrillas behind French lines that tied down French troops. In July 1810, a frigate assisted guerrillas in the temporary capture of the port of Santona on the Biscay coast, while others destroyed the coastal batteries between Santander and San Sebastian, and in September a simultaneous strike from land and sea captured an entire brigade of troops at Bisbal, Catalonia. There were, of course, failures as well as successes. A landing of 600 seamen and marines at Palamos, Catalonia, in October 1810 destroyed a convoy of 11 boats, but lost 199 men. In the same month, the landing of 2,500 troops at Fort Fuengirola resulted in a hasty evacuation with the loss of nearly 250 men. In both cases the expedition commander was captured.22 Nor was the navy able to prevent the capture in 1811 of the fortress port of Tarragona—its main communications point with Catalan resistance—despite bringing in large troop reinforcements, conducting diversions, and providing gunfire support against the French siege works. A 9,000-man Catalan army surrendered and Commodore Codrington was only able to take off 2,000 refugees.23

24   M. Duffy

Victory on the Iberian Peninsula

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The defeat of the invasion of Portugal, and the subsequent French troop withdrawals to support Napoleon’s campaigns in Russia in 1812 and Germany in 1813, gave Wellington the opportunity to take the offensive again, thereby exploiting the mobility the navy provided. He wrote in December 1811 that: we have advantages in the Peninsula which the French cannot enjoy; we have possession of all the navigable rivers, of which we make use to convey our supplies, as far as they will carry, and the naval power of Great Britain protects the arrival of these supplies, and the formation of our magazines on the coast.24 As an example of this naval superiority, during June 1813, Wellington provided a snapshot of the transport effort managed and protected by the navy, all of which supported the war in the Peninsula: • • • • • • • •

19 ships supporting the army on the east coast for amphibious operations and emergency calls to Sicily; four on the same service at Cartagena and on passage from Gibraltar; four on the coast of Catalonia; 12 at Cadiz; 15 at Corunna or on passage from England laden with ordnance stores; eight conveying Spanish troops to the coast of Catalonia; 33 removing stores for the Spanish or Portuguese army from one part of coast to another; 64 at Lisbon or on passage there, of which • three loading flour for Gibraltar and one for Alicante, • 15 refitting, • five ordered to England, • 11 on passage to England, • 29 to supply the advancing army with ordnance stores, ammunition, and provisions and corn needed for want of specie to buy in the theatre of operations. Total number of ships: 255.25

Wellington’s other great offensive need from the navy was in creating or supporting diversions to prevent the French, who still had 210,000 troops in the Peninsula, from massing against the 48,000-strong field army that he marched into Spain in June 1812. The navy still vigorously supported the defense of Cadiz, the siege of which tied down much of Soult’s 57,000-man Army of the South and was only abandoned after Wellington’s victory over Marmont’s Army of Portugal at Salamanca on 22 July.26 In June, the navy escorted a 6,600-man Anglo-Sicilian expedition from Palermo, picking up a 4,000-strong Spanish

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Festering the Spanish ulcer   25 force at Majorca, and on 31 July appeared off Catalonia. Its cautious commander did not attack Tarrogona, which Wellington hoped might open communication with the Catalan guerrillas as well as preventing Suchet’s Army of Catalonia from sending reinforcement to Marmont. But Wellington was content that when it eventually landed instead at Alicante, it would still provide the wished-for diversion; even without Tarragona, Codrington’s warships managed to make nine separate arms deliveries between 30 May and 18 June, landing over 8,000 muskets and 600,000 cartridges, to sustain Spanish forces in the Catalan hills.27 Wellington got most direct assistance from a purely naval diversion on the north coast where Commodore Popham, with two ships of the line, five frigates, two sloops, 1,000 marines in two battalions, and a plentiful supply of muskets and munitions, cooperated with the guerrillas in causing havoc among the French coastal garrisons. This attack culminated in July with the seizure of Castro Urdiales and an attack on the biggest port, Santander, which fell on 3 August. In consequence, 8,000 men promised from Caffarelli’s Army of the North failed to join Marmont’s 44,000 against Wellington’s 48,000 before Salamanca—for which Popham received Wellington’s delighted congratulations. From Santander, Popham sent powder and munitions to sustain the siege of Burgos, which Wellington had incautiously undertaken with only three heavy cannon. He even had two 24-pounders halfway across the mountains when Wellington abandoned the siege and retreated.28 In July 1813, Wellington advised the new commander on the east coast against inland campaigns, declaring that: The great difficulty which I have always found in the Peninsula has been the subsistence of the army; and in order to supply this want, and the various others of the army, I have never ventured to risk even the communication with the sea.29 His 1813 offensive, which took him further than ever from his Portuguese depots, aroused in him an anxiety on this score that turned his hitherto harmonious relations with the navy into acrimony. Planning his campaign in April, he stressed the importance of ensuring secure navigation of the coasts of Portugal and Spain, and he warned that he might have to communicate with the shipping in one of the ports in the north of Spain. When the north coast squadron commander, Sir George Collier, sent Wellington his orders to protect allied communications and intercept those of the enemy, to cooperate actively with the guerrillas, and to act in communication with Wellington in every way to facilitate his operations, the latter simply emphasized the need to prevent enemy communications by sea from Bayonne to Santona.30 Collier’s small squadron of a frigate, four brigs, and a schooner was thought sufficient for this, but Wellington’s crushing victory at Vitoria on 20 June 1813 changed the situation dramatically by advancing the main army far beyond the best port, Santander, right up to the French frontier. With his sea communications stretched to the utmost, Wellington panicked when he heard of merchant

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26   M. Duffy s­ hipping losses off Portugal and of the capture of two of his own transports by a privateer, warning the Secretary for War that: “For the first time I believe it has happened to any British army, that its communication by sea is insecure,” and that “I hope it will not be deemed unreasonable to request to have the navigation of the coast of Spain and Portugal secured for me, without which your Lordship must not expect success.”31 With the army now having to fight its way through the frontier fortresses, Wellington complained that these were still being supplied by sea, and, further, he now demanded more than just control of the seas from the navy: he wanted gunfire support in the form of battleships, bomb vessels, gunboats, mortar boats, flatboats, naval guns, and gunners to supplement his land batteries, and naval assaults or demonstrations to divert the defenders from his storming parties. The rapidity of his advance and his new demands caught the Admiralty by surprise. With a widening European war, and now war with the United States, its resources were already committed: its marine battalions deployed to American waters, and many of the vessels requested had already deployed to eastern Spain or the Baltic. Even so, while rebutting Wellington’s complaints, it did its best to accommodate him. Admiral Byam Martin, second-in-command at Plymouth (Wellington’s principal home depot), was sent out to discuss his needs, and by the time he arrived on 13 September, Collier’s squadron had been augmented from six to eleven, with a right to call on a further 13 vessels from arriving convoys if needed. Six gunboats were promised and a ship of the line came down briefly from the Gironde into thoroughly dangerous waters for large warships. Martin was able to show to the Duke’s astonishment that 22 warships had escorted convoys to the nearest port, Passages, in the last month. Wellington retracted his unreasonable demand that every single storeship should be provided with a warship escort as soon as it was ready to sail, and instead a regular convoy system was agreed to, with four warships allotted to making twiceweekly passages (weather permitting) between Passages and Corunna, and four more also between Corunna and Lisbon. Wellington’s supply problems stemmed not from ship losses but from the inevitable dislocation involved from the removal of his supply chain from Portugal to the north coast, and the need to land stores at the tiny ports near the French border whose facilities bore no comparison with the great commercial port of Lisbon. That he did not have as much close naval support as in 1808 or 1810 is undisputed, but Collier was able to supply six heavy guns and 60 gunners for the siege of St. Sebastian and his ships’ boats landed troops and his marines to bombard the citadel by storming the island of St. Clara and blocking the harbor’s mouth. Subsequently, in February 1814, the navy managed the crossing of the dangerous bar at the mouth of the Adour River by five protective gunboats, four boom-building transports, and 46 chasse marées to build a bridge of boats for the army to cross and surround Bayonne.32

Festering the Spanish ulcer   27

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Conclusions While the entire Peninsular War depended on sea power, the events of 1813 reveal just how far Wellington felt himself dependent on the navy and he frankly admitted to Admiral Martin that “If anyone wishes to know the history of this war, I will tell them that it is our maritime superiority [that] gives me the power of maintaining my army while the enemy is unable to do so.”33 The navy managed and protected Wellington’s supplies by sea and helped transport them up-river. Simultaneously, it disrupted enemy supplies by seizing their shipping, destroying coastal roads, and conducting shore bombardment. But the Royal Navy did much more than the Duke admitted. It also was a major provider of intelligence. It had its own intelligence network in Spain before the war and increased it during the war. The navy had the advantage of being able to land or receive agents behind enemy lines. It could also receive information from local inhabitants or French deserters as it passed along the coast.34 This same facility to get behind enemy lines enabled the Royal Navy to supply arms and munitions and to cooperate with guerrillas and Spanish army units within French-occupied territory. It was in many ways a force multiplier for the land war. When called upon, the navy could provide guns, seamen, and marines, as well as specialized skills with explosives, telegraphy, and using boats as bridges35 to reinforce military expeditions. It had the ability to transport very large bodies of troops to required places in a hurry as well as to remove them from danger. This capacity for mobility tied down many more enemy troops ashore guarding the coasts than the numbers carried at any one time in its warships and transports. The Peninsular War was the longest period that the Royal Navy had acted on such a large scale as a littoral warfare navy. Its wide-ranging expeditionary activities were vital to the success of the British army and its Portuguese and Spanish allies. While Iberia was peripheral to the decisive campaigns in Russia and Germany in 1812–1813, Napoleon himself recognized the debilitating effects of the Spanish ulcer in contributing to his fall when, in exile in St. Helena, he told Emmanuel Las Casas “that unlucky war ruined me; it divided my forces, obliged me to multiply my efforts, and caused my principles to be assailed.”36

Notes   1 John William Fortescue, A History of the British Army, Vol. 6 (reprint Uckfield, 2004), 191; Christopher D. Hall, Wellington’s Navy: Sea Power and the Peninsular War 1807–14 (London: Chatham, 2004), 34.   2 Times, 24–27 May 1808.   3 Hall, 26.   4 John Gurwood (ed.), The Dispatches of F.M. the Duke of Wellington, 1799–1818 (London: J. Murray, 1834–1839), Vol. 9, 363; Vol. 10, 162, 479–480 [henceforth DDW].   5 Ibid., Vol. 4, 34–35, 38–39, 42, 45–47, 48, 80, 91.   6 Fortescue, Vol. 6, 203–234; Hall, 29–35.   7 DDW, Vol. 4, 109–110.   8 Thomas More Molyneux, Conjunct Expeditions: or Expeditions that have been

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28   M. Duffy Carried on Jointly by the Fleet and Army, with a Commentary on a Littoral War (London: R. and J. Dodsley, 1759), Part 2, 261.   9 James Davey, “The repatriation of Spanish troops from Denmark, 1808,” Journal of Military History, 74, 4 (October 2010). 10 Michael Duffy, “El embarco de la Armada britanica en La Coruna y Vigo en enero de 1809,” A. Guimera Ravina and J. M. Blanco Nunez (eds.), Guerra Naval en la Revolucion vel Imperio (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2008), 367–386. 11 DDW, Vol. 5, 538–542. 12 Brian M. De Toy, “Defeating Napoleon’s designs: littoral operations in Galicia, 1809,” International Journal of Naval History, 7, 3 (December 2008). 13 Robin N.W. Thomas, “British operations on the coast of Catalonia 1808–1811,” A.R. Berkely (ed.), New Lights on the Peninsular War (Lisbon: British Historical Society of Portugal, 1991); John Morgan, “War feeding war? The impact of logistics on the Napoleonic occupation of Catalonia,” Journal of Military History, 73 (January 2009), 83–116. 14 David D. Horwood, “British seapower and its influence on the Peninsular War,” Naval War College Review, 31 (1978), 59–67; Brian de Toy, “Wellington’s lifeline: Naval logistics in the Peninsula,” Papers of the Consortium on Revolutionary Europe, 8 (1995), 359–368; Hall, 94–105. 15 DDW, Vol. 4, 69: 11 August 1808. 16 Ibid., Vol. 5, 230–235: to Fletcher, 20 October 1809. 17 Hall, 104. 18 W. Freeman Galpin, “The American grain trade to the Spanish Peninsula 1810–1814,” American Historical Review, 28, 1 (1922), 25. 19 DDW, Vol. 7, 59. 20 Charles Esdaile, The Peninsular War: A New History (London: Penguin, 2002), 333. 21 Admiralty instructions 1810; Hugh Popham, A Damned Cunning Fellow: The Eventful Life of Rear-Admiral Sir Home Popham (Tywardreath: Old Ferry Press, 1991), 194. 22 Abraham Crawford, Reminiscences of a Naval Officer (1851, reprint London: Chatham, 1999), 212–214; Hall, 169–170; Thomas M. Barker, “A debacle of the Peninsular War: the British-led amphibious assault against Fort Fuengirola 14–15 October 1810,” Journal for Military History, 64, 1 (January 2000), 9–52. 23 Jane Bourchier (ed.), Memoir of the Life of Admiral Sir Edward Codrington (London: Longmans, Green, 1873), Vol. 1, 198, 209–235. 24 DDW, Vol. 8, 422. 25 Ibid., Vol. 10, 416. 26 Ibid., Vol. 9, 175. 27 Ibid., 58–59, 320–322, 327, 331, 401; Christopher D. Hall, “The Royal Navy and the Peninsular War,” Mariner’s Mirror, 79 (1993), 416. 28 Popham, 197–209; Hall, Wellington’s Navy, 200–206; DDW, Vol. 9, 317, 329, 567. 29 DDW, Vol. 10, 515. 30 Ibid., 273, 318, 334, 361; Christopher Lloyd (ed.), The Keith Papers, Vol. 2 (Greenwich: Navy Records Society, 1955), 291. 31 DDW, Vol. 10, 458, 522–523. 32 Hall, Wellington’s Navy, 217–229. 33 Richard V. Hamilton (ed.), Letters and Papers of . . . Sir Thomas Byam Martin, Vol. 2 (London: Navy Records Society, 1898), 409. 34 Huw Davies, “Naval intelligence support to the British army in the Peninsular War,” Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, 86, 345 (2008), 34–56; Crawford, 278; Bourchier, Codrington, Vol. 1, 205–271 passim. 35 Hall, Wellington’s Navy, 100, 107–108, 226–229. 36 Emmanuel Las Casas, Mémorial de Sainte Hélène: Journal of the Private Life and Conversations of the Emperor Napoleon at St Helena (London: H. Colburn and Co., 1823), Vol. 2, Pt. 2, 220.

4 The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854

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Andrew D. Lambert

In 1854, Britain and France declared war on Russia. The Crimean War would be primarily a maritime conflict. Allied naval and amphibious forces attacked Russia in the Baltic, the Pacific, the Black Sea, and the White Sea. The last, the most peripheral campaign of a war fought on Russia’s maritime margins, achieved significant strategic effect at minimal cost with intelligence-led operations that exploited British technological superiority. The weather on the Murman Peninsula and in the White Sea was harsh, with the White Sea freezing solid every winter. Archangel was the main trading center, with Onega the only other White Sea port of consequence. Kola, the provincial capital on the Murman coast, was also fortified, but the region remained thinly populated. In the mid-nineteenth century, exports from Archangel and Onega were expanding, but most capital came from Britain and Scandinavia.1 British fears that Russia would secure ice-free harbors as far west as Hammerfest reflected a wider concern with Russian expansionist ambitions across the globe.2 Yet the Swedish–Norwegian Government remained unconcerned, despite a serious border dispute in 1851.3 In reality, Russia did not need to take an icefree port from Norway, since Kola Bay proved perfectly adequate for a major naval base; moreover, Russia lacked the power to extend to the west against Norwegian, let alone British, opposition.4 The Royal Navy’s expedition to the White Sea, however, was intended to guarantee that Russia’s naval forces could not cause trouble.

The origins of the White Sea campaign White Sea trade accounted for a small proportion of Russian exports (only 5–10 percent), but it remained an important target for economic warfare. The major exports were wheat, flax, linseed, deals, and tallow. Imports were dominated by sugar, wine, and champagne. However, a large proportion of this trade was in British hands, and destined for British markets. To deny Russian warships or privateers access to the ocean would require the British to blockade the White Sea.5 While Archangel was not a naval base, it was a major Russian shipbuilding yard.6 To protect the shipyard and city, Russian defenses were concentrated at the mouth of the River Dwina. By 1854, the British had an excellent intelligence

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30   A.D. Lambert picture of this distant corner of the Russian Empire, gathered from open sources by the Vice Consul.7 During 1853, with the Great Powers drifting towards war, British war-­ planning focused on the Near East, with only occasional references to other ­theatres of Anglo-Russian conflict. British strategic thinking emphasized economic blockade and high-technology attacks on hostile naval bases. However, the Royal Navy had little operational experience in Russian seas: the Black, the Baltic, and the White. Prompted by First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir James Graham, the Hydrographic Office, responsible for navigation and war planning, examined the strategic potential of the Black Sea and the Baltic, and the associated legal and logistical issues. Baltic operations depended on Denmark and Sweden, which controlled access to the sea, and local food and water, making it essential to maintain good relations with both states. Scandinavian concerns about the British position on maritime belligerent rights would influence British policy. Because Russia had a limited coastline, few ports, and very few merchant vessels, the British elected to conduct a close blockade, rather than the more contentious method of searching neutral shipping on the high seas for enemy goods and contraband. Norway, which shared a King and a diplomatic service with Sweden, wished to ameliorate the local impact of a White Sea conflict. In January 1854, Sweden requested: “that in the event of war between Great Britain and Russia the commerce between the peasants of Finmark and the White Sea might not be interrupted.” This was agreed by British Foreign Secretary Earl Clarendon.8 Hydrographer of the Navy, Captain Sir Francis Beaufort, had an extensive collection of Russian White Sea material, which Deputy-Hydrographer Captain John Washington digested into a 700-word strategic summary. He pointed out that the White Sea was on average 70 miles wide and reached a maximum width of 350 miles. The Hydrographic Office had copies of the latest Russian charts. Access to Archangel was limited, since there were only 15 feet of water on the bar of the Dwina and an old fort which covered the naval shipyard. The only food and coal supplies lay in Norwegian territory, a long way from the theatre of operations.9 Washington’s emphasis on safe navigation, coal, food, fresh water, and British trading interests would prove to be particularly significant. Washington had been assisted by the squadron commander, Captain Erasmus Ommanney (1814–1904), an experienced polar navigator. Ommanney’s report emphasized the opportunity to attack the shipyard at Archangel.10 This would require vessels drawing less than 13 feet of water.11 However, the Admiralty simply did not have any suitable ships to spare. A week later, on 7 April 1854, Graham informed Clarendon: “Archangel is closed by ice until the middle of May: but I am fitting out a small squadron for the special purpose of blockading Archangel as soon as the state of the ice will permit.”12

Blockading the Russian Arctic The Anglo-French blockade of Russia was complicated because the two countries had maintained very different legal regimes on this subject for the past two

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The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   31 centuries. The White Sea campaign was further complicated by a business system that obliged British merchants to pay in advance for Russian goods.13 In consequence, the Admiralty could order a watch only on the ports, seizing any Russian warships or merchantmen that put to sea.14 When merchants and ship owners requested information, the Admiralty declared: “that there is no present intention of establishing a Blockade of that place.”15 However, Graham privately stressed that the Admiralty expected to impose a blockade later.16 Clarendon emphasized the need to address the problems caused by pre-payment.17 Meanwhile, Graham hoped to use as few ships as possible for this peripheral campaign, planning to send the steam sloop HMS Brisk, under Commander Frederick Seymour, with Ommanney’s sailing frigate HMS Eurydice.18 He informed the French of his plans only a week before the British ships sailed north.19 Consequently, the French, who viewed the area as even more of a sideshow than the British, had no ships prepared.20 This forced Graham to attach another steam sloop, HMS Miranda, under Captain Edmund Lyons, to Ommanney’s squadron.21 The War Orders of 8 May 1854 directed Ommanney to observe the ports of Archangel and Onega, and capture any Russian warships, privateers, or commercial vessels. Contraband was to be seized without interrupting the Finmark trade. He was to cooperate fully with the French, and avoid being frozen in at the season’s end.22 Miranda would be under his orders until the French arrived, or longer if necessary. Finally he was instructed to “ascertain the strength of the Russian Force there, or at Archangel, and the operations which it may be desirable to undertake,” shorthand for attacking the shipyard.23 The squadron was ordered to sail on 20 May, “the Psyche of 40 guns and the Beaumanoir of 18 guns” would join him later.24 The three British ships were manned by 540 officers and men.25 Despite Ommanney and Washington stressing the need for ships drawing less than 13 feet to cross the bar of the Dwina, the steam sloops drew 15 or 16 feet of water; this 2–3 foot difference almost completely undermined their ability to bombard the shore. Official correspondence was left to the Norwegian postal system, or another “safe opportunity.”26 As correspondence with London took up to two months in each direction, Ommanney was left to run the campaign mainly on the basis of his original orders.27 To secure the coal supply, a matter of the utmost importance in a largely unknown, predominantly shallow sea, the Admiralty contracted for colliers to take 400 tons of coal to northern Norway on 6 and 26 July. Once Ommanney had worked out the average consumption, the Admiralty could plan further shipments, including one to Hammerfest, to refuel the ships on their return voyage.28 The Squadron sailed from Deal on 21 May 1854 and re-assembled at Hammerfest on 9 June.29 A prosperous fishing town of about 1,000 inhabitants, Hammerfest had an excellent harbor and good water, but few provisions. On 21 June, the squadron anchored at Sosnovets, or Cross Island, named for a prominent red navigation beacon. Conveniently placed in the narrows that separated the White

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32   A.D. Lambert Sea from the Arctic Ocean, this would be Ommanney’s forward operating base for the blockade. Intelligence provided by neutral masters and Russian prisoners persuaded Ommanney that Archangel was garrisoned by 6,000 troops with new batteries at the bar of the Dwina, while fort Novodvin had been rebuilt, and there were 15-row gunboats. All navigational marks had been removed. He estimated that 12 neutral vessels in ballast had gone to Archangel every day; he intercepted small coasters carrying rye meal, the authorized trade with Norwegian Finmark, so allowed them to proceed.30 Within 36 hours of anchoring at Cross Island, a gale set in from the northwest, driving over 300 merchant ships south to Archangel between 26 June and 3 July, when the wind changed. Boarding these vessels to check their papers proved rough and anything but rewarding work. Officers and men were soaked and bruised, while the squadron’s boats were knocked to pieces.31 Without the incentive of making prizes, such service was hard to stomach for ambitious young men unaware of the wider diplomatic considerations that allowed neutral ships to prosper, and Russian lodjas (large boats) to trade with Norway.32

White Sea operations Once Brisk had arrived and the wind shifted to the north, Ommanney headed south to attack Archangel and its shipyard. On 25 June 1854, the squadron anchored 29 miles north-north-west of the bar of the Berezov channel, the main entrance to the Dwina. The following morning the squadron approached the bar, and exercised at general quarters. After midday, the ships shifted inshore on the tide, in sight of the Mudiuga (Mudoska) lighthouse, a Russian steamer, the guard ship, and a large number of merchant vessels. The Russian defenses were more numerous than powerful, with nothing to match the mobility and firepower of the British steam sloops. For the next three days, a succession of northwesterly gales prevented Ommanney and his captains from even discussing their options, let alone attacking Archangel. While they waited for the wind to abate, the squadron intercepted passing merchant vessels, and seized the occasional Russian prize to supplement their fuel. On the evening of 3 July, the weather changed, allowing Lyons and Seymour to board the flagship. Information from neutral masters suggested the newly rebuilt Novodvin fort mounted 80 guns, with a 1,000-man garrison. Although they could see that the bar was covered by a new battery near the Custom House, the guard-ship, two war schooners, three small steamers—possibly armed—and by seven row gunboats, the British officers were confident. The plan was simple: one or both of the steam sloops would cross the bar of the Dwina, overpowering the defenses, before initiating a ship and boat attack on Archangel and the shipyard. As Eurydice drew too much water, Ommanney sent an officer and a small arms party on board Miranda, which drew a foot less water than Brisk. He also sent boats from the flagship to assist in sounding the bar—the Russians having removed all the navigational markers.

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The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   33 Ommanney elected to investigate the inner channel first. The operation began at low water on 4 July, shortly after dawn. Miranda weighed and drifted inshore, taking up a position off the lighthouse and near the bar. This allowed the boats to buoy a channel under the cover of heavy guns. They had hardly begun work when Russian horse artillery emerged from the woods behind the Mudiuga Lighthouse, only to be driven off by two well-aimed rounds from Miranda. Ommanney, who had just boarded Brisk, ordered further armed boats from Eurydice to protect the survey boats, and brought Brisk as close to Miranda as her draught would allow. The boats continued buoying the bar until approximately 10.00 a.m., when they were three miles ahead of Miranda. The Russians had waited patiently until the British boats were beyond the range of their powerful protector. Finally, the horse artillery re-appeared and the gun boats advanced. Even at high water, Miranda simply could not get close enough to provide covering fire, leaving Ommanney no option but to recall the boats. The survey teams confirmed Ommanney’s worst fear: there was insufficient water for Miranda to cross the bar. The average depth on the bar ranged from 11–13 feet: Miranda needed 15. A ship aground on the bar would be the perfect target for Russian shore batteries, gunboats, and fire rafts. Without at least one sloop inside the bar, “our force in boats is far too insignificant to attempt anything against the enemy’s gunboats and batteries.” However, there were still other channels to check. While lying off the Dwina, the squadron boarded upwards of 300 neutral vessels entering Archangel in ballast. Anxious to avoid being troubled by prizes or prisoners, Ommanney burnt seven Russian ships, sending their crew ashore.33 At 5.00 a.m. on 5 July, Miranda, with Ommanney on board, anchored in 18 feet of water near the Berezov Channel (the one being used by vessels entering the Dwina) just over two miles northwest of the Lighthouse at Mudiuga. She was accompanied by four boats from Eurydice. Ommanney and Seymour led the boats to sound the bar as the tide approached high water, around 10.00 a.m. Once again they found there was no deep-water channel. When the Russian steamers and gunboats advanced, Ommanney had to retire under Miranda’s guns. The Berezov bar proved to be slightly deeper than the new channel, but with only a bare 15 feet, no ships drawing over 13.5 feet could dare cross the bar, since the tides were variable. Once again thwarted by shallow water, Ommanney detached Miranda to the west to reconnoiter the lesser channels. Lyons found the Murman channel “perfectly impracticable for anything but small vessels,” later surveys proved the Nikolski and Poujience channels were even shallower.34 The planned naval attack on Archangel had been thwarted.35 Denied his one chance of glory, Ommanney sailed north, and the character of the campaign changed. The squadron returned to the anchorage at Cross Island on 7 July, “the only place where the coaling operations can be arranged,” and the best location to watch for ships entering the White Sea, although fogs frequently reduced visibility to below half-a-mile. The island, just five miles south of the Arctic Circle, was “about two miles in circumference,” no more than 69 feet in

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34   A.D. Lambert elevation, and covered to a considerable depth by peat, “upon which the reindeer moss grows in great abundance, and the mulberry is found in great quantities.”36 The shores of the White Sea were stark and barren, generally flat and devoid of timber, except near the rivers. Ommanney reported the Russians were making strenuous efforts to defend Archangel with forts and gunboats. If he could sustain the threat to attack, he could tie down Russian resources at Archangel, and attack other towns. Once the vital collier reached Cross Island, he planned to leave Eurydice to watch the entrance to the White Sea, while the two steamers inspected Onega and the rest of the White Sea. Despite the coal, Ommanney still had pressing logistic concerns. He had yet to find a secure source of water; while the steamers could distil their needs, this was a waste of scarce fuel. With 10 percent of the crew sick, he was equally anxious for a change of diet, confident fresh meat and vegetables would improve health.37 As Miranda’s surgeon observed, fresh meat was imperative if the men were to remain healthy. In 1854, reindeer, salmon, lemon juice, and local berries staved off the complaint. Ommanney estimated some 400 neutral vessels had entered Archangel since the squadron arrived. He advised the Admiralty to institute a strict blockade, expecting it would produce great hardship in the adjacent provinces, and might promote internal unrest. He believed the exemption granted to the Finmark trade was being abused, accusing the British Vice Consul at Hammerfest and his agents at Vadsoe and Vardohuis of trading with the enemy. He advised that all coasting vessels be destroyed.38 Meanwhile, Sarah and Isabella reached Cross Island on 9 July, with 421 tons of coal and the first Admiralty dispatches.39 After refueling, there were still 200 tons left on the collier, allowing Ommanney the luxury of a steam reconnaissance. From this point onward, Ommanney determined that every ship movement would have three distinct objectives: (1) check the charts, (2) secure fresh food and water, and (3) locate and destroy Russian ships and government property. He elected to begin with the other significant trading areas, the Bay of Onega and the Gulf of Kandalaxa. Although intelligence suggested all towns were garrisoned, he hoped there would be opportunities to attack. The latest information from neutral masters suggested the garrison of Archangel had increased to 20,000, with new batteries and gunboats in preparation, and plans to obstruct the bar. As the French squadron had not arrived, he considered it “absolutely necessary” to retain Miranda.40 The Admiralty effectively left Ommanney to his own devices. Such dispatches as reached him tended to be of a general, permissive character, or new regulations.41 The reply to Ommanney’s report on his reconnaissance of the Dwina reached the squadron at Hammerfest in late September, as they sailed for home. Having approved his proceedings, their Lordships merely desired he would not “expose the small force under your command to the chance of being overwhelmed by a greatly superior force.”42

The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   35

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Instituting the blockade While Ommanney examined the White Sea coast and weighed his options, domestic opinion turned against government policy. On 27 May 1854, Graham told the House of Commons that “it was not at present intended to blockade the Russian coast in the White Sea.” A week later, Ulrich John de Burgh (first Marquis of Clanricarde), a former Ambassador to St. Petersburg, raised the question in the House of Lords. The Duke of Newcastle, Minister for War, promised that whenever it was decided to establish a blockade there would be due notice in the official London Gazette.43 This was merely a holding position for an issue dominated by diplomatic considerations. Acutely sensitive to allegations that this would “greatly relax the pressure on the financial resources of Russia,” Graham wanted a rigorous blockade.44 However, the French ships were delayed, and the French Government did not give a clear answer to the question. Embarrassed by criticism from one of his own back benchers, Graham could do little more than promise that a blockade would be “established when the squadron in that quarter had been reinforced.”45 The implication was obvious: the delay had been caused by French procrastination. Eventually, even Graham had to accept that the blockade would begin on 1 August, a date rendered ridiculous by the fact that not a single merchant ship normally remained at Archangel or Onega so late in the season. Even so, when Beaumanoir arrived in the Downs, Paris had not agreed to the date, prompting further diplomatic telegraph exchanges.46 As the Times explained on 30 June orders to establish an effective blockade of the Russian ports had been deferred to give time to conclude commercial operations commenced in good faith before the declaration of war.47 The blockade order finally reached Ommanney on 1 September 1854, a month later than Graham had intended. It included a standard notice of blockade, devised by the Queen’s Advocate, leaving Ommanney to fill in the dates and locations.48 Even so, the Admiralty directed him not to destroy property purchased and paid for by British and French merchants.49 On 17 July, Ommanney transferred to Brisk with interpreter Frederick Hill, while ten seamen and ten marines from Eurydice joined each steam sloop. The steamers weighed and headed south shortly before noon, intending to enter the bay of Onega. While en route, Ommanney decided to enter Solovito Roads and inspect the renowned Solovetskoi Monastery. Intelligence suggested the monastery, an immense stone building of a distinctly war-like appearance, was heavily defended. The following afternoon, as Miranda moved slowly through the anchorage, checking the charts, Lyons observed a cannon about 1,000 yards from the ship. Fearing an ambush, he fired a warning round, the Russians returned fire and received a full broadside in reply. Lyons claimed both sides fired simultaneously, and the second Russian shot hit the ship. Unwilling to get into a gun battle with a monastery, Ommanney ordered Lyons out of range. That evening the Russians began constructing a battery to secure the inner channel to the monastery. At 3.30 a.m. on 20 July, both ships displayed a flag of truce at the foretop while Seymour and Hill carried Ommanney’s letter ashore. In terms that

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36   A.D. Lambert revealed more about his state of mind after the abortive assault on Archangel than his common sense, Ommanney demanded the surrender of the garrison and munitions of war, on pain of bombardment. Once ashore, Seymour observed the strength of the Russian position, with regular officers and infantrymen as well as armed monks. Archmandrite Aleksandr acknowledged that he was the supreme religious and civil authority, but disputed Ommanney’s version of the “facts,” bluntly rejecting his demands and claiming the Russians had only returned fire. His bluff called, Ommanney had to choose between a futile attack and a humiliating retreat. Predictably he preferred the pointless gesture. At 8.30 a.m., Miranda engaged the field battery, while Brisk bombarded the walls of the monastery with shot and shell at a range of 1,600 to 1,700 yards. After 90 minutes, the battery fell silent, only for the Russians to repair their position and resume practice. The monastery also continued to return fire until noon. Even when they stopped firing, they did not surrender. As Miranda hauled out into the anchorage, Russian infantry and field artillery opened fire on Brisk, only to be driven off by a broadsides and rifle fire. Brisk continued to fire shell or hot shot every five minutes, trying to secure compliance. Instead, the monastery fired back, prompting further British broadsides. Finally Ommanney landed on Peri Island, and realized he had made a fool of himself: “from the extent and strength of the walls . . . it was quite impracticable for our small force to assail it.” He ordered Miranda to cease fire and withdraw. He did not have the ammunition, or one suspects, the stomach, to carry on a futile struggle with this remarkably belligerent house of God. It could have been far worse: while trying to maneuver out of the channel behind Peri, Miranda ran aground, despite the lead being hove constantly. Lyons proved a resourceful seaman in a crisis, having the kedge anchor laid out by one of the boats in a matter of minutes, and heaving the ship off without further ceremony.50 Early in the action, two round shot struck Miranda, killing a 19-year-old seaman and leaving another without his right arm.51 Being further out, Brisk suffered only slight damage to her rigging. Nor, for all Ommanney’s protestations that “some slaughter” must have been done, did the Russians fare any worse. While the British ships fired well, at 1,500 or 1,600 yards most of their shot and shell lacked the power to damage massive stone walls. Brisk fired 319 shot, 85 shell, and 12 small shrapnel rounds.52 While Ommanney’s intelligence sources proved accurate, the squadron paid a heavy price to check them.53 Ommanney’s report represented his actions in the best light, but Sir James Graham was not impressed, minuting: Regret expenditure of his ammunition & do not consider it advisable to commence hostile operations on buildings of this character without more decided expression of hostility on the part of the enemy, & prospect of more decided success on ours.54 Graham knew there was no glory to be had battling monks, even belligerent Russians armed with cannon. On 11 August, the Times published a Russian Govern-

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The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   37 ment account from the Invalide Russe. While largely consistent with Ommanney’s dispatch, the Russians boasted no one had been killed or wounded, while the religious treasures were undamaged.55 The two French ships finally joined Ommanney off the Dwina on 11 August. Capitaine de Vaisseau Pierre-Ėdouard Guilbert agreed that notification of the blockade should be carried to Archangel at once.56 Early on 13 August, Lyons steamed toward the bar under the flag of truce. Lieutenant Mackenzie, in a gig flying British, French, and Russian colors, closed the bar, hoping to reach the Guard Brig. Instead he was intercepted by an armed boat, which accepted the  letter. Roman P. Boyle, Governor of Archangel, acknowledged that the White Sea was blockaded from Cape Sviatoi Nos to Cape Kanin. Recognizing the political importance of the blockade, Ommanney ensured his dispatch arrived as soon as possible by detaching Lyons on 14 August to catch the Norwegian mail at Vardohuis. The dispatch still took more than a month to reach London.57 Returning from Vardohuis, Lyons investigated Kola, the capital of Russian Lapland. He entered the Kola River on 21 August, and with two boats sounding ahead, he brought the ship within two miles of the town that evening. The river was narrow and dominated by high cliffs. The town defenses included a two-gun battery, a stockade with blockhouses, and houses loop-holed for musketry. Despite the narrow channel and a strong tide, Lyons worked the ship into a commanding position only 500 yards off the battery on the following evening before sending ashore a bombastic demand that the town surrender and the garrison deliver up their arms. Russian officials left him in no doubt it would be refused. At daybreak on the 23rd, seeing the Russians were ready, Lyons hauled down the flag of truce and opened fire. The Russian guns were quickly dismounted and the battery destroyed, but continued musketry from the town obliged Lyons to keep firing. Shells and red hot shot set the town ablaze, and a fresh breeze spread the conflagration. As the tide turned, Miranda grounded, and was soon covered in sparks and blazing embers. Once again Lyons rose to the challenge: he had the sails and decks wetted down and hove the ship off with her anchors. Meanwhile, a landing party drove the Russians from their positions without loss. Unable to estimate the enemy strength, or their losses, Lyons observed that the defenses had been built to resist a boat attack, unaware that a steamship could push so far up river. Although the ship had been aground eight times she did not appear to have suffered any damage. On 17 August, Ommanney took Eurydice cruising toward Cape Sviatoi Nos to examine the anchorage at the Ukanski Islands, the only safe place near the entrance of the White Sea. The declaration of blockade quickly emptied Archangel and Onega of neutral shipping, and no inbound ships appeared after midAugust. After consulting Guilbert, he concluded: nothing can be done with our force towards an attack upon Archangel, and there is no other object sufficiently important to justify the sacrifice of life or the risk of one of Her Majesty’s vessels that must be incurred in making

38   A.D. Lambert

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the attempt to cross the Bar in the face of the enemy’s defences and the many obstacles to the navigation.58 Consequently Miranda could proceed home. Ommanney anticipated leaving in mid-September. Without commercial shipping to watch, there was no reason to risk the squadron, especially as they faced a difficult voyage round the North Cape.59 He expected the sea to ice up in early October and his ships were not equipped for cold-weather operations.60 Miranda and Volga sailed on 4 September, while Eurydice, Psyche, and Brisk moved 70 miles south to the bar of the Dwina for a final inspection of the Russian position. Beaumanoir remained at the entrance to the White Sea. On 10 September, a Russian steamer crossed the bar under a flag of truce bearing a letter from Vice Consul Whitehead, requesting a passage home. With only five weeks’ provisions left, just enough for the voyage home, Ommanney decided it was time to go: Guilbert was happy to concur. On 16 September, the squadron sailed north, and after a brief stop at Cross Island, where the British ships checked their bread stores, all four ships left the White Sea on 22 September.61 The voyage home was relatively straightforward. Brisk picked up the last mail at Vardohuis on 24 September, before anchoring at Hammerfest late on the 25th. After communicating with the Admiralty via the telegraph at Dover, Brisk towed Eurydice into Spithead on 15 October. Ommanney’s slightly formulaic praise of allied cooperation in his end-of-campaign report ensured the dispatch could be copied to Paris. Both Eurydice and Brisk returned home without losing a single man, “and considering the length of time they have been on salt provisions, the health of the crews is well preserved.”62

Assessments of the blockade London had largely forgotten the campaign amid the high drama of the Crimean campaign. For all the anxiety of the Russia merchant community, and the occasional interest of the Admiralty and Foreign Office, the country at large knew nothing of the war in the White Sea. Media coverage was hampered by the lack of first-hand testimony, there were no “Special Correspondents” with the squadron. The Times was finally roused by Ulrich John de Burgh’s (first Marquis of Clanricarde) claim that the belated blockade would be a “farce as regards Russian trade for this year.” While sacrifices must be made in war, he considered the commercial losses had fallen disproportionately on British interests.63 His correspondent, on board Eurydice, reported immense numbers of Dutch vessels passed the squadron inbound: “Without a blockade of Archangel our presence in this sea is next to useless.” de Burgh argued current policy would shift the entire Archangel trade to “the Danes, Dutch, and Hanoverians.”64 More damaging, the Government did not know exactly when the blockade had been established.65 On 27 September 1854, the Times weighed in with a lead article complaining they had heard no more of “the proceedings of Captain Lyons and Captain Seymour for the last three months than if they had sailed on a Polar expedition,”

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The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   39 but were pleased to report “that the northernmost shores of the Russian empire have not escaped the ravages of war.” Lyons’ actions were reported in the most favorable terms, apparently from his own account. The troublesome matter of the non-existent blockade was explained, with a clear warning to the ministers about their future conduct: “the blockade will of course be more strictly enforced next year.” Events had been improved by Lyons; he made Solovetskoi into a powerful fortress. Even so the Times remained skeptical of the exact sequence of cause and effect. The destruction of Kola, by contrast, received unequivocal praise.66 Until late September, Sir James Graham had been busy with, first, the Baltic campaign, and then the invasion of the Crimea, the decisive stroke on which his strategy rested. Rumors that Sevastopol had fallen brought him unimagined joy. Finally, prompted by an article in The Economist, he urged Clarendon to settle allied policy on advanced orders with Paris so a blockade could be imposed in 1855.67 A remarkably buoyant Clarendon, still day-dreaming about the fall of Sevastopol, had beaten him to the punch. Not only did the Foreign Secretary agree to stop the trade, he had discussed the subject with leading Russia merchants, ensured the products normally purchased at Archangel could be obtained elsewhere, and commissioned The Economist article, which was “all my thunder.” The new policy would be discussed by the next Cabinet meeting.68 James Wilson, financial secretary to the Treasury and architect of government economic warfare policy, wrote The Economist article. He argued that Sevastopol would soon fall, leaving economic warfare as the only weapon capable of bringing Russia to terms. With Britain now amply supplied with Russian produce, either by indirect imports or from alternative sources, it should use domestic measures to cut off all trade with Russia.69 Wilson’s Cabinet paper was sidelined by a change of ministry and the opposition from the Board of Trade. Graham remained anxious to issue a joint notice that a blockade would be imposed at the commencement of the navigation season, and include the coasting trade between Russia and Norway. The moral effect of such a proclamation will be good as indicating the firm purpose of the allies, and the commercial effect, as bearing on Russian interests, will be better still; for it will dry up one of the largest sources of capital, which flows from hence into the Enemy’s country.70 On 25 October 1854, the Times gave a judgment, probably inspired by Clarendon, who was on close terms with editor John Delane. The war was not going to plan, but clearly heading into a second year and the Times roundly condemned existing trade war policy. While Britain continued to profit from its access to hemp, tallow, flax, and linseed, Russia would have enough gold to pay her bills.71 This time, the critique hit home: two days later, Graham advised Clarendon, “the service has been difficult, but nothing very effectual has been done. I agree in opinion that next spring an early and strict Blockade must be instituted.”72 This was the only way to hurt Russia.73 Once again Clarendon had

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40   A.D. Lambert anticipated him, reporting that the French were sufficiently uninterested to concur, and to leave the drafting of a declaration to the British.74 Two days later, advanced warning was given to Russia merchants, the Times commending the decision to render the blockade more effective.75 Foreign powers were duly advised that the Russian coasts of the White Sea would be strictly blockaded when the ice cleared.76 Interested parties in Britain received official notice through Lloyds marine insurance.77 While Graham regretted leaving key Russian ports like Archangel “unblockaded,” he took pride in the fact that “not a single British merchant man has been captured by a Russian cruiser or by a privateer under Russian colours throughout the wide extent of our commercial enterprise, which is wide and coextensive with the habitable globe.”78 With the benefit of hindsight this might not seem to be a matter for jubilation, but for Graham’s generation, who had grown up reading of the immense losses inflicted on British commerce by French and American privateers, such operations had been a real concern. Graham was unaware that the Russians were building six Brigand class commerce raiders at Archangel.79

Conclusions The White Sea naval expeditionary campaign of 1854 addressed several critical strategic challenges. The blockade was an essential defensive measure against the very real threat that Russia would fit out warships or privateers at Archangel. Graham understood the political and economic consequences of even a single privateer capture would be serious, not least calling into question the Royal Navy’s dominance and sparking a panic on the insurance market. Once the defensive task had been addressed, the same squadron could conduct economic warfare, although unusual commercial practices delayed effective implementation until 1855. Ommanney also attempted to attack the port and shipyard at Archangel. But this task proved beyond his resources. He re-considered the possibility when the French arrived, but they had no ships capable of crossing the Bar of Dwina. This led him to emphasize the need for a more rigorous blockade and the vital role of hydrographic information. This strategy would be economical and effective. A major attack on Archangel was out of the question for a peripheral campaign, since it would: require a large expedition accompanied by a military force, there is nothing of sufficient value either in the town or arsenal that would in any way compensate for the expedition that would be required for conducting operations at such a distance.80 Ommanney’s experience and the harsh logic of long-distance logistics would shape the 1855 campaign. Critically, Ommanney’s 29-page Hydrographical Remarks on the White Sea in the Summer of 1854 provided a running commentary on navigation, food supplies, and local geography, both physical and human,

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The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   41 in time for the 1855 campaign.81 It included a full description of Archangel.82 Although Ommanney could not exploit his hard-won knowledge—he was sent to fight in the Baltic—he could be proud of a campaign where, largely left to his own devices, he had managed logistics, health, and operations in a difficult theatre, checked and recorded the navigation of an almost unknown sea, and paved the way for an effective blockade in 1855. Above all, his actions left the Russians in no doubt that their White Sea provinces were vulnerable. The threat to Archangel ensured no Russian military resources could be diverted to other theatres. Lyons’ destruction of Kola proved that such towns simply could not be secured against a determined enemy. This peripheral campaign was conducted with a remarkable, appropriate economy of effort. Fewer than 1,000 allied sailors tied down the local defenses of an entire theatre. The 1855 campaign built on the success of 1854, with the blockade declared early, and maintained throughout the season, inflicting enormous damage on the Russian economy. Small-scale operations secured fresh food, and kept the enemy engaged, with only light casualties. Improved sailing directions were produced at the end of the season, ready for the next British assault on Russia’s Arctic provinces. There were no plans for a larger campaign if the war had continued into the 1856 season, and so the White Sea remained peripheral. But arguably the entire Crimean War was an expeditionary war on a number of peripheral fronts; no allied soldiers were ever more than a day’s march from the sea. Therefore, while it may have been a peripheral action in a peripheral war, the 1854 White Sea campaign proved vital and valuable, reflecting considerable skill in intelligence gathering, seamanship, logistics, and operations. Its effect on Russia was equally serious, leaving the Tsar with no more effective response than the futile fulminations of Imperial propaganda.

Notes   1 Terence Armstrong, Russian Settlement in the North (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 4–8, 79, 102–108.   2 Paul Knaplund, “Finmark in British diplomacy 1836–1855,” American Historical Review, 30, 3 (1925), 478–502. John P. LeDonne, The Russian Empire and the World, 1700–1917: The Geopolitics of Expansion and Containment (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 81.   3 Knaplund, 490.   4 Thomas K. Derry, A History of Modern Norway: 1814–1972 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), 82–83.   5 William C. Fuller, Strategy and Power in Russia 1600–1914 (New York: The Free Press, 1992), 69.   6 J. Tredea and E. Sozaev, Russian Warships in the Age of Sail, 1696–1860 (Barnsley: Seaforth Publishing, 2010), 34–35.   7 Vice Consul to Admiralty 1833–1854: FO 265/5 Archangel Consulate: The National Archives (TNA), UK.   8 Foreign Office to Admiralty 24.1.1854, No. 48: Admiralty Archives (ADM), TNA 1/5634.   9 White Sea Sailing Directions 4.3.1854—initialed JW (John Washington) 4.3.1854: PRO 30/16/18 TNA.

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42   A.D. Lambert 10 Ommanney to Beaufort 7.3.1854, 22.3.1854: United Kingdom Hydrographic Office Records (UKHO) Misc 7 f16–18. 11 Ommanney to Graham 29.3.1854: UKHO Misc 7 f19. 12 Graham to Clarendon 7.4.1854: Clarendon Deposit Bodleian Library Oxford (Cl. Dep.) C14 f285–286. 13 Times 27.4.1854, 5; Paris 26.4.1854; Times 29.4.1854, 5. 14 Admiralty to Foreign Office 25.4.1854: ADM 2/1698, 29–30. Graham to Clarendon 7.5.1854: Cl Dep. C14 f329. 15 Admiralty to D.T. Morgan 117 Bishopsgate St Within 27.4.1854: ADM 2/1698, 33–34. Admiralty to Messers Sturdy Brothers & Co. 50 Mark Lane 18.5.1854: ADM 2/1698, 108. Admiralty to Messrs Brown & Miller Flax Spinners, Dundee 2.6.1854: Ibid., 168. Admiralty to Sir J.E. Tennant Privy Council for Trade Whitehall 16.5.1854: ADM 2/1698, 102–103. 16 Admiralty to Foreign Office 2.5.1854, 5.5.1854; Admiralty to Geo Kempe, Hull 15.6.1854 ADM 2/1698, 50–51, 62–63, 202–203. 17 Graham to Clarendon 19.5.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 f 344 draft at British Library Additional Manuscripts (Add) 79,709 f146 Clarendon to Graham 19.5.1854: Add 79,709 f148. 18 David Lyon and Rif Winfield, The Steam and Sail Navy List, 1815–1889 (London: Chatham, 2004), 213. 19 Graham to Clarendon 9.5.1854,10.5.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 ff330–331, 333. 20 Admiralty to Foreign Office 12.5.1854: ADM 2/1698, 88. 21 Admiralty to Foreign Office 18.5.1854: ADM 2/1698, 105–106. 22 Admiralty to Ommanney 15.5.1854 enclosing orders of 8.5.1854: EO/2/2. 23 Admiralty to Ommanney 18.5.1854: EO/2/2. 24 Admiralty to Ommanney 20.5.1854 rec’d 11.6.1854: EO/2/2. 25 HMS Miranda 1,523 tons disp. 14 32 pdr 42 cwt. 250 nhp 10.7 knots. HMS Brisk 1,474 disp. 2 68 pounder 12 32 pounder 42 cwt. 250 nhp 7.35 knots: Lyon & Winfield, 213. 26 Admiralty to Ommanney 18.5.1854: EO/2/2. 27 Admiralty to Ommanney sent 29.6.1854, rec’d 30.8. Contains Circulars no. 151–153: EO/2/2. 28 Admiralty to Ommanney 20.5.1854, rec’d 11.6.1854: EO/2/2. 29 HMS Eurydice Logbook 25.5.1854: ADM 53/5685. R. Dundas Storekeeper General at the Admiralty to Ommanney 12.6.1854, rec’d by Volga from Vardohuis on 5.8.1854: EO/2/2. 30 Ommanney reports. Cap O 20 No. 35 Ommanney to Ad. 23.6.1854 No. 8. Off Cross Island Cap O50 rec’d 4.8.1854: ADM 1/5631 Endorsed 4.8.1854. Approve of proceedings. 31 Anon. to de Burgh July 1854: Times 30.8.1854, 5. “Our naval operations in the White Sea.” 32 Ommanney, Hydrographical Remarks on the White Sea in the Summer of 1854, 25. 33 Ommanney to Admiralty 4.7.1854 No. 9 O51 off the Dwina: ADM 1/5631. 34 Lyons to Ommanney 15.7.1854 off Cross Island in Ommanney to Admiralty 15.7.1854 Cross Island no. 14 Cap. , rec’d 8.8.1854: ADM 1/5631. 35 Ommanney to Admiralty 5.7.1854 No. 11 O54 off the Dwina, rec’d 8.8.1854: ADM 1/5631 enclosing Lyons to Ommanney 5.7.1854: HMS Miranda at anchor off the Dwina. 36 Medical log of HMS Miranda by John Corbett DD Surgeon: ADM 101/109/2. 37 Ommanney to Admiralty no. 12 8.7.1854 Cross Island O55: ADM 1/5631, rec’d 8.8.1854. 38 Ommanney to Admiralty 14.7.1854 no. 13 053 Cross Island, rec’d 12.8.1854: ADM 1/5631, “Suggesting a blockade of ports in the White Sea.”

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The Royal Navy’s White Sea campaign of 1854   43 39 Admiralty to Ommanney 6.6.1854, rec’d by Sarah & Isabella at Cross Island on 9 July: EO/2/2. 40 Ommanney to Admiralty 15.7.1854 Miranda off Cross Island no. 14 Cap. O52 rec’d 8.8.1854: ADM 1/5631. Enclosing Lyons to Ommanney 15.7.1854 Cross Island. The chart is PRO MPI 101. 41 Admiralty to Ommanney 5.7.1854, rec’d by Volga from Vardohuis 5.8.1854: EO/2/2. Admiralty to Ommanney 3.7.1854, rec’d 30.8.1854 encl. Admiralty Circular Order no. 154: E0/2/2. 42 Admiralty to Ommanney 4.8.1854, rec’d 25.9 at Hammerfest. On the same day Ommanney received the Admiralty dispatch of 10.8.1854 acknowledging and approving his dispatches of 5, 8, 14, & 15 July 1854 no. 1 to 14. EO/2/2. 43 Times 27.5.1854, 8. House of Lords: Times 5.6.1854, 8. 44 Clarendon to Graham 31.5.1854, 9.6.1854 Add 79,709 f152 & Add 79,710 f2. Foreign Office memorandum 9.6.1854: Add 79,710 f4: Graham to Clarendon 11.6.1854: CL. Dep. C14 f368. 45 Times 14.6.1854, 8; 13.6.1854, 7. 46 Clarendon to Graham 11.6.1854: Add 79,710 f6. Graham to Clarendon 27 & 30.6.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 f377–378. Admiralty to Foreign Office 29.6.1854: ADM 2/1698 273. 47 Times 30.6.1854, 9. 48 Admiralty to Ommanney 30.6.1854, rec’d 1.9 by Miranda: EO/2/2. Admiralty to Colonial Office 30.6.1854: ADM 2/1698, 279–280. 49 Admiralty to Ommanney Confidential 1.7.1854: ADM 2/1697, 144. Also in EO/2/2. 50 Lyons to Admiralty via Ommaney 24.7.1854. Anzersk Reporting the ship having grounded. EO/2/2. 51 Medical log of HMS Miranda John Corbett DD Surgeon: ADM 101/109/2. 52 Enclosure No. 1, Expenditure of shot, shell, and cartridges by HMS Brisk on the 19.7.1854 in: Ommanney to Admiralty 26.7.1854, rec’d 24.8. No. 16 O61 Cross Island: ADM 1/5631. 53 Ommanney to Admiralty 19.7.1854, rec’d 24.8. No. 15 HMS Brisk Solovito Roads O57: ADM 1/5631 Reporting the Bombardment of Solowetsky Fortress & Monastery. Encl.1. Lyons to Ommanney 18.7.1854 Solovets roads. Encl. 2 & 3 Original and translation of Captain Ommanney’s address to Solowetsky (Solovetskoi) Monastery 6/18.7.1854. Encl. 4. Seymour to Ommanney 19.7.1854. Brisk. Also in EO/2/2. 54 Sir James Graham 25.8.1854 Devonport: on Ommanney to Admiralty 19.7.1854: ADM 1/5631. 55 Times 11.8.1854, 7; “Russian news from the White Sea,” from the Invalide Russe. 56 Ommanney to Admiralty 12.8.1854, rec’d 6.9.1854 no. 28 O64 Off the Dvina: ADM 1/5631. 57 Admiralty to Foreign Office 25.9.1854: ADM 2/1698, 521–522. Lyons to Ommanney 7.8.1854, rec’d 88.8. Cross Island: EO/2/2. 58 Ommanney to Admiralty 4.9.1854, rec’d 24.9.1854 no. 40. O78 Cross Island. Delivered by Miranda: ADM 1/5631. 59 Ibid. 60 Ommanney, Hydrographical Remarks, 23–25. 61 Ommanney to Admiralty 13.10.1854, rec’d 16.10.1854 no. 43. O82: Eurydice off the Downs: ADM 1/5631 encl Ommanney to Guilbert 14.9.1854. 62 Ibid. 63 de Burgh to the Times 26.8.1854, printed 30.8.1854, 5: “Our Naval Operations in the White Sea.” 64 Anon. to de Burgh July 1854: Times 30.8.1854, 5: “Our Naval Operations in the White Sea.” 65 Admiralty to Foreign Office 21.9.1854: ADM 2/1698, 512–513. 66 Times 27.9.1854, Leader, 8.

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44   A.D. Lambert 67 Graham to Clarendon 1.10.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 ff459–460. 68 Clarendon to Graham 2.10.1854: Add 79,710 f71. 69 Anderson, 262–264. 70 Graham to Clarendon 24.10.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 ff474–476. 71 Times 25.10.1854, Leader, 6. 72 Graham to Clarendon 27.8.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 ff428–429. 73 Graham to Clarendon 1.11.1854: Cl. Dep. C14 draft in Add. 79,708 f89. 74 Clarendon to Graham 1.11.1854: Add 79,710 f74. 75 Times 3.11.1854, Leader, 6. 76 Graham to Clarendon 13.11.1854: Cl. Dep. C14. 77 Graham to Clarendon 8.1.1855: Cl. Dep. C30 ff63–64. 78 Clarendon to Graham 23.1.1855: Add 79,710 f132. Graham to Clarendon 23.1.1855: Cl. Dep. C30. 79 Tredea and Sozaev, 216–255. 80 Admiralty to Ommanney 17.10.1854: ADM 2/1702, 58; Ommanney to Beaufort 16.12.1854: UKHO Misc 7 f24. 81 Admiralty to Ommanney signed by Washington 24.3.1855: EO/2/2. For the issue of the report in 1855, see: Admiralty to Captain Thomas Baillie 1.5.1855 ADM 2/1697, 318. 82 Capt. E. Ommaney, RN, Hydrographical Remarks on the White Sea in the Summer of 1854 (London, printed for the Hydrographical Office, Admiralty, 1855).

5 Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation

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Robin Prior

It is ironic that one of the first combined and joint operations of the twentieth century began life as an operation that was specifically designed to preclude the use of soldiers. Winston Churchill, the First Lord of the Admiralty on the outbreak of World War I, had been casting about since the beginning of the conflict to find a way to use the navy to influence the war on land. A number of schemes put forward by him all came to grief on two grounds. First, all Churchill’s naval advisors thought the proposals risked ships from the Grand Fleet in mine- and torpedo-infested waters. Second, the War Office and its formidable head, Lord Horatio Kitchener, insisted that there were no troops to land anywhere.1 In January 1915, Churchill cast his eyes on Turkey, which in November 1914 had joined the Central Powers. A squadron of British warships was guarding the entrance to the Dardanelles Straits and Churchill wrote to the admiral in command, Admiral Sackville Carden (formally Commander of the Malta Dockyard) to ask whether he could see any way of rushing the Dardanelles with an augmented squadron and arriving at Constantinople to overawe the Turks.2 This telegram put Carden in an awkward position. Churchill had told him that severe losses could be accepted if the results justified them—an excellent way to prod even the most lethargic of admirals into action. Nevertheless, Carden replied with caution. It might be done, he opined, with a large number of ships, slowly demolishing the forts that protected the straits.3 This was enough for Churchill. He now had an operation that had many virtues. It would use only old battleships that could not stand in a line of battle against the modern German types faced by Britain in the North Sea. This factor would undercut naval disapproval. And it would not use soldiers—which would please the military. So on 13 January 1915, he took the scheme to the War Council, a committee of the Cabinet that oversaw the conduct of the war. The War Council was enthusiastic. The ships would demolish the forts, proceed to Constantinople, overawe the Turks, and force them out of the war.4

The original navy-only plan As it happened, the attack by ships alone during February 1915 was a fiasco. Churchill has been blamed for its failure, but the quality of naval advice offered

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46   R. Prior to him by the experts at the Admiralty was lamentably low. These men could have calculated (but did not) that the guns of the old ships were so worn and inaccurate that it would take a prodigious amount of shells and time to eliminate all of the 200 Turkish heavy guns that defended the straits.5 Moreover, even had the guns been demolished, little thought had been given by the Admiralty to the problem of sweeping the minefields that also protected the straits. The sweeping force provided to Admiral Carden consisted of nothing more than North Sea fishing trawlers, manned with civilian crews. They were so slow that they could hardly reach the minefield against the strong current flowing down the Dardanelles.6 As a result, after two weeks, some guns at the entrance of the straits had been demolished—not by the ships—but by landing parties of marines and no mines had been swept. By this time, the Turks understood British intentions. This indifferent progress led Churchill to prod Carden into making a major assault with all his battleships on 18 March.7 Carden’s response was to collapse and leave the task to his second in command, Admiral John de Robeck. No forts were demolished in this major effort and no mines swept, but one-third of the Anglo-French force was sunk or disabled by a combination of mines and gun fire. This failure marked the end of Churchill’s naval venture. Already there had been voices inside the Admiralty and the War Council calling for the commitment of troops to convert the affair into a true joint operation. Now de Robeck added his voice with the statement that the navy could not succeed alone.8 Although one of the appeals of the naval attack initially had been that no soldiers would be involved, there was no question that the decision-makers in London would now call the whole thing off. An immediate search for troops began, led by those such as the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, who had claimed just a few weeks before that there were no troops to be had for operations against Turkey. Within days, however, a motley force was after all deemed to be available. It consisted of 1½ divisions of Anzac troops training in Egypt, the 29th British Division, the last of the pre-war regular army, the socalled Royal Naval Division (RND), raised from sailors surplus to the requirements of the Grand Fleet, and a French division offered in the spirit of sharing the spoils if the operation succeeded. This force totaled some 80,000 men, which was deemed sufficient to overthrow the Turkish Empire with an army of 400,000. So, in late March 1915, preparations for turning Gallipoli into a combined operation commenced. Some four weeks later, the first landings took place. This brief interlude compares unfavorably to the Normandy landings, where a draft plan was in place 12 months before the landing.

The Gallipoli operation The commander of the Gallipoli operation was to be General Sir Ian Hamilton, who had been Kitchener’s staff officer in the South African War and had held the unimposing post of commander, Eastern Command, in Britain since the outbreak of the war. Hamilton had been dispatched to the Dardanelles just in time to witness the failure of the naval attack. He immediately canvassed the opinions

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Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation   47 of his corps commanders as to the prospects of the operation. Aylmer HunterWeston of the 29th Division entered strongly negative opinions, stating the Turks would fortify the coast, turning the operation into a “second Crimea.”9 William Birdwood, in charge of the Anzac troops, thought it could succeed if the troops landed on the Asiatic shore, an area he knew was forbidden to Hamilton by Kitchener.10 In the event, these opinions were of no account. Kitchener had instructed Hamilton that there could be no going back and that the army must succeed where the navy had failed.11 Hamilton was not of a mind to overrule the war minister. Nor was it likely that any other general in the British army would have done so. One obvious factor allowed Hamilton to make the decision to land—British supremacy at sea. This enabled Britain to land troops at will against a power such as Turkey without placing the superiority of its Grand Fleet in the North Sea at hazard. Britain had over 30 old pre-dreadnought battleships and the addition of just one or two of the latest types could easily keep the small Turkish navy in port—it consisted largely of the ex-German battlecruiser Goeben and the light cruiser Breslau. Preparations for the landing began badly. The principal idea had been to use as a base the Greek island of Lemnos, obtained from the Greeks in murky circumstances by Britain and located within a short distance of the Gallipoli peninsula. This scheme collapsed when it was realized that the transports from the newly-arrived 29th Division would have to be repacked and that Lemnos did not have the port facilities to do so. The 29th Division was therefore dispatched to Alexandria in Egypt. Only then was it discovered that the divisional equipment could not be packed for the landing until Hamilton’s plan revealed the order in which troops were to land. A delay therefore ensued while Hamilton made his plan. His plan was to some extent dictated by the topography of the peninsula. There were few beaches along the rugged coast of the Aegean side and the most obvious ones for effecting a landing—Brighton Beach near Gaba Tepe and the beaches at Bulair at the neck of the peninsula—were heavily defended. This left a number of small beaches at the toe of the peninsula around Cape Helles and a narrow strip to the north of Gaba Tepe. It soon became obvious that these beaches were too confined to land the whole force at any one of them, so Hamilton decided to split his landings. The Anzac force would land to the north of Gaba Tepe and the 29th Division would land at five beaches near Cape Helles. That force, aided by the guns of the fleet, would work northwards up the peninsula, while the Anzacs advanced across the peninsula to prevent Turkish reinforcements from reaching their compatriots at Helles. To confuse the Turkish defenders, feint attacks would be made by the Royal Naval Division at Bulair and by the French at Kum Kale on the Asiatic coast.12 This plan showed some imagination. By landing at six beaches, Hamilton hoped to confuse the Turkish defense and institute a rapid advance while the Turks were off-balance. But it also had some defects. At Helles, two substantial forces were to be landed at Y and S beaches on the flanks of the main landing at

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48   R. Prior X, W, and V. Short advances by these troops could have in fact cut off all Turkish troops opposing the major landings. But this promising scenario was vetoed by Hamilton and his staff. The forces at Y and S were given no orders but to await the arrival of the main force from the south. They were to land, therefore, and remain in situ until the southern landings succeeded. That they might contribute to this result more directly apparently occurred to no one. This oversight was to have doleful effects on the day of landing. In the north, the Anzac objective was clear enough—the troops were to push across the peninsula, occupy the significant height of Mal Tepe, and intercept Turkish reserves heading south. No order specified the exact position where the Anzac force was to land, just the general location north of Gaba Tepe but south of Fisherman’s Hut, a distance of 1½ miles.13 Yet Hamilton’s staff was not prepared to be more specific. Nor did Birdwood’s staff seek clarification. It was as though the Normandy force had been told to land somewhere between the Cotentin Peninsula and Caen. Various expedients were adopted to transfer men from ship to shore. At some beaches, troops would be transferred from warships or cargo vessels to lifeboats, which would be towed by trawlers until the water became too shallow for the larger craft. The men would then row themselves ashore. At V Beach, where the main landing at Cape Helles would take place, 2,000 men would be landed from an old collier River Clyde. The ship would be grounded near Fort Seddelbahr and the men would debouch from sally ports cut in the sides of the vessel. In this way it was hoped that the large assaulting force could overwhelm the garrison before it could come into action.14 One of the curious features of the naval side of the plan was the strict limit placed upon the expenditure of heavy ammunition from the ships in support of the landings. There is no evidence that de Robeck’s force was short of ammunition or, if it was, that more could not have been supplied from Malta or from stocks in England. Apparently the naval authorities had great confidence that the military operations would rapidly overcome all Turkish opposition. In that instance, the straits and their defenses would soon be eliminated, so the ships would need full magazines as they steamed up to Constantinople. What might happen if military operations stalled from lack of supporting fire was apparently given no thought.15

The Turkish defenses at Gallipoli What forces could the Turks bring against Hamilton’s landings? The naval attack ensured that the Gallipoli Peninsula would receive reinforcements. By 18 March 1915, the Turks had decided to form a new Fifth Army of two army corps (six divisions) under the command of General Liman von Sanders, former head of the German military mission to Turkey. The landing places on the peninsula would be guarded by IIIrd Corps, with its 7th and 9th divisions, with the 19th Division held in central reserve, able to send troops to the southern or northern area as required. The 5th Division and a cavalry brigade remained further back

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Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation   49 in the vulnerable area of Bulair. The XVth Corps deployed to the Asiatic shore with the 3rd and 11th Divisions disposed near the main beaches. By the time of the Allied landings, the Turks had about 40,000 men and 100 artillery pieces on the peninsula or nearby. On the Asiatic side there were 20,000 infantry with 50 guns. In addition, the mobile batteries of the straits defenses could be called upon—about 60 guns in all.16 The Turkish garrisons defending the peninsula were placed along the coast in small outpost screens, well dug in with wire, in positions that overlooked the most obvious landing beaches. These dispositions represented both strengths and weaknesses. Most of the coastline from Morto Bay to Gaba Tepe was covered by a thin screen of troops. However, these screening garrisons were small in number and, if they were overwhelmed by the landing forces, counter-attacks could not be mounted in time or in sufficient strength to force the invaders back into the sea. On 25 April 1915, British and Anzac forces landed on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Despite much muddle and incompetence on the British side, the Turks did not manage to dislodge them. The feint attacks were of dubious advantage; the landing of the French on the Asiatic shore did not deflect the Turks. The French eventually withdrew and landed at Helles alongside the British on 28 April. At Bulair, the appearance of British ships off the coast caught the attention of von Sanders. He kept the Turkish 5th Division in the area at a time when it could have resisted the Anzac landing. This has often been portrayed as a success for the feint. However, von Sanders was so obsessed by the Bulair position that he would have probably kept troops in the area even had there been no feint. At Helles, the flank landings at S and Y beaches took place virtually unopposed. But, as noted above, the forces there had no orders to move until the main force from the south drew abreast of them. When this failed to happen the flank troops remained stationary. This did not matter at S because the Turks were too concerned with events at V and W beaches to the south to interfere with them. It did matter at Y: here the Turkish command was alarmed at the size of the landing (some 2,500 men) and had a reserve force land near the village of Krithia. Continuous counter-attacks against the British began from mid-afternoon and resumed at night. It was all too much for the local British commander. The troops were withdrawn on the 26th and a promising lodgment on the peninsula was lost. The main British force landed at W and V beaches at the very toe of the peninsula. Here were the strongest Turkish garrisons (some concealed in the fort at Seddelbahr) and strong offshore defenses in the form of barbed wire and iron stakes. All this was known to Hamilton, but in the prevailing doctrine of the day, it was thought best to hit the Turks where they were strongest rather than try a more indirect approach. So, throughout the day, despite the mounting casualties, reinforcements were directed toward W and V. River Clyde at V proved a doubtful expedient. Troops issuing from the sally ports provided excellent targets for Turkish machine gunners and riflemen on shore and by nightfall only some 200 men remained ashore unwounded. It was a minor landing at X beach that turned

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50   R. Prior the tide for the 29th Division. The Turks withdrew men from W to meet it and through that gap poured enough troops to outflank the defenders at V. In the end, the weight of numbers told. By the 26th, the British had some 12,000 men ashore, while the Turks had only several hundred in that area to oppose them.17 Naval gunfire in support of the landings proved either inadequate or useless. The guns of the old battleships were just not accurate enough to provide close support for the infantry. Indeed, one ship which was supposed to be shelling V beach landed some shells among the British troops at Y. Only the newest dreadnought, Queen Elizabeth, provided any effective support by keeping the garrison in Seddelbahr pinned down at a crucial moment.18 Elsewhere, a few desultory shells were fired to no effect.

The landing at Anzac At Anzac, contrary to legend, the troops were landed within the vague parameters specified in the orders. The tortuous country and some stubborn defense provided by the few hundred Turkish troops who opposed the landing stopped any rapid advance. Then Turkish reinforcements began to appear on the battlefield. This caught the local Anzac commander between trying to see off an immediate threat to his right, on the one hand, and, on the other, gaining the high ground on the left that dominated the area of the landing. Although the Anzac forces stymied the threat from the right, at the end of the day, the Turks controlled such dominating positions as Battleship Hill, Baby 600, and Chunuk Bair on the left. They would not be removed from some of these lodgments for most of the battle. In the north, the fire from the ships’ guns was even less effective than at Helles. The mountainous country meant that the flat trajectory of the shells either hit the high ground near the water’s edge or passed harmlessly over the Turkish troops gathered in many of the valleys between the ridges. As terrifying as the explosions of these enormous shells might be, effective they were not.19 Fire support for the infantry became a perennial difficulty at Gallipoli. The troops had very rudimentary artillery support, especially in the early days of the campaign. After all, the main British army on the Western Front was chronically short of guns and ammunition at this time and the Gallipoli forces had only those munitions that could be spared from the major battle. Some of this had been anticipated by the command, but it was thought that supporting fire from the fleet would make up for any deficiencies. When this proved not to be the case, the troops were bereft. They would have to push on with whatever fire resources they could carry or not push on at all. The Turks at Anzac on 19 May proved that “pushing on” would be difficult for any side. There, under instructions to send the invaders back into the sea, the Turks mounted one of the largest attacks of the entire campaign. Somewhere between 30,000 and 42,000 infantry took part in an attack along the whole of the Anzac perimeter. The Anzacs had hardly dug any continuous trench lines, had little artillery support, and were outnumbered by at least two to one. However, during the course of the attack they fired no less than 948,000 rounds of small

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Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation   51 arms ammunition, most of it from machine guns. It was enough. The Turks suffered 10,000 casualties and gained no ground. This was an omen of how devastating even small arms fire could be against troops in the open, insufficiently supported by heavy guns.20 The end of May also saw the campaign at Gallipoli change from a joint operation into a slogging combined infantry battle. The troops were, of course, supplied from the sea, but with the sinking of two of the pre-dreadnoughts in May, much of the fleet withdrew to its island bases and only reappeared for major encounters. So, at Anzac, the small perimeter held by the Australian and New Zealand troops remained virtually as it was on 19 May. In the south, HunterWeston conducted the three poorly-thought-out battles of Krithia that gained some unimportant ground at high cost. At the end of June and in early July, there were more hopeful signs at Helles. Hunter-Weston and the French commander, General Giraud, found that by pooling their artillery resources and limiting their objectives to just a few lines of Turkish trench, they could take small pieces of ground at reasonable cost. “Bite and hold” operations had arrived on the peninsula but their exponents were soon to return home—Hunter-Weston due to exhaustion and Giraud because he had been seriously wounded. At the very moment of their departure, Hamilton called for a new plan to employ additional troops that London had decided to dispatch to Gallipoli.21

Political debates at home The debate to send reinforcements to Gallipoli was hard-fought and encompassed the fall of the Liberal government and its replacement by a coalition, which left Asquith as Prime Minister but included members of the Conservative Party. This might easily have become the death-knell of the Gallipoli campaign, as many leading Conservatives such as Bonar Law had opposed the operation from the outset. But, high office had a sobering or perhaps paralyzing effect on the decision-makers. However badly the campaign was proceeding, a decision to “cut and run” went beyond the courage of the new government. Not for the last time in military affairs, it was hoped that one more push (or “surge,” in contemporary terms) might do the trick. Three divisions were to be sent to Hamilton, with a promise of two more should they be required.22 Hamilton now had to decide how to use this substantial reinforcement, so he called for ideas from his staff and from the corps commanders. Braithwaite, his Chief of Staff, wanted to use British superiority at sea to land behind the Turks at Helles and advance directly on the straits defenses at the Narrows. This imaginative plan, anticipating Anzio in the Italian campaign in 1944, suffered from some of the same defects of that later plan. The troops would land in an area near the Turkish central reserve, allowing the enemy to concentrate a formidable force against the new landing. Moreover, even if the troops managed to advance from the narrow beaches, they would soon encounter the defended heights of the Kilid Bahr Plateau, which, because they held the key to the Narrows, were some

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52   R. Prior of the most heavily defended on the peninsula. These difficulties spelled the end of Braithwaite’s plan and no more was heard of it. In any case, Hamilton had received a plan from Birdwood that was much more to his taste. Birdwood conceived a left hook around the Anzac perimeter across the difficult but undefended country to the north. A rapid swing to the left would then seize the heights of the Sari Bair Ridge from Hill 971 to Chunuk Bair. An attack would then be mounted down the ridge in concert with the troops already at Anzac. This would roll up the Turkish positions and one of the reinforcing divisions would dash for the Narrows and seize the forts. With these defenses in Allied hands, the fleet could sail up to Constantinople, the Turks would surrender and perhaps a gigantic Balkan coalition could be formed against the Central Powers. As a coda to the plan, Birdwood suggested that a force land at Suvla Bay and convert that relatively flat area into a base of supply for all the forces in the north. No suggestions from any quarter suggested reinstating the “bite and hold” tactics that had had some success at Helles. Such tactics were certainly not spectacular, nor did they promise an early end to the campaign, but they might have been all that was feasible. This occurred to no one. In any case, the War Council— now reconstituted as the Dardanelles Committee—probably would have vetoed such plans. After all, the British and French had not gone to Gallipoli to replicate the attritional battles of the Western Front.23 So Birdwood’s plan held the day, and during July it was developed and fine tuned by both the Anzac Corps Commander and by Hamilton’s staff at GHQ. During this process, however, something peculiar happened. The Suvla Bay aspect of the plan increased from a small landing to one that was to absorb almost two of the three reinforcing divisions. This left Birdwood with just his existing force and one new brigade to carry out the left hook; yet, the more this movement was studied, the more troops it was thought to need. Finally, all Birdwood’s forces would be absorbed in capturing the Sari Bair Ridge. No one at Corps headquarters or at GHQ seemed to notice that now no force was available to cross the peninsula and seize the Narrows. In other words, the entire objective of the new attack became the ridge. Yet many more ridges lay between Sari Bair and the Narrows, so Birdwood’s plan had shrunk from a campaign-winner to one that promised at best a tactical success. Apparently, no one noticed.24

A last futile attempt The new campaign was slated to begin in early August when the troops had arrived and had time to acclimatize. The Suvla landings took place on 6 August 1915 as Anzac columns wound their way up the ravines to the Sari Bair heights. The Suvla operation was carried out by the newly formed IX Corps commanded by General Frederick Stopford, formerly the commander of the Tower of London. It consisted of the 11th and 10th (Irish) divisions of the New Armies, formed by Kitchener on the outbreak of war. This operation has been much misunderstood in the literature. Its purpose was to establish a base for the troops in

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Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation   53 the north. It was to take out a few guns on the flank of the Anzac advance and any spare troops were to advance along the heights, which overlooked Suvla Bay, and attempt to aid the Australians in capturing Hill 971. However, when Stopford looked at the plan he soon realized that his force would be fully absorbed in driving the Turks back from the base, capturing the guns, and occupying the heights. Any thought of assisting the Anzacs was dropped as impractical. In some ways, the landing at Suvla Bay showed an increase in sophistication from those of 25 April. Specially built landing craft called “beetles,” with light armor and shallow draft, brought the troops from the larger ships to shore. In other ways, however, lessons were not learned. Unlike the original landing places, the charts of the Suvla Bay area were not checked by an offshore reconnaissance. As a result, many of the landing craft came to grief on uncharted reefs and it took some hours to free them. Insufficient fresh water supplies also played a major role in slowing the advance inland on the first and second days of the landing. Nor were the Turkish defenses known in any detail. One of the first battalions ashore spent some time in attacking an undefended sand dune, only to be cut down by the defenders of their real objective, Hill 10, a little further inland. Elaborate maneuvering revealed that the guns, which were a major target for the first day, did not exist. Then the boats bringing in the 10th Division lost their way and deposited the troops right across the bay from the assigned area and thus separated from their commander. Once ashore, matters did not proceed much more smoothly. Most of the brigadiers showed a lack of initiative amounting to paralysis. Stopford, offshore on the HMS Jonquil, showed a similar lack of initiative. Hamilton was too preoccupied with events at Anzac to notice that no advance was taking place at Suvla. When he finally intervened, nine hours after the landing, he managed to disrupt the advance that Stopford had finally got around to organizing. As a result, no advance at all took place until late on the 8th. As it happened, none of this mattered. The Turks had been taken by surprise and organized a counter-attack as slowly the British advanced on the ridge overlooking the beach. By the time the Turks arrived in strength on the 9th, the British were well enough established to beat them back with great slaughter. In any event, the Turks could not drive the British back into the sea and the British could not capture the high ground that seemed essential to make the base safe. In the end this proved not to matter either. The Turks never possessed the artillery resources to make the base area untenable. Although continuously under fire, the base was established and remained established until the evacuation. Despite the supine efforts of the British command and the muddle at the landing, Suvla proved the one successful amphibious operation carried out by the Allies at Gallipoli.25 The attempted left hook at Anzac failed, but in such circumstances that it could be portrayed as “almost a success.” Failure in fact set in early. The three columns making their way over un-mapped territory in the dark soon got lost. Only a small contingent of Ghurkas and a party of New Zealand troops got within hailing distance of the ridge. On the next day, due to confusion on the

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54   R. Prior Turkish side, some men from both groups briefly gained two important heights on the ridge (Hill Q and Chunuk Bair). However, they were soon repelled by the considerable reinforcements that the Turks had rushed to the area. On Hill Q the navy—whose fire had been quite ineffectual in support of the troops—was accused of shelling off the Ghurkas, and indeed these troops did take some friendly fire as they were being counter-attacked. However, the fire almost certainly came from some Anzac howitzer batteries, and in any case the grip of the Ghurkas on the ridge could not have been maintained in the face of the large number of Turks brought against them.26 These two incidents led some historians to claim that the Anzacs “almost” secured the ridge. This is not the case. The two points on the ridge were open to enfilade fire from other points on the ridge. This fire must, sooner or later, have driven the Anzacs back. If the ridge was to be secured, it needed to be captured entire. Whether the Anzacs had sufficient troops to accomplish this or whether the troops could have been supplied with food, water, and ammunition had they done so, is extremely dubious. In any event, the ridge never held. The August offensive was no close-run thing, but a failure pure and simple.27 This August 1915 attack was, in fact, the last hurrah at Gallipoli. Despite two more divisions of reinforcements and some desultory efforts to capture part of Sari Bair, the military effort was at an end. At this point, the naval authorities led by Roger Keyes tried to resuscitate a new naval attempt on the straits. This came to nothing on the very good grounds that little had changed in the naval situation since the failure on 18 March. In particular, the minefield remained intact and Keyes and his supporters provided no convincing method of sweeping it.28 When evacuation was discussed, there was a Cabinet rebellion in London on the grounds that British prestige could not withstand such a humiliation. In fact, British prestige hinged on whether Britain won the war, and it was obvious to many that this issue would not be decided at Gallipoli. The rebels were finally crushed by a visit by Kitchener to the peninsula where he too recommended evacuation.29 It remained only to extricate the troops. This was done in December 1915 at Anzac and in January 1916 at Helles. No troops were lost and this became an occasion to boast of the resourcefulness of the allies in fooling the supine Turks. This too does not withstand close scrutiny. It is clear that the Turks were aware that the allies were about to depart and that they reasoned the better part of valor was to let the allies go. After all, the occasions on which the Turks had left the safety of their trenches and attacked across open ground had hardly been happy experiences. So, if the allies did not lose a soldier in the course of the evacuation, neither did the Turks.

Conclusions Were there any prospects that the combined and joint operation at Gallipoli could have yielded results that may have had an effect on the war as a whole? The answer must be in the negative. The strategic purpose of the operation was

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Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation   55 to clear a way for the fleet to proceed to Constantinople to force the surrender of the Turks. Yet there is no evidence that the Turks would have surrendered, even had the fleet managed this unlikely task. Trenches were being dug in the capital, the city was in military hands, and it quite possible to imagine that, had the capital fallen, the government would have decamped to Anatolia and continued the war from there. Even if we take the next step, and ask what might have happened had Constantinople fallen, we get very little further. Perhaps—the politicians were vague on this point at the time—Britain and France envisaged that some form of Balkan coalition would immediately form. Churchill summed up what would have happened next most succinctly: The whole of the forces of the Balkan confederation [which he estimated at just over 1 million men] could then have been directed against the underside of Austria in the following year [and that this] must have involved the downfall of Austria and Turkey and the speedy victorious termination of the war.30 In adding up the Serbian, Greek, Bulgarian, and Rumanian armies, observers such as Churchill never showed how armies with no common language and equipment could have been combined in an efficient way. Moreover, the internecine hatreds of the Balkan states for each other would not have made the traverse of, say, Bulgarian armies across Serbia an easy matter. There were formidable difficulties with communications as well. There were only two railway lines linking the Balkans with Austria in 1915, and it is almost certain that these narrow-gauge links would have proved insufficient to supply armies of the size suggested by Churchill. The state of these armies posed additional problems. For example, in 1914, the Rumanian army had little modern artillery and was particularly deficient in heavy pieces. What they had was pulled by oxen, because of the shortage of tractors and horses. Machine guns were in very short supply, eight divisions of the Rumanian army having none at all. The Rumanians had only ammunition for two months of heavy fighting and one shell factory, which delivered two shells per day. They had no gas, virtually no aircraft, and no equipment such as trench mortars.31 Balkan armies were in no better shape. The Greek army lacked proper equipment, and hoped to obtain it from the major powers, but the latter soon found that they had insufficient equipment for their own forces. These were the armies that Churchill and others expected to take on and defeat the armies of Austria-Hungary and Germany. It seems certain that the Austrians alone would have had the capacity to deal with this motley array. If by mischance they had been forced back, the Germans would have rushed to their aid. The issue would then have been beyond doubt. Any Balkan alliance then was probably chimerical. Even if one had been formed and their armies placed in the field, their prospects were dismal. More likely, no such alliance would ever have formed even if Constantinople had fallen.

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56   R. Prior Indeed, this investigation lays bare the fallacy behind the entire Gallipoli adventure. Turkey and the Balkan states were but minor players in the Great War. The defeat of Turkey in 1915 would have saved temporarily the lives that were lost in the Palestinian and Mesopotamian campaigns from 1916 to 1918. But had Turkey fallen in 1915, those troops would have been transferred to the killing fields of the Western Front. How many would have survived this ordeal is speculative, but it seems certain that their overall death toll would have been higher. All this leads to an unwelcome conclusion about Gallipoli and the Dardanelles. Despite the bravery of the allied troops who fought there, the campaign was fought in vain. It did not shorten the war by a single day, nor in reality did it ever have that prospect. As Churchill said (and then promptly forgot), “Germany is the foe & it is bad war to seek cheaper victories.”32 Gallipoli was certainly a bad war. As it happened, it did not even offer a cheaper victory or in the end any kind of victory. But even if it had, the downfall of Turkey was of no relevance to the deadly contest being played out in France and Flanders.

Notes   1 Robin Prior, Gallipoli: The End of the Myth (London/New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), chapter 1.   2 Churchill to Carden 3.1.15, Martin Gilbert (ed.), Winston S Churchill, Volume III, Companion, Part I, Documents, July 1914–April 1915 (London: Heinemann, 1972), 367 (hereafter CV3).   3 Carden to Churchill 5.1.15, CV3, 393.   4 War Council Minutes 13.1.15, Cab 42/1/16.   5 “Report of the Committee Appointed to Investigate the Attacks Delivered on the Enemy Defences of the Dardanelles’ Straits,” London, Naval Staff Gunnery Division, 1921, 78. The report is popularly known as the “Mitchell Committee Report.”   6 Ibid., 51.   7 Churchill to Carden 11.3.15, CV3, 677–678.   8 De Robeck to Churchill 27.3.15, ADM 116/1348.   9 Hunter-Weston to Hamilton 30.3.15, Hamilton Papers, King’s College, London, 17.7.30. 10 Birdwood to Hamilton 1.4.15, Birdwood Papers, Australian War Memorial, 419.10.7, Box 209. 11 Kitchener to Hamilton 19.3.15, Hamilton Papers, 15/17. 12 Sir Ian Hamilton, Force Order No. 1, Military Operations: Gallipoli V1, Maps and Appendices Vi, Appendix 3, 7–11. 13 Ibid., Appendix 5, 16–18. 14 Ibid., Appendix 7, “Orders issued by the Naval Commander-in-Chief 12.4.15.” 15 Ibid. 16 Mitchell Committee Report, 153–154. 17 “The Landing from the ‘River Clyde’ at V. Beach April 25th 1915 By A Company Commander In The 1st Royal Munster Fusiliers” (Captain G.W. Geddes), 86 Brigade War Diary April 1915, WO 95/4310. 18 Mitchell Committee Report, 156. 19 Charles E.W. Bean, Official History of Australia in the War of 1914–1918: The Story of Anzac V1 (Sydney, Angus & Robertson, 1938), 3rd Edition, 363. 20 Ibid., V2, 161.

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Gallipoli as a combined and joint operation   57 21 “VIII Corps Report on Operations from 7 June to 6 July, 1915,” VIII Corps War Diary June 1915, WO 95/4274. 22 Dardanelles Committee Minutes 17.5.15, Cab 42/3/1. 23 Bean, The Story of Anzac, V2, 439. 24 Birdwood to Hamilton 1.7.15 and 10.7.15 in Anzac Corps War Diary, WO 95/4821. 25 IX Corps War Diary, August 1915. QWO 95/4276. 26 Colonel Allanson led the Ghurkas; see “Allanson Papers,” Imperial War Museum London, Ds/Misc/69. 27 Cecil Malthus, Anzac: A Retrospect (Auckland: Whitcombe & Tombs, 1965), 56. 28 See de Robeck’s devastating critique: “The Keyes Papers,” V1 (London: Navy Records Society, 1972), 232–233. 29 Kitchener to Asquith 10.11.15, Cab 42/5/20. 30 Winston S. Churchill, The World Crisis (London: Odhams, 1951), 849. 31 For the Rumanian army, see C. Kiretscu, La Roumanie dans la Guerre Mondiale 1916–19 (Paris: Payot, 1936), 54, 265. 32 Churchill to Fisher 4.1.1915, in Martin Gilbert (ed.), Winston S Churchill V3: Companion Documents (London: Heinemann, 1972), 381.

6 The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918

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Paul G. Halpern

The Mesopotamian campaign during World War I is an example of military operations that began on a relatively small scale with modest and logical objectives. These objectives were then expanded into a far more ambitious project that led to a disaster in 1916. The situation was retrieved in 1917, but at the end of the war, the British, although victorious, might well have questioned whether or not the campaign had been worthwhile.

Background to the campaign The Mesopotamia operations began immediately after Turkey entered the war on the side of Germany and Austria in November 1914. The initial objective was to protect the Anglo-Persian Oil Company pipeline running from Maidan-i-Naftun in Persia some 140 miles down to the Persian Gulf and the refinery at Abadan Island. The island was located in the Shatt al Arab, the channel by which the waters of the Tigris and Euphrates reached the gulf after the new channel of the latter joined the Tigris at Kurmat Ali approximately 68 miles upstream.1 The British, anticipating Turkish entry into the war and alarmed at German propaganda among the Arab sheiks in the region, had forces in position, notably a reinforced brigade of the 6th Indian Division (originally intended for service in France) at Bahrain in the Persian Gulf. The expedition, designated “Force D,” was under the control of the Government of India rather than the War Office in London and commanded by Brigadier Walter S. Delamain. The naval component consisted of a pair of lightly armed sloops and armed transports of the Royal Indian Marine with the old battleship Ocean as heavy support if necessary. Although the risk was small, the German cruisers Emden and, initially, Königsberg, were still at large. Unfortunately, Ocean drew too much water to cross the outer bar and when war was officially declared on 5 November 1914, the British made use of armed launches and tugs fitted for minesweeping. Within a few days, the British had secured the refinery, silenced Turkish guns at the entrance to the Shatt al Arab, and taken up a position some 2½ miles upstream from the refinery where they awaited the remainder of the division from India.2 On 13 November, Lieutenant General Sir Arthur A. Barrett arrived to assume command of Force D with orders to capture Basra as soon as he felt strong

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The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918   59 enough to do so. Basra, some 68 miles up the Shatt al Arab, was the farthest point ocean-going craft might proceed, although at this date Basra was devoid of the facilities of a modern port. In the subsequent campaign it would be the point where supplies were transferred to river craft. The motives, aside from acquiring a port, were: (1) to provide further protection for the refinery; (2) to support the pro-British Sheik of Muhammerah who controlled much of the territory traversed by the pipeline in the neighboring South Arabistan region of Persia; and (3) to offset the effects of the Jihad proclaimed by the Turkish sultan among the Arabs, whose loyalty to the Ottoman sultan was considered to be doubtful.3 Turkish forces in Iraq were at this stage weak, the region was described as a “sleepy backwater” of the Ottoman empire, and had been largely denuded of regular troops for other fronts. The strategic center of gravity for the Turks was described as Thrace and in the opening stages of the war the Turks were preoccupied with an ill-advised offensive against the Russians in the Caucasus as well as an offensive across the Sinai Desert toward the Suez Canal.4 Barrett therefore had little trouble breaking through Turkish defenses and forcing them to evacuate Basra, which the British occupied on 22 November 1914. Mesopotamia so far seemed a fast and easy campaign in the tradition of nineteenth-century colonial warfare.

The Turkish response The apparent Turkish weakness in Mesopotamia was a temptation to further action. Sir Percy Cox, the newly installed political agent in Basra, proposed they take advantage of the cool season and advance on Baghdad. The proposal rested on the perceived willingness of the Arabs of Mesopotamia to cooperate and the difficulties in achieving such cooperation should the British remain passive on the defensive in Basra. An advance of this scope had already been discussed in some quarters in London. The India Office in London considered the proposal premature because they did not have enough troops yet. Barrett also thought the scheme impracticable given the lack of sufficient river craft to move troops, the scarcity of water on the route, and the difficulty of feeding the transport animals. He favored “advancing in bounds” with Kurna, where the old channel of the Euphrates joined the Tigris, the first objective. The next step would be an advance up the Tigris to Amara and, with presumed Arab support, an eventual final bound to Baghdad.5 The 46-mile advance was approved. After hard fighting, in which the shoal waters demonstrated the growing importance of armed launches and river craft, Kurna was in British hands by 9 December 1914.6 The India Office consulted Lord Kitchener, then Secretary of State for War, on the possibility of advancing up the Tigris to Baghdad, some 500 miles away. Kitchener, who had led a river campaign in the Sudan in 1898, was cautious, and with the oil refineries secure, saw no reason to advance further, although a move on Baghdad would be ­feasible if the Arabs were definitely on their side.7

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60   P.G. Halpern At the beginning of 1915, the Turks reinforced their battered forces in Mesopotamia, with one division defending the approaches to Nasiriya on the Euphrates and another division on the Tigris. They intended a counter-attack against Basra with a column moving south of the marshes around Kurna and along the new channel of the Euphrates to the west of Basra. The British attempted to sever the Turkish supply routes in the vast and uncharted swampy wastes with a flotilla of armed barges, tugs, motor boats, and a pair of armed stern-wheel river steamers. It was a unique form of irregular warfare in this difficult terrain. The Turkish counter-offensive in Mesopotamia was accompanied by a Turkish thrust into Persia directed at Ahwaz and the oilfields and pipeline. There is insufficient space to enter into the intricacies of tribal politics in the South Arabistan region of Persia, but the threat necessitated the dispatch of reinforcements up the Karun River, caused a serious reverse at the hands of tribesmen in February, and it was not until early May that the oilfields were secured.8 The new threats necessitated the dispatch of reinforcements in the form of a brigade from India, but the government regarded it as insufficient. Kitchener, however, insisted he had no troops to spare and advised pressure on the Government of India for still more reinforcements. The strength of Force D was, accordingly, increased to two divisions and a cavalry brigade.9 The Turkish attacks, centered around Shaiba to the west of Basra in April 1915, were defeated. The British, in turn, counter-attacked and broke through Turkish defenses on 14 April with the gunboats on the Euphrates adding to the Turkish disarray. The Turkish losses were heavy and marked by mass surrenders of Arab levies drafted into the Turkish army. The Turkish commander committed suicide.10 On 9 April 1915, General Sir John Nixon arrived in Basra to assume command and the expanded Force D was reorganized as the 2nd Indian Army Corps. Nixon was a more aggressive officer than his cautious predecessor and more concerned with fighting than with administrative and political details. He was apparently the driving force persuading the Government of India to agree to successive advances, and the recent poor performance of the Turkish army at Shaiba may have given him an overly optimistic opinion of his chances, whatever the odds. He advocated the capture of Nasiriya on the Euphrates to secure the western flank of the Basra district and Amara up the Tigris as a means to forestall future Turkish attacks on Ahwaz and South Arabistan.11 The attack up the Tigris began on 31 May 1915 in the marshes around Kurna. The British and Indian troops of the 6th Indian Division of Major General Charles Townshend employed large numbers of the rough native paddle canoes known as bellums to make the infantry amphibious, and the naval flotilla ranging from sloops and paddle steamers to launches and a great variety of small craft served in the traditional role of cavalry. The attack was a spectacular success and, by 4 June, the British had secured Amara roughly 87 miles up the Tigris. The next objective, Nasiriya, approximately 70 miles up the Euphrates, proved more difficult in the hot season with low water and stiff resistance from the Turks. Once again, a mixed armada of river craft were invaluable and Nasiriya was finally taken on 25 July.12

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The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918   61 Nixon now proposed an advance on Kut al Amara, some 180 miles by way of the Tigris. Kut would, in his opinion, influence the tribes along the Tigris line and give the British control of both ends of the Shatt al Hai, a waterway linking Nasiriya and Kut. It would also be the first stage in a final drive on Baghdad. The British did not know at the time how climate and hydrographic conditions severely limited the use of this waterway.13 Nixon’s new offensive began on 12 September and overcame stiff Turkish opposition in positions before Kut. The Turks evacuated the city and Townshend’s 6th Division entered the town on 29 September. The Turkish forces, however, fell back in good order to previously prepared defensive positions at Ctesiphon approximately 30 miles from Baghdad. Meanwhile, Townshend had pursued the Turks without catching them a further 60 miles beyond Kut to Aziziya. As the British lines of supply grew longer and longer, the British logistical problems mounted. The numbers of essential river craft were clearly not adequate. Moreover, the Government of India was becoming increasingly out of its depth. The Indian Army had been primarily intended for operations on the northwest frontier of India, not for a large-scale overseas campaign. It did not have the training, logistical framework, and equipment for this. Furthermore, there was little evidence of Kitchener’s essential condition, the widespread support of the local Arabs.14

The push to Baghdad Having taken the decision to move to Kut, the critical question arose as to whether or not Townshend’s division should push on to Baghdad. Was this force strong enough to do so? By this date there were also strong non-military factors at work and events beyond Mesopotamia played an influential role. The operations on the Gallipoli peninsula had been checked and the new landing at Suvla, north of the original beachheads, had also failed to break Turkish resistance. The impending entry of Bulgaria into the war on the side of Germany and Austria meant a new Balkan campaign that might doom the Entente’s ally Serbia and open direct rail communications between Germany and Constantinople, thereby lessening any prospect of success at Gallipoli, where the British would also be faced with supplying an army over open beaches during the stormy winter season. But what would be the effect of an evacuation on the Muslim subjects of the British Empire, especially in India? According to Professor David French, “The fear that Mesopotamia might be the domino which could bring down the Eastern empire underlay the whole policy of the Government of India in 1915.”15 What of the prospects for British gains in any peace settlement? There were secret negotiations underway among the Allies over territorial claims in the Middle East and the British intended to claim Baghdad in order to secure the outlet for Mesopotamian trade at Basra.16 Nixon was confident he could take Baghdad, although with his forces spread thin, he would need reinforcement of a division and a cavalry regiment to hold British gains. Those in favor of the advance used similar arguments to those employed for past advances in Mesopotamia.

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62   P.G. Halpern Baghdad was a potential point of concentration for the Turks and its occupation would permit the British to defeat in detail Turkish advances down either the Tigris or Euphrates. Its occupation would deprive them of river steamers and war material, and hamper their operations in Persia and Afghanistan. There was, of course, the all-important question of prestige and the impression to be made on the Arabs. Townshend, the commander who would actually lead the advance, had very different opinions. He doubted that he was strong enough for the operation without reinforcement and was conscious of the deterioration in his forces and their unsatisfactory supply position as the waters of the river fell. His views apparently did not reach Nixon or were disregarded and were certainly not known in London. Furthermore, Nixon seemed to have cavalierly disregarded the logistical basis of his operations.17 The Government of India had been reluctant to agree, but, eventually convinced, they asked for a reinforcement of two divisions. Kitchener again took the position that he had no troops to spare from Egypt or France. The troops would have to come from India. Nixon acknowledged that he would need reinforcements to hold Baghdad should the Turks concentrate forces to recapture it, but estimated it would take the Turks three months to effect the proper concentration and that reinforcements from India or Indian troops from France would arrive in time. This proved to be an overly optimistic calculation.18 Based on these estimates, however, the Admiralty War Staff and War Office General Staff prepared a combined appreciation of the situation in Mesopotamia and proposed three alternate courses of action. One would be to concentrate and remain at Kut. Another alternative, the one favored by Kitchener, entailed a raid on Baghdad to destroy supplies and other objectives of military value before returning to Kut. The third alternative, the one finally authorized by the government, was to advance and permanently occupy Baghdad, although the question of when a reinforcement of two divisions would actually arrive remained unclear.19 This fateful choice led to disaster. At the time, however, Lord Balfour probably best expressed the motivation of the Cabinet with the words, “we wanted a victory now badly and as cheaply as possible.”20 The success so far achieved in Mesopotamia had been deceptive. It gave a misleading picture of what could be achieved by river craft as well as of the fighting qualities of the Indian and British soldiers compared to their Turkish opponents. There was definitely an underestimation of the enemy, although Townshend did appear to recognize the stiffening of Turkish resistance. Turkish attempts to reinforce Mesopotamia had been hampered by the poor communications within the Ottoman empire but some had arrived, notably the 51st Division composed of combat veterans and one of the best units in the Ottoman army. The 52nd Division, with a similar high proportion of veterans, was also in the process of moving into position. Their arrival gave the Ottoman army in Mesopotamia a much more Anatolian Turkish character, with a smaller proportion of the less-reliable Arab troops.21 The defensive position at Ctesiphon was also a very strong one. On 22 and 23 November, Townshend’s forces failed to break through. The advance on Baghdad had failed and Townshend, with his exhausted command

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The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918   63 and reports of large Turkish reinforcements arriving, fell back to Kut. The river forces that had played such an important role up to now proved to be less effective. The river banks here were too high for direct fire on the Turkish positions and the gunboats were vulnerable to Turkish artillery situated on the opposite bank. During the retreat to Kut, the gunboat Firefly was lost after being disabled by Turkish artillery fire and the armed tug Comet, which tried to save it, was also lost after it ran aground. By 9 December, Townshend’s approximately 13,000 men (about 10,000 combatants) in Kut were besieged by what eventually grew to 25,000 Turks organized in five divisions. A series of Turkish attacks were repulsed during December, but Kut remained cut off from the rest of the British forces in Mesopotamia. Townshend initially reported he had 59 days’ rations, but the siege lasted until the end of April with the garrison reduced to half rations during the final months. Reinforcements were arriving in Mesopotamia but the problem was getting them to the front and sustaining them there. The number of river craft available for this were inadequate.22 The British also began to employ specialized classes of gunboats, although one of the early arrivals, Firefly, had been lost. There were two classes, the small Fly class with light draft of only 3–4 feet achieved by having the screw run through a tunnel in the hull, and the larger Insect class which had twin screws and a more powerful armament of two 6-inch guns. The diminutive Fly class had been shipped from England in sections and assembled at Abadan. The gunboats were useful, but could not perform miracles, and the Fly class of boats were very vulnerable, having little protection and designed for police work.23 They were not a substitute for the unglamorous but absolutely essential river transport. All of the British attempts to relieve Kut failed. Despite the arrival of additional troops in Mesopotamia, the British simply did not have sufficient strength to break through the Turkish defenses located some 10 miles down the Tigris from Kut. They even tried the novel experiment of dropping supplies from aircraft, but of course the quantities possible given the aviation technology of the time were insufficient. Townshend had to surrender on 29 April 1916. It was the largest surrender of British-led troops between Yorktown in 1781 and Singapore in 1942.24

The British regroup The worst did not happen. The Muslim population of India did not rise in rebellion, Turkish attacks during 1916 directed against the Suez Canal were repulsed and the Arabs—but not in Mesopotamia—were won over to the British side as a result of the Hussein–Mahon agreements and began their revolt against Turkish rule. In Mesopotamia, the exhausted Turkish forces made no move to recapture Basra. The British set diligently to work to sort out the mess. In February 1916, the War Office took control of the expedition away from the Government of India. Logistics were now a priority, notably the port of Basra where, in April 1916, 20 steamers had been forced to wait for six weeks before they could

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64   P.G. Halpern d­ ischarge their cargo. There were still turf battles and the army refused to give the navy control over transport. Nevertheless, in April 1916, Brigadier General G.F. MacMunn was appointed inspector-general of communications. The logistical build-up continued slowly but surely, with the arrival from both Britain and India of barges, lighters, tugs, and river steamers. The latter included paddle steamers specially adapted for local conditions. The P.50 class had a draft of a mere four feet but could carry 400 tons of cargo. By the beginning of November there were 38 paddle steamers, five stern-wheel steamers, and four tugs available. This represented an increase in total tonnage capacity from 7,300 in May to 11,500. Quantities of medium-caliber guns and howitzers with sufficient ammunition for them arrived and gave the British the ability to make a real impression on Turkish trenches. Medical facilities, including hospital steamers, were improved. A railway was constructed to relieve congestion on the Tigris below Amara where an 11-mile stretch of the river narrowed and did not allow two vessels coming in opposite directions to pass each other.25 Lieutenant General Sir Stanley Maude became Commander-in-Chief of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force in July 1916, with orders to confine himself to defense of the Basra vilayet. The majority of the remaining months of 1916 were quiet until the build-up gave him sufficient strength to resume a slow and methodical advance on 13 December. While the British were growing stronger, the Turkish forces opposing them—as a result of poor communications and commitments elsewhere—were growing weaker. There was certainly hard fighting over the next two months. The Turks proved as stubborn and dogged in their defense as ever, but Maude’s army broke through a series of Turkish positions. On 24 February 1917, Maude’s army reached Kut, which had already been evacuated by the Turks. The British pursued the defeated Turks beyond the ruined city until forced to halt so that supplies could catch up. The gunboats on the Tigris were also able to resume their role of acting like cavalry and, not without hazard and loss, spread disorder among the retreating Turkish army. Among other things, they succeeded in recapturing Firefly. The British now elected to go for the symbolic prize—Baghdad. Once again politics and diplomacy intruded. The Russians planned an offensive in the Caucasus in the direction of Mosul. This might prevent the Turks from achieving a concentration against Maude’s army when it reached Baghdad. The usual arguments about the importance of Baghdad were aired. It was important to the Turks as a concentration point, a source of supplies and a base from which they could threaten the Basra vilayet. Its capture would increase British prestige, relieve anxieties over Persia and Afghanistan, and influence the local Arabs. The government approved its capture on 28 February, subject to Maude’s judgment.26 The Turkish forces in Mesopotamia were now too weak to stop Maude and, on 11 March 1917, his army entered Baghdad. The Turks retired some 60 miles up the Tigris but Maude did not continue the offensive, although given the weak condition of the Turkish force opposing him he might well have reached Mosul. Maude, however, remembered past mistakes, and the problem of his lengthy

The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918   65 supply lines. The upper Tigris was not really suited for the operations of gunboats and the hot-weather season was approaching. The lack of a British pursuit has been described as a “windfall” for the Turks given their weakness.27

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The result of the campaign The Russian offensive, which had entered the calculations to take Baghdad, never materialized. The heavy snow in the mountains stalled its beginning, and then the Russian revolution and spreading disorder within the Russian army eventually meant the end of any effective British–Russian cooperation. The British had a cavalry division and four infantry divisions deployed in an arc to the north, west, and east of Baghdad with one-fifth in the process of concentration. There were troops along the long Tigris line of communications, other detachments in the south along the Euphrates with headquarters at Nasiriya and a cavalry regiment and infantry regiment in South Arabistan along the Karun River to defend the Persian oilfields.28 The British forces were far from the sea and deep in Ottoman territory. Could there have been a repetition later in 1917 of Kut in 1916 with the Turks achieving a concentration and cutting off the British and perhaps causing a disaster even greater than Kut? Would the gradual collapse of the Russian army create opportunities for the Turks to reverse their fortunes in Mesopotamia? The Turkish Minister of War and Chief of the General Staff Enver Pasha had exactly such a scheme in mind. He intended to form the “Yildirim” [Thunderbolt] Army to recapture Baghdad. The army group would be composed of the Sixth Turkish Army currently facing the British to the north of Baghdad, a newly formed Seventh Army, and German units promised by the German General Staff. The Seventh Army would be formed from Turkish divisions from Rumania, Galicia, and Macedonia where German successes, notably in Rumania, permitted their withdrawal. They were veteran troops and probably would have been a formidable force, but they were irreplaceable and have been described as Turkey’s “last strategic reserve.”29 Enver anticipated that the German component would be a “light division” of six infantry battalions and that Field Marshal Erich von Falkenhayn, former Chief of the German General Staff and leader of a successful campaign in Rumania, would command the “Yildirim” Army Group. The actual strength of what was subsequently designated the “German Asia Corps” turned out to be much smaller. It could be described as a brigade group. Enver had ambitious plans for the “Yilderim” group. The Seventh Army would attack eastwards along the Euphrates and the Sixth Army would do likewise in a southerly direction along the Tigris. The British would be caught in pincers and destroyed, leading to a subsequent reoccupation of lower Mesopotamia or a possible invasion of Persia. However, the deployment to Mesopotamia was opposed by other Turkish military leaders, as well as Falkenhayn, and the result was the deployment of the “Yildirim” group to the Palestine front where the British forces led by General Allenby were preparing an offensive.30 This was a clear sign that Mesopotamia remained a secondary front for the Turks and that their real center of gravity was elsewhere. The diversion of the

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66   P.G. Halpern “Yildirim” group to Palestine and events elsewhere insured that for the remainder of the war Mesopotamia would remain a relative backwater. Certainly there were operations after the capture of Baghdad but they were minor, with the British pushing further north up the Tigris and eastwards toward the border with Persia. The depleted Turkish forces usually fell back before each advance. General Maude died in Baghdad of cholera on 18 November 1917, and was succeeded by Lieutenant General Sir William R. Marshall, commander of the III Indian Army corps in the expeditionary force. Events far from Mesopotamia determined the situation. The capture of Jerusalem in December 1917 seemed to demonstrate the greater possibilities of the Palestine front and the 7th Division was transferred there from Mesopotamia. The thought in London was that troops could find more productive uses elsewhere. The complete collapse of Russia and the ensuing German offensive on the Western Front in the spring of 1918 created the urgent need for troops in Europe. Consequently, two divisions were withdrawn from Allenby’s army in Palestine. This, in turn, led to another of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force’s veteran divisions, the Third, being transferred to Palestine. By the time of their departure, the two divisions were replaced by newly formed divisions from India. With operations on the Tigris limited above Baghdad, the number of naval craft on the river were reduced and, during the winter of 1918, the gunboats were placed under army control. They had rendered splendid service but now their crews were badly needed for manning ships in the anti-submarine war.31 The Russian collapse produced no threat to the British position in Mesopotamia. Enver Pasha and the Ottoman forces in an eloquently named “Army of Islam” turned their attention toward making gains in the region of the Caucasus. The Turkish invasion of Azerbaijan and threat to the oil fields on the Caspian Sea at Baku and the possibility of future Turkish advances into Persia led to a British Expedition under Major General L.C. Dunsterville (dubbed “Dunsterforce”) proceeding to the Caspian coast to train Azeris and Armenians and support Cossacks and anti-Bolshevik Russians in resisting the Turkish advances. Dunsterville’s British troops never numbered much above 2,000, the different ethnic groups were unreliable or ill-trained, and Dunsterville had a lengthy and insecure line of communications through Persia. The situation was not tenable and, in September 1918, “Dunsterforce” abandoned Baku.32 It was not really part of the Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force and represented a somewhat quixotic diversion. Throughout 1918, Mesopotamia had a low priority for both sides. In September 1918, General Allenby resumed his offensive in Palestine, winning a notable victory at Megiddo and, on 26 October, British and Imperial forces along with their Arab allies captured Beirut in Lebanon and Damascus and Aleppo in Syria. On the Salonika front, the Allied armies succeeded in breaking through Bulgarian defenses and, on 27 September, Bulgaria asked for an armistice and dropped out of the war. A British army advanced through Thrace toward Constantinople. These events outside of Macedonia led to the War Office anticipating a Turkish request for an armistice and, on 2 October, they ordered Marshall to advance and gain as much ground up the Tigris as pos-

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The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918   67 sible. The long lull in Mesopotamia ended and, by the time the Turks concluded the armistice of Mudros on 30 October, the British were outside of Mosul. The campaign in Mesopotamia was over, and in the long run apparently successfully. What had the victory cost? The total British casualties for the campaign in Mesopotamia are given as 92,501, broken down as: 14,814 killed or died of wounds; 12,807 died of disease; 51,386 wounded, and 13,494 taken prisoner or missing in action.33 Thus, the Mesopotamian campaign was extremely expensive in terms of manpower. According to the official history, the Mesopotamia Expeditionary Force on 19 October 1918 had a ration strength, excluding Turkish prisoners, of over 414,000. However, only a little over one-quarter of this total ration strength could be considered as combat troops. That is, 112,000 officers and men in fighting units were supported by 105,000 men in administrative units. One of the three infantry battalions in a brigade was usually British, the other two Indian. This army was supported by approximately 71,000 in the Labor Corps and 42,000 in the Inland Water Transport. The great majority of these were Indians, although between 30,000 and 40,000 were recruited locally in Mesopotamia. There were in addition close to 6,000 Chinese, more than 1,000 from the island of Mauritius and approximately 300 from the islands of the West Indies.34 The long lines of communication along the rivers probably account for the large numbers of administrative units and numbers in the Labor Corps. This large force had to be sustained, and this meant moving supplies from the British Isles or India. This had created heavy demands on tonnage, particularly at a time when the submarine campaign had been at its most effective state in 1917 and the Mediterranean partially closed to shipping. What has been described as “very indifferent” berthing facilities in the Persian Gulf added to the problem. In March 1917, the overseas expeditions in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Salonika, and East Africa between them required 335 ships of over 1,600 tons gross, and the tonnage and escort required led to talk of abandoning one or more of the campaigns, notably Salonika.35 Even in 1918, when the submarine danger had been reduced and losses brought under control, shipping for Mesopotamia had to compete with the enormous demands for moving the American Expeditionary Force across the Atlantic to France.

Conclusions The operations in Mesopotamia were part of a much wider war, and the question may be asked to what extent they affected or harmed Great Britain’s primary enemy, the German Empire. Did Mesopotamia, for example, draw any significant numbers of German troops from the major theatres of the war, the western and eastern fronts? The answer would be “not really.” On the titanic scale of World War I, it was a small proportion of the German effort. Moreover, the majority of Germans and Austrians in the Ottoman Empire were on the Palestine front, not in Mesopotamia. German military assistance to Turkey was primarily technical: for example, training staff officers, railway experts, and the Ottoman Army. The number of

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68   P.G. Halpern combat troops in the Ottoman Empire did not exceed two-thirds of a regular German division. Many Germans served in support units such as motorized truck companies or medical formations. German engineers also assisted the Turks in closing the missing links in the Berlin to Baghdad railway. The German Navy established a repair yard in Baghdad and assisted the Turks in fitting out a tug as a river gunboat as well as providing lighters and pontoons to help support the Ottoman Sixth Army facing the British on the Tigris and Euphrates. There were also Austro-Hungarian troops involved, including howitzer batteries, medical units, and motorized transport formations. The material aide from Germany was substantial: over 500 artillery pieces; more than half-a-million rifles; 1,600 light and heavy machine; large quantities of artillery and rifle ammunition; and 120 locomotives.36 The Mesopotamian campaign’s merits for the British were dubious at best. While it was important to protect the oil fields in Persia, it is probable that it could have been accomplished with far fewer forces. The British government was seduced into this expensive and burdensome campaign by the prospect of a quick and presumably cheap victory. They were mistaken. Baghdad might have been a prize, but it would be far overshadowed by the capture of Jerusalem, of much greater historic and emotional significance in the Western World. Moreover, Mesopotamia was not the Turkish center of gravity. When the Turks decided to seek an armistice, it was because of the events in Syria and Palestine and the collapse of Bulgaria, which exposed Constantinople to an attack overland. They did not end the war because of British actions in Mesopotamia.

Notes   1 The geographical setting is described by Brigadier General F.J. Moberly, The Campaign in Mesopotamia, 4 vols. (London: HMSO, 1923–1927), Vol. I, 1–15. On the Ottoman Empire as a whole, see: Commandant Maurice Larcher, La Guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale (Paris: Etienne Chiron/Berger-Levrault, 1926), 55–64.   2 Julian S. Corbett and Henry Newbolt, History of the Great War: Naval Operations, 5 vols. in 9 (London: Longmans, Green, 1920–1931), Vol. I, 375–378; Vice Admiral Wilfred Nunn, Tigris Gunboats: The Forgotten War in Iraq, 1914–1917 (London: Melrose, 1932; reprinted London: Chatham, 2007), chapters i–ii.   3 Moberly, Vol. I, 100–102.   4 Edward J. Erickson, Ordered to Die: A History of the Ottoman Army in the First World War (Westport: Greenwood, 2001), 42–45, 51–52.   5 Paul K. Davis, Ends and Means: The British Mesopotamian Campaign and Commission (Cranbury: Associated University Presses, 1994), 54–56; Moberly, Vol. I, 133–140.   6 A.J. Barker, The Bastard War: The Mesopotamian Campaign of 1914–1918 (New York: Dial Press, 1967), 33–39; Nunn, chapter iii.   7 George H. Cassar, Kitchener’s War: British Strategy from 1914 to 1916 (Washington, DC: Potomac Books, 2004), 50–51.   8 Barker, 134–139; Brigadier General F.J. Moberly, Operations in Persia, 1914–1918. Facsimile edition (London: HMSO, 1987).   9 Cassar, 154–155. 10 Corbett and Newbolt, Vol. II, 11–13; Nunn, 78–85; Barker, chapter ii; Erickson, 110–111. 11 Davis, 72–75; Barker, 80; Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. I, 238–239.

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The British Mesopotamia campaign, 1914–1918   69 12 Corbett and Newbolt, Vol. III, 15–23, 185–188; Barker, 65–76; Nunn, chapters vi–vii. 13 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. I, 271–273. 14 Cassar, 232; Barker, 14–17; Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. I, chapter iv. 15 David French, British Strategy & War Aims, 1914–1916 (London: Allen & Unwin, 1986), 137. 16 Davis, 126; chapter vi discusses the decision to advance on Baghdad. 17 Ibid., 114–122. 18 Ibid., 128–130. 19 Cassar, 233–234; Davis, 125–126. 20 Davis, 127–128. 21 Erickson, 112–115. The Turkish performance during the operations before and during the siege of Kut is analyzed in Edward J. Erickson, Ottoman Army Effectiveness in World War I: A Comparative Study (London: Routledge, 2007), chapter iii. 22 Barker, 146–147. 23 The two classes were called Small China and Large China gunboats, initially intended for operations on the Danube with the name “China” used as a cover. 24 Ronald Millar, Death of an Army: The Siege of Kut, 1915–1916 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1970). 25 Barker, 268–273. A summary of railways in existence by March 1918 is in Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. IV, 141. 26 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. III, 204–211. 27 Erickson, Ordered to Die, 166; The view that the work of the Mesopotamia Commission investigating and finding fault for the disasters of 1916 inhibited subsequent commanders on the scene is in Andrew Syk, “The 1917 Mesopotamia Commission: Britain’s First Iraq Enquiry,” RUSI Journal, 154, 4 (August 2009), 94–101. 28 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. IV, 1–5, 368–378. 29 Erickson, Ordered to Die, 166–167. 30 Ibid., 167–169. 31 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. IV, 139–140; A.H. Burne, Mesopotamia: The Last Phase, 2nd edition (Aldershot: Gale & Polden, 1938), 77. 32 “Dunsterforce” is covered in detail in Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. IV, chapters xlii–xliii; Moberly, Operations in Persia, passim; a summary account is in Barker, 389–394; Turkish operations in Erickson, Ordered to Die, 191–193; and the highly readable account by Dunsterville himself, Major General L.C. Dunsterville, The Adventures of Dunsterforce (London: Edward Arnold, 1920; facsimile edition Uckfield, East Sussex: Naval and Military Press, 2007). 33 Moberly cites 45,500 Turkish officers and men taken prisoner. Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. IV, 331; Turkish losses in Mesopotamia are estimated by Erickson as: 13,069 killed in action; 24,885 wounded, and 19,874 taken prisoner. Erickson’s figures, however, do not include soldiers who died of disease, which he estimates for the Ottoman Army as double the number of those killed in action due to the less-developed state of Turkish medical services and supplies. Erickson, Ordered to Die, 237–238, 240–241. 34 Moberly, Campaign in Mesopotamia, Vol. IV, 328–329. 35 C. Ernest Fayle, Seaborne Trade, 3 vols. (London: John Murray, 1920–1924), Vol. III, 162. 36 Hermann Lorey, Der Krieg in den türkischen Gewässern, Vol. I: Die MittelmeerDivision (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1928), 248–256; Carl Mühlmann, Das DeutschTürkische Waffenbündnis im Weltkriege (Leipzig: Koehler & Amelang, 1940), 318–319; Larcher, 612–615. Austrian military assistance is the subject of Peter Jung, Der k.u.k. Wüstenkrieg: Österreich-Ungarn in Vorderen Orient, 1915–1918 (Graz: Verlag Styria, 1992); German military assistance is analyzed in Erickson, Ordered to Die, 232–235.

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S.C.M. Paine1

American histories generally reduce Japan’s simultaneous attacks on Hawaii, Thailand, Malaya, the Philippines, Wake Island, Guam, Hong Kong, and the international settlement in Shanghai to one infamous day at Pearl Harbor. In fact Japanese leaders had embarked on an indirect strategy to win in China by pressuring not only the United States but also Britain to cut further aid to Chiang Kai-shek, while securing the necessary oil supplies from the Dutch East Indies. On the basis of deeply held, but inadequately examined, assumptions, Japanese leaders saw no alternative to this high-risk strategy. On 7–8 December 1941, Japan expanded its war zone from China to Southeast Asia and the Central Pacific, and increased the number of active belligerents in Asia from two—China and Japan—to six with the addition of the United States, Britain, Australia, and New Zealand. Japanese strategy transformed Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, leader of the Nationalist government, from an isolated adversary into a member of a virulently anti-Japanese, Great-Power coalition. Although Americans considered the ensuing war in the Pacific to be the main theatre for the Japanese, in fact, Hawaii, the Philippines, and the rest were all secondary or “peripheral” theatres in a war of attrition against China. For the Japanese, China remained the main theatre until 1944, when the home islands came under continuous air attack and their troop deployments shifted accordingly.2 Contrary to American perceptions, the Japanese developed their Pearl Harbor–Malaya–Philippine strategy not primarily in response to the United States’ failed strategy of deterrence; rather, the December 1941 attacks were the second phase of a peripheral strategy designed to change the balance of resources between China and Japan by using naval expeditionary forces to open many new secondary theatres.

Japan’s predicament Most Americans believe that World War II began in 1941. Europeans believe it started in 1939. For the Japanese, war broke out in 1931 with their invasion of Manchuria and continued uninterrupted until 1945. For China, its long civil war—in which Japan intervened ever more aggressively from 1931 onward—

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Pearl Harbor and beyond   71 began in 1911 with the collapse of the Qing dynasty and did not end until the Communist victory in 1949.3 Rightly or wrongly, Japanese leaders believed that their country faced a threepart security threat: endemic instability in China that precluded mutually beneficial and mutually vital commercial relations,4 a rapidly growing Soviet threat that promised Soviet territorial and communist ideological expansion into China,5 and an implosion of international trade and breakdown of the prevailing economic order caused by the Western protectionist response to the Great Depression. In Japan, foreign economic protectionism discredited those who had long urged cooperation with the West. This brought about a major discontinuity in Japanese foreign policy. From 1868 until 1931, and from 1945 to the present, Japan sought to conform to and operate within the international order regulated by Westernized international law and treaties.6 Between 1931–1945, however, Japan tried to impose a Japanese-dominated order on Asia. During the Great Depression, the Western international order offered Japan prospects of poverty not recovery.7 It was no coincidence that the Japanese invasion of Manchuria in 1931 followed within the year of the Hawley–Smoot Tariff Act of 1930 that brought U.S. tariffs to historic highs. If the West would not trade, Japan would follow a different economic model—autarky—and dominate an empire large enough to make self-sufficiency feasible. Key Japanese army leaders saw Manchuria, with territory greater than the combined size of France and Germany, as the answer. Japan would stabilize Manchuria by walling it off from the chaos endemic in the rest of China and transform it into a bulwark against further Communist expansion from the Soviet Union. These plans entailed a roll-back of the Western international order from East Asia—a major revision of the status quo—and the closing of America’s Open Door in northeastern Asia. This put Japan on a collision course with the key beneficiaries and upholders of the status quo, the United States and Great Britain. Japanese policy objectives soon became a function of the costs of their military operations. The greater the sacrifices, the greater the winnings they demanded.8 Originally, Japanese leaders demanded order in China and the containment, if not roll-back, of communism.9 Soon the autarkic zone necessary to guarantee Japanese self-sufficiency expanded from the core areas of the Japanese Empire—Japan, Korea, Taiwan, and Manchuria—to China and beyond and, in 1938, Japan formally proclaimed the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, a new regional order under Japanese not Western hegemony.10 As the war in China expanded, Japanese leaders demanded that all those capable of intervening in Asia stay out. After their 1940 alliance with Germany and Italy, its preservation became another objective along with the deterrence of U.S. military involvement in Europe for fear that this would trigger the Axis alliance and require Japan to fight in Europe too.11 Japan demanded that the West not only refrain from intervening militarily in Asia, but that it continue to trade on Japanese terms while cutting all aid to Chiang Kai-shek.12 In other words, Japan should choose both the friends and the enemies of the West. Meanwhile, Japan demanded that China cede ever more territory.13

72   S.C.M. Paine

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The main theatre Prior to 1937, the Japanese price for peace in China was official Chinese recognition of the Japanese puppet state of Manchukuo, an area that neither the Chinese Nationalists nor the Japanese government had ever previously controlled. Historically, Manchuria was the homeland of the Manchu people and a late acquisition to the Qing empire, but it had been thoroughly colonized by the Han Chinese and under independent warlord rule of Zhang Zuolin and his family soon after the fall of the Qing dynasty.14 When the Nationalist government refused to recognize Manchukuo, Japan responded with increased military pressure, incorporating Jehol into Manchukuo in 1933 and extending its control over Inner Mongolia and China north of the Great Wall thereafter. The rest of the world observed the escalating war with misgivings but remained preoccupied initially with the reintegration and containment of Germany after World War I, and then with panicked responses to the Great Depression. The West’s war of words waged on Japan served to annoy rather than to influence. In response to a report unfavorable to the occupation of Manchuria, Japan withdrew from the League of Nations in 1933, signaling its rejection of the prevailing international order. Japanese economic successes in Manchukuo were as great as its strategic failures in China. By 1945, Japan had transformed Manchuria into the most industrialized part of Asia outside its home islands, far surpassing China.15 Yet, Japan’s military strategy made war termination ever more unlikely. Each operational victory and act of brutality reinforced Chinese views that Japan’s appetite for territory was insatiable so that every Chinese must take up arms to survive. Japanese brutality created a common threat that unified a chronically divided people with a viscerally anti-Japanese nationalism. Because Chiang Kai-shek preferred to take on his adversaries sequentially, he did not want to fight Japan before he had eliminated the Communists.16 Unrelenting Japanese territorial expansion through 1936, however, put an end to his encirclement campaigns that had threatened the Communists with annihilation on the Long March to remote Yan’an. During the so-called Xi’an Incident, Chiang reassessed and joined forces with the Communists to fight Japan—an outcome antithetical to Japanese interests. Japan then responded viscerally to the Nationalist–Communist United Front with a massive escalation in 1937 in an attempt to depose the government by expanding the war to the heartland of Nationalist control, meaning coastal and Yangzi River China. The Japanese targeted a succession of Chinese centers of gravity—destroy the center of gravity and, in theory, the country should capitulate. In 1937 they repeatedly defeated the Nationalist armies.17 It turned out that the army was not China’s center of gravity. The remnants retreated inland and reconstituted with China’s virtually limitless supply of new recruits. The Japanese targeted a second supposed Chinese center of gravity, the capital.18 The Nationalists responded by moving their capital upriver along the Yangzi from Nanjing, to Wuhan, and, finally, beyond the railhead to Chongqing. So the Japanese targeted a third center of gravity, public

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Pearl Harbor and beyond   73 opinion and the will of the Chinese people, by turning their weapons on the civilian population—most notably during the Rape of Nanjing over the winter of 1937–1938, the sustained bombing of Chongqing beginning in 1938, and the 1941 Three Alls Campaign in North China (kill all, burn all, destroy all).19 Such brutality, however, fueled rather than weakened the Chinese will to fight. Simultaneously, Japan targeted a fourth center of gravity, China’s modern economy. Japan’s invading forces took the major port cities and followed the railway lines that together constituted the modern part of the Chinese economy and primary source of Nationalist revenues, but the Nationalists moved factories inland, printed money, taxed opium, and fought on.20 In frustration and anger, Japan increasingly saw in Chiang Kai-shek a fifth center of gravity and attempted regime change, establishing an alternate government in Nanjing in March 1940 under the former Nationalist, Wang Jingwei.21 Japan’s unrelenting expansion of military operations increased not only domestic but also international support for Chiang Kai-shek. From 1938 on, initially Soviet, then British, and especially U.S. aid grew until the Japanese perceived a sixth center of gravity, foreign aid.22 In 1940, the United States began restricting its exports to Japan after giving the required six-months’ notice that it planned to renounce their 1911 Treaty of Commerce and Navigation. Treaty renunciation signaled that the United States no longer considered Japan to be a member of the international order. Simultaneously, the United States increased its military and economic aid to the Nationalists. Japanese military leaders focused on the immediate operational implications to conclude that if they could cut this foreign aid, surely Chiang Kai-shek would capitulate. After all, he had been defeated in every other way. During the massive escalation of the Sino-Japanese War in 1937, Japan had imposed a naval blockade of coastal China.23 In 1940, Japan then tried to cut off land access to China, particularly over the Burmese and Indochinese borders. This became the first phase of a peripheral strategy.

Phase I of Japan’s peripheral strategy In the early summer of 1940, Japan exerted diplomatic pressure on Britain to sever the so-called Burma Road. This road connected Kunming, Yunnan, to the railhead in Lashio, Burma, then part of the British Empire. In the fall, Japan occupied northern French Indochina in order to cut the supply route connecting Haiphong by railway to Kunming and to Nanning, Guangxi. That same week, Japan also concluded a triple alliance with Germany and Italy in the mistaken belief that a formal alliance would deter the United States from risking war with Japan and in the false hope that Russia would soon join the Axis, cutting off China’s northern border.24 From the British and American point of view, the alliance transformed Japan from regional irritant into a key player in the world-wide threat to overturn the global order. Meanwhile, in the main theatre, the Nationalists seemed no more anxious to capitulate despite continuous brutal campaigns. In the spring of 1940, Japan

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74   S.C.M. Paine moved up the Yangzi River toward the Nationalist capital and resumed its annual bombing of Chongqing. Stiff Nationalist resistance, however, prevented the Japanese from going beyond Yichang. Then, in the late summer, the Chinese Communists launched the Hundred Regiments Campaign in North China that continued through the fall. Japan won, but again after stiff fighting and brutal retaliation during the Three Alls Campaign. When the United States responded to these events by rapidly ramping up aid to the Nationalists and curtailing trade with Japan, the Japanese occupied the rest of French Indochina in July of 1941 in a redoubled effort to sever outside support to the Nationalists. The U.S. response of a total oil embargo meant the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere had to be expanded to include the oil fields of the Dutch East Indies; which in 1940 had supplied Japan with 11 percent of its oil, while the United States had provided 60 percent.25 Thus, the U.S. attempt at deterrence through economic embargos and the Japanese attempt at deterrence through alliance with Germany and Italy both backfired. They precipitated precisely the events they were intended to forestall. Both sides calculated the costs imposed on the other without also tabulating the value the other attached to its goals. In fact, the international order was at issue, meaning the highest stakes possible after immediate national survival.26

Phase II of Japan’s peripheral strategy Phase I of Japan’s peripheral strategy had focused on supplies going to China. Phase II focused on the window of opportunity opened by the war in Europe. The German invasion of Russia in June 1941 undermined the strategic rationale for Japan’s alliance with Germany and Italy. Japan had intended to overturn the international order from a unified Eurasian core of Germany, Russia, and Japan.27 The German invasion of Russia dashed these plans. Nevertheless, the desperate struggle to halt the German onslaught did eliminate Russian aid to China as well as any possibility of a Russian invasion of Manchukuo, the perennial nightmare scenario of the Imperial Japanese Army.28 The beginning of World War II in Europe forced Japanese leaders to reassess. The rapid German occupation of Western Europe in the spring of 1940, the Nazi bombing campaign against Britain over the summer and fall, and Russia’s paralysis after the Nazi invasion in the spring of 1941 seemed to offer Japan a rare and fleeting opportunity to establish its East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. With Europe preoccupied, Japan could easily expel the colonial powers from Asia. This would finally make autarky feasible and guarantee Japan’s survival as a Great Power. Japanese leaders believed that this window of opportunity would slam shut in 1943 when the accelerating U.S. military build-up, particularly of shipbuilding, would alter the military balance in Asia.29 Therefore, Japan must act quickly.30 Although the Imperial Japanese Army did not regard U.S. intervention in Asia as likely, the navy insisted the United States would intervene to protect the Philippines,31 an American colony since the Spanish–American War of 1898 but

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Pearl Harbor and beyond   75 in the process of establishing independence with provincial elections in 1941.32 The sea lanes providing Japan with access to Dutch East Indies oil ran astride the Philippines. Rather than leaving the United States in a position to cut these sea lanes, the Imperial Japanese Navy insisted Japan expel the United States from Southeast Asia and delay its ability to launch a counter-attack by wiping out its Pacific Fleet based at Pearl Harbor. This would give Japan the time to access resources in Southeast Asia and build air bases on a far-flung defensive perimeter from which the expected U.S. counter-attack would be defeated. The Imperial Japanese Navy also considered essential the elimination of British naval assets in Asia and occupation of its key naval bases at Hong Kong and Singapore. The Imperial Japanese Army believed that this required Japanese occupation of Indochina, Thailand, and Malaya. Before long, the army came around to the navy argument about the Philippines.33 As soon as Germany attacked Russia, it requested Japan attack Russia too, but after the 1939 Battle of Nomonhan only Foreign Minister Matsuoka Yōsuke remained interested.34 During that battle on the Manchukuo–Mongolian border, Russian tanks had trounced Japanese forces, putting a damper on Imperial Japanese Army plans for a northern advance into Siberia.35 The surprise announcement of the German–Soviet non-aggression pact during the height of the fighting at Nomonhan led to the collapse of the Cabinet in Tokyo with this apparent German breach of its 1936 Anti-Comintern Pact with Japan. These events soured many in Japan on Germany.36 Until 1941, Japanese leaders apparently interpreted the German feint at friendship with Russia as a change in Nazi objectives. In reality, Germany intended to go west before going east, but never informed Japan. Likewise, Japan did not inform Germany of its equally grandiose peripheral strategy to the south. On 7 December 1941 (Hawaii time), Japanese forces landed in Thailand and half-an-hour later on the Malay Peninsula. An hour later, the Imperial Japanese Navy began the attack on Pearl Harbor. Two hours later, the Japanese bombed Singapore. One hour later, the Japanese landed on Guam and began bombing Wake Island. Six hours later, the Japanese attacked Clark Air Base in the Philippines. Japanese forces also bombed Hong Kong and overran the international settlements in Shanghai and elsewhere in China.37 Operationally, Japan achieved stunning success. The Imperial Japanese Navy took the United States by surprise, sinking five out of seven battleships at anchor in harbor, destroying 180 aircraft and damaging 128 others, virtually all of them parked in close rows on the tarmac. Japan, in contrast, lost just 29 planes and five midget submarines.38 Thailand folded within two days. On 15 December, Japanese troops invaded Burma. On 16 December, Japan occupied the vital Dutch oil fields in Borneo. On 25 December, Hong Kong fell, followed by Manila on 2–3 January 1942, the Australian military base at Rabaul on 22–23 January, Malaya on 31 January, Singapore and the Palembang oil fields on Sumatra on 15 February, and Lashio on 8 March.39 In the first five months of 1942, Japan took more land over a greater area than any country in history and did not lose a single major ship. 40

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76   S.C.M. Paine There were just two operational glitches. The U.S. aircraft carriers had not been in port on 7 December and Japan had not sent another wave of planes to eliminate the surviving oil tanks at Pearl Harbor, whose capacity exceeded Japan’s entire oil reserves.41 It is unclear how long the loss of both the carriers and the oil would have delayed the U.S. counter-attack and extended Japan’s breathing space to reinforce its defensive perimeter and access resources. The loss of the oil alone would have delayed the United States by many months. In any case, stunning operational successes did not produce the expected strategic outcome of a negotiated peace. Whereas China lacked the capacity to threaten the Japanese home islands, the United States could and did.

Japan’s false assumptions Strategies are based on assumptions; the more accurate the assumptions concerning how events will play out, the more effective the strategy. During the imperial conference on 1 December 1941, Tōjō Hideki, the three-in-one prime minister, minister of war, and minister of home affairs, accurately predicted, “At the moment our Empire stands at the threshold of glory or oblivion.”42 Girded with false assumptions, he and his generation of Japanese leaders’ chosen strategy pushed Imperial Japan over the threshold to oblivion. Japan’s peripheral strategy rested on at least a dozen assumptions: (1) everything Japan had achieved since the Meiji Restoration was at stake, even its very survival; (2) negotiations with Chiang Kai-shek were hopeless, yet Japan’s leadership could not survive politically if Japan withdrew from China; (3) Japan’s only viable strategy in the face of communist expansion, Chinese instability, Western protectionism, and U.S. embargoes was to create a Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere of sufficient size to make Japan economically self-sufficient and therefore immune to outside interference. This put the international order at stake; (4) therefore, war with the United States became inevitable; (5) luckily, Germany would defeat Russia over the winter of 1941–1942; (6) Britain too would soon fall; (7) Japan would inflict early operational defeats on the U.S. Navy; which (8) together would erode both the U.S. and Chinese will to continue so that China would capitulate; (9) in five months, Japan would establish an impregnable barrier around its autarkic zone so that it could access the necessary resources to conduct a successful protracted war against the Great Powers; (10) facilitating this outcome, Germany and Italy would enter the war against the United States; (11) any air raids against Japan would create insignificant damage; (12) for all these reasons, the United States would eventually come around, to reach a negotiated settlement with Japan just as China had done in the First SinoJapanese War (1894–1895) and Russia had done in the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905). On 5 November 1941, Prime Minister Tōjō Hideki predicted, “America may be enraged for a while, but later she will come to understand [why we did what we did].”43 Only two of the twelve assumptions proved correct. Germany did declare war against the United States immediately after the attack on Pearl Harbor, and Japan

Pearl Harbor and beyond   77 did inflict devastating early operational defeats against the U.S. and British forces on land, at sea, and especially at anchor. But these stunning operational successes, far from undermining the U.S. will to fight, instantaneously transformed the pervasive U.S. isolationism into a national outcry for a march on Tokyo and transformed a quagmire in China into a struggle for Japanese survival.

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Assessment of self Flawed assumptions reflected an incomplete assessment of Japan’s weaknesses and its enemies’ strengths. Instead, the Japanese focused on their strengths and their enemies’ weaknesses, producing a best-case scenario. In the many liaison and imperial conferences leading up to Japan’s decision to expand the war, no military leader provided evidence demonstrating the feasibility of the military’s recommended strategy.44 As the leadership veered toward escalation at the 4 November 1941 imperial conference, Finance Minister Kaya Okinori inquired: “Can our national economy bear the burden of such large military expenditures? Especially, are they feasible when the probability is high that the war will be protracted?”45 The limited economic data exchanged at the liaison conferences to date all indicated that the answer to both questions was “No” in all but the best-case scenario of an immediate and devastating operational success leading to the implosion of the American will to fight.46 This is what the military leaders indicated they hoped for but did not expect, given their constant talk of “a prolonged war.”47 After the total oil embargo, the most optimistic estimates of Japanese oil reserves were two years without Phase II of the peripheral strategy and considerably less in the event of an expanded war. Others thought a year and a half to be more accurate. Because the army and the navy did not share sensitive information with each other, let alone with civilian leaders, no one actually knew the figures for Japan’s oil supplies or its combined oil requirements, much less its needs and reserves for a long list of other vital war materiel. Yet it would take two years to access the newly conquered resources in Southeast Asia.48 Estimates of Japanese shipbuilding capacity also suggested that a protracted war against the United States was not feasible. Japan could not rapidly replace lost ships. The diversion of its merchant marine from civilian to military roles would halve Japanese production for a lack of resource inputs. The colonial powers could be expected to sever trade with their occupied possessions, so that, for a time, the occupied areas, far from providing resources, would drain resources. An implosion of production at home and the need to subsidize colonies abroad then would exacerbate Japan’s inability to replace its wartime losses.49 Steel production, in particular, could not both replace lost ships and keep the civilian economy limping along.50 Because of anticipated oil shortages, Japan’s fish catch would plummet, exacerbating the food shortage already felt on the home islands.51 In October 1941, Navy Minister ADM Oikawa Koshirō doubted Japan could win a protracted war against the United States, yet the navy insisted upon

78   S.C.M. Paine attacking. The military dismissed the millions of men arrayed against Japan if it went to war against the United States and the British Commonwealth. All the data indicated that, in war or peace, time was on the side of the United States, not Japan. On 27 October 1941, Prime Minister General Tōjō Hideki admitted, “We do not know what will happen after 1944.”52 Unconditional surrender, as it turned out.

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Assessment of enemies Japan could not assess its own quantifiable oil needs and supplies, let alone such crucial intangible factors concerning its enemies as their motivations for resisting Japanese plans. Outcomes of wars depend upon a combination of force and will, meaning a combination of tangible and intangible factors.53 The Japanese missed the development of Chinese “will,” in the form of nationalism. They failed to understand that the Qing dynasty they had trounced in the First SinoJapanese War was a Manchu, not a Han Chinese, dynasty, so nationalism was not a major factor. During the Second Sino-Japanese War, however, Japanese military strategy put all Chinese on “death ground.”54 Like the Slavs facing Hitler’s troops, ordinary Chinese fought with extraordinary determination despite their weak governments. In both the Nazi and Japanese cases, flawed military strategies transformed dysfunctional adversaries into lethal foes. Japanese leaders estimated Chiang Kai-shek commanded two million men over a vast theatre, yet they assumed they could win.55 While it was true that Chiang could not defeat the Japanese, he could still deny them victory and in so doing entangle them in an endless war, in which the value of victory was higher for ordinary Chinese, who were fighting for their homes, than for ordinary Japanese, who were fighting far from theirs. This meant that time was not on Japan’s side, but on the side of China and the United States. Japanese leaders thought their peripheral strategy would finally crush the Nationalists. In fact, the moment Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, Chiang Kai-shek came to the opposite conclusion. He knew that this time Japan’s overextension would be fatal; reportedly, Chiang celebrated by playing “Ave Maria” on the gramophone.56 Japan’s assessment of German intentions was equally poor. A perusal of Hitler’s readily available Mein Kampf would have made clear that no enduring German– Russian cooperation was feasible, since Hitler had slated the Slavs for genocide to make way for Teutonic Lebensraum (or “living space”) in Eastern Europe and European Russia.57 Japan had been misled by Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop’s suggestions, after the 1939 German–Soviet non-aggression pact, concerning the addition of Russia to the Axis.58 Japan’s flawed assessment meant an unattainable policy objective of Eurasian cooperation to take over the world and a disastrous diplomatic strategy to reach it: the Axis alliance risked war with the United States and Japan’s neutrality pact with Russia inhibited cooperation with Germany against Russia, the primary long-term enemy of both Axis powers.59 The Japanese also misread American intentions and motivations. A more informed understanding of the U.S. would have predicted that a devastating Jap-

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Pearl Harbor and beyond   79 anese operational success, far from disheartening Americans, would trigger a visceral and withering response with the goal of regime change in Japan—the worst-case scenario from Japan’s point of view. The Japanese failed to consider the lethality and protraction of the warfare that had forged a nation out of the original 13 American colonies in rebellion, fought native Americans, or preserved the Union during the U.S. Civil War. Japanese military leaders hoped that a major operational win against the U.S. Navy would deliver victory but never explained why the United States would fold after being humiliated. In fact, Japanese strategy triggered all three motivators of states long ago noted by Thucydides: fear, honor, and interest.60 The Axis alliance touched off “fear” with national-security concerns rising to the fore. The humiliation at Pearl Harbor touched off honor. Meanwhile, the growing threat to the international order already put national economic interests at risk. The United States government and people became fully mobilized to oppose Japan’s strategy. Japanese military leaders also failed adequately to consider their own military history. Numerous operational wins in the First Sino-Japanese and Russo-­ Japanese Wars had not delivered victory. Victory had required an unrelenting succession of Japanese operational wins followed by a generous peace in which Japan withdrew from most of the occupied areas. In each war, Japan had fought a single enemy. This time around, Japan, not its enemy, was diplomatically isolated. Far from withdrawing from occupied territories, Japan persisted in attacking new adversaries and taking more territory. Why would a war against numerous powerful enemies superimposed over the China quagmire be winnable? At the 1 November 1941 liaison conference, Foreign Minister Tōgō Shigenori and Finance Minister Kaya Okinori alone recommended a diplomatic over a military solution to Japan’s impasse with the United States. Finance Minister Kaya predicted that, unless Japan attacked the United States, “the chances of the United States making war on us are slight.” Foreign Minister Tōgō agreed, “I, too, cannot believe that the American fleet would come and attack us. I don’t believe there is any need to go to war now.”61 But, at that same conference, the Navy Chief of Staff, ADM Nagano Osami, encapsulated the twisted logic behind Japan’s decision to expand the war to the United States and Great Britain as follows:62 In general, the prospects if we go to war are not bright. We all wonder if there isn’t some way to proceed peacefully. There is no one who is willing to say: “Don’t worry, even if the war is prolonged. I will assume all responsibility.” On the other hand, it is not possible to maintain the status quo. Hence one unavoidably reaches the conclusion that we must go to war.

Conclusions Japanese leaders refused to make hard strategic choices, such as downsizing their objectives in China. Instead, their actions provoked other countries to

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80   S.C.M. Paine impose a far more undesirable outcome on Japan. War termination eluded Japan on all fronts. Japanese leaders failed to prioritize either enemies or resource allocation. They failed to set attainable objectives by narrowing their ambitions to an achievable set. They focused on goals, opportunities, and apocalyptic threats, but failed to consider constraints, alternatives, and priorities for themselves, let alone for their adversaries. The solution to overextension in China was not multiplying the number of their enemies. Peripheral theatres work best when wearing down the forces of the same enemy, rather than creating new ones. But Japan’s strategy was conceptually flawed at an even more fundamental level. Japan’s central problem was resource scarcity—the rational for autarky and empire. But the chosen peripheral theatres were maritime theatres for Japan, meaning that access depended on naval superiority. Fleet-on-fleet warfare, however, is one of the most resourceintensive forms of war. It requires numerous capital-intensive ships and the resources to replace them—Japan’s weak suit. Worse still for Japan, the home islands required supplies from these far-flung maritime theatres. Japan’s navy, although superior in the Pacific, was smaller than either the British or U.S. navies and the United States, unlike Japan, could replace its own navy many times over, which it did. This meant that Japan could not guarantee either its lines of supply or, more fundamentally, its lines of retreat. Once Japan landed troops on a Pacific archipelago, there was no guarantee it would ever be able to evacuate them. Likewise, Japanese leaders could not easily redeploy their troops based on remote islands, meaning the United States never needed to confront the entire Japanese army, just bits and pieces. The main force remained stuck garrisoning China. The maritime theatre played to U.S., not Japanese, strengths. Japan needed to defend its entire maritime perimeter, while the United States needed only to pierce it selectively, leaving many heavily defended islands untouched but also cut off and therefore useless. The United States, not Japan, had vast resources and so could afford the ship losses and fuel entailed in fighting on extraordinarily extended lines. Wherever Japan fought, the local population generally sided with the Allies over the Axis, providing useful intelligence and harassing the Japanese. U.S. decryption of the Japanese codes became an essential force multiplier by facilitated the sinking of Japan’s merchant marine and eliminating specific naval targets, including Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, commander-inchief of the Combined Fleet. The dispersion of Japanese forces throughout the Pacific gave the United States a smorgasbord of choices to launch its own succession of peripheral operations against Japan. While Japan’s peripheral operations were simultaneous and scattered, those of the United States were sequential and cumulative, focused on a single enemy; this followed the astute observation of Britain’s greatest maritime theorist, Sir Julian Corbett, that such wars often turn on the strength focused on the decisive point.63 The United States focused superior firepower on peripheral theatre after peripheral theatre in a war of attrition that Japan was geographically and economically ill-suited to fight.

Pearl Harbor and beyond   81

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Notes   1 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author and are not necessarily those of the U.S. Government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College.   2 James B. Crowley, “Designs on North China, 1933–1937, Introduction,” in James William Morley (ed.), The China Quagmire (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 9; 吉田裕 (Yoshida Yutaka) and 纐纈厚 (Kōketsu Atsushi), “日本軍の作 戦・戦闘・補給” (“Military Operations, Combat, and the Supply of the Japanese Military”), in 十五年戦争史 (A History of the Fifteen Year War), 藤原彰 (Fujiwara Akira) and 今井清一 (Imai Seiichi) (eds.), vol. 3 (Tokyo: 青木書店, 1989), 106.   3 For maps detailing the extent of warfare in China from 1911 to 1949, see Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine, Modern China (Boston: Prentice Hall, 2010), 231, 243–244, 251, 278, 292, 304, 308, 322, 335.   4 Ibid., 249–251, 277–280, 290–296, 305–308; Seki Hiroharu, “The Manchurian Incident, 1931,” in James William Morley (ed.), Japan Erupts (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), 155.   5 Saburō Ienaga, The Pacific War 1931–1945, trans. Frank Baldwin (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978), 75–80, 84.   6 S.C.M. Paine, The Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 80–101; Akira Iriye, “The Extension of Hostilities, 1931–1932, Introduction,” in Morley, Japan Erupts, 239; Akira Iriye, Japan & the Wider World (London: Longman, 1997).   7 Kozo Yakamura, “The Japanese Economy, 1911–1930,” in Bernard S. Silberman and H.D. Harootunian (eds.), Japan in Crisis (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974), 303–305, 310; Takafusa Nakamura, A History of Shōwa Japan, 1926–1989, trans. Edwin Whenmouth (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1998), 70–72.   8 David Lu, “The Marco Polo Bridge Incident, 1937, Introduction,” in Morley, China Quagmire, 237, 280, 284–285.   9 Nobutaka Ike (trans. and ed.), Japan’s Decision for War: Records of the 1941 Policy Conferences (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1967), 31, 81 [Hereafter 1941 Conferences]; Ienaga, 84. 10 1941 Conferences, 78–82, 95–98, 152, 270. 11 Ibid., 27, 30. 12 Ibid., 31, 65, 212. 13 Ibid., 78–81. 14 S.C.M. Paine, Imperial Rivals (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1996), 180–181; Howard L. Boorman (ed.), Biographical Dictionary of Republican China, vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1967), 116–117. 15 Andrei M. Ledovsky, The USSR, the USA, and the People’s Republic of China, trans. Nadezhda Burova (Moscow: Progress, 1982), 102; O. Borisov, Советский Союз и маньчжурская революционная база 1945–1949 (The Soviet Union and the Manchurian Revolutionary Base 1945–1949) (Moscow: Издательство «Мысль», 1975), 49, 53–54, 57. 16 Ienaga, 77. 17 Herbert P. Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan (New York: Harper Collins, 2000), 323, 332. 18 Ibid., 339. 19 Ibid., 312, 322, 324–325, 333–335, 365–367; Edward L. Dreyer, China at War 1901–1949 (London: Longman, 1995), 253–254. 20 David Lu, “The Marco Polo Bridge Incident, 1937, Introduction,” in Morley, China Quagmire, 422; Hosoya Chihiro, “The Japanese–Soviet Neutrality Pact,” in James William Morley (ed.), The Fateful Choice: Japan’s Advance into Southeast Asia, 1939–1941 (New York: Columbia, 1980), 25.

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82   S.C.M. Paine 21 Boorman, vol. 3, 374. 22 Hosoya, “The Japanese–Soviet,” 32; Hata Ikuhiko, “The Army’s Move into Northern Indochina,” in Morely, Fateful Choice, 155–157, 161. 23 Ken-ichi Arakawa, “Japanese Naval Blockade of China in the Second Sino-Japanese War, 1937–41,” in Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine (eds.), Naval Blockades and Seapower (London: Routledge, 2006), 106–107; Bix, 324–325. 24 James William Morley, “The Tripartite Pact, 1939–1940, Introduction,” in James William Morley (ed.), Deterrent Diplomacy: Japan, Germany, and the USSR 1935–1940 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), 183; Hosoya Chihiro, “The Tripartite Pact, 1939–1940,” in Morley, Deterrent Diplomacy, 257; Peter A. Berton, “Northern Defense: Introduction,” in Morley, Fateful Choice, 8–9. 25 1941 Conferences, 187–188; Nagaoka Shinjirō, “Economic Demands on Dutch East Indies,” in Morley, Fateful Choice, 144–145. 26 1941 Conferences, xxii, 198, 229; Bix, 374. 27 1941 Conferences, 57–58, 113–114; Hosoya, “The Japanese–Soviet,” 55–60, 65. 28 1941 Conferences, 227. 29 Ibid., 106, 130–131, 138–139, 141, 148, 225. 30 Ibid., 236. 31 Tsunoda Jun, The Final Confrontation: Japan’s Negotiations with the United States, 1941, trans. David A. Titus, ed. James William Morley (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 161–162. Tsunoda Jun, “The Navy’s Role in the Southern Strategy,” in Morley, Fateful Choice, 246–253, 290–292. 32 Amy Blitz, “The Philippines: The Contested State,” in S.C.M. Paine (ed.), Nation Building, State Building, and Economic Development (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2010), 55. 33 1941 Conferences, 37, 39. 34 Hosoya, “The Japanese–Soviet,” 99. 35 Ienaga, 82. 36 Hosoya “The Japanese–Soviet, 17, 19. 37 池田清 (Ikeda Kiyoshi) (ed.), 太”平洋戦争 (Great War of the Pacific) (Tokyo: 河出 書房新社, 1995), 163; Robert B. Edgerton, Warriors of the Rising Sun (New York: W.W. Norton, 1997), 261, 264; Bix, 436. 38 David. C. Evans and Mark R. Peattie, Kaigun (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1997), 488; Ronald H. Spector, The Eagle Against the Sun (New York: Free Press, 1985), 6. 39 Bix, 445–447; Ienaga, 143. 40 Edgerton, 277. 41 Ibid., 260. 42 1941 Conferences, 283. 43 Ibid., 25, 30, 40, 56, 65, 74, 101, 131, 138, 149, 152–153, 156–157, 159–161, 190, 207, 213–214, 226, 232–233, 238–239, 241–242, 247–248, 261, 263, 270, 282; brackets inserted by translator. 44 Ibid., 130. 45 Ibid., 223. 46 Tsunoda, Final Confrontation, 270, 274–279. 47 1941 Conferences, 131, 139, 153, 220, 223, 226, 233, 243. 48 Ibid., 148, 154, 187–188, 256. 49 Ibid., 148, 189, 190–192, 215–224, 223–224. 50 Ibid., 197. 51 Ibid., 278; Ugaki Matome, Fading Victory (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991), 21. 52 1941 Conferences, 154, 161–163, 181, 191. 53 Carl von Clausewitz, On War, trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 77; Michael Handel, Masters of War, 3rd edn. (London: Frank Cass, 2001), 81–88.

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Pearl Harbor and beyond   83 54 Sun Tzu’s translator, Samuel B. Griffith, coined the English term, “death ground” to indicate a situation when desperate resistance alone offers any hope to escape an otherwise certain death. Sun Tzu wisely warned against putting the enemy in such a situation, since it fosters the most determined resistance. Sun Tzu, The Art of War, trans. Samuel B. Griffith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963), 9, 30. 55 1941 Conferences, 156. 56 Jonathan Fenby, Chiang Kai-shek (New York: Carroll & Graf, 2003), 367–368. 57 Hosoya, “The Japanese–Soviet,” 61. 58 Hosoya, “The Tripartite Pact,” 191–193, 196, 208. 59 Hata Ikuhiko, “The Japanese–Soviet Confrontation, 1935–1939,” in Morely, Deterrent Diplomacy, 130. 60 Thucydides, The Landmark Thucydides, ed. Robert B. Strassler (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 43. 61 1941 Conferences, 200–202. 62 Ibid., 207. 63 Julian S. Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy (New York: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1911), 55.

8 A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre

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Guadalcanal and World War II in the Pacific Bradford A. Lee1 On 23 February 1942, the 210th anniversary of George Washington’s birthday, President Franklin Roosevelt delivered one of his most celebrated “fireside chats.” As his national and world-wide audiences were acutely aware, the United States had suffered a series of military setbacks since Japanese carrier planes had launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941, but the American president reminded those audiences that George Washington and his compatriots had overcome “formidable odds and recurring defeats” on the road to securing the independence of the United States in a war of eight years. Roosevelt was able, with remarkable prescience, to point out the path to victory for the United States and its allies in the ongoing war—a victory that he defined in terms of “the destruction of the militarism of Japan and Germany” and a war that he characterized as a “new kind” of global conflict, “not only in its methods and weapons but also in its geography.”2 President Roosevelt, having earlier asked his listeners to have at hand “a map of the whole earth” for the broadcast, explained how important it was to defend sea lines of communications (SLOCs) to distant allies and “to the world-encircling battle lines of this war.” Executing this task of strategic defense would require control of “many strategic bases along those routes.” Operating from such bases, aircraft and ground troops would enable the United States to “keep on striking our enemies whenever and wherever we can meet them, even if, for a while, we have to yield ground.” The combination of “a process of attrition against Japan” and a build-up of American power would produce a “turn of the tide”: “Soon, we, and not our enemies, will have the offensive; we, not they, will win the final battles; and we, not they, will make the final peace.”3 Within a year of this fireside chat, the United States and its allies had indeed turned around the war in the Pacific and in other theatres as well. Even before the mobilization of the American economy had generated overwhelming material superiority against Japan or Germany, the transition from the defense to the offense had occurred, and the attrition of enemy capabilities had developed apace. In directing listeners’ attention to their maps, Roosevelt in his broadcast had referred to islands in the Pacific as “small dots.” Two of those small dots— Midway and Guadalcanal—stood out in the reversal of strategic momentum after his speech, but surely escaped the notice of almost all eyes and ears. U.S. Navy

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A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   85 planners in the audience that night would likely not have been aware even of the existence of Guadalcanal, for the various iterations of War Plan Orange against Japan before 1942 had featured the Central Pacific, not the South Pacific, as the critical theatre to contest on the American way westward in a future war.4 Yet it was the geographically peripheral campaign for control of Guadalcanal from August 1942 to February 1943, following in the wake of the U.S. naval victory off Midway in June 1942, which became the strategically pivotal campaign of the Pacific War. The Guadalcanal campaign has generated many books by participants and historians that evoke the human drama and tactical vicissitudes of intense combat in a challenging environment.5 This chapter seeks to promote more general understanding of the realm of strategy and operations by taking a new look at three sets of issues: (1) why Japan decided to open, and the United States chose to contest, a new theatre in the South Pacific in 1942; (2) how American military forces there were operationally effective in coming from the sea and then fighting on the ground, at sea, and in the air; and (3) what the strategic payoff of this operational effectiveness was for the larger American success and Japanese failure in the Pacific War.

Decisions to open new theatres Any broad overview of military history from an operational and strategic perspective should highlight the crucial importance of the opening of new theatres in an ongoing war for determining ultimate victory and defeat in the war as a whole. But most strategic theorists have overlooked what military history illuminates. The greatest of the classical theorists, Carl von Clausewitz, was enamored by the principle of concentrating forces and accordingly was skeptical of the strategic benefit of operations in secondary theatres. Sun Tzu, fertile though he was in cultivating ideas about out-maneuvering an enemy, had little to say about seeking competitive advantage in new theatres. It fell to a maritime theorist in the early twentieth century, Sir Julian Corbett, to provide insight into expeditions to secondary theatres. Operational effectiveness, in his analysis, turned on the ability to isolate a new maritime theatre through the achievement of local sea control.6 From this intellectual point of departure, and with knowledge of technological developments since the early twentieth century, we can broach a general proposition of great pertinence to the Guadalcanal campaign: in an ongoing war, a “triphibious” power—able to integrate sea, ground, and air operations—can gain a major strategic edge by opening or contesting a new theatre where it can restrict, sooner or later, the adversary’s access, and where the adversary feels compelled to fight hard. The operational proposition points to a simple strategic prescription: identify and exploit a place where you can do more harm to the enemy than he can do to you—harm that will seriously wound the enemy’s ability, or will, to carry on the war. The operational proposition worked in Japan’s favor in the new theatres that it successfully opened against the Western powers in Southeast Asia and the

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86   B.A. Lee southwestern Pacific from early December 1941 to early May 1942. The successes came so easily that Japanese naval leaders soon entertained expansive thoughts about what to do next. Unimpressed by the resistance that they had encountered so far, they did not think in disciplined analytical terms about the conditions for success in the next set of new theatres. Despite what many Western theorists have supposed, Japanese leaders in the spring of 1942 were not simply thinking in terms of an extended defense perimeter. The static notion of a defense perimeter in the Pacific was only appealing to the Japanese army. Its leaders wanted to end joint operations with the navy in order to redeploy their ground forces back to what they regarded as the primary theatre, China, and also to be ready for a possible fight with the Soviet Union. Accordingly, they wished the navy to make a transition from the offense to the defense. Navy leaders had different ideas. Officers in the Navy General Staff argued for an amphibious assault on Ceylon and an invasion of Australia. The commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet, Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, pressed even more strenuously for a new thrust eastward across the Pacific, this time not just with a carrier raid but with an invasion first of Midway in mid-1942 and then of the Hawaiian Islands in early 1943. These ideas were not about establishing a defensive perimeter against a future American or Allied counter-offensive. Rather, they were about offensive pre-emption of likely staging areas for an enemy counter-offensive and, in Yamamoto’s case, anticipated destruction off Midway of the American carriers that would spearhead it.7 Japanese army leaders balked at providing the large ground forces that these invasions would have required—up to 12 divisions, they argued, for the proposed thrust into Australia.8 In the face of army opposition, the Japanese navy had to fall back on less-extreme options. The thrust west into the Indian Ocean took the form of a carrier raid, not an invasion of Ceylon. The thrust farther south in the Pacific was deflected from a full-scale invasion of Australia toward an effort to interdict American SLOCs to Australian ports. Only with regard to the thrust east did Japanese army leaders relent and fall in line with what Yamamoto desired. Shamed by the American bombs that descended on the Emperor’s home city in the Doolittle Raid of April 1942, the Imperial Japanese Army not only agreed to support the Midway operation, but also began to train 45,000 troops for the proposed follow-on invasion of Hawaii in early 1943. Those troops never arrived at the planned destination. The new thrust east was abruptly cut short when the Imperial Japanese Navy suffered disaster at Midway in early June 1942.9 That disaster notwithstanding, Japan still retained the initiative in its thrust southward. Having snatched the base of Rabaul from the Australians in late January 1942, it could strike southward from there into New Guinea or farther southeast into the Solomon Islands. Either way, Japanese forces could work themselves toward a position where they might be able to interdict the flow of American troops and supplies to Australia. Japanese strategists, as was their wont, chose not to concentrate forces in one theatre. Instead, they split forces

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A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   87 between the New Guinea–Papua theatre and the Solomons–Guadalcanal theatre. In early May 1942, they set in motion an amphibious assault on Port Moresby, but the battle of the Coral Sea caused the invading force to turn back (see Chapter 9). In late May and early June, Japanese forces occupied Tulagi, across from Guadalcanal, and found a promising location for an airfield on Guadalcanal itself. They intended to use that airfield to support amphibious assaults on Fiji, Samoa, and New Caledonia. The defeat at Midway triggered a reassessment of planned operations far to the south. The plan for a renewed attack on Port Moresby shifted to an overland route through the mountains of eastern Papua. Execution of that operation began on 21 July 1942. The plan for assaults on Fiji, Samoa, and New Caledonia was shelved. Nevertheless, construction of the airfield on Guadalcanal began on 16 July and was completed on 5 August, “slightly earlier than planned.”10 The landing of the U.S. Marine First Division two days later caught the Japanese by surprise. Most of them had assumed that there would be no major American counteroffensive until 1943. The Japanese had not lived up to Sun Tzu’s injunction to know the enemy.

Decisions to contest a new theatre Whom among American strategic leaders did the Japanese need to know above all? No decision to contest the Japanese at Guadalcanal could have occurred without the backing of President Roosevelt. Along with his concept of exacting attrition on Japan, he, as leader of a democratic political system that had already suffered hard wartime blows, desired “incremental dividends”—military successes that would boost popular morale, give his rhetoric about ultimate victory the air of reality, and (not least) help his Democratic Party’s prospects in the mid-term election of November 1942. But the most irrepressible driving force behind offensive action in the South Pacific was Admiral Ernest King, Commander-in-Chief of the U.S. Fleet and, from 12 March 1942, Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) as well. The main impediment to King’s desire to go early and go big in that distant theatre was the Chief of Staff of the Army, General George Marshall. No wartime American military leaders had ever before had to make the major strategic decisions that faced Marshall and King to allocate scarce assets among multiple theatres, all over the world, in the new kind of conflict that Roosevelt had described in his fireside chat. In wrestling with this challenge in 1942, the two service chiefs projected onto the strategic level the operational principles of war that were already lodged in their minds. As Marshall thought about strategy, a cluster of four principles reigned supreme: mass, offensive, objective, and simplicity. Those principles played out in his vigorous advocacy of concentrating as many forces in England as possible, launching them across the English Channel as soon as feasible, and taking the offensive as directly as possible through France into the heart of the German homeland. In inter-service debates, he could

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88   B.A. Lee take advantage of the fact that King’s predecessor as CNO, Admiral Harold Stark, had made the case, from November 1940 on, for a Germany-first priority, which meant that the United States should stay on the defense in the Pacific while taking the offense across the Atlantic. Even after the shock at Pearl Harbor, this win–hold–win strategy had been reaffirmed by American and British strategic leaders at the Arcadia Conference in Washington at the turn of 1941–1942. King, for his part, put one operational principle above all others: the offensive. He took a dim view of the massing of forces in one European theatre that Marshall championed. Though he never explicitly questioned the Germany-first priority, he was happy to see roughly half of American strategic assets flow to the Pacific in 1942 and 1943. And, in the Pacific, he began to direct attention and assets toward the southern theatre as soon as he took command in late December 1941. He had three major military aims for 1942: secure Hawaii from another attack; build up strong points along the SLOCs to Australia; and be ready to launch an offensive. His interest in the South Pacific, however, distracted him from the threat of another strike on Hawaii to a degree that produced tension between him and his Pacific Fleet commander, Admiral Chester Nimitz. As for the second aim, King’s requests for Army troops and Army Air Force planes to go to South Pacific island outposts rather than across the Atlantic generated chronic interservice disputes and tested Marshall’s reputation for unflappability.11 But it was the third aim that most animated King. In a memorandum to Roosevelt on 5 March 1942, he held out the prospect that, before long, using the “strong points” on the SLOC to Australia as staging areas, “we can drive northwest from the New Hebrides into the Solomons and the Bismarck Archipelago after the same fashion of step-by-step advances that the Japanese used in the South China Sea.”12 More colorfully, on another occasion King advised Roosevelt: No fighter ever won his fight by covering up—by merely fending off the other fellow’s blows. The winner hits and keeps on hitting even though he has to take some stiff blows in order to be able to keep on hitting.13 That pugnacity was in line with the more abstract concept of attrition of the enemy that the President had sketched in his fireside chat. There was a meeting of minds between the Commander-in-Chief of the United States and the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Fleet. Still, had not the Pacific Fleet under Nimitz’s command won the battle of Midway in early June 1942, one has to wonder how much of a blow American strategic leaders would have been willing and able to deliver in the Solomons two months later. A defeat at Midway would surely have drawn forces to the defense of Hawaii that in the event flowed to the South Pacific and across the Atlantic over the course of the next year. The victory of Midway, by contrast, stimulated a shift in focus from the Central Pacific to the South Pacific. General Douglas MacArthur, ensconced in Australia as theatre commander of the Southwest Pacific Area, showed his characteristic opportunism by proposing

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A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   89 a bold plan as soon as he heard about the Midway victory. If given an additional division trained and equipped for amphibious operations and a naval task force with two aircraft carriers, he would launch an offensive aimed at Rabaul.14 No American naval leader, least of all King, would allow an army general, least of all MacArthur, to direct the operation of precious carriers anywhere within range of land-based Japanese air power. King proceeded to make a deal with Marshall. A first operation, under the command of MacArthur’s South Pacific counterpart, Vice Admiral Robert Ghormley, would target the lower Solomons; a second operation, under MacArthur’s command, would then target the northeast coast of New Guinea; and a third and final offensive, also under MacArthur’s command, would culminate in the seizure of Rabaul.15 As usual when MacArthur did not get his way, he turned negative. He swayed Ghormley to join him in sending to Marshall and King, on 8 July, a critique of the first-phase landing in the Tulagi–Guadalcanal area that emphasized the inadequacy of available air support for Marines going ashore. They recommended that the operation be deferred.16 Especially as incoming intelligence pointed toward the imminent construction of the Japanese airfield on Guadalcanal, which MacArthur and Ghormley had themselves highlighted, the Joint Chiefs of Staff were not willing to reassess their directive issued on 2 July. The only delay that King permitted was in response to dockworkers in New Zealand who did not feel much urgency about combat-loading the ships of the amphibious force. The Tulagi–Guadalcanal D-Day slipped from 1 August to 7 August 1942. The code name given to this operation was “Watchtower.”

Coming from the sea At crucial junctures since early in World War II, the U.S. Marine Corps, with support from the U.S. Navy, has demonstrated a talent for improvisation in coming from the sea. In August 1942, after just six weeks of planning, the First Marine Division landed on Guadalcanal and seized the Japanese airfield. In September 1950, after less than eight weeks of planning, the First Marine Division carried out with remarkable success General MacArthur’s operational idea of a surprise amphibious assault at Inchon. Finally, in November 2001, within four weeks from conception to execution, Task Force 58 under the command of General James Mattis hopped nearly 400 miles from ships off the coast of Pakistan to an airfield deep in southern Afghanistan; from that austere base, Mattis’s Marines participated in the takedown of the last Taliban stronghold at Kandahar and also sought, unsuccessfully, to get CENTCOM approval to jump another 300 miles farther inland in an effort to take out the al-Qaeda leadership at Tora Bora. In all these cases, the amphibious forces, by maximizing the element of surprise, minimized the initial degree of resistance as they went from sea to land. In 1942 and 1950, had they waited much longer in order to allow more time for planning, they would have run much greater risk of organized opposition. The potentially decisive “access denial” would have been a Japanese build-up of air power on Guadalcanal and a North Korean laying of mines in Inchon’s harbor.

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90   B.A. Lee Of course, hasty improvisation was risky as well, especially if taken to the extremes that it was in 1942. When, in late June, Marine commander Archer Vandegrift met with Ghormley in New Zealand and first learned about the Solomons operation, he recalled later, “I didn’t even know the location of Guadalcanal. I knew only that my division was spread over hell’s half-acre, one-third in Samoa, one-third in New Zealand and one-third still at sea.”17 There was no time to train his Marines up to the standard that he desired. The effort to gather intelligence about Guadalcanal produced as much misinformation as it did useful information. Even maps were quite unreliable.18 The situation in the naval chain of command was disheartening. The commander of the amphibious forces, Rear Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner, did not arrive in theatre until mid-July, and none of the naval officers on his staff had any background in amphibious operations. At the next higher echelon, the expeditionary force commander, Vice Admiral Frank Jack Fletcher, did not make his presence felt at all in the planning process until most of the components of his command gathered at Koro Island in Fiji in the last week in July. At a conference there, which Ghormley did not even bother to attend, Fletcher exuded negativity about the operation. Even more ominous, he announced that he would withdraw his three carriers from the Guadalcanal area just two days after the landings began—three days, in Turner’s estimate, before the offloading of equipment and supplies would be completed. The rehearsal that followed at Koro did little to warrant optimism about the ship-to-shore movement of men and materiel. On 6 August, as the expeditionary force neared Guadalcanal, Turner had in mind what Basil Liddell Hart had written in 1939: “A landing on a foreign coast in the face of hostile troops has always been one of the most difficult operations of war. It has now become almost impossible.”19 That was not clairvoyance for World War II in general or for what transpired at Guadalcanal in particular. The American landing there met with little resistance. The Marines became much more vulnerable ashore, from startling developments that occurred offshore. Fletcher withdrew the carriers 12 hours earlier than he had forewarned, and the U.S. Navy suffered its worst defeat ever in the cruiser–destroyer battle of Savo Island on the night of 8–9 August. Vice Admiral Mikawa Gunichi might have turned this great tactical triumph into an even greater operational success if he had been willing to go on to attack the ships offloading the Marines’ supplies and equipment. But, not knowing of Fletcher’s withdrawal, he shied away from risking a daytime encounter with American carrier planes. Turner, without air protection from Fletcher, proceeded to withdraw the ships under his command as well. The U.S. Marine Corps still has not forgotten its temporary abandonment by the U.S. Navy at this point in the Guadalcanal campaign. But historian John Lundstrom has engaged in painstaking research that lends credibility to Fletcher’s justification for his actions.20 The controversy over Fletcher is of more than historical interest; it has educational benefit for future naval commanders if viewed in a larger strategic perspective. The most important strategic issue that an operational commander at sea can face is when to risk a fleet. Fletcher was

A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   91 trying to preserve for a future engagement with a Japanese carrier force (which occurred two weeks later) three of the four fleet carriers that the U.S. Navy had in the Pacific in August 1942. But by not risking his fleet right away, he risked an early Japanese destruction of the First Marine Division on Guadalcanal. We can get a good idea of the Marine talent and tenacity that Fletcher put at great risk if we look at the fighting that ensued on Guadalcanal.

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On the ground In February 1943, after success in the Guadalcanal campaign, Major General Vandegrift received extracts from a letter written by Major General George Kenney, MacArthur’s air commander in the southwest Pacific. Kenney was appalled by the bloodletting involved in the first engagement of American ground forces in Papua in late 1942, at the battle of Buna. Extrapolating from Japanese willingness to fight to the last man there, Kenney estimated Japan could “probably take a death toll of ten million” before conceding defeat in the war as a whole. American ground forces, in his view, were not well-suited for closequarter combat. Such combat might cost the United States two-million troops killed in action (KIA), unless the air instrument circumvented the process of attrition.21 Kenney’s observations were redolent of the myth of Japanese soldiers as “supermen” of jungle warfare.22 Vandegrift, while respectful of the enemy’s martial spirit, commented on the basis of the Marines’ experience on Guadalcanal, “I do not feel that the Japanese were any better at jungle fighting than we were.” Indeed, “[o]ur casualties show an 8 or 9 to 1 ratio when the Japanese were attacking and about a 1½ to 1 ratio in our favor when we were attacking through the jungle.”23 Actually, the KIA ratio was even more favorable for the United States than Vandegrift calculated: over 20,000 Japanese ground troops died on Guadalcanal; less than 1,800 Marines and U.S. Army reinforcements were lost.24 The Marines showed clarity of thought as well as lethality in action. Vandegrift and his two operations officers, Lieutenant Colonel Gerald Thomas and Lieutenant Colonel Merrill Twining, recognized that the air base, Henderson Field, was the “decisive point” that their forces had to defend with intense resolve.25 A prolonged posture of cordon defense, with periodic offensive forays beyond the perimeter, was not what the Marines had envisioned before coming to Guadalcanal. But they adapted well and executed the defensive operational concept with tenacity and with talented tactical commanders such as Captain Charles Brush, Lieutenant Colonel Merritt Edson, and Lieutenant Colonel “Chesty” Puller. They were able to exploit imprudent Japanese operational proclivities, such as schemes of maneuver too complex for the jungle terrain and suicidal banzai charges to display Bushido spirit. Japanese commanders could not coordinate separate attacks well enough to trump the Marines’ advantage of interior lines, and within any single attack they were inferior in combining arms, especially artillery with infantry.

92   B.A. Lee

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Still, the Marines had good reason to fear that if Japan concentrated enough forces at a vulnerable sector in their perimeter, they could have broken through to Henderson Field. Early on, a self-imposed constraint held back the Japanese from the threshold of success: they did not assess the American landing as a major counter-offensive effort, so they committed forces piecemeal to the theatre. But, over time, as the Japanese focused on the threat in the lower Solomons, the sea and air opposition inhibited them from projecting and sustaining overwhelming force on the ground in Guadalcanal.

At sea The increasingly lethal nature of modern warfare at sea manifested itself in an especially ferocious way in the Solomons campaign of 1942–1943.26 The four months from the battle of Savo Island saw more naval engagements than in any other comparable period in naval history. There were two big carrier battles, five major surface engagements, and several dozen other skirmishes at sea. For the first time in the Pacific War, all the war-fighting platforms were operating in the same three-dimensional battlespace in the same period: carrier-based aircraft and land-based aircraft; destroyers, cruisers, and battleships; and submarines. All the engagements were brawls, full of fog, friction, and fury. And to a degree that is unusual in naval history, the two sides were evenly matched, so they both suffered attrition on a large scale. The operational objective of the intense tactical action was command of the sea around Guadalcanal, which in turn would enable one side or the other to control access by ships bringing reinforcements and supplies to the island. Corbett once noted that “the most common situation in naval war is that neither side has the command.”27 The situation off Guadalcanal in 1942 was peculiar. Command alternated between night and day. Japan had command at night, for the most part. If technology were the key to tactical success, the U.S. Navy’s advantage in radar should have allowed it to prevail in the dark, but American commanders were unable to use radar effectively in the chaos of combat. Superior Japanese training and tactics provided the edge in most nighttime battles.28 By contrast, the United States had a significant degree of local sea control during the day. Given that the Marines controlled Henderson Field and given that the U.S. Navy benefited from better intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance (ISR), Japanese ships could not safely remain within 150 miles of Guadalcanal from sunrise to sunset.29 For all the attention that naval historians have given to how and why Japan won more engagements at sea than it lost, this tactical scorecard was beside the point at the strategic level. Ironically, tactical successes only encouraged the Japanese to throw more assets into the Guadalcanal campaign, which played into the hands of Roosevelt, King, and the American strategy of attrition. Although in the estimation of most historians, the tactical scorecard favored the Japanese navy, the final toll of lethality was roughly equal and remarkably high. The United States lost 24 combatants totaling 126,240 tons; Japan lost 24 combatants

A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   93 totaling 134,889 tons. But the United States, thanks to its far bigger economy, could replace losses of platforms much more readily than Japan could. Perhaps this cumulative material cost suffered by the Japanese in the Solomons might have produced a commensurate strategic benefit if they had been able to re-take Henderson Field. But they never achieved enough sea control to put overwhelming force on the ground. They came closest to such sea control from mid-October to mid-November 1942, and by 12 November they had more ground forces on Guadalcanal than the Americans—30,000 to 29,000—for the first and only time since the Marine landing in August.31 Yet they needed more than a narrow numerical edge to execute a successful ground offensive. And even the absolute size of the force was a poor indicator of actual combat power, for the Japanese navy could transport neither enough food and medical supplies to sustain the ground forces nor enough artillery and ammunition to boost their fighting effectiveness. In the absence of ground dominance enabled by sea control, a second option for the Japanese was naval bombardment to neutralize Henderson Field. They threw destroyers, then cruisers, and finally battleships into this effort, with increasing psychological and physical effects on those at the receiving end. But changes in command on the American side led to a more aggressive naval response, when “Bull” Halsey replaced Ghormley as theatre commander in midOctober. Nimitz thought Ghormley “on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”32 Halsey’s nerves were wired to amp up in the opposite direction. Under his leadership, American naval forces inflicted enough damage in his first month in command that the leadership on the Japanese side decided at long last to cut its losses in the struggle for Guadalcanal. The third option executed by the Japanese was beyond Corbett’s purview in his Principles of Maritime Strategy of 1911 when he broached the issue of how to master operational interaction in a peripheral theatre. The Japanese had navalaviation capabilities that they could use to neutralize Henderson Field. An ana­ lysis of why this aerial option proved ineffective will bring full circle our excursion through the operational domain.

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30

In the air Kenney, in the letter circulated to Vandegrift in early 1943, was confident that air power represented a relative U.S. military advantage over Japan. But despite what had happened at Midway, a preliminary net assessment in August 1942 of the likely operational strengths and weaknesses of Japan and the United States in the Solomons would have identified two basic reasons—planes and pilots—to count the air domain as a relative Japanese strength.33 The first reason would have been the Zero fighter. American aviators respected the Zero as much as American ground troops initially feared the jungle-fighting capabilities of Japanese soldiers and as much as American sailors came to dread the Long Lance torpedoes of Japanese destroyers, cruisers, and submarines. The Zero had remarkable range and maneuverability. But design

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94   B.A. Lee trade-offs had left it with deficiencies, especially in armor and armament, which American aviators learned how to exploit. The second reason for a sober initial assessment from an American perspective would have been the elite Japanese naval pilots who flew the Zero and the bombers that the fighters escorted. Those pilots were superbly trained and motivated. As late as August 1942, they still seemed to be the most skilled aviators in World War II. But American aviators adapted to their tactics and learned how to outmaneuver them. Beyond tactical interactions of pilots and planes, there were key operational factors that shaped relative American effectiveness. Theorists of the operational art analyze the interrelationship of factors “space, time, and force.” To that traditional array of factors, we need to add the factor of information.34 Key to space in 1942 was theatre geography. Japan’s major air base, at Rabaul, was nearly 600 miles from Guadalcanal. That distance was a great stretch for the Zero’s performance envelope. The Japanese did try to build intermediate air fields between Rabaul and Guadalcanal, but it was too little, too late. Yamamoto could have shown a greater willingness to bring his carriers closer to Guadalcanal to make up for the shortcomings of planes flying from Rabaul, but he, like American commanders, was reluctant to expose precious carriers to attack by land-based aircraft. Space had drastic implications for time. Zero pilots took three hours to fly to Guadalcanal and another three hours to return to Rabaul. Notwithstanding the remarkable combat radius of the top Japanese fighter planes, this left their pilots with only about 15 minutes to operate over or off Guadalcanal. Japanese bombers had even greater range than their fighter escorts, but if they stayed near Henderson Field after the Zeros departed, their chances of survival were slim. The factor of information had in turn a significant impact on time. American aviators on Henderson Field usually knew when their Japanese counterparts were on their way to attack Guadalcanal. Technical means of ISR are part of the story, but the human element stands out in the information dimension, especially the role played by Australian coast watchers with native helpers on islands along the route between Rabaul and Guadalcanal. When military forces operate in a new theatre far from their homeland, it is always important to have friendly locals on their side. What is distinctive about the Solomons theatre is how a relatively small number of locals did so much to create the great information superiority on the American side. The ramifications of time, space, and information for the factor of force created big trouble for Japanese air operations in the Solomons. Fatigue built up and demoralization set in among Japan’s naval aviators. Many crashed to their death, both in combat and in accidents. In the scramble to replace lost pilots, Japan fell behind the United States in terms of quality as well as quantity. The American advantage in the attrition of forces followed Roosevelt’s forecast. One historian has proclaimed, “In no theater was airpower more central to operations than in the South Pacific.”35 The larger truth is that the interrelationship among air, ground, and sea operations was vital to operational success. The

A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   95

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most critical air-power means were those deployed at Henderson Field. Those planes and pilots depended on the ability of Marine infantry and artillery to protect them from ground attack. Marine ground forces in turn depended on the ability of U.S. Navy ships to deliver supplies and reinforcements in a timely manner. In an era of air power, it was hard to achieve the “isolation” of the theatre that Corbett prescribed, but over time “jointness” at the operational level did allow the American military to achieve effective control over access to the lower Solomons.

Conclusions While Corbett provides a theoretical point of departure for understanding what it takes to be operationally effective in a new theatre, we are on our own in determining the broader strategic payoff from such operational success. It is especially challenging to analyze the possible payoff from a peripheral theatre, such as Guadalcanal. We need to consider a number of issues: control over resources; consequences for coalition cohesion; positional advantage for follow-on operations; effects on morale, domestic politics, and national will to fight on; and relative attrition of capabilities. We can give short shrift to resources. Guadalcanal had none. As the eminent historian Samuel Eliot Morison remarked, the island offered “no natural resources but mud, coconuts and malarial mosquitoes.”36 The coalition implications of the fight for Guadalcanal are more complicated to assess. A primary justification for contesting Japan’s advances in the South Pacific was to prevent interdiction of American SLOCs to Australia. If the Japanese had dislodged the Marines from Guadalcanal in the second half of 1942, effective interdiction would have required an advance to other islands, with other airfields. The United States would no doubt have contested those advances, and Japan would likely have exceeded its culminating point of attack before it could have dislocated the SLOCs. What actually happened to the Japanese on Guadalcanal might in this counterfactual scenario have happened on some other island. Until it did, though, many Australians might have reached the unhappy conclusion that the Americans were not much more of a reliable guarantor of Australia’s security than Britain had been. The importance of success at Guadalcanal for follow-on offensives in the Pacific is straightforward. The U.S. Army and Navy executed the operations in the Solomons, New Guinea, and New Britain that Marshall and King had agreed on in late June 1942, except that Rabaul was neutralized by bombing and bypassed rather than seized in 1943. Hemming in Japanese forces at Rabaul was worthwhile, not least because it prevented the recurrence of any significant threat to Australia. What about the American home front? Roosevelt hoped the counter-offensive in the South Pacific in 1942 would bolster domestic support for the war effort and his leadership of it. When the outcome at Guadalcanal seemed to hang in the balance in the weeks before the Congressional elections of November 1942, the

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96   B.A. Lee President urged his military leaders to get as much combat power as possible to the fight.37 Success at Guadalcanal was not finally at hand until after the elections; nevertheless, it did pay an incremental dividend politically for his administration and psychologically for public morale. In 1943, Roosevelt would have no need to make another fireside chat on Washington’s birthday to boost the spirits of his American audience. The biggest strategic payoff of Guadalcanal was much more tangible. It was the attrition of Japanese military capabilities. Roosevelt had envisioned such attrition in his February 1942 speech. That was not a fleeting vision conjured up only for public consumption. In a confidential letter to General MacArthur in May 1942, the President stressed “the utmost importance” of putting “out of action each month more Japanese ships, naval and commercial, and more Japanese planes than they can build. This process of attrition, if continued, will make later operations on our part progressively more certain of success.”38 Among the critical strengths of Japan that subsequently suffered severe attrition in the Solomons, the most important was elite Japanese naval aviators. They were Japan’s operational center of gravity in the Pacific, the “hub of all power and movement,” to invoke Clausewitz’s metaphor.39 The first-line aviators, trained to exacting standards before the war, had spearheaded Japan’s thrust to all corners of the Pacific and into the Indian Ocean from December 1941 to May 1942. But as they were killed off, first at Coral Sea and Midway and then many more in the Solomons, the Japanese training system was unable to replace them in quantity or quality.40 Without their like, Japan had lost its best means for defending against the American counter-offensive that moved ever closer to Japan and the core of its empire after the Solomons campaign. That is why the successful American operations in the peripheral Guadalcanal theatre deserve to be highlighted as strategically pivotal in the Pacific War.

Notes   1 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author and are not necessarily those of the U.S. Government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College.   2 “Address of the President Delivered by Radio from the White House,” 23 February 1942, accessed at www.mhric.org/fdr/chat20.html.   3 Ibid.   4 Edward S. Miller, War Plan Orange: The U.S. Strategy to Defeat Japan, 1897–1945 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1991).   5 The most balanced treatment is by Richard Frank, Guadalcanal: The Definitive Account of the Landmark Battle (New York: Random House, 1990).   6 Corbett, Some Principles, chaps. 4–6.   7 John J. Stephan, Hawaii Under the Rising Sun: Japan’s Plans for Conquest After Pearl Harbor (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1984), chaps. 6–7; Henry Frei, Japan’s Southward Advance and Australia: From the Sixteenth Century to World War II (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1991), 160–173.   8 Japanese Self-Defense Agency, National Defense College, War History Office, Japanese Army Operations in the South Pacific Area: New Britain and Papua Campaigns, trans. Steven Bullard (Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 2007), 68.

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A pivotal campaign in a peripheral theatre   97   9 Jonathan Parshall and Anthony Tully, Shattered Sword: The Untold Story of the Battle of Midway (Washington, DC: Potomac Books, 2005). 10 Self-Defense Agency, Japanese Army Operations in the South Pacific Area, 119. When the U.S. Marines arrived at the air field, they did not regard it as completed, for it had a big gap in its center. See A.A. Vandegrift, as told to Robert B. Asprey, Once a Marine: The Memoirs of General A.A. Vandegrift (New York: Ballantine Books, 1964), 126. 11 For King–Nimitz tensions and King–Marshall discord, see John B. Lundstrom, The First South Pacific Campaign: Pacific Fleet Strategy December 1941–June 1942 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1976), 30–32, 48–57, 128–140, 150–173, 195–198, 201–204. 12 Memorandum by King for Roosevelt, 5 March 1942, Safe Files, Box 3, Roosevelt Presidential Library, Hyde Park, New York. 13 Quoted in Thomas B. Buell, Master of Sea Power: A Biography of Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King (Boston: Little, Brown, 1980), 193. 14 MacArthur to Marshall, 8 June 1942, Record Group (RG) 4, Box 15, MacArthur Papers, MacArthur Memorial, Norfolk, VA. 15 Marshall’s side of the negotiations can be followed through a series of memoranda to King from 26 June to 1 July 1942, in Larry I. Bland (ed.), The Papers of George Catlett Marshall, vol. 3 (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 252–264 passim. From King’s side, see his memoranda to Marshall in Ernest J. King Papers, Box 2, Operational Archives Branch, Naval History and Heritage Command, Washington, DC. 16 MacArthur and Ghormley to Marshall and King, 8 July 1942, RG 4, Box 15, MacArthur Papers. For a sympathetic treatment of Ghormley, see Samuel B. Griffith, The Battle for Guadalcanal (Philadelphia and New York: J.B. Lippincott, 1963), 29–31. 17 Vandegrift, Once a Marine, 109. 18 Eric Larrabee, Commander in Chief: Franklin Delano Roosevelt, His Lieutenants, and Their War (New York: Harper & Row, 1987), 262–264. 19 B.H. Liddell Hart, The Defense of Britain (New York: Random House, 1939), 130, quoted in Vice Admiral George Carroll Dyer, USN (Ret.), The Amphibians Came to Conquer: The Story of Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner, vol. I (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1969), 318. 20 John B. Lundstrom, Black Shoe Carrier Admiral: Frank Jack Fletcher at Coral Sea, Midway, and Guadalcanal (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2006), chap. 25. 21 Kenney to Arnold, 1 January 1943, RG 38, Box 3, COMINCH War Plans Division correspondence, National Archives (NA), College Park, MD. Kenney posited a 5:1 KIA ratio. 22 Douglas Ford, “Dismantling the ‘Lesser Men’ and ‘Supermen’ Myths: US Intelligence on the Imperial Japanese Army after the Fall of the Philippines, Winter 1942 to Spring 1943,” Intelligence and National Security, 24, 4 (August 2009), 542–573. 23 Memo by Vandegrift, 5 February 1943, RG 38, Box 3, COMINCH War Plans Division correspondence, NA. 24 Frank, 613. 25 Allan R. Millett, In Many a Strife: General Gerald C. Thomas and the U.S. Marine Corps 1917–1956 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1993), 179; and Merrill B. Twining, as edited by Neil Carey, No Bended Knee: The Battle for Guadalcanal (Novato: Presidio Press, 1994), 45, 105–107. “Decisive point” is a term of operational art. See Milan Vego, Joint Operational Warfare: Theory and Practice (Newport: United States Naval War College, 2007), VII-31 and GL-7. 26 Michael Vlahos and Dale K. Pace, “War Experience and Force Requirements,” Naval War College Review, 41, 4 (Autumn 1988), 26–46; and Captain Wayne P. Hughes Jr., USN (Ret.), Fleet Tactics and Coastal Combat, 2nd edn. (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2000).

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98   B.A. Lee 27 Corbett, Some Principles, 91. 28 Thomas G. Mahnken, “The Naval Battles off Guadalcanal, 1942–1943,” unpublished manuscript cited with Professor Mahnken’s permission. 29 John Prados, Combined Fleet Decoded: The Secret History of American Intelligence and the Japanese Navy in World War II (New York: Random House, 1995), chap. 16. 30 Larrabee, 262; Frank, 601–603, 637–641. 31 Jeter A. Isely and Philip A. Crowl, The U.S. Marines and Amphibious War: Its Theory, and Its Practice in the Pacific (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1951), 135. 32 Letter from Nimitz, 27 January 1961, in Commander Robert L. Ghormley, Jr., “Vice Admiral Robert Lee Ghormley,” unpublished manuscript at Operational Archives Branch, Naval History and Heritage Command. 33 For detailed treatments of planes and pilots on both sides, see John B. Lundstrom, The First Team and the Guadalcanal Campaign: Naval Fighter Combat from August to November 1942 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1994), and Eric M. Bergerud, Fire in the Sky: The Air War in the South Pacific (Boulder: Westview Press, 2000). 34 Vego, part III. 35 Bergerud, xvi. 36 Samuel Eliot Morison, The Struggle for Guadalcanal: August 1942–February 1943 (Boston: Little, Brown, 1949), 3. This is volume V of Morison’s 15-volume History of United States Naval Operations in World War II. 37 Frank, 404–405; Larrabee, 290–293. 38 Roosevelt to MacArthur, 6 May 1942, RG 4, Box 15, MacArthur Papers. 39 Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 585. 40 Mark R. Peattie, Sunburst: The Rise of Japanese Naval Air Power 1909–1941 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2001), 133–134, 161, 171–185.

9 The New Guinea campaign during World War II

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David Stevens1

Between March 1942 and the end of World War II, the tropical islands of New Guinea witnessed an intense armed struggle involving hundreds of thousands of troops and millions of tons of war materiel. The Japanese, who had first chosen to fight there, alone suffered more than 200,000 fatal casualties in a doomed attempt to consolidate their early conquests and strengthen the perimeter of their “Southern Resources Belt.”2 Although fighting continued in isolated areas, the main part of the campaign was over by August 1944, after American troops had landed at Sansapor in the Vogelkop Peninsula (the “head” of the New Guinea “bird”) and successfully completed General Douglas MacArthur’s northwestward drive along the New Guinea coast. From Sansapor, “They were prepared to push on toward the ultimate defeat of Japan.”3 While New Guinea was undoubtedly of great importance to those forces directly involved, in terms of the wider Allied war in the Pacific a case can also be made that the New Guinea campaign was peripheral to the outcome. After all, American resource superiority was such that the U.S. Army and Navy were eventually able to advance on Japan from multiple and overlapping axes. By late 1942, the Japanese in New Guinea were already effectively compartmentalized and could largely have been left to wither. In truth, MacArthur’s advance from his Southwest Pacific Area through New Guinea and on to the Philippines was defined as much by inter-service rivalry as it was by strategic rationale.4 Arguably, the re-conquest of New Guinea dispersed the Allied effort and was neither the most direct nor the most effective means to carry the war back to Tokyo. Nevertheless, it was of crucial importance to the U.S. alliance with Australia.

Background to the campaign Perspective and timing are everything. After a rapid succession of unbroken victories stretching from Pearl Harbor to Java, in the early months of 1942 the Japanese were still very much in the ascendant. The capture of southern New Guinea had not been an objective of either their initial “Southern Operation” or their ambition to create a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, but Japanese planners were nevertheless determined to provide defense-in-depth for key strong

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100   D. Stevens points.5 They believed their vital naval headquarters at Truk in the Caroline Islands would be best protected by seizing Rabaul, 700 miles to the south in the Bismarck Archipelago. But, having transformed Rabaul into their principal naval base in the Southwest Pacific, the Japanese then had to consider its defense from Allied air and amphibious assaults launched from Port Moresby on the southern shores of New Guinea. Buoyed by the ease of their early successes, Japanese Navy planners soon expressed their desire to conquer key areas in New Guinea and the Solomons. Lae and Salamaua on the northeastern coast of Papua (southeastern New Guinea) were to be the initial objectives, to be followed at an appropriate time by Tulagi in the southern Solomons and then Port Moresby “if at all possible.”6 With these areas properly garrisoned, and air bases operating at each, the Japanese expected to control the seas north of Australia while simultaneously using their submarines to disrupt Allied supply lines further south. The threat of further Japanese expansion southwards undoubtedly acted as a magnet for U.S. forces, particularly in terms of the general Allied intention to hold what forward territory they still possessed and turn Australia into an advanced base for future counter-offensives. Australia, after all, represented the only practical area where large numbers of men and increasing quantities of materiel could be consolidated close to the front in reasonable safety. Meanwhile, for the relatively unprotected Australians, New Guinea formed their doorstep. Should the Japanese gain secure air bases at Port Moresby, then the whole northern portion of Australia would become open to attack. The Australian government welcomed MacArthur’s recall from the Philippines and his appointment as supreme commander Southwest Pacific Area precisely because it demonstrated American commitment to Australia’s defense. Recognizing these varied viewpoints is vital to any discussion of why and how the events took place, as is understanding that operations in New Guinea required both the Allies and Japanese to mount expeditionary operations from distant bases. Moreover, with New Guinea being a great, mountainous, and undeveloped island, with virtually no internal land routes and only a few small airfields, the sustainment of these operations remained solely dependent upon sea lines of communication and their control by friendly maritime forces.7

The Japanese invasion The initial Japanese amphibious assaults in New Guinea took place on 7 March 1942, when 3,000 troops landed at Lae and Salamaua. Minor landings were also made on the north coast of Bougainville at month’s end. Opposition ashore was minimal and easily overwhelmed, but the evident vulnerability of their troop and equipment convoys to air attack had already given the Japanese pause for thought. The U.S. Navy’s aircraft carriers, which had fortuitously survived the Pearl Harbor debacle, proved a particular problem. Their mobility made the timing and direction of an attack impossible to predict, and an air strike from USS Lex-

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The New Guinea campaign during World War II   101 ington on 20 February succeeded in delaying the Lae–Salamaua invasion force until escort arrangements could be improved. These arrangements remained less than watertight, and Lexington, having been joined by a second carrier, USS Yorktown, carried out an even more effective attack on the Lae–Salamaua force on 10 March. The damage inflicted was not yet critical to Japanese planning, but it highlighted the futility of attempting further amphibious movements without sufficient naval air defense, the more so since an assault on Port Moresby required a sea passage of more than 600 miles, half of which was through the Coral Sea within easy reach of Australian airfields in the Cape York Peninsula. Unsurprisingly, the commander of the “South Seas Force” designated for the invasion, Major General Horii Tomitarō, requested a strengthening of land-based air units and additions to the air strength of his naval support, which at the time consisted only of the small aircraft carrier Shoho. Horii also ordered investigations into other approaches to Port Moresby that might require less exposure to Allied air and naval power. These boiled down to an overland route—only considered feasible if a road existed over the Owen Stanley Range running down southeastern New Guinea’s spine—or a “barge mobilisation,” consisting of an initial insertion into eastern Papua followed by a succession of night coastal movements to avoid Allied attention during daylight. The Japanese Combined Fleet determined it could spare just two fleet carriers, Shokaku and Zuikaku, for the Port Moresby operation, but as the mobile carrier fleet was already fully employed in the Indian Ocean, these vessels would not be available until late April 1942. Even then, they could not remain in theatre for long as they were needed for a newly envisaged “Eastern Operation,” with its aim the occupation of Midway Island at the western end of the Hawaiian chain and the concurrent occupation of certain islands in the Aleutian chain in the northern Pacific. On 16 April, Imperial General Headquarters Directive No. 86 formalized acceptance of these plans, providing for the occupation of Port Moresby and Tulagi in May, and Midway and the Aleutians in June. Thereafter the Japanese planned to occupy New Caledonia, Fiji, and Samoa, effectively completing the strategic isolation of Australia by cutting Allied supply routes across the Pacific from America.8 Japanese overconfidence, described in many accounts as “Victory Disease,” meant that the critical flaws in these plans went either unnoticed or ignored. Much of what passed for strategic planning in Imperial Headquarters was wholly unrealistic, and Japanese commanders rarely seemed to appreciate the necessity to consider all dimensions of their country’s maritime position.

Japanese logistical weakness From the perspective of hindsight, Japanese forces had nothing like sufficient capability to undertake such a dispersed and continuous series of campaigns. The fact that the Port Moresby operation had to await the return of the mobile carrier force from its Indian Ocean sortie, and was in turn timed to allow forces to be

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102   D. Stevens reconstituted before the invasion of Midway, gives more than a hint of the narrow margins on which the Japanese were already operating. Similar deficiencies can be observed in many other aspects of the Japanese military force structure, but the Achilles’ heel of an overextended maritime empire was undoubtedly its inadequate shipping capacity. Before the Pacific War, the Japanese Empire required some 10 million tons of merchant shipping for sustainment, but possessed only 6.3 million tons under its own flag.9 The remainder consisted of foreign-flagged shipping that disappeared as soon as the Pacific War began. When matched against the 3.6 million tons of shipping requisitioned by the Army, another 1.5 million tons mobilized by the Navy, and the more than 10 percent of shipping laid up for want of maintenance, it is clear that the Japanese war economy could not be expected to function indefinitely. In fact, the Japanese high command went to war aware that the needs of the civil population could not be met after April 1942. Additional offensives had the potential to so damage Japanese industrial capacity that they would destroy the fundamental basis for conducting the war. What should have been equally worrying for Japanese planners was that their shipping assessments evidently took no account of the increasing impact of Allied interdiction from sea and air. This situation was still further aggravated by the Japanese Navy’s traditional disinterest in “defensive” tasks, a lack of suitable ocean escorts, and a chaotic shipping control organization that functioned under separate Army, Navy, and civilian administration. The early Japanese victories came relatively cheaply and shipping losses could be replaced from captured tonnage, but from May 1942 average losses to Allied action already approached 100,000 tons per month. Replacement capacity had to compete with repairs, maintenance, and warship construction, and during 1942 averaged just one-third of this. Merchant shipping adequate to maintain all Japan’s far-flung outposts simply did not exist and could not be built on such short notice. For the Japanese on the frontline, security of supply became an ever-present anxiety, and a problem that could only worsen as the war lengthened. American submarines began operating from Australian bases in April 1942, and were soon joined by British and Dutch boats. Their depredations, together with the observed effectiveness of Allied air attacks, had already introduced an element of doubt in the minds of some Japanese commanders. As early as 20 March, General Horii openly expressed his grave concerns over the ability to maintain supply to Port Moresby after an initial assault. Nevertheless, the allocation of Shokaku and Zuikaku to the Port Moresby invasion force did much to increase Japanese confidence. Departures of the various Japanese naval formations from Truk and Rabaul began on 29 April, and unopposed landings on Tulagi commenced on 3 May.

The Allied response Allied commanders were not unaware of Japanese intentions. On 25 April 1942, the Combined Operational Intelligence Centre in Melbourne, linking informa-

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The New Guinea campaign during World War II   103 tion from locally based signals intelligence units, coastwatchers, and aerial reconnaissance, issued an assessment that a Japanese assault on Port Moresby was imminent. On 1 May the Australian cruisers Australia and Hobart, together with USS Chicago and escorted by three American destroyers, sailed from Hervey Bay in Queensland under the command of Rear Admiral John Crace, RN, commander of the Australian Squadron. The formation was ordered to rendezvous with an American carrier task group built around Yorktown and Lexington and under the tactical command of Rear Admiral Frank Fletcher. By 2 May, Fletcher was already pre-positioning his forces to intercept the Japanese, and the stage was set for the most important single event connected with the shaping of the larger strategic campaign in the Southwest Pacific. Although the heaviest fighting took place on 7–8 May, the start of the Battle of the Coral Sea is generally marked from 4 May when Yorktown’s aircraft carried out a successful strike against Japanese invasion shipping at Tulagi. The raid confirmed the presence of U.S. Navy carriers in the region but, with Japanese commanders still confident in their reinforced air strength, the Port Moresby landings at first proceeded as planned. Thereafter, each of the opposing Japanese and U.S. carrier forces began the process of attempting to find the other and get in the first blow. Bad weather meant that confusing reports came in to the commanders of both sides, and the exact strength and disposition of the enemy remained uncertain. On the morning of 7 May, Fletcher, in one of his more controversial decisions, detached Crace’s formation, and ordered it to the northwest to block any Japanese warships attempting to enter the Coral Sea through the Jomard Passage between the “tail” of New Guinea and the Louisiade archipelago. Crace arrived in position in the early afternoon and immediately began his patrol. His ships had been under enemy observation during their passage and within the hour the Japanese began their attack. Without air cover, Crace’s position was parlous, but good tactics and skillful ship handling allowed the enemy aircraft no hits. Despite their failure, on return to Rabaul the Japanese airmen incorrectly reported the sinking of one American battleship and damage to another. Trusting at least part of the report, the Japanese commander, Vice Admiral Inoue Shigeyoshi, saw no need to launch further strikes on Crace’s force, but he did order the invasion convoy to reverse course while he attempted to clarify the situation with regard to the credibility of the “battleship” sightings and the position of the American carriers. Neither the Japanese nor the American carrier forces made contact with their enemy’s main strength on 7 May, but they did detect smaller formations, and a redirected strike from both American carriers found Shoho and sank her in minutes. For their part, the Japanese managed to sink an American tanker and destroyer. Heavy clouds and confused reporting prevented any further encounters until the following day, but in the ensuing engagements Shokaku was badly hit and Zuikaku lost heavily in aircraft and crews. On the American side, Lexington received crippling damage and had eventually to be sunk by an escorting destroyer.

104   D. Stevens

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Both forces were too battered to continue the fight, but the greater impact was on the Japanese who now decided not to persist with the Port Moresby invasion. More significantly, there developed a marked reluctance within the Japanese Navy to risk surface warships south of New Guinea until they could control the skies over the Coral Sea. Equally important, Shokaku and Zuikaku would be undergoing repairs for some months and were thus no longer available for the Midway operation.

A crucial “operational pause” In the breathing space provided by the Battle of Coral Sea, MacArthur rushed reinforcements into Port Moresby and ordered the construction of additional air bases in Queensland and at Milne Bay on the southeastern tip of New Guinea. The base at Milne Bay would protect Port Moresby’s flank and provide a relay base for attacks on Japanese bases to the north. By 21 August 1942, he had some 8,000 troops in the area and the first airstrip was in operation. Meanwhile, the Japanese turned their attention to the major operation against Midway. The engagement began on 3 June and by its end the Japanese had lost four fleet carriers, to the American loss of only one. The unexpected outcome left the Japanese Fleet in confusion and without a viable alternate plan. Three days later, Imperial Headquarters delayed the New Caledonia–Fiji–Samoa operation for two months, and a month later cancelled it completely. There could be little doubt that the Pacific War had entered a new phase, yet the Japanese still possessed eight carriers and were in no way in retreat. Hence, there was no lessening of the priority to strengthen the southeastern anchor of their defensive perimeter by establishing air bases at Port Moresby and the southern Solomons. The earlier Japanese attempt on Port Moresby had at least succeeded in establishing a foothold at Tulagi. Imperial Headquarters now ordered the commander of the Seventeenth Army at Rabaul, Lieutenant General Hyakutake Harukichi, to concentrate his efforts on securing eastern New Guinea. Although aware that the Coral Sea experience made it ever more certain that Port Moresby, once occupied, could not be adequately supplied,10 Hyakutake examined the overland route across the Owen Stanley Range.11 It was an improvised response rather than a considered strategy, and even the need for improved air support received inadequate attention. The plan envisaged establishing a foothold on the northeast Papuan coast through a landing at Buna by the South Seas Force. Thereafter, the force would advance inland to capture the small village of Kokoda and from there the road to Port Moresby, which the Japanese believed existed across the mountains. Until the Army had crossed the Owen Stanley Range and conducted a rapid descent on the Port Moresby airfields, the Navy was to play a supporting role, providing transport from Rabaul to Buna and air cover during the landing phase. Once the South Seas Force had taken the airfields, the Navy would then embark additional troops in several destroyers and patrol boats, and make a fast passage to a landing site to the east of Port Moresby, destroying enemy air power and sweep-

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The New Guinea campaign during World War II   105 ing enemy vessels from the northern Coral Sea as they went. Midway had not dented the Japanese conviction in the superiority of their fighting qualities, and this arrogance still blinded them to the fact that their plans had been developed with insufficient reference to both available resources and the potential strength of Allied opposition. A Japanese advance party began landing at Buna on 21 July 1942 and, vastly outnumbering the Australian units in the area, had little difficulty capturing Kokoda a week later. Thereafter, the expected force build-up suffered delays and losses as the Allied air forces intensified their attacks and the sea transport of reinforcements from Rabaul became increasingly hazardous. The main strength of the South Seas Force did not reach Buna until 18 August. General Horii remained dissatisfied with plans for the stockpiling of his supplies and troubled by reports of Allied reinforcements in Port Moresby, but with some 11,450 men now under his command, he began the struggle over the Owen Stanley Range.

Japanese invasion at Milne Bay Simultaneous operations in New Guinea and the Solomons had not prevented the Japanese from further dividing their efforts. On 4 August 1942, Japanese reconnaissance discovered the new Allied airfield at Milne Bay. The proximity to Rabaul of this unexpected threat called for urgent action, and the Navy scheduled an assault for mid-August. But, believing that the airfield had only just become operational, they again severely underestimated the level of opposition to be expected and allotted only 1,160 naval troops for the initial landing. On 24 August, the Milne Bay assault force sailed from Rabaul and began its landings on the following night. In confronting an Allied force more than eighttimes their number with secure supply lines to Port Moresby, the Japanese defeat was never really in doubt. Despite the presence of two Japanese tanks, heavy support was lacking, and though Japanese warships could provide some fire support at night, they were not risked during the day. Worse still, Japanese naval fighters based at Buna, which had been expected to provide air cover, were attacked by Allied fighters even as they took off, and all were destroyed in successive air battles. Slow to disperse their invasion stores, the Japanese landing party thereafter watched almost all its ammunition, fuel, and rations destroyed in successive air attacks. Too weak to make much progress ashore, the Japanese made two halfhearted attempts to reinforce before determining that their whole force must be evacuated. The evacuation was achieved on the night of 4–5 September, but only after the Japanese had sustained more than 700 killed.

The Japanese advance along the Kokoda Trail The Japanese advance across the Owen Stanley Range faced an equally predictable if more prolonged outcome. Japanese commanders possessed almost no information on the terrain they were attempting to traverse, and had chosen the

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106   D. Stevens rainy season to make the crossing. Although a road did extend halfway from Buna to Kokoda, for the remainder of the distance it turned into a walking track suitable for pack animals. Upon leaving Kokoda, the trail became a precarious mountain path often only wide enough for troops to walk single file. Despite bringing 1,700 laborers for transportation duties, the South Seas Force was barely able to maintain the needs of daily consumption between Buna and Kokoda. Thereafter, the Japanese troops had to carry all their own supplies. No matter how many troops Horii fielded, it was a logistic impossibility to sustain more than a few hundred men in frontline combat using the transport resources he could access. Supply became a critical problem from the outset and was not improved by the destruction of the Japanese Navy’s promised air support at Buna and over Milne Bay. Allied aircraft made it impractical to move any stores during daylight, and the combination of enemy action, harsh terrain, tropical diseases, and foul weather soon resulted in a rapid decline in Horii’s fighting strength. Japanese commanders recognized the futility of Horii’s mission without Japanese air superiority, and in turn, success at both Milne Bay and the Solomons. On 31 August, a formal directive from the Army Department at Imperial Headquarters informed Hyakutate that major operations in New Guinea were to be held in abeyance until victory had been achieved elsewhere in the South Pacific. Two weeks later, a general offensive in the Solomons failed, and the Seventeenth Army’s remaining reserves, previously intended for the final campaign against Port Moresby, were instead committed to Guadalcanal. On 19 September, Hyakutake ordered Horii to withdraw from his positions on the Kokoda Trail and retreat toward the coast. There was no immediate Allied ground pursuit, but it made little difference as supply remained Horii’s primary concern. Even the passage of the few transport ships previously allowed from Rabaul to Buna could no longer be risked. What relief could be spared thereafter trickled in by submarines and barges. Faced by Australian and American troops advancing relentlessly on several land axes, the situation for the remaining 5,500 Japanese troops trapped at the Buna bridgehead grew more precarious. Worse was to come, for on 16 November 1942, the Japanese sighted Allied ships in the middle of landing operations at Oro Bay just nine miles south of Buna. Men and supplies poured in and, within four days, American combat engineers began clearing an air strip. Despite Hyakutake’s continued exhortations for Buna to be secured in preparation for future offensive operations, Japanese resistance could not be maintained. The last pitiful remnants were finally eliminated on 22 January 1943. They had fought virtually to the last man and only some 1,200 sick and wounded escaped in barges.

Securing Allied supply lines MacArthur could contemplate a wide range of offensive action because, in contrast to the Japanese, his forces could rely on plentiful resources and secure supply lines. After Coral Sea, Japanese attempts to disrupt Allied communica-

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The New Guinea campaign during World War II   107 tions between Australia and New Guinea were generally limited to what could be achieved by their aircraft and submarines. A submarine campaign against Allied shipping off Australia’s east coast began in early June 1942, but was on such a small scale that it had little impact. In two months, Japanese submarines sank only seven merchant ships and damaged another six. Once the Solomons assumed priority, almost all other offensive operations were suspended. During August, only one submarine could be spared to operate off Port Moresby and this boat achieved little before being sunk by an Australian destroyer. Like other Allied navies, the Royal Australian Navy (RAN) initially suffered from a shortage of suitable escorts, but to its credit had been quick to introduce coastal convoys. Special military convoys to New Guinea had begun as early as January 1942, and by early 1943 there existed a complete convoy system that stretched from Melbourne to Darwin and advanced New Guinea bases. Distinct from the Japanese experience, no Australian or American troops, and only occasional stores ships, were ever lost on passage to New Guinea. Just during 1942, the Allies successfully shipped 3,033 vehicles, 199 guns, and more than 200,000 tons of stores. With planning for further offensives gaining priority, regular supply convoys from Townsville to New Guinea began in December 1942 and continued until March 1944. Over this period, 1,148 merchant vessels made the journey in 254 separate convoys.12 Closer to the New Guinea front line, Japanese aircraft initially proved the greatest threat, and would remain so throughout 1943. During the advance on Buna, the Allied northern supply line and, in particular, the run from Milne Bay to Oro Bay, assumed the greatest importance. Insufficient friendly aircraft were available to cover all ships on passage and, because of the navigational dangers, smaller warships such as the RAN’s corvettes shouldered most of the escort burden. “Operation LILLIPUT” (December 1942 to June 1943) involved 15 Australian corvettes and two U.S. Navy sub-chasers in the close escort of convoys that carried 60,000 tons of supplies and 3,802 troops to Oro Bay. The tonnage of stores and equipment carried was some seven-times greater than that carried by air. Losses to Japanese air attack amounted to two merchant ships sunk and two badly damaged, but caused no serious disruption to plans.13 In December 1942, the Japanese had 31 submarines in the South Pacific, but of these 11 were undergoing repair and 18 were earmarked for transportation duties in the Solomons. Thus, it was not until their defeat in the Solomons that the Japanese could contemplate a resurgence in their submarine campaign against the Australia–New Guinea supply routes. During May–June 1943, Japanese submarines managed to torpedo nine ships over four weeks. In response, Allied naval authorities were by now able to allocate over 60 warships for convoy escort duties, while other formations remained available to provide cover. These vessels included Australian and other Allied destroyers, corvettes, and a wide assortment of smaller anti-submarine vessels. The Japanese, on the other hand, could no longer sustain even a minimum undersea effort. By the end of June, all their submarines had been withdrawn from Australian waters for defensive operations closer to home.

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108   D. Stevens Ironically, it was the final attack of this campaign that was to be among the most effective. On 16 June, with two torpedoes, the submarine I-174 sank the U.S. Army Transport Portmar, fully loaded with fuel and ammunition, and severely damaged a tank landing ship (LST). The LST belonged to MacArthur’s Seventh Amphibious Force, which had been formed only in January 1943 and was still short of ships. Loss of the vessel forced the last-minute elimination of troops and cargo from the assault convoy destined for MacArthur’s first true amphibious operation, the occupation of Kiriwina and Woodlark Islands on 29–30 June 1943.14 Although there were no Japanese on the islands, this operation was an invaluable learning experience.

The final Allied advance in New Guinea The establishment of the Seventh Amphibious Force under Rear Admiral Daniel E. Barbey, USN, heralded the beginning of serious expeditionary operations by Allied naval forces in New Guinea. Supported by ever-increasing strength at sea and in the air, the Allies in the Pacific were deemed capable of advancing from MacArthur’s Southwest Pacific Area and the Central Pacific under Admiral Nimitz at the same time. MacArthur’s troops were for the first time able to take full advantage of amphibious mobility and heavy naval gunfire support. Furthermore, once the decision was taken at the “Quadrant” conference in August 1943 to encircle and neutralize, rather than capture Rabaul, MacArthur could turn his slow advance along the New Guinea coast into an efficient campaign of maneuver. Successive assaults were, in reality, a series of mutually supporting steps that, in stark comparison with Japanese planning, in most cases accurately matched resources to strategic intentions. Any problems experienced thereafter tended more to be the result of inexperience and joint command relationships, rather than any fundamental lack of expeditionary capability. The first opposed amphibious landing by MacArthur’s forces took place at Lae at the beginning of September 1943 and well illustrates some of these issues. Still short of assault shipping, Barbey made it clear during planning that he wished to take few risks. He was particularly anxious to unload troops and stores quickly and get his landing ships back to the open sea as soon as possible, both for safety and so he could begin resupply. Barbey’s preference for light loading, however, brought him into conflict with the Army view, which preferred that as much materiel as possible should be landed with the initial assault. A compromise was reached but, on the day of the landing, the land commander allotted insufficient troops to unload bulk stores. The consequent delays extended the time on the beach for the landing group and allowed a Japanese air raid to inflict almost 200 casualties and significant damage on several LSTs. With some 200 Japanese aircraft still based at Rabaul, the provision of adequate air cover became a primary preoccupation for Barbey during 1943, and again different service perspectives played a part. Although naval aviators would normally try to keep a combat air patrol over an objective, the Air Force preferred to keep its planes on ground alert until it learned of a possible attack.

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The New Guinea campaign during World War II   109 Since the U.S. Navy was reluctant to place its aircraft carriers under MacArthur’s control, Barbey was generally reliant on the Allied Air Forces. Not until March 1944, during the operations at Hollandia on the north coast of New Guinea, did Barbey finally feel that planning liaison with the Air Force was satisfactory.15 As experience grew and commanders became more confident in how to project maritime power, these difficulties lessened. The landing at Lae was followed by a successful assault on Finschhafen a few weeks later, and the importance of “softening up” the landing beaches grew with each amphibious operation. In contrast to the earlier overland campaigns, these joint and combined operations reduced losses and increased the speed of advance. Troops no longer had to make frontal assaults against prepared enemy positions. By relying on amphibious movement, strongly-garrisoned points could often be bypassed and troops landed on lightly or undefended beaches, where any remaining Jap­ anese were more easily overwhelmed. The Allies, the Japanese admitted, had at Lae “inflicted an annihilating blow on us without engaging in direct combat.”16 The examples set at Lae and Finschhafen were subsequently repeated many times as MacArthur’s forces “coast hopped” up New Guinea, landing only where necessary and establishing air bases to increase the reach of Allied air power. Hollandia, Aitape, Wakde, Noemfoor, and Sansapor all fell in succession, until by September 1944 MacArthur had reached Morotai in the Netherlands East Indies. The airfields built at Morotai meant that MacArthur’s forces were now only 600 miles from Mindanao in the southern Philippines. Together with the advanced naval base at Manus in the Admiralty Islands, which had been recaptured in April, these airfields would play a vital role in the great amphibious operation launched in October to liberate the Philippines. The undoubted success of MacArthur’s amphibious forces tells only half the story, however, for, at the same time, the Allies had continued to improve their interdiction and maritime strike capability. In effect, they imposed an ever-more effective blockade around New Guinea and thereby ensured that Japanese interference with Allied expeditionary forces was minimal and any potential resistance was already severely weakened through air and submarine attacks on enemy supply lines. In early March 1943, in what was to be their last major resupply operation, the Japanese attempted to run a large reinforcement convoy from Rabaul to Lae. Good intelligence allowed the Allies to mount a massive air attack, and in what became known as the “Battle of the Bismarck Sea,” the Japanese lost all eight transports, four out of eight destroyers, and at least one-third of their troops. While Allied air and submarine attacks harassed Japanese supply lines during the day, fast motor torpedo boats took over at sunset. Well-suited to coastal conditions, the torpedo boats wreaked havoc on the poorly defended Japanese supply barges. Sinkings were so frequent that one Japanese diarist at Finschhafen wrote thankfully on 29 August 1943 that his was the only trip in July or August “when barges were not attacked by torpedo boats.”17 His barge was sunk on its return passage.

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110   D. Stevens As had already been witnessed in the Solomons, isolated Japanese outposts in New Guinea became increasingly reliant on submarines for resupply. Although safer than other methods, supply by submarine was a sure sign of impending defeat. Stripped of all unnecessary equipment, submarines were then incapable of offensive operations and still only able to transport a very small load. Even the largest 2,000-ton submarines were estimated to have a cargo capacity of only 20 tons below decks and another 40 tons above, or alternatively 50 troops and 15 tons of cargo.18 The usual load, however, was much less and nearly half the early missions failed after the submarine was unable to establish communications with forces ashore. According to a Japanese submarine commander who took part, submarines completed 95 trips to New Guinea between December 1942 and September 1943, in all transporting 3,500 tons of cargo.19 By contrast, in June 1943 alone, the Allies moved 55,305 tons from Milne Bay and Port Moresby to forward areas, increasing this to 200,246 tons in September.20 As American historian Samuel E. Morison has concluded, Allied sea power dominated the Japanese in New Guinea by sealing them off from help while bringing up Allied “troopers, beans and bullets in greater and greater numbers.”21 Smaller Japanese convoys were sometimes seen after the Battle of the Bismarck Sea, but shipping for offensive operations no longer existed, and the Japanese thereafter removed eastern New Guinea from their vital area. A new strategic plan, drawn up in May 1943, established a defensive perimeter on a line joining Wake, the Marshall and Gilbert Islands, Nauru and Ocean Islands, and the Bismarck Archipelago. It was already a futile gesture, for the momentum gathered by Allied successes had by now compromised the Japanese position across the whole of the Southwest Pacific. Without control of the sea and air over and around New Guinea, any Japanese local superiority ashore could never be effectively applied. Japanese strong points were either disposed of piecemeal or left to waste away. According to an estimate by MacArthur’s staff, with the end of operations in western New Guinea, “Over a quarter of a million Japanese troops were withering on the vine, virtually erased as a fighting force.”22

Conclusions The New Guinea campaign took place on a peripheral front for the Japanese and Americans, but on a major front for Australia, since it was politically essential for the Australian Government to prove that its northern borders were secure. This campaign proved to be a military disaster for the Japanese, while conversely it was never more than a strategic backwater for the Americans. Notwithstanding these vastly different viewpoints, the campaign as a whole continues to offer some significant insights into the challenges facing those planning to fight a distant war mainly by means of naval expeditionary warfare. The war in New Guinea was fought between stubborn and implacable foes in some of the harshest terrain in the world, often in remote locations and with virtually no local infrastructure to call upon. Because everything necessary for the war had to be transported into the theatre, the protection and maintenance of

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The New Guinea campaign during World War II   111 supply was vital to success. But, while the Japanese consistently failed either adequately to preserve their own lines of communication or to allocate sufficient priority to a concentrated offensive against Allied shipping, MacArthur’s campaign showed no such weaknesses. By successively establishing local superiority on the sea and in the air, MacArthur could exploit this control for joint and combined expeditionary operations. Offering operational flexibility, concentrated combat power, and secure sea lift, Allied naval strength can truly be said to have turned the tide in New Guinea. Compared to overland assault, naval expeditionary force could be projected at times and places chosen by the Allies and with remarkable speed and economy. Although both opponents in New Guinea attempted to conduct expeditionary campaigns, major differences in logistical capabilities meant that the Japanese and the Allies ended up fighting two very different kinds of war.

Notes   1 The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author, and in no way represent those of the Australian Government, its Department of Defence, or the Royal Australian Navy.   2 Australian and American deaths during the New Guinea campaign amounted to approximately 7,000 each. See http://ajrp.awm.gov.au/ajrp/remember.nsf/pages/ NT000027A2 (accessed 21 December 2009).   3 Robert R. Smith, The Approach to the Philippines (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, US Army, 1996), 577.   4 Ian Cowman, “Forging an Alliance? The American naval commitment to the South Pacific 1940–42,” in D. Stevens (ed.), The Royal Australian Navy in World War II (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2005), 114.   5 “Japanese Combined Fleet Secret Operation Order No. 1,” 1 November 1941, reproduced in Naval Staff History, War With Japan, Vol. II, Defensive Phase (London: Historical Section Admiralty, 1954), 230–231.   6 S. Bullard (trans.), Japanese Army Operations in the South Pacific Area: New Britain and Papua campaigns, 1942–43 (Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 2007), 56.   7 “Appreciation by Australian Chiefs of Staff,” in Douglas MacArthur, Reports of General MacArthur (Washington, DC: Department of the Army, 1966), 26.   8 H. Tanaka, “The Japanese Navy’s operations against Australia in the Second World War,” Journal of the Australian War Memorial, 30, April 1997, 1.   9 H.P. Willmott, The Second World War in the Far East (Washington, DC: Smith­sonian Books, 2002), 88. 10 “Intercepted Japanese naval communication of 19 May,” cited in Jack Bleakley, The Eavesdroppers (Canberra: Australian Government Printing Service Press, 1992), 43. 11 A message detailing revised Japanese plans for Port Moresby was decrypted on 18 May even before the Japanese defeat at Midway in June. Edward J. Drea, MacArthur’s ULTRA: Codebreaking and the War against Japan, 1942–1945 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, Lawrence, 1992), 37. 12 Papers of G. Hermon Gill, Australian War Memorial, AWM 69, no. 82. These figures, however, do not represent all New Guinea convoys, for there were also many special and troop convoys. 13 G. Hermon Gill, Royal Australian Navy 1942–1945, The Official History of Australia in the War of 1939–1945 (Sydney: Collins, 1985), 268–269. 14 Daniel Barbey, MacArthur’s Amphibious Navy (Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1966), 55. 15 Ibid., 161.

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112   D. Stevens 16 Samuel E. Morison, Breaking the Bismarck’s Barrier, History of USN Operations in World War II, vol. VI (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1950), 268. 17 Ibid., 257. 18 “Advanced Intelligence Center Report 927–43,” 19 December 1943, on Australian War Memorial (AWM) file AWM 54, 423/11/194; “Characteristics of Japanese Submarines,” 22 January 1944, on file AWM 54, 917/7/2. 19 Zenji Orita, I-Boat Captain (California: Major Books, 1976), 146. 20 “Commander South West Pacific Sea Frontiers summary of shipping movements in forward areas,” file held by Sea Power Centre—Australia, Naval History Section, Canberra. 21 Morison, 448. 22 MacArthur, Reports of General MacArthur, 165.

10 Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea

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Donald Chisholm1

In the small hours of Sunday, 25 June 1950, seven Russian-trained, advised, and equipped North Korean divisions and an armored brigade executed a wellplanned surprise attack across the 38th parallel against South Korea, quickly overwhelming the latter’s advance posts, and commencing a swift movement down the peninsula against what proved to be ineffectively organized opposition. Facing the North Korean onslaught was a South Korean army that was, in truth, a constabulary force intended primarily for maintaining internal order. Numbering about 100,000 men and organized into eight divisions, it had no heavy arms. It was in the process of small-unit training, but had no experience in large-scale maneuvers, or in anti-tank tactics.2 General of the Army Douglas MacArthur had the responsibility to repel this invasion. MacArthur knew his military history, both ancient and recent. He read and studied widely in the former; at 47 years of military service, he had played a central role in much of the latter. MacArthur also possessed unsurpassed operational vision and the confidence to develop audacious operational ideas out of that vision. He knew from first-hand experience the close relationship between actions at sea and events ashore. At the same time, in Korea he was supported by an array of subordinate commanders, especially from the Navy, with the professional wherewithal and force capabilities to translate his operational ideas into workable courses of action.3 The present chapter focuses on the close relationship during the first three months of the Korean War between naval operations, particularly those directed toward (1) attaining and maintaining control of the sea; and (2) providing maneuver via amphibious operations to affect events ashore, specifically the landing at Inchon. Absent control of the sea, operational success would have been patently impossible.

The initial attack The North Koreans expected their offensive to go so well that it would take only a few weeks to accomplish the defeat of South Korean forces and the complete investment of the south. They assumed that the United States would not intervene and that Syngman Rhee would capitulate upon their occupation of Seoul.

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114   D. Chisholm In consequence, they had prepared no branch plans should things not go as antici­­ pated. Certainly they did not develop an adequate logistics plan to support extended operations, such as might be required should South Korea not quickly capitulate.4 When the Soviet 25th Army, which had occupied Korea north of the 38th parallel, withdrew at the end of 1948, it left behind virtually all of its weapons to the newly constituted Korean People’s Army (KPA). These included 258 of the most modern Soviet tank, the T-34, in the 195th Tank Brigade, more than 1,500 artillery tubes and mortars, and nearly 150 military aircraft of various types. The KPA also took possession of the arms taken from the Japanese 34th and 58th Armies upon their surrender at the close of World War II. Soviet military deliveries accelerated after 1949, and, especially, after April 1950. In all, the KPA was well-equipped and armed for offensive operations, possessing the correct edge, according to Soviet doctrine, for a successful land offensive against its southern counterpart. In May 1950, Stalin sent a group of senior combat officers from the Soviet general staff to North Korea to oversee the latter’s planning and preparations for war.5 If the United States did intervene, neither the North Koreans nor their Russian and Chinese partners had the naval forces to exercise sea control; at best they could seek to deny control of the sea to the U.S. in order to prevent or render too costly reinforcement and supply of ground forces from Japan. Even this course of action, if it required active Soviet operations, risked escalating the conflict to a wider war, which neither the Soviets nor the Chinese wished to see. That afternoon, the United Nations Security Council met—absent the Soviet delegate—and passed a resolution calling for cessation of hostilities, withdrawal of North Korean forces, and for all members to render assistance to the United Nations in the execution of the resolution. The following day, the Security Council resolved that members of the United Nations furnish such assistance to South Korea as necessary to repel the North Korean attack. In turn, General Douglas MacArthur, Commander, Far East Command (CINCFE, aka FECOM), was directed to use the naval and air forces at his disposal to assist South Korea and to isolate Formosa from the Chinese mainland.6 This latter move already signaled that the U.S. would seek to contain the Korean operating area and did not intend a wider war. Under previously established arrangements, control of the U.S. Seventh Fleet shifted from CINCFE, exercised through Commander, Naval Forces Far East. The fleet itself immediately started north from its base in Luzon.

The operational idea American strategic attention had been focused almost exclusively on the Soviet threat to Western Europe, a danger made real by the 1948 Russian blockade of Berlin. In East Asia, the U.S. was primarily concerned with the defense of Japan. The last American occupation troops had been withdrawn from Korea in June 1949, leaving behind only a small military assistance group. As George Baer noted:

Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea   115

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Strategy in the Pacific became passive defense along a specified perimeter, an island chain defined by Secretary of State Dean Acheson (1949–1953) as running from the Aleutians to Japan, and then through the Ryukyus to the Philippines. Taiwan was excluded. So was Korea.7 Although the U.S. public position toward China hardened in spring 1950, the U.S. had simultaneously communicated its ambivalence about defending South Korea against any assault. Both Pacific Command and Far East Command were relegated to the second-tier of the American political and military agendas. Moreover, the Joint Chiefs of Staff were dominated by Chairman Omar Bradley, Army Chief of Staff Lawton Collins, and Air Force Chief of Staff Hoyt Vandenberg, whose World War II experience was limited to the European theatre and who knew little about Asia and the Pacific. None could be said to know a great deal about amphibious operations in particular or the capabilities of the Navy more generally, save Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Forrest P. Sherman, who had served as Deputy Chief of Staff to Admiral Chester Nimitz and in that role had assisted in planning the Central Pacific campaign. Even Sherman remained pre-occupied with Soviet intentions in Europe.8 From June– December 1950, the Joint Chiefs remained concerned that the war in Korea was merely a feint or distraction by the Soviets intended to draw the attention of the U.S. and its allies away from its real goal—an assault on the thinly defended Western Europe. But MacArthur was Commander, Far East Command, and Japan and Korea were foremost in his mind. The immediate question was whether U.S. air and naval support would be sufficient to enable the South Koreans to stop and then roll-back the invaders. No stranger to the active front, the general determined to see for himself. On 29 June, with some of his staff, he flew to Suwon, 20 miles south of Seoul. As he drove north toward the Han River, he found that the capital was already in enemy hands. Disorganized South Korean forces, intermixed with fleeing civilians, were heading away from the fight. The South Korean troops appeared exhausted. U.S. naval and air support would not be enough; absent immediate insertion of U.S. ground troops into the fight, the North Koreans would almost certainly overrun the entire peninsula. The Far East Command had nothing on the shelf for MacArthur: there were no contingency plans for the defense of South Korea. FECOM’s sole Korearelated effort was a six-page “Basic Outline Plan for Strongbark Operations,” dated December 1947. It provided for urgent evacuation, by water and/or air, of dependents and U.S. female civilians through Inchon and Pusan, with limited or no advanced warning—what in today’s nomenclature are “non-combatant evacuation operations.”9 In response to Ambassador John Muccio’s request on the evening of the invasion, FECOM had already evacuated some 2,000 American and United Nations personnel. In MacArthur’s mind, the key to successful defense was to buy enough time to deploy U.S. ground troops to Korea. If he could do that and sustain them in combat, the U.S. might have a shot at cutting the North Korean supply lines, for

116   D. Chisholm

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the further the enemy moved down the peninsula, the more vulnerable they would become. Once those lines were cut, might not the U.S. forces by operational maneuver “envelop and destroy his main forces”? Thus, on 29 June was born the operational idea for what would later become the Inchon landing.10 President Truman authorized MacArthur to commit U.S. ground forces on 30 June. Even then, it was not clear whether events on the ground would render moot the operational maneuver that General MacArthur had in mind.

The forces What U.S. forces were available and how and where were they to be employed? In Japan, the Eighth Army, commanded by General Walton Walker, could provide MacArthur the 24th, 25th, and 7th Infantry Divisions, and the 1st Cavalry Division. All were under-strength, under-trained, suffered high annual turnover; were equipped with hard-used World War II weapons and vehicles; and had superannuated commanders at the regimental level and up. None had amphibious experience or training. While they served well enough as occupation troops in a relatively quiet land, they would be hard pressed to plunge directly into a highly fluid combat situation and fight effectively. Fortuitously, the general had just commenced a training program with battalion-level amphibious exercises. Toward that end, Rear Admiral James H. Doyle, Commander Amphibious Group One, and a Marine Corps Troop Training Unit (TTU), commanded by Colonel Edward Forney, had recently arrived in Japan. Amphibious Group One comprised USS Mount McKinley (AGC-7), the command ship, one APA (Transport, Attack Type), one AKA (Cargo Ship, Attack Type), an LST (Landing Ship, Tank), and an ATF (Fleet Tug). On the morning of 25 June, Task Force 90 was preparing to land elements of the 35th Regimental Combat Team at Sagami Wan as part of that training regimen. The next day Commander Naval Forces Far East (ComNavFE) ordered Doyle to move his group from Yokosuka to Sasebo on Japan’s west coast. In its commander, staff, and ships officers and crew, the group and its attached Marine training unit represented a vast cumulation of World War II expertise and wisdom in amphibious planning and execution. As ComNavFE, Vice Admiral Turner Joy had a small force for occupation duties in Japan: one CLAA (Light Cruiser, Anti-Aircraft), five DDs (destroyers), one SS (submarine, on loan from Seventh Fleet), and ten minesweepers (three of which were in reduced commission or in reserve).11 In June 1950, his staff consisted of only 28 officers and 160 enlisted personnel, but it ballooned to 600 by the time of the Inchon landing. For shore support, he had a minor ship-repair facility at Yokosuka, a small supply section, an ordnance facility, and a 100-bed hospital. The Naval Air Facility at Yokosuka supported two seaplanes (on loan from Seventh Fleet) for search and rescue, which, along with one target-towing plane for anti-aircraft gunnery training, exhausted his naval air forces. The command’s day-to-day activities consisted mostly of showing the flag and mine clearance of Japanese ports.

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Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea   117 Seventh Fleet, Vice Admiral Arthur D. Struble, brought more to the fight: one CV (Essex-class carrier) with its air group, one CA (Heavy Cruiser), eight destroyers, three submarines (with a rescue ship but no tender), supported by a minimal service group that included an AD (destroyer tender), one AO (fleet oiler), one AF (small refrigerated stores ship), and an ATF (Fleet Tug). The air group comprised 86 aircraft: two squadrons of F9F-2 Panther jet fighters, two squadrons of F4U-4B Corsair fighters, an attack squadron of AD-4 Skyraiders, and, remarkably, more than a dozen specially equipped aircraft configured for photographic, night, and radar missions. Seventh Fleet also had a wing of longrange patrol aircraft comprising one squadron of P4Y-2s (a naval version of the B-24), based at Guam, and one squadron of PBM-5s (Martin Mariner seaplanes), at Sangley Point, in the Philippines.12 Vice Admiral Joy assumed control of Seventh Fleet on 3 July. Additional naval combat forces were provided by Great Britain, which on 29 June placed its forces in Japanese waters under the control of ComNavFE. These included one CVL (Light Carrier), two CL, three DD, and four small frigates.13Also available in Japan were U.S. LSTs, then under the administration of Shipping Control Authority, Japan, which reported to COMNavFE, and was operated and maintained by Japanese captains and crews.14 Although they were in poor shape, these amphibious bottoms would prove vital to execution of FECOM operations in Korea. On 1 July, ComNavFE assigned, via Operation Order 7–50, 16 such LSTs to RADM Doyle to lift the 24th Division from Fukuoka and Sasebo to Pusan for insertion into the line. Unsurprisingly, the North Korean advance into the south followed the major land lines of communication, with the majority of their forces—five infantry divisions, the armored brigade, and two divisions of conscripts—flowing through Seoul, then south by road and rail to connect with another division that had come south through the mountains. Meanwhile, North Korea began the war with fewer than 50 naval craft of all sizes. This small force was effectively neutralized after a single surface engagement on 2 July of cruisers from the South Korea Support Group intercepted four torpedo boats and two motor gunboats that were escorting ten ammunition-laden motor trawlers north from Chumunjin. The tactical result was three torpedo boats and both gunboats sunk; the operational outcome was no credible surface threat to friendly forces for the duration.15 For air forces, North Korea began with somewhere near 150 aging former Soviet propeller aircraft of all types (such as Yaks and Stormoviks). After several early desultory North Korean air attacks on friendly shipping, the Seventh Fleet and Fifth Air Force aviators bombed, rocketed, and strafed their air facilities. Thereafter, North Korean air forces posed no significant offensive threat or effective defense over land or sea until 1951 and their augmentation by the Soviets. Historically, the most important sea-denial weapons for the weaker side have been the submarine, mine, and air forces.16 And, in fact, the principal Soviet naval assets within reach of the Korean peninsula were 70–80 submarines stationed at Vladivostok primarily for coastal defense. During the first five months

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118   D. Chisholm of the war, there were nearly 75 sightings of unidentified submarines in Japanese, Korean, and international waters by friendly forces, of which some two dozen were confirmed as Soviet submarines.17 No Soviet submarines are now known to have fired on friendly forces. But the U.S. and its allies could not know this at the time, and so the threat of the submarines was sufficient until the autumn to keep the aircraft carriers conducting replenishment operations some distance from Korea and reducing their operational tempo accordingly. The Soviets also maintained a sea mine depot at Vladivostok. Meanwhile, China posed no naval or air threat in the Korean area of operations during the first six months of the war.

Initial naval operations If South Korea’s land forces were unable to stem the aggressors ashore, its naval forces were having more luck. The North Koreans had complemented their land attack with a series of small, largely unopposed landings along South Korea’s east coast, extending as far south as Samchok. The Republic’s nascent navy mounted the early opposition to these operations. Based principally at Chinhae (to the west of Pusan), Inchon, Pusan, Yosu, Mokpo, and Pohang, it possessed one PC and a number of small vessels, mostly minecraft and patrol craft, obtained from the U.S. and Japan, manned and supported by a little more than 7,000 officers and men. The Republic’s navy quickly put to sea and, in the evening of the first day, conducted what in retrospect was the most important single surface engagement of the war: northeast of Pusan its single PC encountered and sank a North Korean steamer with 600 troops aboard whose objective was to secure the port of Pusan. As the only major port on South Korea’s east coast, Pusan was essential for the reinforcement and supply of U.S. and South Korean forces. Its early loss would have confounded and greatly delayed friendly efforts until it could be retaken. Subsequently, the perimeter established around Pusan retained that port in friendly hands. With Operation Order 5–50, on the evening of 27 June, ComNavFE organized a major portion of his surface forces into Task Group 96.5, which he directed to “patrol Korean coastal waters, oppose hostile landings, and destroy vessels engaged in aggression, provide fire support to friendly forces, and cover shipping engaged in evacuation or in carrying supplies to South Korea.”18 He employed minecraft on picket duty, harbor defense, and convoy escort. Initial convoy from Japan to Korea took place on an ad hoc basis, but soon VADM Joy had organized Task Group 96.1 for that purpose, while a close blockade of Korea south of 37 degrees would be executed by Task Group 96.7, principally the ROK Navy, with air assistance from FEAF and NavFE ships as available. North of 37 degrees, separate task groups were assigned for the east and west coasts, the former instructed to go no further north than 41 degrees, the latter no further than 37 degrees, 30 minutes, in order to keep clear of both Chinese and Russian territorial waters. In practice, these two task groups were

Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea   119 pulled away for gunfire support missions and only episodically conducted sweeps north of 38 degrees.19

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Operational vision: BLUEHEARTS MacArthur was in his seventieth year when the Korean War started. It is not his age, however, that figures in this story, but the 47 years of military experience that he brought to bear on the problem confronting him. The Navy and Marine Corps had about 35 years of conceptualizing, planning, devising force structures, and conducting exercises for a Central Pacific campaign.20 For Korea, MacArthur never had anything in mind other than an amphibious end-around that would exploit the enemy’s deep penetration into the South and the weakness of their logistical support. He would later write to two historians of the sea war in Korea that the “deep envelopment, based upon surprise, which severs the enemy’s supply lines is, and always has been, the decisive maneuver of warfare.”21 MacArthur properly understood that, in the near-term, he was in the business of trading space for enough time to build and consolidate his forces in order to shift over to the offensive. However, he needed to hold at least the Pusan area in order to have a port through which forces and logistics could flow. He was confident: “the Navy could hold open our lines of supply and under its guns we could hold a beachhead indefinitely.”22 Thus came Operation BLUEHEARTS. On 30 June, MacArthur ordered the 24th Infantry Division to leave Japan for Pusan, and to move northwestward to stop the North Korean drive down the western side of the peninsula. On 3 July, the amphibious group, now also styled Task Force 90, was ordered by ComNavFE to lift the 24th to Pusan. The 25th Infantry Division was to follow directly, moving to a position in the center of the peninsula. The masterstroke would be the landing of the 1st Cavalry Division at Inchon on 20 July, at which time the 25th Division would wheel north to close the noose around the North Korean forces.23 Simultaneously, under ComNavFE orders, Rear Admiral Doyle and his staff moved to Tokyo and commenced planning for the amphibious landing at Inchon of the 1st Cavalry Division. Because it was inexperienced in the complicated ways of amphibious warfare, personnel from Colonel Forney’s Troop Training Unit were attached to each of the division’s sections to lead the planning efforts and to write its operation order. Doyle later commented that when General MacArthur first mentioned that he wanted us to use the 1st Cavalry Division to make this amphibious landing at Inchon, I was slightly upset. In fact I prayed, because the 1st Cavalry Division had not any amphibious training whatsoever and I had no ships to take them with.24 At the same time, the 24th Division drew its weapons and prepared to board ship in Yokohama. On 7 July, Kunsan was identified as an alternate objective. As events on the ground rapidly overtook the effort—the Eighth Army having been pushed far down the peninsula—General Walker asked for the 1st Cavalry

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120   D. Chisholm to support him. On 8 July, Pohang-Dong, on the southeastern coast, was selected as the objective area, and “intensive research on that area [was] started.”25 Doyle ceased planning for Inchon—the draft work was filed for possible future use—and shifted focus to Pohang-Dong. The basic plans for putting troops ashore were used for the new objective and the 1st Cavalry continued to use the BLUEHEARTS appellation. At noon on 13 July, Doyle issued his Operation Order 10–50 for the landing. The transports finished loading on 14 July and were underway through Shimonoseki Strait on 16 July. Seventh Fleet sortied at the same time from Buckner Bay, Okinawa, to provide close air support. At 5.58 a.m. on 18 July, Doyle signaled “Land the landing force.” Until the previous evening, it had been unclear to all concerned whether it would be a combat or an administrative landing, but South Korean troops had held off the enemy some miles away, and the operation was executed absent opposition. Nonetheless, Seventh Fleet screened the objective from the sea and provided air support until noon, when it turned to conduct air strikes against Pyongyang, Kansong, and Wonsan. It was a model operation conducted according to standard amphibious doctrine, distilling World War II experience: by midnight, most of the division’s personnel, vehicles, and equipment had been unloaded in an orderly fashion, in organized units, each with its own equipment.26

Operation CHROMITE The situation on the ground had still by no means stabilized, and almost all of General MacArthur’s available ground forces had been committed to the fight— the 7th Infantry Division remained in Japan, but had been gutted to provide personnel for the three divisions now in the line. He had no units, experienced or inexperienced, to employ for an amphibious landing. The ground war continued to go poorly. In fact, the general needed more troops just to stabilize the Pusan Perimeter. The Russians had learned their operational art during World War II and their North Korean clients were eager scholars. By the beginning of the war’s third week, they had pushed the 24th Division out of Chonan and it was retrograding to Taejon, the battle for which came a week later. As one scholar has observed: Although apparently not appreciated at the time, this was the first evidence of logistical limitations which forced the enemy to conduct his offensives in a series of massive lunges, and which prevented the maintenance of continuous pressure during an advance.27 MacArthur correctly assessed the critical weakness of the North Koreans. At the end of the three-day battle for Taejon, the 24th Division again had to retreat. The North Koreans divided their forces, with one division headed south to Kunsan, which it took on 16 July, and then toward the end of the peninsula. The main force, now seven divisions, pursued the 24th Division down the road toward the Naktong from Taejon. Five divisions were moving through the moun-

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Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea   121 tains toward the Andong area, while another division was moving south along the east coast.28 The U.S. plan was to send the 1st Cavalry Division to reinforce the 24th, while the 25th Division would block the North Koreans north of Taegu. However, before the 1st Cavalry could be landed, the enemy forces had already moved halfway to Pusan. Nonetheless, on 22 July the 1st Cavalry relieved the battered 24th Division southeast of Taejon. Preliminary planning for an amphibious landing proceeded at FECOM. By 23 July, Brigadier General Edwin Wright and his Joint Strategic Planning and Operations Group, using available operational, intelligence, and logistic data, had produced “three variants for a September landing, which, in the form of draft plans, he circulated to the Far East Command staff.”29 One plan contemplated MacArthur’s original concept for Inchon, one for Kunsan, and one for Chumunjin on the east coast. Fortunately, moves for additional forces were already afoot. Battered from the unification fight and faced with an unsympathetic President Truman and Secretary of Defense Louis Johnson, the Marines remained determined to get into the fight. On 29 June, the Commandant, General Clifton B. Cates, had cornered CNO Forrest Sherman in a Pentagon corridor and asked him why MacArthur had not requested the Marines. Cates offered up a provisional brigade (a regimental combat team and an air group, with logistics support) and Sherman informed MacArthur and Joy. On 2 July, MacArthur formally requested that the JCS approve deployment of the brigade, and it did so the following day.30 Lieutenant General Lemuel C. Shepherd, Commander Fleet Marine Force, Pacific, soon visited MacArthur in Tokyo and persuaded the general to ask for the entire 1st Marine Division along with the 1st Marine Air Wing, which he did on 10 July. Mindful of experience in both World Wars, Shepherd was determined that the Marines go to Korea in at least division strength to avoid being merely a “bob-tail brigade attached to an army division,” and to retain sufficient combat power and support to act as an independent entity. The JCS took a little longer on this one, but gave their approval for a war-strength division on 25 July.31 The practical problem was to organize such a division and its equipment, load it out, get it to Japan, combat load for the landing, and arrive in Korea at the appointed hour. As with the Eighth Army divisions, in June 1950 the 1st Marine Division was woefully under-strength, a division in name only. So was its counterpart, the 2nd Marine Division on the east coast. The 1st Provisional Marine Brigade—assembled from elements of the division, largely the 5th Regiment and Marine Aircraft Group 33—sailed from San Diego for points east on 14 July, leaving only about 3,500 Marines behind.32 It took the bulk of the division’s standard 30 days’ worth of stores and equipment. It landed at Pusan and went into the line on 2 August. The full division was scheduled to follow the brigade from California between 10 and 15 August. The Marines cobbled together the division by extending all enlistments expiring prior to July 1951; redeploying units of the

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122   D. Chisholm 2nd Marine Division to the 1st Marine Division; calling up their reserves; and reducing their Continental U.S. security forces. The division’s new commanding general, Major General Oliver P. Smith, gave priority to divisional units over attached supporting elements and within the division, to combat units.33 Meanwhile, U.S. and allied naval forces continued to range with impunity along the Korean peninsula. From 5–17 July, operating along the east coast under ComNavFE Operation Order 8–50, the surface group bombarded roads, bridges, rail lines, and other infrastructure, including the port of Samchok between Sokho to the north and Ulchin to the south. It also provided needed gunfire support to the forces defending Pohang—thereby materially assisting the ground forces to maintain the necessary perimeter. However, after supporting the Pohang landing, the carriers swung north for the next two days to strike “railroad facilities, industrial plants, and airfields from Pyongyang north through Wonsan and Hamhung . . . the biggest explosion was at Wonsan,” the location of a large Russian-managed oil-refinery complex.34 The great speed and mobility of the carrier forces, proven during the Pacific war, were again of great value. Absent their support, holding the Pusan perimeter would have been difficult; with it, the odds were much more favorable. Without Pusan secure, the amphibious operation initially conceived on 29 June and now in earnest planning for September could have had little bearing on the outcome.

CINCFE Operation Plan 100-B MacArthur elected to stay with Inchon, and on 12 August published his CINCFE Operation Plan 100-B for Operation CHROMITE. It directed that Forces of the FEC and assigned forces of the United Nations will land on D-Day in the Inchon area and seize the communication center of Seoul in conjunction with a continuation of the attack in southern Korea in order to cut off and destroy NK forces south of Seoul.35 The plan was predicated on five central assumptions: (1) the North Korean ground advance into South Korea would be stopped in time to permit the buildup of UN forces in southern Korea; (2) that UN forces in southern Korea would be built up to become capable of mounting effective offensive operations against North Korean forces opposing; (3) the UN would retain air and naval supremacy in the area of operations; (4) North Korean ground forces would not receive major reinforcements from the USSR or China; and (5) that there would be no major change in the basic disposition of North Korean forces. Naval Forces Far East was going to be very busy. It would: (1) continue its current missions; (2) constitute the Attack Force to transport and land the 1st Marine Division (reinforced) in the Inchon area on D-Day; (3) provide air, naval gun fire, and logistical support to the landing force during the seizure of the beachhead; (4) shortly thereafter, transport and land GHQ Reserve (less 1st Marine Division reinforced) in the Inchon area; and (5) provide air, naval gun

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Amphibious assault as decisive maneuver in Korea   123 fire, and logistical support for the operations of that force until relieved by CINCFE. Eighth Army in Korea was to make the main effort on the left, continue the offensive in southern Korea, driving forward on the Taegu–Taejon–Suwon axis with the objective of destroying North Korean forces and completing a junction with the GHQ Reserve Corps at Seoul. Meanwhile, after establishing a beachhead at Inchon, the GHQ Reserve was to: (1) land and assume command of operations ashore; (2) advance on and secure Seoul; (3) prepare for further offensive operations; (4) prepare Kimpo airfield for operations by transport and fighter-type aircraft; and (5) transport at least one Infantry Division toward the Suwon–Iwon line to block North Korean movement away from Eusak. Simultaneously, the 187th Airborne Regimental Combat Team was to be air dropped in the Inchon–Seoul area. Ground forces for the Inchon–Seoul assault totaled 75,000 troops: the Landing Force comprising about 31,000, the Airborne Task Force about 4,000, and X Corps (made up of the 1st and 5th Marine Corps and the 7th Infantry Division) about 40,000. Having settled on his course of action, MacArthur had two different sets of actors to persuade: the commanders who would have to plan and execute the operation, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The operation would, if successful, profoundly and positively alter the operational situation, perhaps decisively. Nonetheless, the JCS were concerned both about its likelihood of achieving the objective and its implications for the strategic landscape. With regard to the former, they doubted that the Eighth Army was capable of shifting over to the offensive from the Pusan perimeter to push the North Korean forces north against the forces inserted at Inchon; secondarily, they wondered about the feasibility of landing at Inchon. On 23 September, at his Tokyo headquarters, MacArthur reprised the role he had played at Waikiki in July 1944, when he met with President Roosevelt. He presented a brilliant extemporaneous disquisition on the Inchon operation to Admiral Sherman and General Collins, the JCS executive agents for the Far East, and Admiral Radford and General Shepherd. His argument this go-around was as persuasive as had been his 1944 case for going to the Philippines instead of Formosa. Nonetheless, there remained uncertainty back in Washington. In response to a 5 September query from the JCS in which they reiterated a 28 August request that had gone unanswered, on 8 September MacArthur rehearsed with crystalline clarity CHROMITE’s objectives, its underlying rationale, and its odds of success: There is no question in my mind as to the feasibility of the operation and I regard its chance of success as excellent. I go further and believe that it represents the only hope of wresting the initiative from the enemy and thereby presenting an opportunity for a decisive blow. To do otherwise is to commit us to a war of indefinite duration, of gradual attrition and of doubtful results. . . . The envelopment from the north will instantly relieve the pressure on the south perimeter and, indeed, is the only way that this can be

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124   D. Chisholm accomplished. In my opinion, to merely commit in small progressive increments such reserves as I possess to the strengthening of the defense of our perimeter would jeopardize the ultimate result of the war and would certainly immeasurably increase the time, the casualties, the cost, and the effort involved. . . . The seizure of the heart of the enemy distributing system in the Seoul area will completely dislocate the logistical supply of his forces now operating in South Korea and therefore will ultimately result in their disintegration. This, indeed, is the primary purpose of the movement. Caught between our northern and southern forces, both of which are completely self-sustaining because of our absolute air and naval supremacy, the enemy cannot fail to be ultimately shattered through the disruption of his logistical support and our combined combat activities. . . . The prompt junction of our forces, while it would be dramatically symbolic of the complete collapse of the enemy, is not a vital part of the operation.36 MacArthur’s message echoes his understanding of the problem confronting the Western powers in 1917 and his subsequent approach during the New Guinea and Philippines campaigns of World War II. He believed that the operation would gain the dissolution of the North Korean ground forces by cutting their lines of supply, and so would not require their actual envelopment. He was also keenly aware of the importance to his ground plans of air and naval control in the area of operations. MacArthur’s argument was convincing and the Joint Chiefs radioed him their positive decision that day: “In view of your C 62423, we approve your plan and President has been so informed.”37 The following day MacArthur dispatched copies of CHROMITE’s “principal plans and orders” to the JCS via courier, with instructions to the latter not to arrive in Washington with undue haste. And what of the several and varied practical problems to be surmounted by the commanders charged with planning and executing the master stroke at Inchon? By devising this particular course of action, MacArthur was, essentially, reducing his operational and strategic risk by pushing that risk down to the tactical level. If successful, Inchon would solve his operational problem by leading to the encirclement and destruction of the North Korean army. However, Inchon posed far more difficult tactical and technical challenges than other potential landing sites, such as Kunsan. That the General felt supremely confident in so doing was predicated on his World War II experience, where he had done so time and again without penalty because of the superior performance of his subordinate commanders. These challenges—a combination of necessary tasks and questions—may be summed up as follows: • •

The 1st Marine Division had to be brought to combat strength in personnel, equipment, and supplies, out-loaded from California, arrive in Japan, reload for the assault, and arrive in time. The 7th Marines, cobbled together from disparate elements across the Continental U.S. and from a battalion landing team in the Mediterranean, could

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•

• • • • • •

not be transported, integrated, and arrive in time, so they would have to land after the assault. The 5th Marines were employed almost continually in the defense of the Pusan perimeter and would have to be withdrawn no later than 5 September to make the assault. Were there forces to assume their function in the perimeter? If not, would the 1st Marine Division make the landing with only one regiment in the assault? The answer was no—consequently, the 5th Marines were pulled out of the line, and a regiment from the 7th Infantry Division placed in floating reserve. The remainder of X Corps’ combat force, principally the 7th Infantry Division, had to be brought up to combat strength and make an administrative landing once Inchon was secured by the Marines. The Navy had to secure the amphibious shipping required for the landing. It also had to secure the necessary air and naval gunfire support assets. Given the topographic and hydrographic complexity presented by Inchon, could the Navy and Marines devise workable courses of action in the limited time available? Given the centrality of tides and currents to amphibious operations generally, and especially at Inchon, could the necessary hydrographic intelligence be acquired in time? Could the operation’s plans be sufficiently coordinated among the various commanders given ongoing operations, their geographic dispersion, and the short timeline? Could the near-complete absence of amphibious expertise resident in the X Corps commander, staff, and subordinate commanders (except in 1st Marine Division) be adequately addressed?

Against these considerable challenges, working in favor of success was the general unlikelihood that a landing would be attempted at Inchon because of the difficulties presented by tides, currents, and topography. That the Soviets and their clients viewed Inchon in this way is evidenced by their desultory preparations for its defense, in contrast to their more dedicated efforts on the east coast at Wonsan, which had begun as early as the second week of July. Mitigating these challenges was the tremendous practical expertise of Navy and Marine commanders and their staffs in overcoming such matters. In the event, they brilliantly rendered MacArthur’s audacious operational idea into workable operational plans.

“About as planned” The 230-ship Joint Task Force Seven, under Vice Admiral Struble, including the attack force, Task Force 90, under Rear Admiral Doyle, along with the landing force elements embarked from Japan—two days early to avoid a typhoon. The Navy’s air forces began air strikes in the Inchon area, and the gunfire support ships began the pre-landing bombardments. Mine-clearance vessels had already

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126   D. Chisholm performed their dangerous tasks, discovering only 18 mines in the Inchon approaches. Close air support was standing by. In the wee hours of 15 September 1950, General MacArthur stood with Rear Admiral Doyle on the flag bridge of Mount McKinley, looking up Flying Fish Channel toward Inchon. Doyle turned to the general, “Sir, what do you want to do?” The old general hitched up his trousers, straightened his famous soft officer’s hat, removed his corncob pipe from his mouth, and paused to stare off into the hazy distance before he replied, “We’ll land.”38 According to General Smith’s personal log, the operation went “about as planned.”39 Following the successful landing at Inchon, UN forces moved on Seoul, taking that city on 25 September. At about the same time, UN forces in Pusan broke out and pushed the North Korean soldiers northward. Unfortunately, by focusing on Seoul, rather than on cutting off the enemy’s retreat, an estimated 30,000 North Korean troops were able to return to the North. With Soviet and Chinese assistance, this group quickly reconstituted the North Korean army and continued fighting; after an abortive drive on the Yalu River by UN forces, the Korean conflict eventually stalemated along the 38th parallel.

Conclusions General of the Army Douglas MacArthur once wrote about the battle of Leyte that “Leyte was to be the anvil against which I hoped to hammer the Japanese into submission in the central Philippines . . ..”40 In a like manner, Inchon was the hammer to Pusan’s anvil. Unlike Leyte, however, the Inchon landing was totally reliant on time and space. The naval expeditionary forces could not be assembled before early September, but that month only had two days where the tides would allow the landing ships to operate. This required that the operation take place on 15 September 1950. MacArthur was conversant in operational thinking: he readily and fully understood the distinctions among the levels of war, how decisions at any one level would likely affect the other levels; he could accurately assess the operational features of the physical environment; and he understood the employment of his forces in such a context. This provided the foundation, combined with his personality traits, for his operational vision. Five years after the end of the Pacific War, MacArthur successfully applied all of the lessons gained during World War II at Inchon. He later recalled: My Han River dream as a possibility had begun to assume the certainties of reality—a turning movement deep into the flank and rear of the enemy that would sever his supply lines and encircle all of his forces south of Seoul. I had made that decision in previous campaigns, but none more fraught with danger, none that promised to be more vitally conclusive if successful.41 That he could do it successfully hinged on unchallenged control of the sea.

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Notes   1 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author and are not necessarily those of the U.S. Government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College.   2 James A. Field, Jr., United States Naval Operations, Korea (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1962), 36.   3 Malcolm W. Cagle and Frank A. Manson, The Sea War in Korea (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1957); Robert Debs Heinl Jr., Victory at High Tide: The Inchon–Seoul Campaign (New York: J.B. Lippincott, 1968); Lynn Montross and Nicholas A. Canzona, U.S. Marine Operations in Korea, 1950–1953. Volume II: The Inchon– Seoul Operation (Washington, DC: Headquarters U.S. Marine Corps, Historical Branch, G-3, 1955).   4 Sergei N. Goncharov, John W. Lewis, and Xue Litai, Uncertain Partners: Stalin, Mao and the Korean War (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 155.   5 Ibid., 133, 147–149.   6 Following the United Nations Security Council resolution establishing a United Nations Command for Korea, MacArthur became Commander-in-Chief, United Nations Command (UNCINC). His headquarters, however, was still usually referred to in dispatches and orders as Far East Command (FECOM). For the sake of simpl­ icity, this chapter uses only FECOM and CINCFE.   7 George W. Baer, One Hundred Years of Sea Power: The U.S. Navy, 1890–1990 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), 319.   8 Ibid., 276–313.   9 “Basic outline Plan for ‘Strongbark’ Operations.” Edition 2. General Headquarters, Far East Command. 8 December 1947. MacArthur Memorial Archives, Norfolk, VA. 10 The concept of operational idea is “identical to what is commonly called ‘concept of operations’ (CONOPS) or sometimes ‘scheme of maneuver.’ In general, the operational idea should describe in broad terms what friendly forces have to do, where, and when.” Milan Vego, Operational Warfare at Sea: Theory and Practice (New York: Routledge, 2009), 137. 11 Field, 45. 12 Donald Chisholm, “Negotiated Joint Command Relationships: Korean War Amphibious Operations, 1950.” Naval War College Review, 53 (spring 2000): 65–124; Thomas B. Buell, Naval Leadership in the Korean War: The First Six Months (Washington, DC: Naval Historical Center, 2002). 13 Field, 55–57. 14 United States Strategic Bombing Survey (Pacific) Naval Analysis Division, The Campaigns of the Pacific War (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1946), ch. XVI, “The Campaign to Destroy Japanese Shipping,” 378–383. 15 Field, 61. 16 “Naval Strategy,” a lecture by a member of the Department of Operations of the Naval War College, 20 August 1953, 26–29. Naval War College Archives, Newport, RI. 17 Pacific Fleet Interim Evaluation Report, Antisubmarine Operations, 25 June to 15 November 1950. Operational Archives, Naval Historical Center, Washington, DC. 18 Field, 52. 19 Ibid., 58. 20 See Donald Chisholm, “US War Planning: Changing Preferences and the Evolution of Capabilities,” in James C. Bradford (ed.), A Companion to American Military History, Volume 2 (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 785–791; Edward S. Miller, War Plan Orange: The U.S. Strategy to Defeat Japan, 1887–1945 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1991); Steven T. Ross, American War Plans: 1880–1939 (London: Frank Cass, 2002); Mark Skinner Watson, Chief of Staff: Prewar Plans and Preparations (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, 1991).

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128   D. Chisholm 21 Letter, General Douglas MacArthur to Commander Malcolm W. Cagle, 19 March 1956. Cagle Papers, Box 3, Operational Archives, Naval Historical Center. 22 Letter, MacArthur to Cagle, 19 March 1956. Subsequently, the Navy offered to do the same at Hungnam but MacArthur declined. James H. Doyle and Arthur J. Mayer, “December 1950 at Hungnam,” Naval Institute Proceedings, 105 (1979): 44–55; and Donald Chisholm, “The Hungnam Redeployment,” paper delivered at the Annual Meeting of the Society for Military History, Quantico, VA, April 2000. 23 Letter, Hobart R. Gay to Roy C. Appleman, in Roy C. Appleman, U.S. Army in the Korean War: South to the Naktong, North to the Yalu (June–November 1950) (Washington, DC: Office of the Chief of Military History, Department of the Army, 1961), as quoted by Clay Blair, The Forgotten War: America in Korea, 1950–1953 (New York: Times Books, 1987), 88. 24 Vice Admiral James H. Doyle, USN (Retired), Lecture at the Naval War College, Newport, Rhode Island, 14 March 1974. U.S. Marine Corps Oral History Collection, Marine Corps Historical Center, Quantico, VA. 25 COMPHIBGRU 1 War Diary, 24 June to 15 July 1950, Operational Archives, Naval Historical Center, Washington, DC. 26 COM7THFLT, War Diary, 16 July 1950 to 1 August 1950, Operational Archives, Naval Historical Center, Washington, DC. 27 Field, 96. 28 Ibid. 29 Heinl, 33. 30 Interview with Clifton B. Cates, 10 March 1966, Robert Debs Heinl Papers, Box 16, Marine Corps University Archives, Quantico, VA. 31 Shepherd and his aide, Colonel Victor H. Krulak, drafted the actual message MacArthur sent to the JCS. See Victor H. Krulak, First to Fight: An Inside View of the U.S. Marine Corps (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1984), ch. 8; and Lemuel C. Shepherd, Oral History, 27 July–4 August 1966, and 13, 16, and 22 February 1967, Oral History Section, Marine Corps University Archives, Quantico, VA. 32 The brigade comprised 463 officers and 6,109 enlisted men, along with 42 naval officers and 179 sailors. 33 Gail B. Shisler, For Country and Corps: The Life of Oliver P. Smith (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2009). 34 Field, 113–114. 35 CINCFE, “Operation Plan No. 100B.” Record Group 38, Box 5. MacArthur Memorial Archives, Norfolk, VA. CHROMITE was used by CINCFE but neither the Navy nor the Marine Corps employed that codename. See VADM Arthur D. Struble, “Comments on [James A.] Field Manuscript,” circa 1960. Operational Archives, Naval Historical Center. 36 Message, CINCFE Tokyo Japan, Personal From Macarthur to Deptar Wash DC, For Joint Chiefs Of Staff, C 62423, 8 September 1950. Records of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, National Archives. Emphasis added. 37 Their draft message initially read: “Glad to receive your reassuring message . . . President has been informed.” Message, Joint Chiefs of Staff to CINCFE Tokyo Japan, JCS 90958, 8 September 1950. Records of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, National Archives. 38 As told to the author by the amphibious group logistics officer and flag navigator who was there on the bridge, Commander William K. Chisholm, USNR, 18 December 1998. 39 General Oliver P. Smith, Personal Log, 2 August to 31 December 1950. Smith Papers, Marine Corps University Archives, Quantico, VA. 40 Douglas MacArthur, Reminiscences (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964), 212. 41 Ibid., 346.

11 Naval operations in peripheral conflicts

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The Malayan Emergency (1948–1960) and Confrontation (1962–1966) Jeffrey Grey The Malayan Emergency and the Indonesian–Malaysian Confrontation (or Konfrontasi to use its common, Bahasa–Indonesia title) were low-intensity Cold War conflicts strongly influenced by the anti-colonial and anti-imperialist struggles of the 1950s and 1960s. The Emergency, in particular, was a classic insurgent/ counter-insurgent war in which the overwhelming burden of the fight against the Malayan Races Liberation Army (MRLA), the armed wing of the Malayan Communist Party (MCP), was borne by the land security forces, principally the police services with regular army and paramilitary units acting in support of civil authority and the rule of law. Konfrontasi, by contrast, was an undeclared war between Indonesia and the forces of the British Commonwealth—acting in concert with Malaysia—against the Indonesians’ unprovoked aggression. Both of these peripheral conflicts had important maritime dimensions. While the Communist insurgents of the 1950s had no maritime capacity whatsoever, Commonwealth naval forces did play a role, albeit fairly small, in the establishment and maintenance of counter-insurgent security. By contrast, the Indonesians possessed sizeable naval forces, which were undergoing rapid modernization with advanced Soviet ships and technology, and thus posed a real naval threat. The use of expeditionary naval forces in both campaigns reflected the British and Commonwealth naval presence in Southeast Asia and in East Asia, as this evolved in the context of Cold War naval strategy and policy. This chapter will provide a brief survey of the strategic context in which Commonwealth naval forces operated in East Asia during the two decades after 1945, before examining the specific role of those navies during the Malayan Emergency and Konfrontasi.

Background of the Malayan Emergency Britain emerged from World War II severely diminished as a Great Power. The British Empire was effectively bankrupt economically and its military resources were stretched by attempts to reassert its position throughout its East Asian colonies, most of which had been conquered, for varying lengths of time, by the Japanese. This meant that nationalist movements existed in each colony agitating

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130   J. Grey either for outright independence, or at least for substantially greater autonomy and self-rule within the empire. In Malaya, the MRLA fought an unsuccessful war of national liberation against Commonwealth forces from 1948 through 1960, known as the Malayan Emergency. British naval power had been more-or-less a constant in Eastern and Southeast Asian waters, and the Indian Ocean, since the beginning of the nineteenth century. Major naval bases had been established at Hong Kong, Singapore, Sydney, Trincomalee (Sri Lanka), and Simonstown (South Africa) as part of a great imperial naval network that provided the first line of defense of the Empire until this was challenged and temporarily compromised by the Japanese in 1941–1942. The self-governing Dominions—and especially Australia—developed navies of their own immediately before and after World War I, and by the early Cold War these were maturing services in their own right, increasingly capable but subordinated to central policy direction in London and, subsequently, in concert with Washington.1 This process of renegotiating the British Empire included determining what to do with the colonies and reassessing relations with the self-governing Dominions. As in other aspects of national strategy and security policy, in the maritime realm this would encompass a balancing of naval relations with both London and, increasingly, Washington, and would extend to such fundamental issues as the sourcing of capital equipment acquisition, especially ships, which in turn had major long-term implications for Britain’s defense industries.2 To make matters worse, the British government faced wide-ranging security threats after 1945. European security affairs demanded an increasing share of attention and resources, while London could ill afford to ignore the aftermath of the war in both Asia and the Middle East. Britain’s postwar decline as a Great Power was a relative and gradual, not an immediate and absolute, process; Britain remained a—or, in some cases, the—regional Great Power in several traditional areas of strategic and economic interest, of which Southeast Asia was clearly the leading example. The origins of the Malayan Emergency are complex, and an in-depth analysis here is unnecessary.3 To summarize, the post-war decline in Malaysia’s internal security resulted during 1948–1949 in the outbreak of a full-blown revolutionary guerrilla insurgency. On 16 June 1948, three European plantation managers were killed in the Perak district, in what is usually called the “Sungai Siput incident.” The communist movement in Malaya was particularly strong among the ethnic Chinese community, which numbered over three million. From the British government’s viewpoint, this Communist-backed insurgency raised thorny issues concerning the safety and desirability of retaining the naval base at Singapore, as well as begging the larger question of whether London was willing and able to fight to retain the colony of Malaya under British rule. Malaya represented an important economic asset for Britain. Although it would take the outbreak of the Korean War to fuel the resources boom of the 1950s in strategic materials such as tin, rubber, and wool, the levels of British investment in Southeast Asia meant that whatever other political and constitu-

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tional imperatives dictated, it remained likely that London would fight to retain such important resources. At the same time, and as a result of the deteriorating situation in China because of the civil war and the potential threat to Hong Kong, London moved to concentrate at Singapore command, planning, and coordination for its forces in East Asia.4 For both of these reasons, London determined fighting the insurgency was worth the risk, and the Royal Navy and other Dominion navies—in particular the Royal Australian Navy—became important assets in this fight.

British naval policy during the Malayan Emergency Whilst the Emergency was a standard, ground-based revolutionary guerrilla war, fought and won almost exclusively among the civilian population of the country, it was also part-and-parcel of the broader anti-communist policies adopted by the British during the early Cold War. This factor, rather than the counter-insurgency on land, drove naval policy in the region during the 1950s. This worked at two levels within the region, one involving the United States, the other not. The first arrangement involved the Royal Australian Navy’s relations with the U.S. Navy, as defined by the Radford–Collins Agreement, signed in 1951.5 Although the details of this agreement remain secret, the intent was to counter the anticipated growing Soviet submarine menace in the South Pacific and Indian Ocean in the event of a general or global war with the Soviet Bloc. The Royal Navy was not part of this bilateral U.S.–Australia agreement. In 1954, the U.S. influence in the region expanded even further with the creation of the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO). The second arrangement was based on the 1948 Commonwealth regional agreement, called ANZAM (short for Australia, New Zealand, and Malaya). Unlike the Radford–Collins agreement, which only included the navies, the Commonwealth agreement involved all three services of Australia, New Zealand, and Malaya. The ANZAM agreement had evolved sufficiently by 1950 to become the basic planning instrument for Commonwealth defense cooperation in the event of a regional war. Its goals were extended to the defense of Malaya during 1954–1955, but these defense goals were later subsumed by the Anglo-Malayan Defence Agreement (AMDA) shortly after Malayan independence in 1957. The 1949 Communist victory in the Chinese civil war accentuated the need for heightened defense cooperation in East Asia. Australia was especially important, since New Zealand was able to make only limited contributions to the common cause by dint of its small armed forces. As the United Kingdom chiefs of staff summarized the issue during July 1949: It was most unlikely, in view of our many other commitments, that we would have adequate forces to spare for the defence of this area [ANZAM] in the event of war. Unless Australia was prepared to shoulder a large portion of the burden there was a real risk that in war territories such as Malaya would be inadequately defended.6

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132   J. Grey Australia’s full participation was critical given the assumption that, in the event of a major European conflict, the Royal Navy’s assets in East Asia would be withdrawn for employment in the “main theatres,” which—as in both World Wars—meant the Atlantic and Mediterranean.7 Australia’s full participation was guaranteed during July 1955, when the three Commonwealth powers—Britain, Australia and New Zealand—agreed to create the British Commonwealth Far East Strategic Reserve (FESR). The FESR’s primary role, in theory, was to defend the newly created states of Indochina, but its secondary, and actual, role was to combat the insurgency in Malaya until its end in 1960. The FESR drew on all three services, including a significant naval contribution, based mainly in Singapore but not necessarily on a permanent basis. Early in the Emergency there had been considerable small-boat activity between Singapore, which was dominated by the ethnic Chinese, and the southern shoreline of Johore, at that time an area of considerable MRLA activity. But, by 1952, a small force of Singaporean and Malayan launches had effectively sealed this area, cutting the communications between the two sides and producing an outcome that the Malayan Communist Party was unable to contest. This example was perhaps the most conspicuous victory by the combined naval forces. After the FESR became active, Australia and New Zealand provided a number of frigates on rotation, while the RAN sent the fleet carrier HMAS Melbourne on an annual deployment to the region, often taking part in multi-navy exercises as part of the process. Not only were naval activities during the Emergency an adjunct to the main campaign ashore, but they were also generally multinational in tasking.8 As one Australian naval historian has conceded, “the struggle was fought almost entirely on the ground,” with the Commonwealth air forces playing an important role in aerial resupply and a more contentious, and generally unsuccessful, one in aerial bombardment or “jungle bombing” as it was known colloquially.9 Maritime tasks were limited mainly to patrol, blockade, and occasional naval gunfire support missions. There is some disagreement, especially in Australian accounts, about the actual level of maritime activity and the results obtained. All sides agree that the naval forces were engaged in routine, and generally unspectacular, patrol activities. The problem in assessing the effectiveness of these patrol and blockading duties is the absence of any evidence of any external aid by water for the MRLA and the Malayan Communists. The Secretary-General of the MCP and chief architect of the insurgency, Chin Peng, has stated that the only support received from the Soviet Union or the new People’s Republic of China was moral and propagandistic.10 Meanwhile, the MRLA possessed no maritime capabilities at all. Virtually from the outset, the leadership decided to take to the jungle and rely for sustenance and support upon the extensive Chinese squatter population that lived on the jungle fringes. There is no question that substantial effort and resources were devoted to coastal patrol activities, but there was significant doubt that this activ-

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Naval operations in peripheral conflicts   133 ity served any useful purpose other than to keep ships and their crews occupied. Of course, if the patrols had not existed, then MRLA forces might have been able to use coastal shipping to expand their control and to resupply, as was generally the case in South Vietnam prior to the U.S. Navy’s creation of the SEALORDS program in October 1968. On the other hand, the decision to operate from the interior of the country would probably have obviated any such advantage. Dominion vessels were engaged episodically in shore bombardment missions. As with most other indicators of activity, this seems to have been most extensive in the early years of the Emergency, in the period when the MRLA was most active and most effective and at a time when the security forces’ own resources were most thinly stretched. As with the aerial bombardment campaign, conducted by four-engine heavy bombers such as the Lincoln, it is possible to conclude that naval gunfire support missions were often mounted because they were available rather than because they were strictly necessary, much less effective. At least two British students of the subject have concluded that the absence of effective shore control, spotting, and target coordinates resulted in missions that were non-specific “harassment” rather than effective “interdiction.”11 The other role frequently cited to demonstrate the effectiveness of naval activity in this period was the rather amorphous one of “presence” or “showing the flag.” The fruits of such activity are, likewise, difficult to quantify, but even one commentator eager to demonstrate the utility of maritime power during the Emergency concedes that while RAN ships received “a warm welcome” on visits to North Borneo—a separate territory from Malaya at that time—others received “a much more reserved response in much of the Malay Peninsula.”12 Regardless, by 1960 the Malayan insurgency was largely quelled on land, and the worst of the Malayan Emergency was over. The peninsular geographic configuration of Malaya allowed Commonwealth naval forces to cut enemy access by sea, leaving only the narrow neck for land access. The geography made it possible to isolate the conflict to Malaya and prevent the development of external sanctuaries that made the conflict in Indochina so intractable. Although peripheral in terms of its marginal Cold War location, if the insurgency had succeeded it might have spread southward toward Singapore and the Malacca Strait, which were anything but peripheral. Of far greater long-term importance was a mission that lasted into the late 1960s, the tutelage of the newly establish Royal Malayan (subsequently Malaysian) Navy through extensive training, as well as the provision of experienced officers and NCOs to the fledgling service.13

The naval policies adopted to oppose Konfrontasi Konfrontasi began with the Brunei Rebellion in December 1962. This local rebellion, assisted by neighboring Indonesia, attempted to overthrow the Sultanate and expel the foreign oil companies. Britain immediately intervened to protect its oil interests and the conflict soon escalated into a confrontation (Konfrontasi) between Malaysia and Indonesia over the disposition of the former

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134   J. Grey British and Dutch colonies on Borneo. Konfrontasi wound down after the Indonesian military turned on the Indonesian Communist Party in 1965 and 1966 in a brutal civil war, which ended with the overthrow of President Sukarno in early 1967. Konfrontasi posed altogether more serious challenges in the maritime environment. This conflict was over the fate of the island of Borneo, which was claimed by both the newly created state of Malaysia and by Indonesia. SEATO, the FESR, and the 1957 AMDA constituted the institutional framework for the campaign from the Commonwealth side. Australia and New Zealand were informal parties to the latter. The origins of Konfrontasi are murky, as is much else on the Indonesian side of a small undeclared war that had the potential to become a serious regional conflict on several occasions.14 In part it was a response to the formation of Malaysia from a number of disparate British colonial territories that Jakarta, not unreasonably, declared a neo-imperialist front for a continued British and Western presence in the region, the grant of Malayan independence in 1957 notwithstanding. Successful attempts to bully the Dutch into abandoning their remaining colonial territory in West New Guinea (subsequently incorporated as Irian Jaya) between 1959–1962 appear to have emboldened President Sukarno and to have convinced him of his own strategic acumen. Britain’s clearly signaled intention to withdraw from “East of Suez” appeared to offer an opportunity for action which, together with a radical assertiveness in Indonesian foreign policy connected with leadership within the Non-Aligned Movement and large weapons purchases from the Soviet bloc at the end of the 1950s, Jakarta found easy to exploit and impossible to resist. A further impetus to action came from a domestic climate in which the economy was sliding and the struggle for the succession around an ailing president intensified once operations against Malaysia began in December 1962 with covert support for an insurrection in the independent state of Brunei. In January 1963, Jakarta’s foreign minister, Dr. Subandrio, announced a policy of “confronting” Malaysia, although with no explanation of what this might entail. The conflict was initially confined to the shared border region of Borneo/Kalimantan, and contacts were generally low-level. This changed in the course of the year, with Indonesian regular military units playing a more prominent role, and the declaration by Sukarno of 1964 as “the year of living dangerously,” although again, as with so much of the rhetoric emanating from Jakarta, this term was left wonderfully imprecise. The pressures on the Commonwealth side were complex: London sought to minimize the costs of containing Indonesian aggression in a difficult financial climate; Canberra was desperate to avoid a worsening of relations with Indonesia; while Kuala Lumpur was understandably agitated by Indonesian actions and sought endorsement from the United Nations for escalated responses against the aggressor. The key element that distinguished Konfrontasi from the Emergency in the maritime environment was the existence of the Indonesian Navy (Tentara Nasional Indonesia–Angatan Laut, or TNI–AL) and, on land the Indonesian

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Naval operations in peripheral conflicts   135 Marine Corps (Korps Komando Operasi, or KKO), a 9,000-man force that saw service in Borneo. Like the other elements of the Indonesian armed forces, the Navy was in the process of incorporating a new generation of Soviet equipment into its order of battle, but had not done so by 1963 with any great level of effectiveness. Disparate and varied, it manned ships drawn from the Soviet Union and Soviet bloc with a mixture of ex-US vessels and others purchased from Italy and Germany.15 The main fleet base was at Surabaya in northeastern Java, but in keeping with the archipelagic nature of Indonesia, smaller vessels were scattered around the Indonesian littoral, engaged in tasks such as anti-piracy and antismuggling patrols. Within the Indonesian defense structure, the navy, like the air force, was a junior partner to the army that had dominated military affairs since the foundation of the republic in August 1945. Acquiring complex modern systems was one thing, utilizing them effectively and to their full capability was quite another. Like most developing countries, Indonesia struggled to produce sufficient numbers of technically trained personnel of sufficient quality to operate and maintain the systems bought from the Soviets. This process was not assisted by the Soviets themselves, who supplied training teams but appear to have made few concessions to their charges; reputedly, some ships arrived with the dials and other equipment still labeled in Cyrillic. The Joint Intelligence Committee (Far East) judged the navy’s capability as low, with poor maintenance and repair facilities and “a lack of experienced leadership and trained technicians.”16 The Indonesian naval threat took two forms, and the response to it likewise functioned at two distinct levels. As noted, the Indonesian Navy had little real combat experience other than in support of the army in putting down separatist rebels in the second half of the 1950s and this, together with its limited capabilities, precluded any likely decisive surface or sub-surface intervention involving the Commonwealth navies. Even if a Jutland in the Java Sea was unlikely, the surface and sub-surface elements certainly posed a potential threat to Commonwealth sea lines of communication, especially through the series of narrow straits that acted as choke points, such as the Sunda and Gaspar Straits and the Straits of Macassar. Either through attempts to restrict or contest the passage of such international waterways or through an intensification of the war with heightened activities on land, there existed a real possibility of a general war in the region that would involve air and naval action by the Commonwealth forces concerned.

The resolution of Konfrontasi At one level, then, Commonwealth naval forces planned and positioned themselves for an extended conflict that did not, in fact, occur. The pattern of operations from the Indonesian side consisted of border raids and infiltration, attempts at subversion and clandestine political activity through the Clandestine Communist Organisation (CCO)—especially in the Borneo territories—and, in the particularly dangerous period from late 1964 to the early months of 1965, airborne

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136   J. Grey drops in East Malaysia and the landing, or attempted landing, of infiltration and sabotage parties by sea, especially utilizing the waters between the northern coast of Sumatra and Singapore and southern Johore. The naval assets available to the British were formidable, further underlining the point about the relative importance of British power in certain regions, even as British global power declined overall. At its height these included two carriers, a Commando ship, 15 escorts, a similar number of minesweepers, and a submarine division, although it is important to note that the Far East Fleet had responsibilities outside Malaysian waters. It must also be remembered that the intense political in-fighting within the Indonesian high command led to significant self-restraint by parts of the Indonesian military, especially the army, whose senior leadership was intensely anti-Communist. Many senior officers recognized both that the Communists posed a significant direct internal threat and that overt attacks on British and Commonwealth forces by Indonesian regulars would quite likely lead to escalated levels of response that the Indonesians could not hope to match—in short, that taking on the British would lead quickly and inevitably to possibly catastrophic defeat from which the Communists would most likely profit. Given the perceived instability in decision-making in Jakarta, the Commonwealth governments could not afford to ignore the potential for large-scale Indonesian attacks, and a range of contingency plans was developed that contained significant naval elements.17 A series of graduated responses was envisioned, some localized with others aimed at the destruction of Indonesian capabilities more generally. The plans underwent several revisions (and re-naming, which can make tracking them through the relevant documents a little confusing). Operation ADDINGTON (originally codenamed COUGAR) involved countermeasures against air and naval assets in Indonesia itself in response to overt attack. A more limited range of attacks was designated ALTHORPE. SHALSTONE (later renamed MASON) assumed air, sea, and land-based artillery missions against naval and logistic targets in the Rhiau Islands to counter further incursions into West Malaysia. HEDGEHOG widened these missions to include sites in northern Sumatra that the Indonesians had earmarked as staging points for a large-scale invasion of West Malaysia that never eventuated.18 Operation FABIAN intensified this response to involve full-scale conventional attacks. In East Malaysia, Operation SPILLIKEN (formerly SALAAM) involved defensive operations against incursions, HEMLEY (revised as DAGGER) mandated similar, offensive operations, while RABEL posited the protection, and in some eventualities the withdrawal, of commercial shipping in archipelagic waters. The common thread in all this planning was graduated response, and the role of naval forces in such eventualities was considerable, especially if an intensified level of operations had become prolonged.19 Such an outcome seemed more likely when Jakarta again asserted the existence of a 12-mile territorial limit, first advanced in 1958 but allowed to lapse, which had the effect of turning the strategic choke points of the Java, Banda, Flores, and Malacca seas into internal waterways. In August 1964, the issue was taken to the next level when Jakarta

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Naval operations in peripheral conflicts   137 declared that the Sunda Strait would be closed to foreign warships for a month. London’s decision to route the carrier HMS Victorious and its escorts through the strait on its return to Singapore from a visit to Australia seemed to threaten an escalation of the conflict and the potential activation of the plans discussed above, but in the end the Indonesians found a face-saving formula while the British authorities, having made the point, cancelled plans for subsequent inflammatory passages by capital ships. Neither side, it now seemed, wanted to live too dangerously. Contingency and diplomatic operations were not the navies’ main role during the campaign. The actual burden, in truth, was considerable and severely distorted the Far East Fleet’s commitments beyond the campaign itself. By 1966, there were 16,000 sailors and 70 ships of all classes involved, and the backwash from the commitment was felt further afield, in manning particularly.20 The fostering of the Royal Malaysian Navy remained an important role as part of the overall expansion of the Malaysian armed forces, with the professional head of that service drawn from the RAN until after the end of the campaign. Naval forces were almost certainly also used in support of covert operations against the Sukarno regime, but the details of this remain closed.21 The swift and decisive response to the Brunei rebellion in December 1962 was facilitated in large part by the amphibious lift capacity of the navy, and by its logistic maintenance capability. Subsequent operations in the two parts of Malaysia posed different issues, determined by their geography. Covert infiltration was a problem in both, complicated by the fact that the indigenous peoples—Iban or Dayaks— did not necessarily recognize the formal borders dividing the two countries, while existing fishing grounds and old traditions of smuggling and piracy, which had little or nothing to do with Konfrontasi itself, still provided an excellent cover for Indonesian operations and complicated the security force’s task. This was also a factor in the waters between Indonesia and peninsular Malaysia. Both issues were policing tasks, mostly, but in Borneo in particular the police tended to operate in support of the army rather than the other way around, as had been the case during the Emergency and in accordance with “classical” models of counter-insurgent practice, conducted along British lines. Indonesian activities in East Malaysian waters presented a mixture of conventional and counter-infiltration tasks. The Borneo–Kalimantan border runs through some of the most challenging and inhospitable terrain on earth, heavily jungled for the most part and roughly mountainous in places. The cross-border activities of both sides was the major feature of the war in this area of the country. Naval forces played important roles in this part of the campaign, however, since much of the vertical lift—essential given the terrain—was supplied by RN helicopters while Royal Marine units took their turn on rotation in the fortified camps located astride the infiltration routes that ran from Kalimantan. Indonesian naval units regularly operated in the vicinity of Sebatik and Nunukan, opposite— mostly—Malaysian land forces based in Tawau, while the Indonesian Marines were active in this area, especially in 1964–1965. Surface ships provided targeted

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138   J. Grey naval gunfire support and harassment fire on occasions, while a destroyer or frigate rotated in the role of the Tawau Guardship and provided heavy support to the Tawau Assault Force of patrol boats and smaller craft, better able to operate in the narrow inlets and channels along this section of the coast. The small ships also ran resupply missions and carried reinforcements and, by early 1965, the force deployed was sizeable and included elements of the Special Boat Service.22 Further west, in the state of Sarawak which was for much of the war the most active area of land operations, naval forces ferried troops and equipment from Singapore and West Malaysia, and provided critical logistic support, utilizing the river system that provided most of the transportation and communication infrastructure for the local people. The smaller vessels also conducted regular coastal patrols designed to stop Indonesian infiltration parties. These small ships, mostly drawn from the minesweeping squadrons of the British, Australian, and Malaysian services, and with some personnel assigned from New Zealand as well, were outclassed to some extent by their opponents, although there were compensating factors: the Ton class ships deployed by the RAN had wooden hulls and noisy diesel engines, for example, and were generally slower than the vessels they opposed, but they were maneuverable, had good surface radar, and a complement of weaponry that outmatched their Indonesian counterparts. Patrols and intercepts became routine, even repetitious, in the waters of West Malaysia and especially the Singapore and Malacca Strait, but they were important both for what they achieved and what they deterred. In general, Indonesian operations in these waters had two main purposes: infiltration and sabotage. It took some time for a system of patrols and coordination among the various navies and the Malaysian and Singapore Maritime Police Forces to sort themselves out, while those Indonesian parties that did get ashore in southern Johore were usually intercepted by the army and police, assisted by intelligence from the local population. Interrogations and signals intelligence were also important factors in the counter-infiltration operations that resulted in roughly 80 percent of attempted incursions being intercepted at sea.23 In early 1965—the high-point of attempted infiltration missions—there were usually between 15–18 ships on patrol on any given day.

Conclusions As this chapter has shown, the expeditionary maritime forces during the Malaya Emergency in the 1950s were not essential to the success of the campaign against the MRLA, a fact demonstrated by low levels of naval activity. The long maritime borders, in contrast to the short land borders, precluded significant outside support. In general, this maritime effort was subsumed into the wider Cold War structures of the Far East Strategic Reserve and higher level planning for SEATO contingencies. Like the land campaigns that defeated the insurgency, the maritime efforts drew little attention, especially because of the subsequent widening of the war in Indochina, where long land borders offered ample opportunities for China and the Soviet Union to intervene.

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Naval operations in peripheral conflicts   139 By contrast, expeditionary naval forces proved to be more important against Indonesia. Konfrontasi ended in August 1966, with a negotiated settlement between Kuala Lumpur and Jakarta and with Britain’s political objectives largely achieved: the Federation of Malaysia was confirmed; regime-change in Indonesia led ultimately to the establishment of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN); the Indonesian Communist Party was eliminated as a factor in that country’s politics; and enhanced stability led, over time, to growing economic prosperity. Due to geographic factors, the potential of Konfrontasi to further destabilize Indonesia had been a particular strategic concern in Canberra, and to a smaller extent in distant Britain. Although the British military and especially naval expeditionary forces during this conflict greatly strained British attempts to rationalize (i.e., reduce) defense commitments and outlays, the contribution of the naval forces and the domination of the maritime environment were critical to success overall, as Tuck has rightly noted: Control of the seas in the Borneo theatre was the sine qua non for the success of the operation. Royal Naval support was vital in reinforcing and sustaining land forces. It made an important contribution to anti-infiltration operations, tactical mobility and policing operations. It was also integral to a range of contingency plans for wider escalation of the conflict. In operating well in its own environment it provided a powerful shaping force to events on land during the campaign.24

Notes   1 Malcolm Murfett, In Jeopardy: The Royal Navy and British Far Eastern Defence Policy 1945–1951 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), especially ch. 1; Greg Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000: Influences and Actions (London: Frank Cass, 2005); Greg Kennedy (ed.), Imperial Defence: the Old World Order, 1856–1956 (London: Routledge, 2008); David Stevens (ed.), The Royal Australian Navy (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2001); Jeffrey Grey, A Military History of Australia (Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 3rd edn., 2008).   2 A.J.W. Cooper, “At the Crossroads: Anglo-Australian Naval Relations, 1945–1971,” Journal of Military History, 58, 4, October 1994.   3 Anthony Short, The Communist Insurrection in Malaya (London: Muller, 1975).   4 Murfett, 65–72.   5 Jeffrey Grey, Up Top: The Royal Australian Navy and Southeast Asian Conflicts, 1955–1972 (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1998), 4–8.   6 Murfett, 103.   7 The evolution of the machinery of Commonwealth defense cooperation is complex and the relevant literature is extensive. See Donald C. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense, 1870–1914 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1965) and Richard A. Preston, Canada and “Imperial Defense”: A Study of the Origins of the British Commonwealth’s Defense Organisation, 1867–1919 (Durham: Duke University Press, 1967). More recent scholarship is reflected in Kennedy, Imperial Defence.   8 Ian Pfennigwerth, Missing Pieces: the Intelligence Jigsaw and RAN Operations from 1939–71 (Canberra: Seapower Centre, 2008), 183.

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140   J. Grey   9 Ibid., 189. 10 Chin Peng, My Side of History (Singapore: Media Masters, 2003), 327, 351, 403–405. In a notable seminar at the Australian National University in February 1999, at which the author was present, Chin Peng made it specifically clear that there had been no external logistic support of the MRLA of the kind provided to Communist forces inside the Republic of Vietnam during the 1960s, for example. Similar views are reflected in C.C. Chin and Karl Hack (eds.), Dialogues with Chin Peng: New Light on the Malayan Communist Party (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 2004), 162. 11 Short, 371–372; Eric Grove, Vanguard to Trident: British Naval Policy Since World War II (London: Bodley Head, 1987), 150–151. David Stevens makes no mention of a RAN role at all in his “The British Naval Role East of Suez: An Australian Perspective,” in Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy, 232–234. Even Pfennigwerth concedes that they were “more like a gunnery exercise than a wartime operation” (Missing Pieces, 195). 12 Ian Pfennigwerth, “The Royal Australian Navy in Malaya, Malaysia and Singapore, 1948–1971,” United Service, 59, 4, December 2008, 29. 13 Grey, Up Top, 34–41. 14 The literature on Konfrontasi includes J.A.C. Mackie, Konfrontasi: the Indonesia– Malaysia Dispute 1963–1966 (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1974); John Subritzky, Confronting Sukarno: British, American, Australian and New Zealand Diplomacy in the Malaysian–Indonesian Confrontation, 1961–1965 (London: Macmillan, 2000); John Subritzky, “Britain, Konfrontasi, and the End of Empire in Southeast Asia, 1961–65,” in Kent Fedorowich and Martin Thomas (eds.), International Diplomacy and Colonial Retreat (London: Frank Cass, 2001); Matthew Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in Southeast Asia 1961–1965 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Peter Dennis and Jeffrey Grey, Emergency and Confrontation: Australian Military Operations in Malaya and Borneo, 1950–1966 (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1996); for the RAN’s involvement, specifically, see Grey, Up Top, 42–70. 15 A list is provided by Grey, Up Top, 45. 16 ANZAM Defence Committee minute 9/1964, 24 July 1964. Australian Archives, CRS A2031/13. 17 Grey, Up Top, 46–50; Dennis and Grey, 185–196, 218–238; Chris Tuck, “The Royal Navy and Confrontation, 1963–66,” in Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy, 199–220. For a treatment of some of the issues from the Indonesian side, see Hidayat Mukmin, TNI Dalam Politik Luar Negeri: Studi Kasus Penyelesaian Konfrontasi Indonesia–Malaysia (Jakarta: Pustaka Sinar Harapan, 1991). 18 Dennis and Grey, 208–213. 19 Tuck, 214–215. 20 Ibid., 216. 21 David Easter, “British and Malaysian Covert Support for Rebel Movements in Indonesia During Confrontation, 1963–66,” in Richard J. Aldrich, Gary D. Rawnsley, and Ming-Yeh T. Rawnsley (eds.), The Clandestine Cold War in Asia, 1945–1965 (London: Frank Cass, 2000). For possible CIA involvement, see David Johnson, “Gestapu: the CIA’s ‘Track Two’ in Indonesia,” Center for Defense Information, 2005 [original 1976], www.hartford-hwp.com/archives/54b/033.html. See also Kenneth Conboy and James Morrison, Feet to the Fire: Covert Operations in Indonesia, 1957–58 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2000). 22 Grey, Up Top, 66–70; Tuck, 206–207. 23 Grey, Up Top, 56. 24 Tuck, 216–217.

12 China’s 1974 naval expedition to the Paracel Islands

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Bruce A. Elleman1

China’s 1974 naval expedition to claim the Paracel Islands has received relatively little scholarly attention by Western naval historians, perhaps because it is considered to be a purely bilateral dispute between China and Vietnam.2 Yet this almost 40-year-old territorial conflict continues to fester, with the Vietnamese government regularly disputing China’s ownership to the islands. More interesting still, China’s 1974 maritime expedition represents a singular case of a land power resorting to naval instruments of coercion typically used only by sea powers. This was arguably the first time that the People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLAN) conducted naval expeditionary operations against a foreign enemy.3 The Chinese name for this naval expedition is Xisha Ziwei Fanjizhan (西沙 自衛反擊戰), or “Counter-attack in Self-Defense in the Paracel Islands.”4 China argues that it was a necessary response to oppose Vietnamese attempts to force Chinese fishermen out of the Paracels, a traditional Chinese fishing ground. Others have challenged this view, however, focusing instead on China’s efforts to oppose Vietnam’s reunification, as reflected in increased border incidents intended to shift Hanoi’s “military attention away from South Vietnam.”5 In fact, the timing of China’s 19 January 1974 attack sent a political message, since it occurred on the twenty-fourth anniversary of Beijing’s recognition of North Vietnam on 19 January 1950. From China’s viewpoint, its brief conflict with South Vietnamese naval forces over the Paracels was a “peripheral” campaign in its much longer and more dangerous confrontation with North Vietnam and, by extension, Hanoi’s main ally, the USSR. This chapter will discuss the reasons behind the peripheral campaign and its implications.

Historical claims to the Paracel Islands China’s claim to the Paracel Islands, and to virtually all the rest of the South China Sea, is long-standing, with extensive maritime trade throughout the region beginning in the Han dynasty (206 bc–ad 220).6 During the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), Chinese expeditions regularly traveled through these waters on the way to Malacca and then on to the Indian Ocean. Chinese publications claim that Zheng He’s treasure fleets visited some of the larger islands in the Paracels.7 By the mid-nineteenth century, the Qing dynasty (1644–1911) had established

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142   B.A. Elleman throughout the South China Sea a “flourishing” trade between East and West and “Chinese trading junks and Western merchantmen dominated the region’s economy.”8 Although the Paracel Islands were visited regularly by Chinese fisherman for the past two millennia, there was no tradition in China of clearly marking maritime territory. Right after the Chinese seized the islands, details of the Vietnamese historical claim were published in a Ministry of Foreign Affairs “White Paper,” put out by the South Vietnamese government in 1975. This “White Paper” included historic documents, maps, and other evidence purportedly proving that the Vietnamese were aware of and had conducted economic activity in the Paracel Islands starting as early as the eighteenth century.9 In 1887, the first Western country to claim islands off of Vietnam was France; as a result of the Sino-French conflict in 1884–1885, France made Annam a protectorate and later a colony. In 1899, the French decided to build a lighthouse on one of the Paracel Islands. China disputed France’s claim to these islands and, in 1907, Admiral Li Zhun was ordered to lead a naval expedition to the South China Sea and “to land forces at the Paracels”; the Chinese flag was hoisted on Woody Island in 1909.10 During 1909–1910, China formally annexed many of them to Guangdong province and also sent a ship every year to the South China Sea “to maintain contact with overseas Chinese on these islands.”11 Following the collapse of the Qing dynasty in 1911, China was in turmoil for many years. In 1926, the recently established Nationalist navy built a radio station on the Pratas Islands, just to the north and east of the Paracels, and in 1932 the Nationalist government in China formally protested French sovereignty over the Paracel Islands. According to one source, on 21 December 1933, the Paracel Islands were annexed by France to the Ba Ria province, part of French Indochina.12 In 1937, with the escalation of the Second Sino-Japanese War, the Japanese Government began to make its own claims to the Pratas, Paracel, and Spratly Islands. During 1937, as part of its occupation of China, for example, Japan seized the Pratas Islands. France also took advantage of the Nationalist preoccupation with fighting Japan to send a naval expedition to the Paracels, officially proclaiming them as part of Annam on 3 July 1938. Immediately, both the Nationalist and Japanese governments protested France’s action. On 6 July 1938, Japan even stated in its protest that the British in 1900 and the French in 1921 had both agreed that the Paracel Islands were part of Hainan Prefecture. Therefore, Japan accused France of violating Chinese sovereignty when it occupied the Paracel Islands. Next, France in 1939 proclaimed that the Paracel Islands were part of the French Union. On 31 March 1939, the Japanese Government made a parallel claim on behalf of the Governor General of Taiwan, then an integral part of the Japanese Empire. On 4 April 1939, Japan officially made the Paracels a protectorate, and during 1941 shifted sovereignty of “Shinnan Guntoa” (New South Archipelago) to the Takaoshu (Kaohsiung district), Taiwan, which really made the islands part of Japan.

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After the war, and in line with the 1945 Potsdam Treaty, the Nationalists retook the Pratas Islands and once again set up a radio station. The Sino-French dispute over the Paracel Islands was likewise revived, with the Nationalists setting up a base on Woody Island in the Amphitrite group to the northeast. Meanwhile, in 1947, France stationed Annamese marines on the adjoining Pattle Island in the Crescent group, to the southwest. When the Nationalists were forced to retreat from Hainan Island in 1950, they also pulled out of Woody Island, leaving France in de facto possession of all of the islands.

Cold War negotiations over the Paracels During the early 1950s, preparations were undertaken by John Foster Dulles for the Allies to sign a peace treaty with Japan, in a peace conference to be held in San Francisco. The USSR refused to attend, and the newly founded People’s Republic of China (PRC) was not invited, but delegates from Vietnam did attend. To complicate matters further, the Republic of China (ROC) did not attend, but in Taipei delegates signed a separate peace treaty with Japan on 28 April 1952, just hours before the San Francisco Peace Treaty came into force. In a pre-emptive move, on 15 August 1951, only weeks before the peace conference convened, PRC Foreign Minister Zhou Enlai declared that all islands in the South China Sea, including the Paracels and Spratlys, “have always been Chinese territory. Although they were occupied by Japan for some time during the war of aggression waged by Japanese imperialism, they were all taken over by the then Chinese government following Japan’s surrender.”13 On 8 September 1951, Japan signed the peace treaty in San Francisco. Article 2(f) stated that “Japan renounces all right, title, and claim to the Spratly Islands and to the Paracel Islands.”14 But, since the Japanese did not state to whom the islands should devolve, the disputes continued. For example, the Vietnamese Prime Minister Tran Van Huu, who was a delegate at the San Francisco Peace Conference, claimed sovereignty over the Spratly and Paracel Islands. The Vietnamese insisted: “We affirm our rights to the Spratly and Paracel Islands, which have always belonged to Vietnam.”15 In fact, this really left France in tacit control. Once Vietnam was divided into North and South, the Paracel Islands became part of South Vietnam. On 8 June 1956, the South Vietnamese Foreign Minister reiterated their claim to Spratly and Paracel Islands, and on 22 October 1956 they were officially made part of Phuoc Tuy province. South Vietnam’s claim was disputed by the PRC. On 4 September 1958, China issued a “Declaration on Territorial Waters,” which specifically stated that the Xisha (Paracel) and Nansha (Spratly) Islands were Chinese territory.16 Meanwhile, the communist government of North Vietnam, which sought support from Communist China, appears to have accepted Chinese sovereignty over the Paracel and Spratly Islands. Ten days later, on 14 September, in a note to Chinese Premier Zhou Enlai, North Vietnamese Premier Pham Van Dong expressed his government’s support and recognition of China’s Declaration,

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144   B.A. Elleman stating “the Government of the Democratic Republic of Viet Nam recognizes and supports the Declaration of the Government of the People’s Republic of China on China’s territorial sea made on September 4, 1958.”17 Although later Vietnamese governments denied it, this letter also appeared to recognize the PRC’s claim to the Paracel Islands. Meanwhile, even as this diplomatic exchange was being conducted between North Vietnam and China, the government of South Vietnam made a point of ignoring Beijing’s Declaration on Territorial Waters by stepping up its military activity in the Paracel Islands. This culminated in early 1959 with a South Vietnamese naval action against Duncan Island, one of the major islands in the Paracel chain, occupied at the time by Chinese fishermen. China protested that South Vietnam’s action was aggressive.18 However, Beijing bided its time, increasing its military and economic support to North Vietnam.

Sino-Soviet relations through the early 1970s The 1974 Sino-Vietnamese conflict over the Paracel Islands must be put into the context of the problems undermining Sino-Soviet relations. Following their formal “split” in 1960, Sino-Soviet relations through the late 1960s were marred not only by sharp disagreement over the status of Outer Mongolia, but also by numerous territorial disputes along their mutual border, where Imperial Russia had taken large swaths of territory from China during the nineteenth century.19 Many of the Soviet land grabs took place right as the Communists seemed to be on the verge of unifying China, including the annexation of Tannu Tuva in 1944, Stalin’s insistence that China formally recognize Outer Mongolia’s independence in early 1946, and Soviet post-war absorption of Japanese-controlled territory in Manchuria.20 These underlying Sino-Soviet tensions resulted in border clashes in 1969, and led to China’s subsequent decision to restore diplomatic relations with the United States and Japan. Simultaneously, China’s formerly cordial relations with Vietnam became increasingly bitter. Following China’s 1 October 1949 revolution, Mao Zedong journeyed to Moscow to negotiate a formal treaty with Joseph Stalin. After two months of negotiations, the Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship, Alliance, and Mutual Assistance was signed on 14 February 1950. The duration of this treaty was 30 years, through 1980, and clause number six specified that if neither signatory announced its intention to terminate the treaty during its final year, beginning on 15 February 1979, then the alliance would automatically renew for a further five years. While published versions of this Sino-Soviet treaty reveal no obvious inequalities, Mao criticized these Sino-Soviet negotiations, saying: “At Stalin’s initiative, . . . Manchuria and Xinjiang were practically turned into spheres of influence of the USSR.”21 Moscow’s refusal to reopen negotiations with Beijing during the 1950s to resolve their mutual border problems eventually led to an open split in 1960, at which point the USSR ordered thousands of Soviet advisors to return home, leaving many joint projects unfinished. Tensions continued to rise, and eventu-

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China’s 1974 expedition to the Paracel Islands   145 ally led to numerous border clashes. During 1969, in a series of border incidents along the Ussuri and Amur rivers, the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) showed surprising tenacity against the Red Army. Since both the USSR and China were now nuclear powers, there were legitimate concerns that the conflict would escalate to include nuclear weapons. Apparently an informal consensus stipulated that neither side would use air power. The border conflicts proved inconclusive, however, and relations remained tense along the Sino-Soviet boundary. The 1969 clashes gave the PLA confidence that it could counter the Red Army, opening an opportunity during 1971 for China to adopt a new foreignpolicy initiative by promoting friendly relations with the United States. This culminated in Richard Nixon’s historic 21–28 February 1972 trip to Beijing. After Nixon’s much-publicized visit, Mao Zedong endorsed a major military modernization program that called for developing an ocean-going navy, as well as the continued expansion of coastal defense. This gave the PLAN the tools that it would need if China sought to move southward, into the South China Sea.

The battle for the Paracel Islands, 19 January 1974 Although China may not have been a direct participant in the Vietnam War in the 1960s and 1970s, Beijing’s economic and material support for Vietnam played a crucial role. Not only did China send troops to Vietnam to help maintain supply lines, but Beijing estimated its support for Hanoi between 1950–1978 exceeded $20 billion.22 Therefore, Beijing was understandably upset about improving relations between Moscow and Hanoi. In an action that closely paralleled the USSR’s land grabs near the end of the Chinese Civil War, the PRC decided to take possession of the Paracel Islands from South Vietnam immediately prior to the North Vietnamese reunification of the country. On 19 January 1974, the PLAN gained new visibility when it seized from South Vietnam the Paracel Islands. According to the Chinese version of these events, the conflict originated when the Vietnamese illegally arrested Chinese fishermen during November 1973. This prompted the PRC foreign ministry to announce on 11 January 1974 that Vietnam had invaded its sovereign territory, which is why the operation was labeled a “counter-attack” (反擊戰). The main battle occurred during the morning of 19 January, when four Vietnamese vessels encountered an equal number of Chinese ships. The battle lasted less than an hour, but resulted in the sinking of one Vietnamese ship, and damage to the other three. While the Chinese ships also sustained damage, none of them sank.23 Vietnam sustained 53 dead and 16 injured, while the PRC only admitted to 18 dead. In addition to the naval actions, Chinese aircraft from Hainan Island supported marine landings. Deng Xiaoping was chief of the PLA general staff at the time and oversaw the operation. Considering the distances involved and the time it took to deploy the PLAN ships to the area, the date of the battle—19 January, exactly the twenty-fourth anniversary of the PRC’s recognition of the North Vietnamese government—was clearly not a coincidence, but was intended to send a political

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146   B.A. Elleman signal to North Vietnam, showing Beijing’s displeasure with Hanoi’s close relations with Moscow. On 20 January, these islands were officially annexed by the PRC, and were made an integral part of Guangdong province. By the end of January 1974, therefore, the PLAN had consolidated control over the Paracel Islands. During February 1974, Mao Zedong tried to use this success to pressure North Vietnam to turn against the Soviet Union, publicly calling for a “third world” coalition against the so-called “first world,” in this case meaning the USSR. Instead, the Vietnamese government criticized China’s presence on these islands and sought even closer relations with Moscow. The USSR also dramatically increased its troop strength along the Sino-Soviet border to more than a million men, and armed these troops with both conventional weapons, including T-72 tanks, and nuclear weapons. Meanwhile, over 70 Soviet ships and some 75 submarines were now stationed in the Pacific. According to one Vietnamese official: “There is a tangibly strong Soviet interest coinciding with Vietnamese interests—to reduce Chinese influence in this part of the world.”24 Following the formal reunification of Vietnam, the Communist government in Hanoi openly split with Beijing. On 1 July 1976, Vietnam stated that the Paracel Islands were Vietnamese territory. In response, “China recalled several groups of specialists from Vietnam and delayed work on a number of projects being built with Chinese aid.”25 Thus, Beijing essentially repeated the Soviet Union’s 1960 mistreatment of China, by attempting to undermine Vietnam’s economic development. The PRC also pointed to Premier Pham Van Dong’s September 1958 recognition of China’s maritime borders as proof that the government of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam had acknowledged China’s sovereignty over the Paracel and Spratly Islands. While not denying the letter’s existence, the Vietnamese Government issued a statement in August 1979, clarifying that, “the spirit and letter of the note were strictly confined to recognition of China’s 12-mile territorial waters.”26 Under international law, however, once a country recognizes another country’s sovereignty over territory, it cannot rescind that recognition. Ever since China’s 1974 naval expedition to take control of the Paracel Islands, Sino-Vietnamese tensions over the islands have persisted. As one Vietnamese scholar has clarified, the Paracels remain “strategically important” to Vietnam, since they are “located on one of the world’s most important sea-lanes.”27

The Sino-Vietnam war of 1979 The ensuing Sino-Vietnamese war of 1979, fought mainly over land boundaries, was related to conflicting maritime claims in the South China Sea.28 Vietnam was stuck in the middle of the Sino-Soviet conflict. From Beijing’s perspective, Vietnam should ally with China in a proposed anti-Soviet “united front.” But, as several scholars have noted: “The breakdown of Vietnam’s relations with China after 1975 and Vietnam’s current pro-Soviet alignment may be traced to Vietnamese resistance to Chinese pressures to take sides.”29

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China’s 1974 expedition to the Paracel Islands   147 By the summer of 1978, Sino-Soviet tensions intensified, as reflected by increased Soviet troop concentrations along the border and in Mongolia. Diplomatic relations between Beijing and Hanoi also deteriorated. For example, in September 1975, Le Duan, the Secretary-General of the Communist Party of Vietnam, traveled to Beijing. During a series of meetings, Beijing warned Le Duan against close relations with the USSR. Ignoring this warning, Soviet–Vietnamese economic cooperation intensified and, during the summer of 1978, Vietnam asked to join Comecon. In September 1978, the USSR increased arms shipments to Vietnam, both by air and sea. These included “aircraft, missiles, tanks, and munitions.”30 Improved Soviet–Vietnamese military relations culminated on 2 November 1978 with a Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation. This treaty was clearly aimed at China, since one clause stated that Vietnam and the USSR would “immediately consult each other” if either is “attacked or threatened with attack . . . with a view to eliminating that threat.”31 Reportedly, a secret protocol also granted Soviet military forces access to Vietnam’s “airfields and ports.”32 Although Vietnam claimed that it signed this treaty with the USSR to stop Chinese “adventurist” acts, Beijing saw it as part of Moscow’s efforts to surround China, and put pressure on Beijing to renew the unequal terms of the 1950 Sino-Soviet treaty. Beijing warned that Moscow intended to bring the whole of Indochina under its control, thereby outflanking China. As Moscow and Hanoi negotiated their treaty in early November, Vietnam simultaneously prepared to invade Cambodia.33 Beijing, in turn, tried to outflank Moscow by announcing that China would normalize relations with the U.S. on 1 January 1979. Soon after this announcement, Vietnam attacked Cambodia, and by 7 January 1979, Vietnamese forces had secured Phnom Penh. The timing of these events was all-important. Ramses Amer has concluded that the USSR’s and China’s new alliances were closely linked: “Thus two strategic alliances had been created in the closing months of 1978, a Soviet–Vietnamese alliance and a Sino-American alliance, and they would prevail for about a decade.”34 As a result of the Sino-American rapprochement, Moscow had to be concerned about a two-front war with American-led NATO forces in the West and Chinese forces in the East. This fear may, in turn, have convinced Moscow to increase its support for Vietnam’s ongoing invasion of Cambodia. The sudden arrival of large numbers of Soviet advisors—an estimated 5,000–8,000 by mid1979—and enormous quantities of military supplies raised alarms in China. Deng Xiaoping publicly acknowledged that the 1978 Soviet–Vietnamese “military alliance” was part of the USSR’s long-time goal to “encircle China.” In the wake of Vietnam’s successful occupation of Cambodia, “the resultant Soviet encirclement of China necessitated a limited invasion of Vietnam.”35 Reportedly, Zbigniew Brzezinski, President Jimmy Carter’s National Security Advisor, hoped that China would use its military might to break the back of the Soviet–Vietnamese alliance. With Brzezinski’s blessing, therefore, Carter gave the visiting Deng Xiaoping “American ‘moral support’ for the forthcoming

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148   B.A. Elleman Chinese punitive war against Vietnam.”36 Deng reportedly told Carter that a war between China and Vietnam could “disrupt Soviet strategic calculations . . .”37 On 15 February 1979, Deng declared that China planned to conduct a limited attack on Vietnam. To prevent Soviet intervention, China put its troops along the Sino-Soviet border—estimated at one-and-a-half-million—on an emergency war alert, set up a new military command in Xinjiang, and even evacuated an estimated 300,000 civilians from their homes immediately along the Sino-Soviet border.38 Meanwhile, the PLAN’s South Sea Fleet deployed two missile destroyers, four missile escort destroyers, 27 patrol boats, 20 submarines, and 604 other vessels. In addition to stationing patrol boats around the Paracels, the 1,000-man garrison manned anti-aircraft guns.39 The Paracels served both as a buffer area between the PRC and Vietnam, and also potentially as a strategic “area to stage punitive naval strikes against the Vietnamese.”40 Chinese land and naval forces in the Paracels further provided an important forward “outpost” to observe the Soviet Navy. But, the PLAN was clearly no match for the Soviet Navy.41 On 22 February 1979, Colonel N.A. Trarkov, the Soviet military attaché in Hanoi, threatened that the USSR might feel obliged to “carry out its obligations under the Soviet–Vietnam treaty.” Elsewhere, however, Soviet diplomats made it clear that the USSR would not intervene as long as the conflict remained limited.42 Soviet ships were actively cruising in the South China Sea, under the constant watch of the U.S. aircraft carriers Midway and Constellation.43 By mutual decision, however, neither China nor the Soviet Union authorized their naval forces to attack. China’s land offensive against Vietnam began on 17 February 1979, as an estimated 30,000 PLA troops crossed the 480-mile-long Sino-Vietnamese border at 14 different points. By 25 February, this number had risen to 75,000 Chinese troops out of a total of 180,000 troops deployed along the border. Finally, by early March, it was estimated that 120,000 Chinese faced an equal number of Vietnamese.44 After three weeks of intense fighting, China had captured three provincial capitals—Cao Bang, Lang Son, and Lao Cai—bordering on China. As Deng had announced, China’s invasion was a limited action against Vietnam. On 5 March 1979, China announced a troop withdrawal from Vietnam—timed to correspond exactly with the twenty-sixth anniversary of Stalin’s death—and, on 3 April, Beijing informed Moscow that it had no intention of renewing the 1950 Sino-Soviet treaty. Meanwhile, Vietnam, chastened by its poor showing in 1979, now “stations 700,000 combat troops in the northern portion of the country.”45 When peace talks opened during April 1979, China immediately demanded that Vietnam recognize PRC sovereignty in the South China Sea, and in particular over the Paracel Islands, but Hanoi rejected this proposal.46 Tensions remained high and, in 1988, a second conflict broke out in the Spratly Islands, as Chinese naval forces drove Vietnamese troops from Johnson Reef.

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Conclusions Most studies of the Chinese naval expedition to the Paracel Islands minimize or overlook completely that it was, in fact, a peripheral campaign in China’s larger conflict with North Vietnam, and by extension with Hanoi’s main ally, the USSR. This peripheral campaign included an attempt by China to assert a measure of sea control, or at the least “sea denial,” by retaining control over the Paracel Islands. Although this Chinese naval threat from the Paracels remained passive, its strategic impact was potent. One result of this naval threat was to convince the Soviet Navy not to lend its support to Vietnam during the SinoVietnamese war. While previous chapters in this book have examined naval expeditionary campaigns conducted by sea powers, the Chinese attack on the Paracel Islands is an unusual example of an expeditionary attack by a land power, as China was then and—arguably—still is today. Rather than opposing a major sea power, however, the PLAN took the islands from the South Vietnamese navy, just as South Vietnam fell to North Vietnam. Even more interesting, the U.S. Navy stood aside and let China take the islands without protest. Perhaps Washington preferred that China control these strategic points, rather than either North Vietnam or, worse yet, its Soviet ally. After Vietnam reunified in 1976, this Chinese action helped spur Vietnam’s decision to forge closer security links with the USSR during the late 1970s. In particular, the arrival of Soviet warships at Cam Ranh Bay, beginning in 1978, helped restrain the Chinese navy; during the much more deadly 1979 Sino-Vietnamese war, for example, the Chinese navy did not play a significant role, arguably due to the presence of numerous Soviet warships in the South China Sea and patrolling the waters off Vietnam. On 13 April 1988, China incorporated the Paracels and the Spratlys into its newly established Hainan province.47 More recently, on 4 December 2007, China announced it had just created a new “city” in Hainan Province in November to administer the Paracels, Macclesfield Bank, and the Spratlys, even though China’s sovereignty over these islands remains in dispute. According to one recent assessment of Sino-Vietnamese relations, the “Paracels remain a standing bilateral issue that is unlikely to be resolved.”48

Notes   1 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author and are not necessarily those of the U.S. Government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College.   2 Brantly Womack, China and Vietnam (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 228.   3 There were a number of PRC naval expeditions against Hainan and the offshore islands during the 1950s, but most of these were close to shore and were considered to be part of China’s “domestic” conflict with the Nationalist government on Taiwan.   4 杨志本 [Yang Zhiben, ed.], 中国海军百科全书 [China Navy Encyclopedia], vol. 2 (Beijing: 海潮出版社 [Sea Tide Press], 1998), 1747.

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150   B.A. Elleman   5 Hemen Ray, China’s Vietnam War (New Delhi: Radiant Publishers, 1983), 58.   6 Rafe de Crespigny, Generals of the South: The Foundation and Early History of the Three Kingdoms State of Wu, originally published in Asian Studies Monographs, New Series No. 16 (Faculty of Asian Studies, The Australian National University, Canberra 1990).   7 杨志本 [Yang Zhiben, ed.], 中国海军百科全书 [China Navy Encyclopedia], vol. 2 (Beijing: 海潮出版社 [Sea Tide Press], 1998), 1746.   8 Robert J. Antony, Like Froth Floating on the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers in Late Imperial South China (Berkeley: China Research Monograph, 2003), 9.   9 Republic of Vietnam Ministry of Foreign Affairs, White Paper on the Hoana Sa (Paracell and Truona Sa) Spratly Islands (Saigon: 1975), 32. See also the PRC response: “False Claims to China’s Islands,” Beijing Review, 23 (12 July 1982), 13–14. 10 Ulises Granados, “As China Meets the Southern Sea Frontier: Ocean Identity in the Making, 1902–1937,” Pacific Affairs, 78, 3 (Fall 2005), 443–461; 447. 11 Bruce Swanson, Eighth Voyage of the Dragon: A History of China’s Quest for Seapower (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1982), 119–120. 12 See www.worldstatemen.org/Paracel_Spratly.html. 13 U.S.–China Economic and Security Review Commission, The Worrisome Situation of the South China Sea—China Facing the Stepped-up Military Infiltration by the U.S., Japan and India (www.uscc.gov/researchpapers/2004/southchinaseamilitary.htm). 14 UCLA Center for East Asian Studies, “Treaty of Peace with Japan, Sept. 8, 1951” (www.international.ucla.edu/eas/documents/peace1951.htm). 15 Quoted in John K.T. Chao, “South China Sea: Boundary Problems Relating to the Nansha and Hsisha Islands,” Volume 9 (1989–1990) Chinese Yearbook of International Law and Affairs (Taipei: Chinese Society of International Law, 1991), 88. 16 “Declaration on China’s Territorial Sea,” Beijing Review, 1 (9 September 1958), 21. 17 Ibid. A photographic image of this letter can be found at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ File:1958_diplomatic_note_from_phamvandong_to_zhouenlai.jpg. 18 Dieter Heinzig, The Disputed Islands in the South China Sea (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1976), 33. 19 S.C.M. Paine, Imperial Rivals: China, Russia, and their Disputed Frontier (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1996), 8. 20 Bruce A. Elleman, “The Final Consolidation of the USSR’s Sphere of Interest in Outer Mongolia,” in Stephen Kotkin and Bruce A. Elleman (eds.), Mongolia in the Twentieth Century: Landlocked Cosmopolitan (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1999), 123–136. 21 Christian F. Ostermann, “New Evidence on The Sino-Soviet Border Dispute,” Cold War International History Project Bulletin, 5 (Spring 1995), 186–193, as cited in Bruce Elleman, “The End of Extraterritoriality in China: The Case of the Soviet Union, 1917–1960,” Republican China (Spring 1996). 22 King C. Chen, China’s War with Vietnam, 1979 (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1987), 27. 23 杨志本 [Yang Zhiben, ed.], 中国海军百科全书 [China Navy Encyclopedia], vol. 2 (Beijing: 海潮出版社 [Sea Tide Press], 1998), 1747. 24 Chang Pao-min, Kampuchea Between China and Vietnam (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 1985), 46–47. 25 Stephen J. Morris, Why Vietnam Invaded Cambodia: Political Culture and the Causes of War (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 174. 26 “Vietnam–China: Background to the Conflict,” Keesing’s Contemporary Archives, 25 (October 1979), 29870. 27 Nguyen Van Canh, Vietnam Under Communism, 1975–1982 (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1983), 242. 28 Chang Pao-min, The Sino-Vietnamese Territorial Dispute (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1986), 86.

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China’s 1974 expedition to the Paracel Islands   151 29 Ramesh Thaku and Carlyle Thayer, Soviet Relations with India and Vietnam (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992), 287. 30 Robert S. Ross, The Indochina Tangle (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 208. 31 FBIS SU, 6 November 1978, 6–9. 32 Thaku and Thayer, 61. 33 William J. Duiker, China and Vietnam: The Roots of Conflict (Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, 1986), 80. 34 Ramses Amer, “Sino-Vietnamese Normalization in the Light of the Crisis of the Late 1970s,” Pacific Affairs, 67, 3 (Fall 1994), 362–363. 35 Ross, 217, 225. 36 Marilyn B. Young, The Vietnam Wars, 1945–1990 (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991), 309–310. 37 Ross, 225. 38 Robert A. Scalapino, “Asia in a Global Context: Strategic Issue for the Soviet Union,” in Richard H. Solomon and Masataka Kosaka (eds.), The Soviet Far East Military Buildup (Dover: Auburn House Publishing, 1986), 28. 39 King, 103. 40 Steven J. Hood, Dragons Entangled: Indochina and the China–Vietnam War (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1992), 129. 41 Edward C. O’Dowd, Chinese Military Strategy in the Third Indochina War: The Last Maoist War (London: Routledge Press, 2007), 66. 42 John Blodgett, “Vietnam: Soviet Pawn or Regional Power?” in Rodney W. Jones and Steven A. Hildreth (eds.), Emerging Powers Defense and Security in the Third World (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1986), 98. 43 Sanghamitra Basu, Kampuchea as a Factor in the Sino-Soviet Conflict, 1975–1984 (Calcutta: Firma KLM Private Limited, 1987), 76. 44 Michael Clodfelter, Vietnam in Military Statistics: A History of the Indochina Wars, 1772–1991 (London: McFarland & Company, Inc., 1995), 287–288. 45 Karl D. Jackson, “Indochina, 1982–1985: Peace Yields to War,” in Richard H. Solomon and Masataka Kosaka (eds.), The Soviet Far East Military Buildup (Dover: Auburn House, 1986), 206. 46 Ray, 116. 47 Sheldon W. Simon, “ASEAN Security in the 1990s,” Asian Survey, 1989, 595. 48 Womack, 253.

13 “Always expect the unexpected” The Falklands/Malvinas war of 1982

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Eric Grove

At the end of 1982, a British White Paper on “The Lessons” of the Falklands War described the campaign as “in many respects unique.”1 It was an expeditionary naval campaign in a remote region of the South Atlantic, long thought to be peripheral to Britain’s major Cold War concerns. It was also not a foregone conclusion that the Royal Navy could win, with the commander of the task force, Admiral Sandy Woodward, later admitting that if even one of the two aircraft carriers had been hit then this might have forced him “to abandon the entire Falkland Islands operation.”2 The Royal Navy’s unwillingness to take great risks over the Falklands reflected Britain’s focus on the Cold War and the “main defence priority,” which remained her “role within NATO against the threat from the Soviet Union and Her allies.”3 The conflict with Argentina came as such a surprise because of this focus on the Soviet threat on land, at sea, and in the air. Although there had been some limited discussion of defending the Falkland Islands, Britain’s naval policies fixated on the NATO role and on the Soviet threat. Despite a decade-and-a-half of withdrawal from distant stations and significant reductions in power projection capability, the United Kingdom in 1982 could still deploy maritime power many thousands of miles away to a distant hemisphere and carry out a successful expeditionary campaign against a relatively sophisticated opponent. The key to the Royal Navy’s victory rested on having well-balanced and apparently redundant expeditionary forces. Yet, the existence and availability of such a force depends on government policies established years, if not decades, before these forces are ever used.

British naval policy during the 1960s and early 1970s From the mid-1960s onwards, Britain’s global military role contracted rapidly. In 1964, Defence Secretary Denis Healey announced that Britain did not intend to carry out a major amphibious landing without the support of allies, and in particular not without the U.S. Navy.4 By 1971, Britain had largely pulled back west of Suez, but retained significant naval and amphibious forces left over from the days of East of Suez—not least two new Landing Platform Dock (LPD) assault ships—that were given a new maritime area in which to work, the Mediterranean, as part of the Southern Flank of NATO.

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“Always expect the unexpected”   153 The NATO strategy of Flexible Response, adopted in 1967, required greater conventional capabilities, particularly on the flanks where early nuclear responses were even less credible than on the Central Front. This also involved the Northern Flank closer to home, where British maritime forces were soon more active. These crisis-management forces perhaps made more sense in justifying the fleet than a case based primarily on a new Battle of the Atlantic, but this role also required more attention—and forces—as the new strategy had significantly raised the overall nuclear threshold. In sum, “The legions were being called home” to face closer threats.5 A small part of this withdrawal included the abolition in 1967 of the South Atlantic Station, headquartered at Simonstown in South Africa. Latterly this command had comprised two frigates only, whose responsibilities included the Falkland Islands and Dependencies. There had already been a series of incidents concerning Argentine claims to these possessions since 1945, which had required the deployment of a surface combatant or two, including cruisers when they had been available. The ships were withdrawn when things quieted down, but South Atlantic frigates made visits and a presence was maintained by the net-layer Protector converted into an ice patrol ship. She was replaced in 1970 by a converted Danish icebreaking merchantman commissioned as HMS Endurance. In 1974, the Labour Government’s defense review saw Defence Secretary Roy Mason cooperating with the Chiefs of Staff to make sure that Britain’s basic security needs did not suffer in the midst of budget cuts. The “critical levels” beyond which one could not go without fundamentally compromising national security became known as the four “pillars.” First was the nuclear deterrent, a role Labour had come into office pledged to get rid of but which it retained and, indeed, modernized, albeit as quietly as possible. Second was defense of the UK itself from mining, from bombing by ever-more advanced Soviet medium-range aircraft, and from raids by Spetnaz special forces. The most expensive two pillars, however, were the land and air contribution in Europe on the Central Front in northwest Germany, and the maritime contribution to maintaining both the security of Allied sea lines of communication in the Eastern Atlantic, Channel, and, as far as possible, in the Northern Flank on NATO. The British C-in-C Fleet was both CINCHAN and commander, Eastern Atlantic, in the latter post subordinate to the Atlantic Command in Norfolk, Virginia.6 The developing Soviet threat prompted Britain to improve capabilities to sustain both the latter two pillars with new armored vehicles, and strike and close-support aircraft for the Central Front, as well as better maritime forces. The Labour Government ordered two more through-deck cruisers and Sea Harrier fighters to give each one a limited anti-air warfare and probe capability. The third ship, laid down in 1978, was to be called Ark Royal to replace the old carrier that was decommissioned that year. To provide interim anti-submarine carrier (CVS) capability, Hermes was rerated and equipped with suitable helicopters. Finally, a reduction in ready amphibious capability was made possible by the decision to withdraw from the Mediterranean role as this, it was agreed, was not

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154   E. Grove a critical capability for the UK. The older LPH, Bulwark, was placed in reserve, but retained for potential use as a CVS if Invincible was delayed, and Bulwark was, in fact, re-commissioned briefly in this role in 1980–1981. One of the LPDs was also placed in reserve and the other used as a training ship. The Royal Marine Commandos remained primarily a Northern Flank force, but the rapid growth of the Soviet fleet cast doubts on the West’s ability to control the Norwegian Sea sufficiently for a major amphibious landing, except in some kind of early “pre-enforcement” mode. The main role of the Royal Navy was the protection of shipping from this Soviet threat on the western side of the Greenland/Iceland/UK (GIUK) gap. This required about 60 destroyers and frigates, whose construction continued to safeguard the shipbuilding industry; the Labour Government of 1974–1979 laid down six destroyers and five frigates and continued the program to modernize the entire class of 26 Leander-class frigates. This would maintain a total force of 64 frigates and destroyers, which sustained the NATO declaration of ships of this type at 59. The strategy was based around convoys, although alternative approaches began to be explored. The nuclear-powered attack submarines (SSNs), of which ten were in commission by 1978, a considerable investment, would support this Atlantic campaign on both sides of the GIUK, while conventional submarines—plus SOSUS cued maritime patrol aircraft—would help stop up the gap. Nuclear submarines also had other uses, as when in 1977 the first of them, Dreadnought, was sent as a secret contingency force in case the Argentines, who were acting at the time in a particularly bellicose manner, seriously threatened the Falklands. It is still unclear whether the Argentines knew about the deployment, but they did not take any further actions, and Dreadnought and its two supporting surface ships were withdrawn, mission accomplished.7 Great Britain also made a significant contribution to the NATO Atlantic Strike Fleet, as she had since the creation of the Atlantic Command. This was Carrier Group 2 until Ark Royal was decommissioned, then Anti-Submarine Group 2, based around Hermes and later Invincible and her sisters. Thus, by the mid-1970s, Britain’s primary CVS role focused on the Soviet Union in the North Atlantic, not on a potential conflict over the Falklands in the South Atlantic. Still, the Royal Navy continued to deploy globally and its “out-of-area” capabilities were regularly displayed.

A maritime expeditionary capability: the unnoticed rebirth During the late 1970s, the Royal Navy’s “out-of-area” deployments continued, despite the overt withdrawal to Western Europe and the Atlantic, and the end of the Simonstown Defence Agreement with South Africa. This treaty was terminated in 1975 which meant British task groups on distant deployment no longer visited the Cape. The 1976 fishing dispute with Iceland likewise focused attention in the North Atlantic. Still, in 1977, HMS Tiger led a force westwards to the Caribbean and Brazil, and after the Silver Jubilee Review in 1977, that same

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“Always expect the unexpected”   155 cruiser led another foray to East Asia and Australia that lasted seven-and-a-half months. The 1978 cruise only made it to the West Coast of North America, but in 1979 a naval contingent led by the destroyer Norfolk again went as far as Australia and back via the Suez Canal. The election of the government of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in 1979 heralded a period of confusion and maladministration in defense policy. The armed forces, like the rest of the public sector, had borne the brunt of the policies of pay restraint that had brought the Callaghan Government down after “The Winter of Discontent.” Now service pay was raised, which was popular with the personnel and improved retention, but confirmed reductions in front-line capability caused by the growing manpower shortage. The new Secretary of State for Defence Francis Pym then lost control of the defense budget as the country weathered the catastrophic short-term economic effects of the Government’s policies. The Prime Minister was displeased and kicked Pym sideways, making Trade Secretary John Nott Secretary of State for Defence, with the clear remit as a former merchant banker to sort out the department, not least financially. When offered the post at the beginning of 1981, Thatcher authorized him to take “a radical look at defence policy.”8 Nott was horrified to find a defense program predicated on a 3-percent increase in real terms until 1989–1990. Nott knew that such an annual increase of this size could not be maintained over the decade; it “would have bankrupted the Exchequer long before the target had been reached.”9 Therefore, he based his new policies on a real 3-percent increase until 1985–1986, but only a 1 percent increase thereafter. In cash terms, this promised an overall 21 percent increase over the years 1979–1980 to 1985–1986, but followed by serious cuts in the planned program, especially in the later years. Nott was no mere accountant. He was determined to “design a force structure to meet the main threat to the United Kingdom—and to make that force structure sufficiently flexible to meet the unexpected.”10 Nott decided to maintain a reduced CVS force of only two ships. His claimed intention was to wait until Illustrious and Ark Royal were both in commission, at which point Invincible could be sold to the Australians, who needed a new carrier and saw the British ship as a cheap and welcome option. Hermes would be disposed of when the more modern carriers were safely in service. It must be stressed, especially given common misconceptions about Nott’s aircraft carrier policy, that he always intended to maintain a force of two ships to provide some “out-of-area” capability. The government had emphasized this additional dimension of defense policy in its statements. It had also sent frigates and destroyers to the Gulf to maintain a constant “Armilla Patrol” deployment after the war between Iran and Iraq broke out in 1980. Nott clearly accepted the premise that a credible residual naval expeditionary capability depended on whatever surface navy could be afforded, while meeting other more important commitments necessary for the “four pillars.” Nott was persuaded that, for broader politico-strategic reasons, the priorities should be modernizing the nuclear deterrent in the form of Trident, sustaining

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156   E. Grove the defense of the United Kingdom itself against an ever-increasing threat, keeping the substantial land commitment in Germany in a revised structure (but with greater ammunition stocks), and maintaining the Eastern Atlantic role in a revised posture emphasizing submarines, Nimrods, and new towed array frigates. He decided to charge the costs of the strategic nuclear force to the overall “Naval” budget, which also increased pressure on the Naval program. The key question became how much of the remaining surface fleet would fit into the planned budget? With no consensus on the best naval posture in the Eastern Atlantic or the likely length of the conventional phase of a future war, Nott adopted an alternative approach to designing the future fleet. The budget could afford an “out-ofarea” surface fleet after cuts had been made in dockyard infrastructure. Under-Secretary of the Navy Keith Speed (who the Prime Minister later insisted should be dismissed after publicly criticizing the naval cutbacks), had just done a study of the naval dockyards. The Speed Report argued that the current policy of giving ships substantial refits was not cost-effective. The only reason to keep it was the political one of maintaining three major dockyards. Nott was willing to bite this particular political bullet. It was decided that Chatham dockyard would close and the fleet be cut back to a size that could be maintained by the remaining dockyard infrastructure, which would also be reduced by a rundown at Portsmouth. This would mean a reduction in the NATO declaration of frigates and destroyers from 59 to 50, of which eight would be in standby reserve. The Royal Fleet Auxiliary fleet was to be reduced by two tankers and a store ship. The two LPDs were to be withdrawn from service, as would be HMS Endurance. The LPDs were thought to be less necessary, especially given the Defence Staff’s opinion that the Royal Marines would most likely be deployed by air. This would leave the specialist amphibious capability reduced to six RFA Manned “Landing Ships Logistic” (LSLs), effectively large LSTs, used primarily to maintain the logistics of the forces in Germany. The demise of HMS Endurance had been a constant theme in every defence review since the mid-1970s. The Foreign Office had successfully resisted this proposal because of the signal it might send to Argentina. Once again, when Nott had proposed cuts, the Navy had offered up Endurance. It was second on the list to the royal yacht Britannia, the inclusion of which Nott interpreted as a sign of the lack of seriousness regarding his requests for reductions. The Navy made it clear that they would rather see Endurance go than another frigate, but when the Foreign Office heard about the proposal it complained that its scrapping “would be interpreted by both the Islanders and the Argentines as a reduction in our commitment to the Islands and our willingness to defend them.” Nott was unwilling to face another confrontation with the Naval Staff to keep the ship.11 The defense review was presented to Parliament and to the public in a supplementary White Paper entitled, “The Way Forward,” Command 8288. This stated that the Royal Navy had a “particularly valuable role” in a reasserted limited intervention capability south of the Tropic of Cancer. Her “needs, outlooks and

“Always expect the unexpected”   157 interests gave” the United Kingdom “a special role and special duty” out of the NATO area. It was also clearly stated that Britain planned

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to resume from 1982 onwards the practice of sending a substantial naval task group on long detachment for visits and exercises in the south Atlantic, Caribbean, Indian Ocean and further east. We intend to make particular use of the new carriers with Sea Harriers and helicopters in “out-of-area” deployment.12 Although the Royal Navy’s “out-of-area” capabilities were thus reaffirmed in the defence review, this part of the White Paper clearly did not make much of an impression on Buenos Aires. By contrast, cuts in the surface fleet and dockyard support, and planned reductions in the carrier and amphibious force, seemed to indicate a much less capable British naval expeditionary force. Thus, this public impression, which in hindsight turned out to be largely false, clearly motivated Argentina in its decision to invade the Falkland Islands.

The final step to war The Argentine Government was clearly watching the naval debate closely. On 30 June 1981, the House of Commons confirmed that HMS Endurance was to be paid off the following year after her last Antarctic summer deployment to the area. Perhaps not surprisingly, the Argentines misread the signal of Endurance’s withdrawal as a decisive sign of Britain’s lack of interest in the Falkland Islands. When this information was picked up by local intelligence sources and sent back to Britain, the report did not receive widespread circulation, which in retrospect seems unfortunate. To be fair to the Government, it did try to demonstrate continued commitment to the Falklands. The House of Commons was informed that the small Royal Marine garrison in the Falkland Islands would remain at its current strength and ships would deploy periodically in the area. Nevertheless, Nott continued to resist pressure from the Foreign Office and outside the Government—as well as from the ship’s commanding officer—to keep the ship. Ironically, perhaps, Nott thought he was defending the Royal Navy in doing this. As he wrote to the Foreign Secretary in February 1982: “I think there would be considerable depth of feeling in the Royal Navy if further inroads had to be made in the naval Programme to make room for Endurance which, quite frankly, is a low priority in defence terms.”13 In addition to misreading Britain’s intentions when de-commissioning Endurance, Argentina grossly overestimated the effect of the Nott Review on the immediate capability of the Royal Navy to respond to any aggression against the islands. This perception was reinforced when Nott was convinced, much against his better judgment, to accelerate the sale of HMS Invincible to Australia to meet further demands from the Treasury for deeper cuts in the defense budget. It was thought that Hermes could hold the line with Illustrious until Ark Royal appeared, but the Defence Secretary felt that a principle was at stake; a coherent

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158   E. Grove defense budget had been determined after a politically bruising process—and now the Treasury wanted more. Nott’s firm opposition to this pressure began the decline in his relationship with the Prime Minister. Better news for the Navy was, however, soon on the way. The decision to adopt the Trident D5 missile system to maintain the British deterrent—backed by the decision to use American storage facilities at Kings Bay, Georgia, for Britain’s missiles—allowed the overall defense program to retain the LPDs. Nott had gained a new appreciation of their value after a visit to one of the ships; there was also substantial American pressure to keep them. The prospect of the loss of the LPDs had only increased opposition within the Ministry of Defence to sending a beefed-up force to the islands for deterrence, as they wrongly concluded that available forces would not be able to re-take the islands if the bluff was called. It was thought that the logistical and geographical problems were just too great. Pessimistically, the Operations Staff concluded that “retaking the islands after an Argentinean invasion is barely militarily viable and would present formidable problems.” One senior Civil Servant bluntly wrote, “it would be practical nonsense, besides which Suez would look sensible, for us to engage in serious operations against a perfectly competent and wellequipped local opponent off the toe of South America.”14 This negative thinking sacrificed a second chance at sending a countervailing signal to Argentina—by strengthening the military garrison on the Falklands.

The outbreak of the Falkland Islands War The restoration of the LPDs did not materially alter assessments by the new Galtieri Junta, which had just taken power in Buenos Aires during January 1982, that it was now possible to solve the “Malvinas” problem, by military means if necessary, by the end of the year. At the beginning of March 1982, the Argentine Government’s decision to invade the Falkland Islands followed soon after talks in New York failed. Only at this comparatively late stage did the British Government suddenly realize the danger it faced. For example, Prime Minister Thatcher minuted that “we must make contingency plans.”15 She wanted to know how quickly ships could be deployed. The answer was that the nearest assets would require almost three weeks steaming and would need Royal Fleet Auxiliary tanker support. The Ministry of Defence advised, based on the latest assessment by the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC), that the Argentine Navy was isolated in Buenos Aires in pushing for a forceful settlement and that there was no immediate danger. Not for the first or last time, the JIC assessments proved to be completely wrong. Indeed, the first stage of Argentine aggression, Operation BLUE, which included a landing on South Georgia Island, was already in progress under cover of the activities of “scrap dealers.” It was decided to dispatch Endurance to South Georgia with both armed helicopters and a platoon of Royal Marines to find out what was going on, “put pressure on the Argentine party . . . and provide more options if attempts to resolve the incident proved difficult.” At the same

“Always expect the unexpected”   159

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time, there were discussions in London and Fleet Headquarters Northwood about a “mini deployment” to the area, including the covert deployment of an SSN that could be unveiled as circumstances required. A large-scale deterrent force was considered, including Invincible and Hermes, the active LPD, an LSL, four destroyers and frigates, an SSN, RFAs, and the Commando Brigade—which together constituted just a fraction of the forces eventually dispatched—but it would be expensive and take time. Sending such a force could well precipitate the action it was intended to deter: Argentine national pride would demand a maximal response. Their geographical advantage and the relative sophistication of their armed forces would put our own task group to a serious disadvantage, relying, as it would, on extended lines of communication.16 London was clearly dithering, fearing escalation, indicated by its order to Endurance to create a show of force at the British settlement at Gritvyken rather than at Leith, where the illegal Argentines had been deposited. The Argentines, however, had already decided to escalate. They reinforced their party with marines landed by Bahia Paraiso, and deployed two small frigates to the area poised as a potential Argentine rescue force. The plans for the invasion of the Falkland Islands were also accelerated. With no question of removing the party at Leith, and with a debate in the British Parliament having demonstrated the unlikelihood of serious British concessions, some in Argentina worried that the British might respond to the South Georgia incident with reinforcements, which was indeed being discussed in London. The invasion, Operation ROSARIO, would both present the British with a fait accompli and force them into a transfer of sovereignty of the islands, legitimized by the United Nations. The Argentine Junta made the fundamental misjudgment that the British would make no counter-attack. In the analysis of Sir James Cable it would be an exercise in “definitive limited naval force.”17 The Argentine leadership clearly did not expect a war, fully believing that the recent naval cuts had undermined British potential to respond in force. It was a grave strategic blunder on Britain’s part that, unlike in 1977, an SSN was not already on station to be unveiled as a threat to which the Argentines had no answer and whose declared presence might have caused them to think twice about staging an invasion. Instead, the first British actions were a decision to maintain Endurance on station, to deploy two Royal Fleet Auxiliaries to sustain her, and to earmark assets for possible deployment south. Fortuitously, the Royal Marine Falklands garrison, Naval Party 8901, was in process of being relieved and the new group arrived from Montevideo in the Research Ship John Biscoe, thus doubling forces ashore. On 29 March 1982, Nott met the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Henry Leach, and they decided that assets were to be put on stand-by and that an SSN supporting the routine SPRINGTRAIN exercise near Gibraltar, HMS Spartan, be sortied to go south, which it did on 1 April. The same day, HMS Splendid, originally

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160   E. Grove intended to counter a Soviet submarine threatening the Polaris submarine on patrol, left the base at Faslane in Scotland for the South Atlantic. A sister boat, HMS Superb, had left Gibraltar on 26 April for Britain, and on 31 April, a press report appeared that it was Falklands bound. Some at the Foreign Office were horrified that this announcement might bring on an invasion, but the die had already been cast. It was clear that a substantial force would be required either to deter or to respond. CINCFLEET Admiral Fieldhouse, in Gibraltar to observe SPRINGTRAIN, conferred with the British officer commanding the exercise Flag Officer First Flotilla, none other than the former Director of Plans, Vice Admiral Woodward. Fieldhouse told Woodward, who, as the most available flag officer, became commander of any potential South Atlantic Task Group, to make contingency plans. There was still reluctance to do anything provocative, and lingering doubts remained about disrupting Cold War activities. The Foreign Office wanted a third submarine sent, and HMS Conqueror was nominated, but this would have meant almost half the available fleet of seven boats would be tied up out-of-area, and so she was held back. It was only on the evening of 31 March 1982 that clear intelligence showed that an Argentine maritime invasion of the Falkland Islands was about to occur, probably in the early hours of 2 April. A meeting was convened in the Prime Minister’s Room in the House of Commons. The Ministry of Defence initially recommended doing nothing more than what had already been done and negotiate some form of face-saving deal. This growing consensus, which would be a great political embarrassment to an already deeply unpopular government, was thrown into disarray by the arrival of First Sea Lord Sir Henry Leach, who appeared in full uniform after a visit to Portsmouth. He took control of the meeting and argued for a full commitment of every available asset. A force could be assembled within a week. The two available carriers, Invincible and Hermes, could provide air cover with Sea Harriers. The Falklands could be recaptured and indeed should be: “Because if we do not, or if we pussyfoot in our actions and do not achieve complete success, in another few months we shall be living in a different country whose word counts for little.”18 These words struck a chord with the Prime Minister, whose natural instinct was to make a robust response, and whose political instinct anticipated the extent of the potential political meltdown she would be facing if Britain was indeed humiliated with no effective counter-action. Leach also no doubt relished the discomfiture of Nott. He thought a successful “show” in the Falklands would undermine Nott’s anti-Navy policies. Leach was told to begin to prepare the force; fortuitously, the Navy had just carried out a procedural mobilization exercise, so both permanent staff and augmentees had the correct procedures fresh in their minds. The two carriers were put at 48-hour notice for sea. Both had been active the previous month in a Northern Flank exercise, Hermes as an LPH (albeit carrying Sea Harriers) and Invincible as a CVS. They were now at Portsmouth, Hermes in a Dockyard Assisted Maintenance Period. Fearless had reverted to her training

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“Always expect the unexpected”   161 role and Intrepid was in reserve. Preparing these ships for sea began immediately. At the same time, Woodward’s SPRINGTRAIN force obtained supplies by transfer between ships, the seven ships to be sent south, four destroyers and three frigates, obtaining supplies from ships going back home. The escort component of Task Force 317—the normal designator of an out-of-area deployment—was to be formed of general purpose assets, and the over-specialized ASW Ikara conversion Leanders all returned to Britain. To replace them, there were three more suitable frigates at Gibraltar, one about to get a refit at the dockyard, and two about to go east to join the Armilla Patrol. All three were eventually ordered to join the Task Group. A fifth destroyer was returning from Armilla and was also ordered south. In support were a replenishment ship and two tankers, one of which, RFA Tidespring, was earmarked for disposal. Her sister Tidepool had been sold to Chile but she was rapidly recalled. Another doomed RFA, the replenishment ship Stromness, was also reactivated in Britain and was converted into a troop transport. Steps were also taken to take merchant ships up from trade. An established legal procedure was adopted for this, and affected vessels ranging from the liner Canberra—and later the Queen Elizabeth II—to BP tankers already earmarked for naval use in an emergency. In parallel with Task Force 317 was Task Force 324, made up of submarines. It was decided to continue the normal practice of separate submarine command structure for water-space-management reasons. The two forces were only united by a common commander, Admiral Fieldhouse. The Task Force included its Amphibious Group and its embarked reinforced brigade, made up of both Royal Marine Commandos and Army Paratroopers (the latter, as at Suez, going to war by sea). The carriers sailed from Portsmouth with much publicity on 5 May. The primary aim was at this stage to engage in purposeful gunboat diplomacy to obtain Argentine concessions, but once reorganized at Ascension Island the eventual warlike contingency was clear. Sadly, the Argentine leadership was in such dire political straits that no concession was possible.

The British Falklands victory Contrary to claims that the Royal Navy’s power was no longer adequate to the challenge, Britain proved that it still had the wherewithal to project its maritime power thousands of miles. Despite the fixation with a single scenario and a longstanding planning assumption of no opposed landings without the support of allies, an East Atlantic Navy, to the surprise of the rest of the Ministry of Defence if not the Navy Department, still had sufficient reach to contest command of the sea and the air and project power at the other end of a distant hemisphere. Although a few assets used had been earmarked for disposal in the latest review, the out-of-area fleet that emerged from it—in particular once the LPDs had been reinstated—did indeed have the capability to exert a formidable British presence in the South Atlantic, and recapture first South Georgia and then the Falkland Islands.

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162   E. Grove The beginning of the conflict revealed some potentially serious weaknesses. The Naval Staff had not pressed for airborne early warning for the CVSs, as it did not want RAF opposition to the new ASW helicopter.19 Land-based AEW was all right for the Eastern Atlantic but not in the South Atlantic. This deficiency, plus inexperience in high-level combat, accounted for the loss of HMS Sheffield to an Exocet missile. Her operations room team, not yet attuned to the dynamics of a war zone, failed to cope adequately with the engagement. Two Exocets also sank the aircraft transport Atlantic Conveyor after being decoyed onto the merchant ship by the chaff countermeasures of the escorts, and a land-based Exocet damaged the destroyer Glamorgan. No Exocet, however, ever hit a well-handled ship, notably the Type 21 frigate HMS Avenger that, with the support of the missiles of HMS Exeter, fought off a combined Etendard and Skyhawk bomber strike. The main threat came from bombers, especially the Argentine Naval Skyhawks with their retarded bombs that, together with Air Force Daggers, sank HMS Ardent. The Argentine aircraft were, however, usually forced by TF317.8 defenses to fly too low for their conventionally fused bombs to explode. Several ships were hit by these weapons and had lucky escapes, but the bomb in the Type 21 Antelope exploded while being dismantled and the ship was lost. Tactics were also improvised “on the job” of operating Sea Wolf-equipped Type 22s in “combos” with Sea Dart-equipped 42s, but these proved problematical. HMS Glasgow had a lucky escape when a bomb went through without exploding. Coventry was less lucky, being bombed and sunk after her partner Broadsword had had her attention distracted by missile malfunction and an unexploded, but still damaging, bomb hit. Even with these losses, the British naval expeditionary success clearly outweighed the limited losses. The carriers and their Sea Harrier fighters armed with the latest AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles were particularly successful. They were later supplemented by RAF Harrier GR3s that concentrated on the ground attack role. Using these aircraft, Hermes and Invincible destroyed 33 enemy aircraft in the air and on the ground, and lost no aircraft in air-to-air combat. A total of six Sea Harriers and four RAF Harriers were also lost to ground fire and operational accidents.20 The stock AIM-9Ls was maintained by the U.S., which also provided other vital support, including use of its facilities on Ascension Island and satellite communications with submarines. Because certain ships, most notably Endurance, were retained in the fleet, there is a commonly held view that the Falklands War led to a major re-appraisal of John Nott’s policies. In fact, there is a good case to be made that, although the war did have some marginal effects on policy, the basic direction mapped out in 1981 was not greatly altered by the war and that policy remained much as Nott had planned. The Secretary of State made this plain in a loose foreword inserted into the Statement on the Defence Estimates published in June 1982: “The events of recent weeks,” Nott argued, should not obscure the fact that the main threat to the security of the United Kingdom is from the nuclear and conventional forces of the Soviet Union and her

“Always expect the unexpected”   163

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Warsaw pact allies. It was to meet this threat that the defence programme described in Command 8288 remains appropriate. It was, however, “right that we should consider whether any adjustments or changes of emphasis are now required.” The Paper reiterated the emphasis on the threats to Western security interests outside the NATO area and “our intention to sustain and where appropriate expand our activities,” including maintaining a capacity for “intervention for deterrent or defensive purposes.”21 Changes in policy for the fleet were limited. To cover the four ships lost in the Falklands, a new frigate, HMS Sheffield, would be ordered, while three older destroyers slated for early disposal would be retained. The new Type-23 frigate referred to in the Statement as “a simpler and cheaper type of anti-submarine frigate,” and intended originally as little more than a towed array tug, became a general-purpose frigate, with gun for shore bombardment and a helicopter; this was also based on the lessons of the war. It was later announced that, in order to maintain two carriers in commission at all times, Invincible would remain in the Royal Navy. The supplementary White Paper, “The Falklands Campaign: The Lessons” (Command 8758) was published at the end of 1982. This report insisted that the Government had not changed its mind as to where the major threat lay: “It is still in Europe that we and our allies face the greatest concentration of Warsaw Pact forces.” Command 8758 also reconfirmed the four pillars: “the enhancement and modernization of the forces devoted to these tasks, it claimed must still have first call on our resources.”22 Nevertheless, “The Lessons” reminded readers how Command 8288 had drawn “attention to the significance of threats posed to Western interests outside the NATO area,” and how the maintenance of a “capability to intervene unilaterally or with Allies either to protect our national interests or in response to a request for help from our friends” had “just been demonstrated so effectively in the Falklands Campaign.” The policy of successive governments had been that operations out-of-area should be carried out by forces whose primary role was NATO assigned. The war had “showed that many elements of the Armed Forces have the basic characters of flexibility which make them well suited to respond to unforeseen challenges arising outside Europe.” There was a renewed emphasis on the amphibious capability of 3 Commando Brigade, which “would give us a greatly improved ability to respond to the unforeseen in a flexible and rapid way.”23 Finally, the retention of the two LPDs was confirmed, and other significant force enhancements planned in the context of an increased budget, including AEW helicopters. The withdrawal of the ice patrol ship HMS Endurance was finally cancelled. The frigate/destroyer fleet would remain at “about 55” through to April 1984, with seven older frigates being retained for the time being.24 Claims that the Falklands somehow “saved” the surface fleet do not, therefore, bear a great deal of scrutiny. The main gain was the extra carrier, but the impact even of that was mitigated by the maintenance of only two air groups.

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164   E. Grove Hermes was taken out of service in April 1984, a little later than intended but over a year-and-a-half before Ark Royal was commissioned. The third carrier would always be at considerable notice when in reserve or extended refit. Meanwhile, the 55 active frigates and destroyers of 1983 were reduced to 52 front-line ships in 1984, the year in which it was announced that the total force would amount to Nott’s 50 units, albeit all in commission. The following year, frontline numbers dropped to 46, with the words “about 50” being used in 1986 to describe the force level. Active frigate and destroyer numbers fell further to 41 in 1988. These numbers were not far removed from what had been intended in John Nott’s 1981 proposals.25 Still, naval spokesmen continued to make the case that the Falklands campaign greatly strengthened the argument for the out-of-area role. The Vice Chief of Naval Staff Sir Peter Stanford put it thus in autumn 1983 at a conference in London: “Did not the Falklands Campaign teach you something about the need to react to the contingent circumstances of an uncertain and violent world, outside the institutionalized Euro-Atlantic situation, in areas where conflict is endemic?”26 That year, the Chiefs of Staff did begin work on studies that emphasized the greater likelihood of operations outside rather than inside the NATO area. This thinking became known as the “Fifth Pillar” of British defense policy, added to the existing four that had been in place since the Wilson Review.27 The “Fifth Pillar,” however, never became official policy despite strong support from Sir John Fieldhouse, who became Chief of Defence Staff. He put it thus to the Staff Colleges in 1986: I have learnt not to rely on scenario planning and can only advise that you may confidently expect only the unexpected. The most serious threat against which we must be prepared is at the same time the least likely actually to require us to take action.28 Fieldhouse had to admit, however, that out-of-area threats were still not force drivers in themselves: We will not be able to devote substantially greater resources directly to our out-of-area capability than we do today. We must therefore ensure that what we do is best tailored to our needs, and that we engineer flexibility and mobility into our NATO forces wherever possible so that double earmarking makes sense.29

Conclusions The Falklands War proved that the types and sizes of British naval expeditionary forces required to fulfill the NATO roles could also provide sufficient capability to protect national and alliance interests on a wider canvas. This was because of the capable maritime expeditionary component. Maritime forces, deployed as they are on the dominant medium of the misnamed planet “Earth,” and with easy

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“Always expect the unexpected”   165 access to the largest part of the world’s population, have the inherent reach and capacity to cope with unexpected threats. The Falklands War also proved that the Royal Navy had been right all along to doubt the single scenario; threats can arise on peripheral fronts just as easily as they can on the main fronts. For all the attention and press reports surrounding the Falklands War, it still remained a minor campaign compared to a possible Cold War confrontation with the USSR. Financial pressure had come close to decisively diminishing Britain’s strategic flexibility, but even John Nott had  recognized the importance of retaining some capacity for a wider powerprojection role. That Argentina did not notice this remaining capability was a tragedy, both for all the casualties in the war and also for Argentine ambitions vis-à-vis the islands. Before 1982, there may have been some chance of an amicable negotiated settlement that would have taken into account Argentine claims. The Argentine Government, however, misread a number of important signals—in particular concerning Endurance and the British decision not to increase troop numbers on the Falklands—to conclude incorrectly that the British government would not respond to a military threat in the far-flung South Atlantic. After the war, there was no chance of a negotiated settlement. This was perhaps the most decisive result of this unexpected but fierce little war.

Notes   1 The Falklands Campaign: The Lessons (Cmnd. 8758), paragraph 201.   2 Admiral Sandy Woodward, One Hundred Days: The Memoirs of the Falklands Battle Group Commander (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1997), 5.   3 The Falklands Campaign: The Lessons (Cmnd. 8758), paragraph 201.   4 Eric J. Grove, Vanguard to Trident: British Naval Policy Since World War II (London: Bodley Head, 1987); Eric J. Grove, “Partnership Spurned: The Royal Navy’s Search for a Joint Maritime–Air Strategy East of Suez, 1961–63,” in N.A.M. Rodger (ed.), Naval Power in the Twentieth Century (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1996).   5 Grove, Vanguard.   6 For an excellent and well-informed account of the “Critical Levels” study and the origin of the “Three Pillars,” see Bill Jackson and Dwin Bramall, The Chiefs: The Story of the United Kingdom’s Chiefs of Staff (London: Brassey’s, 1992), 378–379.   7 Sir Lawrence Freedman, The Official History of the Falklands Campaign, Volume 1 (London: Routledge, 2005).   8 John Nott, Here Today Gone Tomorrow (London: Politicos, 2002), 201.   9 Ibid., 208. 10 Ibid., 211. 11 Freedman, 144. 12 The Way Forward (Cmnd. 8288), paragraphs 32 and 34. 13 Freedman, 147. 14 Ibid., 149. 15 Ibid., 163. 16 Ibid., 165. 17 James Cable, Gunboat Diplomacy, 1919–1991: Political Applications of Limited Naval Force (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994).

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166   E. Grove 18 Freedman, chapter 19. 19 See Sir Edward Ashmore, The Battle and the Breeze, Eric Grove (ed.) (Sutton: Thrupp, 1997), 220. 20 David Brown, The Royal Navy and the Falklands War (London: Leo Cooper, 1987); G. Puddefoot, No Sea Too Rough: The Royal Fleet Auxiliary in the Falklands War (London: Chatham, 2007); M. Clapp and E. Southby-Tailyour, Amphibious Assault Falklands (London: Leo Cooper, 1996). 21 Statement on the Defence Estimates, 1982, Cmnd. 8529, loose foreword. 22 Cmnd. 8758, paragraph 302. 23 Ibid., para. 304. 24 Ibid., para. 311. 25 Eric Grove, The Royal Navy Since 1815 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), chapter 9. 26 Geoffrey Till (ed.), The Future of British Sea Power (London: Macmillan, 1984), 29. 27 Jackson and Bramall, 427–434. 28 Ibid., 389. 29 Ibid., 434–435. This general policy continued through 1997. See Eric J. Grove, “The Falklands War and British Defence Policy,” Defense and Security Analysis, 18, 4, 2002, 307–317.

14 The maritime campaign in Iraq

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Peter Jones1

In 2003, the invasion of Iraq by the armed forces of a coalition of the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, and Poland was an early-twenty-firstcentury affirmation of the fundamental tenets of sea power. In the lead up to and during Operation IRAQI FREEDOM (OIF), naval and marine units delivered significant combat power in maritime, air, and land environments. The war successfully demonstrated the application of the “maneuver warfare” concept that had gained increasing currency in the preceding decade.2 Critical to success was integrated planning across the maritime, air, and land environments. In execution, the campaign plan was enabled by an enhanced ability to share information rapidly at the operational and tactical levels. This allowed a high tempo of operations and quick decision-making. As such, the war became an important case study for network-enabled or network-centric warfare.3 The most decisive strategic effect created by the maritime component was the generation of air power from six carrier air groups in an operation where there were constraints placed on land-based air power. A second crucial effect was sea control that enabled the build up and sustainment of all sea, air, and land forces. Finally, deployment of significant marine forces made a notable contribution to the success of the land campaign.

Setting the scene Since 1990, naval forces had been deployed to the Arabian Gulf to enforce United Nations Security Council (UNSC) resolutions against Iraq. This naval presence was initially in response to Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait (in U.S. parlance, Operation DESERT SHIELD), the ejection of Iraqi forces from Kuwait (Operation DESERT STORM), and the enforcement of residual UNSC resolutions against Iraq. The nations contributing naval forces fluctuated significantly, as did force levels. This was due to shifts in the strategic situation and the political will of the international community. With the expulsion of the Iraqi invaders from Kuwait, the typical naval presence in the Gulf consisted of an aircraft carrier battle group in the Central Arabian Gulf and a multinational task group of cruisers, destroyers, and frigates in the north Arabian Gulf. The latter was known as the Maritime Interception Force (MIF).

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168   P. Jones Prior to the 11 September 2001 al-Qaeda terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, Gulf naval forces focused on three aspects of enforcement: maintaining constraints on Iraqi air power under the auspices of Operation SOUTHERN WATCH in support of UNSCR 688; supporting efforts to disarm Iraq of its weapons of mass destruction (WMD); and preventing smuggling. The smuggling, among other things, reduced the effectiveness of various UNSC embargoes and provided an important source of income for the Hussein regime. The staple contraband was oil and dates. The command arrangements for the naval contribution to these missions were complex. The Commander U.S. Fifth Fleet was the strategic commander based ashore in Bahrain. He was also the Maritime Component Commander to Commander Central Command (CENTCOM) based in Tampa, Florida. The Commander of the on-station carrier battle group provided the operational level command of naval forces. The command of the MIF was typically exercised from the aircraft carrier, a cruiser, or a destroyer. During the period from 1990–2001, occasionally land- and sea-based air strikes and Tomahawk land attack missile attacks had been conducted against Iraq. These were generally in support of efforts to disarm Iraq of WMD or in response to breaches of the Iraqi no-fly zone. Targets struck included military command-and-control and civil telecommunications facilities. The cumulative degradation of command-and-control capacity helps explain the poor Iraqi response to the 2003 invasion. During that same period, the effectiveness of the MIF was degraded as smugglers avoided interception by using the presence of Iraqi shore-based missile batteries on the Al Faw Peninsula and a passage through Iranian territorial waters to avoid interception. On occasion, the MIF conducted night surge operations near the mouth of the Khawr Abd Allah (KAA) and Shatt al Arab waterways to increase its chances of intercepting smugglers clearing the coast before sunrise. These operations had little strategic effect on sanction enforcement.

Post-9/11 operations The most significant development in this protracted sanction enforcement campaign was the 11 September attacks. The naval forces were not only infused with a significant increase in ships from the long-standing contributors, but other navies joined forces to assist in the Global War on Terror (GWOT). This blurring of mission between UNSC resolution enforcement against Iraq and the antial-Qaeda GWOT differed between nations. Some nations would only deploy forces in the North Arabian Sea/Gulf of Oman and the Gulf of Aden to cut alQaeda lines of communication, while other nations such as Australia grouped the two missions together. Like the conduct of many naval operations of the past, the post-9/11 phase of operations shifted with the confluence of strategic, operational, and tactical level developments. The increase in naval forces in the Arabian Sea and Arabian Gulf enabled the Commander 5th Fleet to deploy separate Coalition task groups in the

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The maritime campaign in Iraq   169 North Arabian Sea/Gulf of Oman and the Gulf of Aden. These forces not only provided a capability against the GWOT but, as events unfolded, would by their presence enhance security for the 2002–2003 force build up prior to OIF. The MIF enjoyed a significant increase in force levels. But before additional forces arrived, an important tactical shift took place. The immediate response to the 9/11 attack made necessary the removal from the MIF of U.S. Navy (USN) Tomahawk-equipped ships. This left the MIF under the command of Captain N.S. Coates of the Australian frigate HMAS Anzac. Coates, in response to the drastic reduction in force numbers, and leveraging his ship’s shallow draft and national Rules of Engagement, moved his vessel into Iraqi territorial waters at the mouth of the KAA waterway. This shift to a close blockade immediately halted the smugglers. The initial success was limited by the small number of warships with draughts allowing operations so close inshore. An effective close blockade required continuous inshore frigate presence. An increased number of RN and RAN warships provided this capability. From 2001–2003 these ships built up considerable knowledge of the shallow waters allowing incrementally greater freedom of maneuver. This would prove invaluable during OIF. The smugglers, for their part, responded to the new challenge posed by the MIF. Move and countermove ensued until 2003, with smugglers welding doors and hatches, electrifying guardrails, and attempting mass breakouts. The MIF replied with acetylene cutters, greater coordination, and training. By mid-2002, the larger merchant ships submitted to being searched, while trying to hide modest quantities of oil in hidden tanks. In the last six months of the sanction enforcement, only two merchant ships escaped the MIF net, and even then the MIF successfully encouraged the Iranians to apprehend them in their territorial waters. The main focus soon became smuggling in much smaller dhows. Night mass breakout attempts of 40–60 dhows were not uncommon. The MIF responded with improved tactical cohesion between the boarding parties of the RAN, US Coast Guard, Royal Marines, and USN. These conventional forces were augmented at night on a regular basis by Polish Special Forces (GROM4) and USN Seals based in Kuwait. In addition to the boarding parties, helicopters were used to vector boarding parties to breakouts. USN Seahawk helicopters fitted with the Hawklink tactical data link allowed video streaming of the dhow breakouts to the MIF Commander’s flagship. This visual perspective was invaluable in coordinating the modest MIF resources. The two other actors in this complex and shifting maritime scene were the naval forces of Iran and Iraq. Iran had units of both the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy (IRIN) and the Iranian Revolution Guard Corps Navy (IRGCN). The IRGCN was the most active and at times unpredictable. Its small craft irregularly swept through waters at the mouth of the KAA and its men boarded vessels and harassed crews. In contrast, the IRIN presence was weighted more in the central and southern Gulf. The IRIN proved helpful in intercepting smugglers transiting through Iranian territorial waters.

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170   P. Jones The Iraqi Navy (IRN) largely confined itself to its two bases of Umm Qasr and Basra. In mid-2002, however, IRN PB-90 class patrol boats initiated solitary daytime patrols in the KAA approaches. There was concern in 5th Fleet headquarters that the close proximity of the PB-90 to MIF warships might allow the patrol boats to inflict damage to the larger ships in a surprise attack. To guard against that possibility, the MIF invariably had a missile-armed helicopter airborne and would warn the PB-90 not to interfere with MIF operations. Once again the Hawklink-transmitted video stream allowed the MIF Commander to monitor deck movements on the PB-90 in this situation, although the PB-90 was significantly less capable than the MIF units.

Preparations for Plan 1003V CENTCOM, under the command of General Tommy R. Franks, developed the operational plan to invade Iraq and disarm the regime of WMD. It was designated Plan 1003V. Work commenced in 2002 and proceeded through numerous iterations.5 The Commander of the 5th Fleet, Vice Admiral Timothy Keating, and his staff both in Tampa and Bahrain, developed the maritime elements of this plan.6 The central characteristic of the maritime campaign was the diversity of tasks assigned to the navies and marines. These tasks included: •

• •

• • • • •

protecting focal points from the Suez Canal to Kuwait to ensure the massive logistical build-up of materiel for land, air, and sea forces. As with Operation DESERT STORM, the overwhelming bulk of materiel was shipped by sea. facilitating the entry into Iraq of Special Forces and other covert elements prior to hostilities. providing a sizeable proportion of the air power for the operation. This requirement significantly increased when sorties could not be flown over Turkey or from air bases in Turkey. Much of this air power came from seabased Tomahawk strike missiles in the initial “shock and awe” wave of attacks on Iraqi infrastructure and leadership.7 providing a substantial part of the land force with the U.S. Marines and the Royal Marines. The marines would help secure southern Iraq, including the ports. Some elements would move north to Baghdad. securing the oil terminals at KAA and Al Basrah8 to prevent a catastrophic oil spill into the Gulf and to ensure their preservation for the benefit of postwar Iraq. countering Iraqi naval operations, including any mining. ensuring the merchant ships and dhows (potentially over 400 vessels) holed up in the KAA and the Shatt Al Arab did not interfere with Coalition operations along the length of the Gulf. forcing entry to the KAA and transforming the port of Umm Qasr into a hub for humanitarian aid. This would inevitably involve a significant mine counter measures (MCM) effort.

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•

deterring any attempt by the Iranian naval forces or al-Qaeda seaborne elements from interfering with Coalition operations.

The campaign also had to factor in the possibility of Iraqi use of biological and chemical agents. This threat, despite the subsequent absence of nuclear weapons, was deemed to be a major risk to Coalition forces. The missions and tasks required a significant force build-up from about 50 warships to 150, that began in November 2002.9 The Coalition force was centered on the newly arrived USS Constellation carrier battle group under Rear Admiral Barry M. Costello, and the USS Abraham Lincoln battle group under Rear Admiral John M. Kelly, which returned following a short break in Australia. In assigning responsibilities, Vice Admiral Keating made Rear Admiral Kelly Commander Task Force 50 in charge of the strike elements, and made Rear Admiral Costello Commander Task Force 55 in charge of the multi-faceted sea control missions. There were other subordinate command arrangements that reflected the shift of 5th Fleet missions from UNSC enforcement and sea control to combat operations in the littoral. Like many operations, the command arrangements were a compromise among clear lines of accountability, national sensitivities, and assessments on likely rates of effort. A central feature of Plan 1003V was the significant application of naval air power with the deployment of four carrier battle groups to augment the two already in theatre. USS Kitty Hawk and later USS Nimitz joined the two carriers in the Gulf, while the USS Theodore Roosevelt and USS Harry S. Truman carrier battle groups operated from the eastern Mediterranean Sea. To facilitate the integration of naval and air force assets, Rear Admiral David C. Nicholls became the Deputy Joint Force Air Component Commander at the Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi Arabia. USN personnel also joined the air planning staff.10 The U.S. also deployed specialist forces that Plan 1003V needed for success. These included: • • • • • •

mine countermeasures vessels (MCMV) USS Ardent, Cardinal, Dextrous, and Raven. mine clearance diving teams employing remotely operated underwater vehicles as well as dolphins to detect bottom mines. MH-53E Sea Dragon minesweeping helicopters. the heavily armed patrol boats USS Firebolt and USS Chinook as well as the USCG cutter Boutwell and the USCG patrol craft Adak, Aquidneck, Baranof, and Wrangle for inshore operations. the high-speed catamaran Joint Venture in support of Special Forces. additional replenishment ships and the hospital ship USNS Comfort, prepositioned in the Gulf.

The RN deployed into the Gulf the UK Amphibious Task Group (UKATG) under the command of Commodore A.J.G. Miller, which was centered on aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal. The RN Flagship had embarked not Harrier strike

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172   P. Jones aircraft, but was configured as a helicopter carrier. The other major UKATG ships were the helicopter carrier HMS Ocean, the aviation support ship RFA Argus (fitted as a hospital ship) and the landing ships RFA Sir Tristram, RFA Sir Galahad, and RFA Sir Percivale. These ships were escorted by the destroyers HM ships Liverpool, Edinburgh, and York, frigates Marlborough, Chatham, and Richmond, minehunters Grimsby and Ledbury, and supported by the tankers RFA Fort Rosalie and RFA Orangeleaf.11 In addition, the survey ship HMS Roebuck would undertake precursor surveys of the North Arabian Gulf. The Tomahawk-equipped submarines Splendid and Turbulent would be multi-tasked in the operation. The RAN deployed the amphibious ship HMAS Kanimbla initially to bring to the Gulf stores for the Australian joint force and then to act as the MIF command ship. She joined the frigates Anzac and Darwin. The RAN also deployed Australian Clearance Diving Team 3 to work with other Coalition diving teams under the command of Captain Michael P. Tillotson, USN, who carried the honorary title of Commodore. Meanwhile, the Polish Government authorized the employment of the GROM detachment and a fresh crew was flown into theatre for its support ship ORP Kontra Admiral Xavier Czernicki, which was assigned to the MIF. The contribution of the U.S. Marines and the Royal Marines was substantial in size and combat power. The campaign represented the largest marine deployment since the Gulf War. From the U.S. side, it centered around elements of 1 Marine Expeditionary Force commanded by Lieutenant General James T. Conway. The force would number 65,000 personnel supported by 142 M1A1 tanks, 606 amphibious assault vehicles, 279 light amphibious vehicles, 105 howitzers, 7,000 trucks, and 454 Marine Air Wing aircraft. The vast majority of these forces would be pre-positioned in Kuwait.12 The British provided the 3 Commando Brigade, Royal Marines, under the command of Brigadier James Dutton. The force would also preposition ashore in Kuwait from the UKATG. The initial requirement would be to secure the ports of Umm Qasr and Az Zubayr from land. This would be undertaken by the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU), while the Royal Marines combining with the British Army’s 1 Armoured Division would secure Basra following an air assault on the Al Faw Peninsula.13

Lead-up to war Critical to the OIF’s success was the massive build-up of materiel for the land, air, and sea forces. From January through the end of April, the U.S. Military Sealift Command (MSC) moved about 21 million square feet of materiel and more than 261 million gallons of fuel. The MSC Commander, Vice Admiral David L. Brewer III, attributed this achievement to the lessons learned from the Gulf War. The large, medium-speed, roll-on/roll-off ships were one example and became the prime movers with a carrying capacity of 300,000 square feet per ship. The MSC surge was assisted by Ready Reserve Force roll-on/roll-off ships

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The maritime campaign in Iraq   173 from the U.S. Maritime Administration and commercial charter.14 The protection of these ships from interference from al-Qaeda, Iran, or Iraq was of critical importance. Rear Admiral Costello was charged with this responsibility. Ships not only had naval escorts, as required, but also onboard USN and USMC security teams. From January 2003, on-station ships began additional training and repaired defects. This training included naval gunfire support drills for the RAN and RN frigates. In preparing for the likely conflict, the MIF identified four worst-case scenarios: Iraqi mining, short-range Iraqi missile strikes from the Al Faw, a friendly fire incident, or a collision involving helicopters unfamiliar with the confines of the north Arabian Gulf. The MIF developed enhanced procedures to mitigate these risks. They included improved merchant ship, aircraft, and boat reporting and tracking procedures, and a range of visual and procedural tools to confirm identity. The MIF Commander became the North Arabian Gulf Local Surface Warfare Commander and Local Air Warfare Commander. These small but important steps ensured not only that the MIF could operate in a broader warfare context, but that when the inevitable force build-up occurred, the muchenlarged Coalition force could operate safely in this relatively confined area. A key to the cohesion between the on-station ship and newly joined forces was the long-standing ties between most of the naval forces. In particular, USN, RN, and RAN sailors had long association and familiarity. Extensive use of embedded liaison officers in the different levels of command helped resolve issues and promote cohesion. The new joiners also had the benefit of chat rooms to immerse themselves in as they steamed in-theatre. The RN ships became visitors to Gulf chat rooms from sailing down the English Channel onward. While the Coalition forces prepared for war, the Iraqis began to rebase their warships from Umm Qasr to Basra. This unprecedented redeployment of all major ships included Saddam Hussein’s presidential yacht Al-Mansur. It was assessed that Iraqis thought Basra offered more protection for these ships as well as allowing a short passage across the Shatt Al Arab to Iran if expedient to do so. As part of revised command-and-control arrangements, a new position of North Arabian Gulf Commander was created with Commodore John W. Peterson, USN, holding that position in the cruiser USS Valley Forge. He had extensive North Arabian Gulf experience and had been heavily involved in developing the maritime plan. The author of this chapter, who was MIF Commander, became the Maritime Interception Operations Screen Commander. The North Arabian Gulf Commander’s purview was operations off both the KAA and Shatt Al Arab, and support of Special Forces operations. He also coordinated the activities of the Coalition with the Kuwaiti–Bahraini–Emirati Defence of Kuwait Task Group now at sea. This task group operated in the western sector of the North Arabian Gulf under the command of Major General Ahmed Yousef alMulla, the Commander of the Kuwait Naval Force. The General flew his flag in the UAE frigate Al Emirat. From mid-February through to the early weeks of March 2003, the planning tempo increased significantly. The different components of the plan required

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174   P. Jones alignment to reduce the possibility of fratricide. On 1 March, a planning conference held in Kanimbla scrutinized the plans for the clearance of merchant and dhow traffic from the KAA, and subsequent clearance of the channel for delivery of humanitarian relief to Umm Qasr within 72 hours of the adjacent land sector being secured. The outline plan involved Kanimbla being used as a command platform, with the MIF operating a force of some 38 Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats (RHIBs) to inspect, clear, and direct dhows and merchant vessels to designated holding areas. All vessels would be searched for explosives, mines, weapons, and contraband, before being allowed down a defined route into the central Arabian Gulf. USN and US Coast Guard patrol boats, as well as Kuwaiti patrol vessels and maritime interception operations helicopters, would support operations. In addition to the organic RHIBs, Kanimbla and Czernicki would host other boats and associated personnel from non-MIF warships operating further down the Gulf. Later, part of the MIF would deploy forward to protect the MCM effort and patrol the river once cleared. The proposed use of naval gunfire support in the assault on the Al Faw Peninsula became a contentious issue. A plan was developed for four frigates in two fire support areas to provide fire across the whole of 40 Commando’s area of operations and onto 42 Commando’s insertion point. Despite U.S. concern about de-confliction with air assets and an initial lack of Royal Marine support, naval gunfire support became a feature of the plan. The planning work and assiduous advocacy by the Commanding Officer of Marlborough, Captain Mark Anderson RN, was instrumental in this outcome. As events were to unfold, naval gunfire support proved invaluable to the assault.15 On 11 March, Rear Admiral Costello convened a final conference in Constellation in which all plans were outlined. In addition, elaborate anti-fratricide measures for the small boats were also briefed. Such was the concern about fratricide that Costello directed that a “weapons safe” posture was to be adopted, with engagement of the enemy to be directed by him unless in self-defense. This approach reflected the preponderance of Coalition military power and the confined battle space. More challenging was the deconfliction between maritime and land operations in the littoral. Despite the sharing of plans, albeit often later than desirable, and the exchange of liaison officers, concerns remained.16 Rear Admiral Kelly’s remit was complex and required the integration of the naval air and strike assets into the Coalition air and targeting plans. In addition to striking Iraqi targets, the naval forces had to complement operations to ensure air superiority over both Iraq and Kuwait. A particular challenge was to protect Kuwait City from possible short range missile attack from Iraq. The U.S. Army deployed Patriot anti-air-missile batteries around the city and the destroyer USS Higgins was fitted with additional equipment to provide early warning and tracking for these forces.17 Meanwhile, the Iraqis had developed defensive plans that they were incrementally implementing. In addition to moving that last of the Iraqi Navy’s larger ships from Umm Qasr to Basra, some tugs, small patrol craft, and a barge were fitted with disguised mining rails to lay defensive minefields at the mouth of and

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The maritime campaign in Iraq   175 along the KAA. They also put in place plans to destroy navigational markers along the waterways and rigged small inflatable boats as suicide boats from components of LUGM mines. These boats were to be deployed from the Al Faw, enabling Coalition warships to be attacked from the KAA and the Shatt Al Arab waterways. The MIF, from contacts with merchant ship and dhow crews, had learnt of some of these plans, including the threat to the oil terminals and to navigation markers. As a result, all Iraqi Government vessels were trailed by MIF RHIBs while at the entrance to the KAA to monitor their actions. During the evenings, there had been a noticeable increase in smuggler movement with growing desperation to exit the KAA. On the evening of 15 March, a Kuwaiti patrol boat fired warning shots at an exiting dhow that had not responded to its order to stop. The ill-directed fire hit an Indian crew member. A medical team from Anzac was unable to save his life and the dhow was directed back up the KAA. Perhaps as a result of this event, there was a marked reduction in dhow activity. On the arrival of the UKATG in the north Arabian Gulf, pre-positioning of the Royal Marine force in Kuwait commenced with U.S. and Australian assistance. Reconnaissance of the peninsula was started by RN airborne early warning radar fitted Sea King Mk.7 helicopters, which could provide synthetic aperture radar images of the terrain and installations. Kanimbla was used as a forward operating base for crew swaps and helicopter refueling.18 On the afternoon of 17 March, 38 dhows attempted an unusual daytime escape from the KAA. Their crews had heard erroneous news reports of the impending start of the war. In desperation, they started to jettison cargo. Vice Admiral Keating approved the MIF’s recommendation to clear the KAA rather than turn the dhows around in accordance with the UN sanctions. It was a historic moment because it was the effective end of the 12-year embargo. The MIF’s well-developed plan was activated. All dhows were anchored and searched for arms, explosives, mines, and deserting Iraqi leadership before being physically marked, cleared, and directed south along the designated track called Red Route 1. Their passage was monitored down the Gulf by Coalition aircraft and warships. Once the dhows’ crews understood what was happening, they were very compliant. For some boarding teams and dhow crews, it was a poignant moment. After months, if not years, of being boarded and being turned back this was to be their last meeting. Among those vessels cleared was the Indian dhow that lost her crew member two nights earlier.19 As expected, the word of the clearance quickly spread up the KAA and the following day the merchant ships made their outbound passage. In all, 56 dhows and 47 merchant ships were inspected and cleared in about three days. This early clearance emptied the waterway in preparation for combat operations. In the early morning of 19 March, UN officials on the oil terminals were detained and taken to Basra in an Iraqi Government tug. There were fears that they would find themselves as “human shields” reminiscent of the Gulf War. To prevent this, Chinook intercepted the tug, removed the UN workers, and allowed

176   P. Jones the vessel to proceed on its way. The UN workers reported Iraqi military were present on the two offshore oil terminals with some suspicious equipment. This collaborated earlier reports from merchantmen that Iraq might detonate explosives on the terminals.20

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The war On the evening of the 19 March, U.S. Navy Seals and Polish GROM, under the overall command of Commodore Robert S. Harward USN, Commander of the Naval Special Warfare Task Group and formally designated Commander Task Group 561, conducted a sea and airborne assault on the oil terminals. Anzac stood by to extract these forces if necessary. However, the attack proceeded to plan and they quickly secured both platforms. Of note, the Iraqi explosives present on the platforms had not been fitted. Simultaneously, SEALs secured the two related oil manifolds on the Al Faw Peninsula. This operation was soon followed by a first wave of Tomahawk land attack missile launches from USN cruisers, destroyers, and submarines as well as RN submarines. In all, more than 800 Tomahawk cruise missiles (almost half in 24 hours)21 were fired from 35 Coalition ships from the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Arabian Sea, and the Gulf. One-third of the missiles were launched from submarines.22 The RN submarine contribution was more than 30 missiles.23 On the Al Faw, Coalition aircraft commenced strikes on Iraqi Army positions, augmented by 148 Battery Royal Artillery firing from Bubyan Island. On completion of this bombardment, Royal Marines conducted an airborne insertion on the Al Faw. Soon after the commencement of hostilities, an IRN PB-90 patrol boat proceeded down the KAA to attack Coalition warships. En-route it was detected by a P-3C Orion from Patrol Squadron 46, which relayed its location to an AC-130 gunship then supporting the Al Faw operation.24 In a brief exchange of fire, the PB-90 blew up under the hail of fire from the aircraft’s 76 mm gun. Three survivors, suffering from hypothermia, were picked up at daylight by Adak, and expeditiously transferred to Kanimbla. At around 2.00 a.m. on 20 March, Marlborough, Anzac, Chatham, and Richmond detached for shore bombardment duties. The passage to assigned firesupport areas was challenging, with a strong tidal stream, poor visibility, and shallow waters. The Royal Marines encountered stubborn resistance from Iraqi forces and called for naval gunfire support at 6.04 a.m. The ships engaged command posts, bunkers, and artillery positions. In one action, Anzac destroyed a T59 artillery piece with just three rounds.25 Very accurate fire was provided by frigates at near maximum ranges with Royal Marines in close proximity waiting to exploit the effects. Naval gunfire was used to encourage capitulation, with success on a number of occasions. The Battery Commander reported: “Success on the Al Faw was due to the aggressive use of indirect fire support, especially the swift response from naval gunfire support ships which had a huge impact on the ground and shattered the enemy’s will to fight.”26 A

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The maritime campaign in Iraq   177 total of 17 fire missions were executed with just 155 rounds of 5” and 4.5” ammunition expended. During the night, another element of the operation included the protection of an amphibious transit lane for the fast Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC) hovercraft to take equipment from Bubyan Island across the KAA to the Al Faw Peninsula. Chinook, Firebolt, Adak, and Aquidneck reported three Iraqi tugs and a barge coming down the KAA. They boarded the vessels, which proved suspicious only for their large crews. The tugs were held north of the assault lane and at first light Coalition sailors re-boarded the vessels. It was discovered that the tug Jumariya had a barge with 20 Manta and 48 LUGM mines concealed in its hull while the tug Al Raya contained 18 LUGM mines.27 The mines on the upper deck of the Al Raya were concealed by hollowed out 50-gallon barrels. The barrels were lined in rows, simulating a cargo barge and tug. The 38 Iraqi crewmen were ferried to a USN designated prisoner holding amphibious ship by an Australian Army LCM-8 landing craft. A sweep by SEALs from the Joint Venture—which had come up the channel west of Bubiyan Island—confirmed that no additional Iraqi mine barges remained further up the KAA. Later in the day, four small suicide boats proceeded down the Shatt Al Arab waterway. They were pursued by Iranian naval forces and beached themselves. In response to this threat, Chatham and Darwin were detached as a Surface Action Group to the mouth of the Shatt Al Arab. The ships possessed a wide range of weapon systems to deal with small inshore contacts.28 The ships remained off the mouth of the Shatt Al Arab until the danger of these boats had passed. The anticipated short-range Iraqi missile attacks from the Al Faw did, in fact, materialize on 20 March. The target was not Coalition warships; rather, it was Kuwait City. The firing of at least six SCUD missiles produced limited damage. The Patriot missile batteries with cuing from the Higgins destroyed at least two SCUDS.29 Meanwhile, the USN, RN, and RAN clearing diving teams had driven across the desert from Kuwait behind the leading 15th MEU elements into Umm Qasr. Once the port had been secured, they commenced mine clearance of the port precinct. USN, RN, and RAN diving teams were complemented by USN dolphins trained to locate bottomed mines. The mine clearance forces were supported from the amphibious ship USS Gunston Hall.30 On 20 March, U.S. Marines Task Force Grizzly advanced to secure the South Rumaylah oil fields to preempt Iraqi efforts to destroy the oil wells.31 The main effort of the U.S. Marines, however, focused on pushing into Iraq, approaching Baghdad from the southeast, and securing vital points en route. By 10 April, the U.S. Marines had established themselves in the capital. The focus then shifted to stabilization and security operations. Meanwhile, the Royal Marines and British Army units secured the south and took Basra on 6 April.32 The aircraft carriers maintained continuous air missions to support the air campaign, while the Tomahawk armed cruisers, destroyers, and submarines also contributed to operations. Between 20 March and 14 April, carrier-based aircraft flew more than 7,000 sorties in support of OIF.33 This rate of effort came from

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178   P. Jones more than 400 Navy aircraft from six fighter wings.34 Among the many Iraqi targets struck were the remnants of the Iraqi Navy tied up alongside in Basra, including the Al-Mansur. The U.S. Marines air wing flew some 9,800 sorties and expended nearly sixand-a-quarter-million pounds of ordnance during the operation.35 Due to the shortage of airfields and other considerations, their AV-8B Harriers operated effectively from their amphibious ships during the invasion. This demonstrated another aspect of the U.S. Marine’s “Operational Maneuver From the Sea” concept.36 During the next couple of days, events moved quickly. Once the Al Faw was secured, the Coalition MCMVs Bangor, Blyth, Brocklesbury, Sandown, Dextrous, Cardinal, and Ardent, complemented by the two MH-53E helicopters with towed sidescan sonars, commenced operations.37 These forces were protected by the MIF patrol boats and RHIBs, which conducted extended riverine patrols. On one such patrol, Chinook observed suspicious activity on the Al Faw shoreline. After landing a team ashore, they chased Iraqis away who left a semi-inflated suicide boat and a cache of rockets and other weapons. The MIF continued riverine patrols until the Al Faw was secured. The campaign plan called for the KAA to be clear of mines up to Umm Qasr within 72 hours. But this goal proved unrealistic due to the large amount of mine-like objects littering the riverbed. This was hardly surprising, as the KAA had been a battle zone on several occasions in the twentieth century. To speed up the clearance, the normal mine countermeasures process of detect, identify, and destroy was modified to detect and destroy mine-like objects. In the end, the Coalition MCM forces cleared the equivalent of 913 nautical miles of water in the KAA and Umm Qasr port area. Eventually, 21 berths were opened in Umm Qasr. This cleared the way for the first Coalition humanitarian aid shipments into Iraq onboard RFA Sir Galahad on 28 March.38 The maritime component of the operations to dislodge the Saddam Hussein regime was long in the build-up but short in execution. On 12 April, Baghdad fell to Coalition forces. Even before that day, once the land forces had secured Umm Qasr and Basra, the primary role of maritime forces contracted to participating in the air campaign. At this phase of the campaign, there was a strong desire for a rapid drawdown of forces, not only to reduce costs but also to prevent them from becoming a target for insurgents, al-Qaeda, or misadventure. In consultation with General Franks, the naval footprint therefore rapidly decreased.39 In coming months, however, much work remained to be done by Coalition naval forces in stabilizing the post-Saddam Iraq. This included opening up ports and waterways and, most importantly, protecting the vital offshore oil terminals through which over 90 percent of Iraq’s foreign earnings flow.

Conclusion The naval expeditionary campaign to overthrow the Saddam Hussein regime was noteworthy for the diverse range of missions undertaken by an integrated multi-

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The maritime campaign in Iraq   179 national force. The Deputy Maritime Component Commander, Rear Admiral Snelson stated: “Overall, the campaign was a classic use of maritime power in support of initial diplomatic and coercive objectives and then in support of a joint war fighting campaign.”40 The success of the maritime element was based on a number of factors. Key among them was 12 years of experience operating and sustaining naval forces in the narrow confines of the Arabian Gulf. Related to this experience was the high level of interoperability among participants. This was a testament not only to the experience of working together, but also to the widespread use of liaison officers and the development of mission-specific procedures and doctrine for the operation. This included the elaborate identification procedures to prevent friendly fire on RHIBs. Rear Admiral Snelson stated: This very close integration of forces practised by the Australian Navy as well as the USN and RN, resulted in unparalleled unity of effort that paid dividends in preventing friction, blue-on-blue engagements and forcing the sharing of intelligence and C2 connectivity.41 This integration extended to the higher levels of command and planning. Vice Admiral Keating remarked: This was a different war, perhaps obviously, but for not-so-apparent reasons. It was joint war fighting at the highest form of the art I’ve ever seen. The component commanders (air, land, sea) working for General Tommy Franks had spent about a year formulating this plan. Despite the complexity of the operation, the relatively sophisticated commandand-control tools allowed the dissemination of large amounts of information. This permitted units to be multi-tasked or re-tasked. Vice Admiral Keating remarked “we were able to keep up with the rapidly dynamic and changing war in ways that were, in my experience, unprecedented.”42 In addition to the generation of air power from six carrier air groups, sea control also enabled the build-up and sustainment of all land, air, and sea forces. This sea control allowed the strategically vital offshore oil terminals to be secured before oil could be released into the Gulf by Saddam Hussein’s regime. The consequences of such a release could have been catastrophic. Likewise, the Coalition’s sea control prevented sea mining of the Gulf that could have inhibited the Coalition’s conduct of operations. Finally, deployment from the sea of significant marine forces contributed to the success of the land campaign.

Notes   1 The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author, and in no way represent those of the Australian Government, its Department of Defence, or the Royal Australian Navy.

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180   P. Jones   2 C.C. Krulak, Principles of Operational Maneuver from the Sea (Washington, DC: US Marine Corps publication, 1996). Available on the Internet at: www.ditc.mil/jv2010/ usmc/omfts.pdf.   3 D.S. Alberts, J.J. Garstka, and F.P. Stein, Network Centric Warfare: Developing and Leveraging Information Superiority, 2nd edition (Revised) (Washington, DC: Command and Control Research Program publication, 2000).   4 “GROM” in Polish stands for Grupa Reagowania Operacyjno Manewrowego or Operational Mobile Reaction Group. The acronym itself means “thunderbolt.”   5 Robert Woodward, Plan of Attack (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2004).   6 Timothy J. Keating, “This was a Different War: Interview with Vice Admiral Timothy J. Keating,” US Naval Institute Proceedings, Annapolis, June 2003, 129, 6, 30.   7 Michael Codner, “An Initial Assessment of the Combat Phase,” in J. Eyal (ed.), War in Iraq, Whitehall Paper 59 (London: Royal United Services Institute, 2003), 10–11.   8 MABOT is also known as the Al Basrah Oil Terminal (ABOT).   9 This number included ships assigned to Operation ENDURING FREEDOM (GWOT). 10 Keating, 30. 11 See www.armedforces.co.uk/operationtelic.htm. 12 Frank G. Hoffman, “The U.S. Marine Corps in Review,” US Naval Institute Proceedings, Annapolis, May 2004, 130, 5, 90. 13 Wick Murray and Robert H. Scales, The Iraq War: A Military History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003), 129–137. 14 Military Sealift Command 2003 in Review, Commander’s Perspective, www.msc. navy.mil/annualreport/2003/perspective.htm. 15 HMS Marlborough Report of Proceedings, 31 March 2003, 5. 16 Email to author from Rear Admiral Mark Anderson, RN, 10 December 2008. 17 Statement of Admiral M.G. Mullen, U.S. Navy Vice Chief of Naval Operations Before the Subcommittee on Military Readiness of the House Armed Services Committee, 11 March 2004, 5. 18 Tragically, on 22 March, two of these helicopters collided, with the loss of seven lives; see www.operations.mod.uk/special/remembrance.pdf. 19 Peter D. Jones, “Maritime Interception Operations Screen Commander in the Gulf— Part 2,” Australian Naval Institute Journal, Spring 2003, 15. 20 Ibid. 21 Statement of RADM Mark P. Fitzgerald Deputy Chief of Naval Operations, Director Air Warfare Before the Projection Forces Subcommittee of the House Armed Services Committee on Navy Capabilities for Conducting Conventional Long Range Strike, 3 March 2004. 22 RADM J.L. Fowler, speech to Boston University ROTC, 24 October 2003. 23 David Snelson, “Liberating Iraq—The UK’s Maritime Contribution,” The Naval Review, November 2003, 91, 4, 325. 24 M.H. Goodspeed, US Navy: A Complete History (Washington, DC: Naval Historical Foundation, 2003), 710. 25 I. Ingham, “Naval Gunfire Support for the Assault on the Al Faw Peninsular,” Australian Naval Institute Journal, Winter 2003, 36. 26 HMS Marlborough, Report of Proceedings, March–April 2003. 27 “Iraqi Mine Smugglers Intercepted by Coalition Forces,” Story Number: NNS030326–01. Release date: 26 March 2003, 12.02.00 p.m. 28 www.smh.com.au, “Suicide Boats ‘Major Threat’ To Australian Ships,” 31 March 2003. 29 www.highbeam.com/doc/1P2–13378085.html. 30 P.J. Ryan, “Mine Countermeasures a Success,” US Naval Institute Proceedings, Annapolis, May 2003, 129, 5, 52. 31 Hoffman, 90–96.

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The maritime campaign in Iraq   181 32 Murray and Scales, 137–153. 33 Navy May Reduce Gulf Carrier Presence As Iraqi Freedom Winds Down, NNS030414–04, 14 April 2003, www.navy.mil. 34 RADM J.L. Fowler, speech to Boston University ROTC, 24 October 2003. 35 Ibid. 36 USMC Operational Maneuver From the Sea. Available at www.dtic.mil/jv2010/usmc/ omfts.pdf. 37 Ryan, 52. 38 Mullen, 5. 39 Keating, 30. 40 Snelson, 328. 41 Ibid., 326. 42 Keating, 30.

15 U.S. naval operations and contemporary geopolitics

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The War on Terror and the New Great Game in the early-twenty-first century John Reeve1 This chapter charts an era of transition in U.S. maritime strategy and operations from the post-Cold War period of power projection “from the sea”—a period in the 1990s of U.S. uni-polarity—to an early-twenty-first-century era of expeditionary warfare and emerging continental–maritime rivalry, set within a new context of conflict with Islamic fundamentalism, of energy and resource competition, and of multi-polar engagement. It begins in 2001, with the 9/11 attack and the U.S. and allied campaign in Afghanistan which followed, and ends in 2009, with the final days of the second Bush term in office and the beginning of the Obama administration. The principal focus of Washington’s post-Cold War strategic attention has shifted increasingly from Europe to the Middle East and Central Asia. Due to 9/11, President Bush apparently saw these regions as the prime source of potential future attacks on the United States. Preventing any new attacks was linked to a neoconservative agenda within his administration to remake the entire region.2 Of course, linked to these factors were the West’s and East Asia’s growing dependence upon imported oil, largely from the Middle East, which is fueling the world economy.3 International competition for energy, together with the sea lines of communication (SLOC) for its transportation—an essential part of the global configuration of U.S. naval-maritime power—means that the wider Middle East is ever more inextricably linked to a world geopolitical competition set in the wide arc of the Eurasian littoral and “Rimland” from the Persian Gulf to East Asia. Within this vast theatre there have been many U.S. “peripheral” strategic initiatives, both those that were executed and others merely projected, during the first decade of the twenty-first century. These have included highly strategic expeditionary campaigns and lower-intensity operations of a “presence” and diplomatic– strategic character. Naval expeditionary power, with its ability to escalate force incrementally, has played an extremely important role throughout this period.

The “New Great Game” and the Global War on Terror During the past decade, the term the “New Great Game” has entered media and strategic discourse.4 The term refers back to the nineteenth-century “Great

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U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   183 Game”—popularized by Rudyard Kipling in his novel Kim—the Anglo-Russian imperial rivalry over Central Eurasia. In the twenty-first century, this term generally invokes the recent competition for position and influence within and around the Caspian Basin and Central Asia and, in particular, for domination of their vast and untapped energy sources in the form of oil and gas.5 Just as the British Royal Navy, during the first Great Game, allowed for the extended projection of British maritime power into Eurasia against the continental power of Russia, a comparable role is being played today by the U.S. Navy. Of course, there are many differences between the old-world imperialist struggle for control of territories and populations and the current competition, which involves many different kinds of resources, with more and more varied actors— non-state, national, trans-national, and commercial—with an ideological religious dimension, and with wider global implications.6 Still, the “New Great Game” is linked to a revival of interest in geopolitics, and Eurasia was already being called the globe’s most important playing field as early as 1997.7 Following the 9/11 attacks, the U.S.-led Global War on Terror (GWOT) became a concept and slogan potentially marketable within the emotive complexities of democratic politics. As a tool of strategic analysis it is less useful. Terrorism is a tactic and method of warfare, not a value, and implies no definable enemy or, therefore, strategy. We can better understand the situation as a conflict within the Muslim world in which extremist forces, movements, and cells target U.S. and Western interests in the context of a struggle with secular Muslim authorities.8 Furthermore, a large part of the political leverage of Muslim fundamentalism derives from its strength in the oil-rich region of the Gulf.9 The Global War on Terror was effectively begun with the U.S.-led attack on the Taliban and al-Qaeda in Afghanistan. A complicating factor was that the ensuing U.S.-led campaign in Iraq began at first as merely a rhetorical dimension of the GWOT, but all too quickly evolved, inter alia, into an actual theatre of the conflict with al-Qaeda. In sum, a strategically more useful characterization of the current struggle is the “Long War,” a term first used in the U.S. Quadrennial Defense Review of 2006. This term has flexibility appropriate to the various kinds of opponents and levels and types of military—and non-military—activity in the current struggle. The term “GWOT” is, however, more or less unavoidable in setting the scene. It constitutes a major ideological dimension of the geopolitical contest in which the U.S. has become engaged. From a strategic point of view, therefore, the broad parameters of the New Great Game, which overlaps with developments in the Middle East and increasingly also with Pakistan, cannot be disentangled from the Global War on Terror. Both are geographically and geopolitically interconnected, and both are permeated by the issue of Muslim fundamentalism. They are also both intrinsically related to the accessibility and reliability of energy supplies. Together, these two contests link emotional and ideological issues with highly realist and economic goals, and so might be better rechristened the “New Global Game.” Furthermore, they are inextricably key parts of the grand strategic environment of contemporary U.S. maritime strategy and expeditionary operations.

184   J. Reeve

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Multi-polarity and the continental–maritime dichotomy It is a commonplace of current political discourse that the early-twenty-first century has seen the advent of a more multi-polar world in which, while U.S. conventional military dominance remains unrivalled, rising powers such as China and India should increasingly be taken into account. It has been argued that this is more akin to the nineteenth-century world of imperial rivalry than to the late twentieth century.10 The twentieth century saw, however, as Paul Kennedy has elucidated, a unique quest for world government and international cooperation whose future remains an open question.11 There is also the impact of a globalizing economy, which rivals the state as a vehicle for socio-economic organization. Many believe that global economic interdependence makes major inter-state war unlikely. China may also be tempted to “piggy-back” on the U.S. Navy’s securing of the global SLOC, for example against Somali pirates, given that the PRC does not currently have the capability to do it by itself.12 This would be akin to the United States’ nineteenth-century utilization of the seas under the protection of the Royal Navy, while America developed its huge economic potential: one of the biggest strategic “free rides” in history. There can be limits, however, to mutual economic benefit. It has been argued that the interdependence of the U.S. and Chinese economies is coming to an end.13 Moreover, the requirement for energy implies a potentially zerosum game, whether one accepts the official U.S. view of oil as a finite and diminishing resource—called the “Peak Oil” theory—or the Chinese view of an anarchic competition prior to the establishment of a stable global energy system.14 In this key area, economic cooperation may increasingly be at a premium. The fact that oil is also strategic, not simply a commercial commodity, underlines this point. Within the multi-polar Asia-Pacific, as Geoffrey Till has observed, globalization and competition are dual trends.15 How far multi-polarity recommends a competitive or cooperative policy agenda is related to particular circumstances.16 Global geopolitical competition, paralleled by economic globalization, has become extensive in this century, and this competition has acquired a continental–maritime dichotomy. Allowing for shifting contexts, two loose coalitions have emerged: one under the umbrella of the Shanghai Cooperation Organization (SCO), which includes China, Russia, Iran, and associated states, and another as an alignment—in varying bi-lateral ways—of the U.S., Japan, India, and other offshore maritime powers.

Geopolitics, Mahan, and Mackinder Geopolitics as a tool of analysis is currently broadening its scope. It is also increasing in topicality, largely due to the developments outlined above; resource and transportation issues, in particular, imply geographical frameworks. Geopolitics can be usefully defined in terms of the understanding of international relations in a spatial context.17 Geography, as a political and strategic reality, is only

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U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   185 one variable alongside, for example, human, cultural, technological, and economic influences. While the American theorist Alfred Thayer Mahan became the best-known and most influential advocate for sea power, the British geopolitical thinker Sir Halford Mackinder argued in 1904 that the dominance of sea power during the Columbian era would give way to that of the land power of Eurasia, and that unbalanced control of the Eurasian “Heartland” by a single power would enable world domination, thus menacing the security of the West. With little of the globe left for sea power to conquer, and technological change such as industrialization and railways, the future would favor the land.18 The American Nicholas Spykman built on this theory, emphasizing the influence of the broad “Rimland” of Eurasia.19 After two World Wars and the Cold War, the views of both Mahan and Mackinder have arguably worn well. None of these conflicts was simply between land and sea power, but maritime coalitions—victorious for centuries—continued to win, although admittedly the greatest conflict of the century, and arguably of history, occurred on Nazi Germany’s eastern front in the 1940s. Economic forces continued to favor maritime power, however, which was itself also able to gain leverage from technological change. Mackinder had seen the Heartland as the area inaccessible to sea power, but the latter had acquired air strike, longrange and ballistic missiles, and extended troop deployment capabilities. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the New Great Game and the rise of China have re-staked the traditional claims of the Heartland and the Rimland. But key Chinese strategists are today enamored of Mahan, and of his linking of maritime and commercial power.20 Such concepts provide a context for analyzing continental–maritime rivalry. Continental states can empower themselves with the integrating technology of railways, highways, and pipelines, but their interior lines and contiguities can be contested by the mobility and reach of maritime forces, which themselves can ally with land powers. Continental states may possess resources, but must frequently go to sea to acquire more, and to trade within a globalizing economy. Here they encounter maritime powers in their own environment, with all their diplomatic and naval capabilities.

Maritime power and peripheral campaigning: Afghanistan and Iraq The U.S.-led campaigns in Afghanistan from 2001 and Iraq from 2003 were, in their different ways, responses to the 9/11 attacks on the U.S. and were fought under the banner of the Global War on Terror. They can also be considered in wider geopolitical terms in which naval–maritime capabilities facilitated “peripheral” strategies.21 In general they represented the reach of a great offshore maritime power not only in the littorals, but in conducting operations and establishing bases more deeply in Eurasia. In Afghanistan, neither the Taliban nor alQaeda was a sea power, and Iraq had virtually no naval capability. The sea was

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186   J. Reeve therefore ripe for utilization as an operational sanctuary and base for power projection.22 These campaigns were conducted against the background of a doctrinal revolution in U.S. maritime power. The blue water strategic outlook of the Cold War had given way in the early 1990s to concepts of regional and littoral warfare and power projection from the sea. The U.S. Marine Corps had become a full player in the making of U.S. strategy and doctrine. By the first decade of the new century, this approach had become thoroughly expeditionary, embracing seabasing and onshore and riverine operations with a new Navy Expeditionary Combat Command.23 Operational experience in the 1990s was consistent with this agenda, although the U.S. Navy’s reaction to the PRC missile tests in the Taiwan Strait during 1995–1996 and the blockade of Iraq of 1990–2003 reaffirmed the indirect diplomatic and economic roles of maritime power, which were also portents for the future. The maritime dimension of the initial Afghanistan and Iraq campaigns was notable for the diplomatic use of naval operations to create broad coalitions. Flexible command and tasking arrangements enabled the forces of certain states to contribute to both campaigns, although those states were not officially involved in the Iraq operations. These coalitions helped give political cover that complemented a surge of forward-deployed U.S. Naval forces reaching 50 percent of overall strength during the first year in Iraq. They also afforded valuable niche capabilities such as the naval gunfire support (NGS) and mine warfare contributions of the British and Australian navies. Operations in both campaigns were conducted at sea and from the sea, and included strike warfare, close air support, amphibious deployments, NGS, special operations, maritime interception, control and protection of shipping, mine clearance, sea basing, logistical support, key oil terminal and port infrastructure protection, humanitarian relief, and the U.S. Navy’s first riverine operations in 34 years. The Afghanistan campaign was notable for the reliance upon naval air power, given the Saudi and Egyptian refusal of operational basing rights, which meant that USN tactical aircraft flew 72 percent of combat sorties during this stage of the war, many in support of the allies’ continental partner the Northern Alliance. USMC forces deployed from the Arabian Sea to southern Afghanistan at a record distance of over 450 miles to establish a forward operating base, capture an airfield at Kandahar, contribute the first conventional infantry forces to the campaign, and accelerate the defeat of the Taliban in the south. Interception operations were conducted in the Arabian Sea against al-Qaeda leaders fleeing via Pakistan. The Iraq campaign, with a different strategic geography from the first Gulf War in that Saudi Arabia was not a Coalition member, saw the land campaign depend critically on logistical support from the sea. The overriding maritime contributions to both campaigns were the ability to negotiate political–strategic complexities with offshore basing and the enabling factor of logistics. In 2009, the Coalition war effort in Afghanistan still depended upon logistical support

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U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   187 from the sea via Pakistan, despite the opening of a new land route through Tajikistan.24 While such campaigns were also predicated upon domestic U.S. air basing, established forward bases such as Diego Garcia, and new positions in the former Soviet republics of Central Asia, in sum these two campaigns represented a formidable capability to assemble coalitions and export power from the wider maritime to the continental Eurasian environment while operating at vast distances from domestic military establishments. More importantly, for our purposes, they can also be characterized as largely “peripheral” naval expeditionary campaigns.

Peripheral payoffs: al-Qaeda and Central Asia It was al-Qaeda, sheltering in Afghanistan, which attacked the U.S. on 9/11. The U.S.-led counter-attack in Afghanistan was effectively a naval expeditionary campaign to divert the conflict from the Western hemisphere to Eurasia and to destroy the threat at its source. The overthrow of the Taliban regime, and the disruption of the terrorist haven, in conjunction with major initiatives in U.S. homeland security, largely achieved these aims. The loss of the Afghan sanctuary and the scattering, apprehension, and destruction of much of the al-Qaeda leadership probably had a very significant effect on its future ability to attack the U.S. and the West.25 Thus far, this was a highly successful defensive peripheral campaign that did much to restore the security of the U.S., the Western world, and their strategic interests. In sharp contrast to this early phase of the “Long War” however, the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq that followed has been widely criticized as a grand strategic error.26 While the initial military attack on Iraq went faster and more smoothly than predicted, the ensuing “Phase Four” operations quickly bogged down, and only in 2007, under General David Petraeus, was substantial progress being made toward providing domestic security. The long-term prospects in Iraq, as in Afghanistan where the U.S. has refocused its efforts more recently, remain uncertain. Al-Qaeda has fled to the borderlands, the Taliban have revived as a force, and Pakistan has been drawn into a full-blown counter-insurgency war. The situation can also be considered as part of a wider geopolitical game for the domination of Eurasia. In conjunction with its campaign in Afghanistan, the U.S. established basing access and conducted military activity in a wide arc of Central Asia, from the Caspian to Western China, in the former Soviet republics of Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgystan.27 This made Washington an on-site player in the New Great Game. How far this direct entry into the region was a premeditated seizure of the opportunity created by al-Qaeda, and how far a serendipitous outcome, is still unclear. The consequences have been, however, far-reaching. The geopolitics of Central Asia revolve around Russia’s desire to restore its influence and monopolize energy exports, the destabilizing influence of Islamic fundamentalism, Western energy pipeline projects, and growing Chinese influence.28 Deteriorating political stability in the Middle East after 2003 encouraged

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188   J. Reeve China to develop alternative energy supplies from Russia and Central Asia— where Chinese business is booming, facilitated by new road, rail, and pipeline construction linking the area with China. Beijing also seeks to secure its territorial integrity and Western strategic rear, as well as develop a north–south energy and trade corridor between Xinjiang and the Arabian Sea—and therefore the Persian Gulf—via Pakistan, hence its expansion of the Karakoram Highway between China and northern Pakistan and its role in the building of the Pakistani port of Gwadar.29 In this context, growing U.S. influence in Afghanistan and Central Asia is potentially commercial and strategic, and we can read both in a peripheral sense. The Baku-to-Ceyhan pipeline, opened in 2006, carries Caspian oil to the Mediterranean, has Western interests as major stakeholders, and has been supported by the U.S. as a major diversification of energy supply.30 It remains potentially vulnerable to political instability, however—a point underlined by the Georgian war of 2008. Another energy project, pursued by Western interests from the mid-1990s, for a dual pipeline to carry Caspian oil and gas from Turkmenistan to Pakistan and the Arabian Sea via the Herat–Kandahar corridor of Afghanistan, foundered on Afghan instability and the opposition—for commercial and strategic reasons—of Russia, India, and Iran. How far the project was a motive for the U.S. campaign in Afghanistan remains speculative, but it was revived after the fall of the Taliban, under the aegis of the Asian Development Bank, for the transit of Caspian gas to Pakistan and India. It has strong U.S. support with the aim of supplying energy to Western markets while avoiding Russian territory and foiling a comparable Iranian project. A potential economic boon to Afghanistan, it remains contingent upon security issues there. Washington has sought to commit NATO to guarding pipelines and the SLOC in the interests of energy security.31 U.S. military presence in the region—including Iraq, the Gulf, and the Arabian Sea—if continued on a significant scale, would assist in securing such commercial–strategic interests in a plethora of “peripheral” directions. More broadly, regional presence has made the U.S. part of the geopolitical maneuvering among Russia, China, and the Central Asian states. Russia has a complex attitude toward the U.S. presence: supporting the campaign against the Taliban while useful to Russia, and using American presence to balance Chinese influence. Washington, for its part, supported the democratic revolution in Kyrgystan, where Russia has sought to have the U.S. air base closed.32 China accepts the American presence as long as it is not a regional threat, but seeks to exclude the U.S. from local energy and territorial disputes.33 China’s sensitivity about regional energy supplies is reflected in the presence of the heavy armored corps in Xinjiang—intended to safeguard oilfields in Central Asia.34 U.S. presence might be interpreted as part of a grand strategic attempt to surround either Russia or China by projecting NATO power northwards into Central Asia.35 Given that China and Russia are rivals of Washington for geopolitical influence at either end of the Eurasian land mass, this would indeed be a “peripheral” strategy, although if true, the larger strategic plan has clearly run

U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   189 into trouble. But the role of the U.S. in the New Great Game has been consistent with Zbigniew Brzezinski’s view that Eurasian power relations should be manipulated to promote pluralism and avoid the emergence of any coalition hostile to U.S. global primacy.36 In this sense, we may conceive of peripheral diplomatic– strategic policy in the continental backyard of both Russia and China.

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Peripheral strategy toward Iran U.S. military deployments in the wake of the Afghan and Iraq campaigns also created strategic options for dealing with Iran. These options potentially involve diplomacy, deterrence, containment, and blockade in the cause of sanctions against WMD acquisition, and general influencing of the strategic environment. There is also evidence to suggest that higher-level military action against Iran was contemplated during the second Bush administration. All these approaches are predicated, to some extent, upon having Iran surrounded with U.S. military power by sea and by land—an inherently peripheral strategic formula. President Bush declared Iran part of an “Axis of Evil” in his address to Congress following the 9/11 attacks. Under Mahmoud Ahmadinejad from 2005, Iran underwent a militant revolution in foreign policy by which crisis and resistance came to be used as domestic political tools.37 Iran became effectively a pariah state, relying on Russian diplomacy and technical expertise, and seeing the U.S. as a threat and opponent of Iranian ambition to become a regional power.38 Despite cooperating with Washington against the Taliban in 2002, Iran has been an obstacle to U.S. policy in various ways: using its oil windfall to support Hamas and Hezbollah, seeking to undermine the U.S. petro-dollar monopoly, seeking a gas OPEC, pursuing energy strategy with Russia, signaling a supposed ability to close the Strait of Hormuz, and—it has been believed in Washington— fighting a proxy war with the U.S. in Iraq.39 The U.S.-led campaigns in Afghanistan and Iraq enhanced Iranian regional power by toppling the Taliban and Saddam Hussein. But even if those campaigns did not begin with a partial strategic intention of surrounding Iran, such a strategy evolved within the Bush administration. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice stated explicitly the benefits of dealing with Iran with U.S. forces positioned in Iraq, Afghanistan, the Gulf, and Central Asia.40 Iran itself seems to have acquired a sense of encirclement.41 Reported U.S. plans to attack Iran in 2007 and bring about regime change are still opaque, and may well have been a diplomatic tool in the effort to have Iran relinquish its quest for nuclear capability. Alternatively, they might have been real, involving a debate within the administration won by those opposed to attack, such as—reportedly—Secretary of Defense Gates, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Admiral Michael Mullen, and CENTCOM commander Admiral Fallon.42 Such an attack, if executed, could have had a “peripheral” character in itself, as well as in relation to the wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Alternatively, the U.S. Navy would be aware of the likely deleterious effect of such an attack on global maritime trade and oil prices.43

190   J. Reeve A more graduated approach, utilizing naval forces short of war, could take advantage of the reduced political footprint of offshore diplomacy, while varying force levels, guarding the Strait, allowing the option of blockade, and engaging in strategic “shaping.”44 This too could be “peripheral,” depending on the particular application.

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Russia and the Shanghai Cooperation Organization For reasons already discussed, U.S. maritime and associated operations in the wider Middle East have had, and do have, global implications. These can be broadly interpreted in a continental–maritime—and therefore essentially geopolitical—context. The SCO is significantly short of being an actual military alliance. Initiated in 2001, its six member states are Russia, China, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgystan, and Kazakhstan. But their combined territory covers approximately 60 percent of Eurasia and their combined population is approximately 25 percent of the world’s total.45 Meanwhile, Iran has observer status. The association is a shifting phenomenon whose coherence depends upon the economic, territorial, diplomatic, military, or strategic issue at hand. There are residual Russian suspicions of Chinese encroachment in East and Central Asia.46 There are also divergent attitudes to the Persian Gulf region, where instability can cause Russia to benefit from a higher oil price, but threaten reliable Chinese access.47 Washington is a third side of this triangle, in that any deterioration of U.S.–Russian relations in Europe, for example, can create diplomatic opportunities for China, at U.S. expense, in Central and East Asia.48 The SCO has, however, a shared interest in contesting U.S. assertion of global uni-polar dominance and opposing U.S. influence in Central Asia. Besides Russian arms sales to China, the SCO has strategic depth in the form of joint military exercises, intelligence sharing, and military-to-military contacts.49 This depth has a continental theme in that SCO diplomacy, in conjunction with war games, seems to have been used to signal that Central Asia is no power vacuum to be filled by the U.S., but a Russo-Chinese sphere of influence. Iran seeks full SCO membership, undoubtedly as a means of invoking protection against the U.S. and—by implication—of dislocating encirclement. Iran is a potential land energy bridge between SCO states and the Persian Gulf.50 Russia sees its links with Iran as having strategic value in opposition to both the Taliban and wider American regional influence; Iranian nuclear weaponry could also be a partial leveler against the U.S.51 But Russia and China are unlikely to grant Iran full SCO membership, not wishing to risk gratuitous confrontation with Washington through too strict an alignment. Russia has revived somewhat as a power since its post-Cold War collapse. It remains the junior player in relation to China, however, with a limited and continental focus upon the former Soviet territories, having lost its forward basing. It no longer seeks global power but retrieval of dominance in its “near abroad.”52 The Pacific is still Russia’s area of open ocean access, where the Pacific Fleet, especially its attack submarine force, is responsible for defense of the littoral and

U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   191 maritime approaches to eastern Russia and its economic resources.53 Perhaps most importantly, the state of Sino-Russian relations directly affects how far China can focus attention on the continent or out to sea.

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China as a continental or as a rising maritime state? How far is China becoming a maritime challenger to the United States? The PRC leadership appears to have learned from the Soviet collapse the importance of economic viability. While China is less dependent upon imported oil than the U.S., its exponential economic growth depends upon energy supplies, and the PRC is diversifying its sources, balancing imports from Russia, Central Asia, Africa, and the Persian Gulf, with new initiatives in Latin America. The Iraq War wiped out Chinese stakes in Iraq oil. While China’s economic relationship with the U.S. is more important than that with Iran, the latter has become an important supplier of oil, and potentially of gas.54 The general Chinese view is that continental Eurasian sources cannot substitute ultimately for imports by sea. The prime challenges are, therefore, seen as off-setting the naval power of the U.S., Japan, and India, protecting access to critical choke points like the Malacca Strait, and counteracting the possibility of a U.S.-orchestrated blockade in the event of a Taiwan crisis or as part of a general American containment strategy against China.55 Chinese foreign policy is largely predicated on the way in which a globalizing economy can raise the stakes for an attacker. But there is also a perceived need, by some Chinese analysts, for naval force structure growth to safeguard energy supplies.56 There are the further issues of Chinese claims in the South China Sea, relevant in terms of both resources and strategic position, and—very sensitively—of Taiwan. The developing Chinese PLA Navy is increasingly capable of posing a risk to U.S. naval intervention in the waters proximate to China and Taiwan.57 The Chinese navy currently lacks the capability to defend the oil SLOC in the Indian Ocean, having force structure gaps in terms of surface combatants, organic naval air power, and maritime logistics. SLOC defense capability will, however, conceivably be within reach in coming decades.58 China’s interests in the Indian Ocean are a rationale for its regional soft power initiatives. These include informal alliances, bringing basing rights with Myanmar and Pakistan—part of a strategy of threading a “string of pearls” linking China and the Middle East. Beijing’s pursuit of energy security is conceivably linked to an agenda to become a maritime player in the Indian Ocean, able to counterbalance U.S. power and contain the rise of India.59 Given the end of the Cold War, China has resolved, for the present, the major historical obstacle to its becoming a sea power—its vulnerable land frontiers.60 Despite a current Chinese debate as to whether to concentrate on land power, sea power, or a combination, there has clearly been an official PRC commitment to the acquisition of a blue water navy.61 This is a Mahanian policy in its links to trade and shipping.62 It is simultaneously the approach of a residually continental power that thinks, for example, of its immediate maritime domain in terms of concentric offshore island chains. The SCO is, therefore, a form of continental

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192   J. Reeve alliance with one player—increasingly a hybrid power—going to sea in a major way. China is combining the building of what may eventually constitute just a “risk fleet” with a facility for soft power in pursuit of its grand strategy. To what extent naval force is the predominant element in this equation may not be known for many years. China possesses the supreme political ability: the willingness to wait. This also minimizes the chances of its precipitate action. As the strategic context evolves, Washington and its allies are therefore well placed, with the added diplomatic flexibility of offshore maritime power, to seek opportunities for cooperation.63

India’s role in the U.S. maritime strategy The U.S. response to China’s maritime transformation is multi-faceted within a diplomatic–strategic framework. The long-standing U.S. defense relationship with Japan is being complemented by closer attention to Vietnam, Singapore, and India: states lying in the maritime arc—and along the SLOC—between the Gulf and East Asia. India, as a rising commercial and maritime power, has its own agenda, including close energy ties with Iran and strategic primacy in the Indian Ocean. It is also a key member of a maritime coalition sharing an interest in ensuring that China’s rise is not strategically challenging. India is thus a potentially stabilizing force, sharing political and economic values, as well as interests, with the U.S. While it has the traditional land–sea dilemma of a continental state, its naval capability is likely to remain superior to that of the PLA Navy in the Indian Ocean for the foreseeable future.64 In India, the U.S. has acquired a de facto ally of the kind invaluable to an offshore maritime power: one with the potential ability to distract and divide the attention of a continental competitor in the way Britain’s various European allies did over the centuries—a quintessentially peripheral maritime strategy.

U.S. maritime strategy The correlation of naval forces in East Asia has evolved rapidly since the U.S. Navy deployed two carrier battle groups to the Taiwan Strait area in 1995–1996. Chinese development of anti-access weapons and submarines capable of threatening U.S. ships and aircraft has created the U.S. Navy’s need for strategic depth to guard its forward position in the Western Pacific. In the 1990s, the U.S. Seventh Fleet relocated its logistical base from the Philippines to Singapore, where docking facilities are now available for U.S. aircraft carriers. More recently, Guam has been developed as a substantial sea, air, and Marine Corps base, and has become the mainstay of the U.S. presence in East Asia. The PRC sees Guam as the keystone of a constraining “second island chain.” But the U.S. Navy remains in a position to pursue a sea control and expeditionary strategy within operational reach of the Eurasian littoral and adjacent international waters.65

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U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   193 A key aspect of such a strategy is the ability to respond to a Taiwan crisis. A protracted PRC blockade could lead to an American counter-blockade against China, probably acting against the SLOC at the western end of the Malacca Strait, through which 80 percent of China’s daily oil imports passes. Washington’s Sumatran relief operation of 2004–2005 was simultaneously a demonstration to China of the U.S. Navy’s ability to deploy rapidly in this area and begin such a blockade. While the overall economic effect of such an operation remains debatable, it would constitute a potential threat to the stability of the regime in Beijing. Alternative military and commercial retaliation by China could be expected, but such a distant blockade would be beyond the PLAN’s ability to counter directly.66 If the PRC were to develop such a capability, the USN’s wider presence, and its alliances, in East Asia and around the broader Eurasian littoral would allow a wide variety of possible “peripheral” responses, which might also allow it to address the theoretical problem of multiple continental powers conceivably opposing it with a hefty presence at sea. The pattern of the U.S. response to the rise of Chinese maritime power is thus inherently and potentially peripheral, utilizing the diplomatic facility, reach, and mobility of naval capability, together with forward basing.

Conclusion The early years of the twenty-first century saw a large number of U.S. naval expeditionary operations in peripheral campaigns. These reflected the way in which offshore forces have their own interior lines of communication to match those of continental powers. In the geopolitical competition between maritime and land power, China may be seeking to avoid the error of Napoleon and Hitler in concentrating exclusively on continental strategy. But the record of history is that continental powers have never fully achieved maritime transformation.67 The United States remains the dominant maritime and world power, but it may also have its vulnerabilities. It has become dangerously dependent upon the import or purveyance of one commodity, oil, in the way of previous maritime powers such as Spain upon silver, and Britain upon the Sino-Indian opium trade. The U.S. forces in Afghanistan are also engaged in an area of historical imperial overstretch, which saw the defeat of earlier Great Powers such as Britain and the Soviet Union. The Afghan war may become a function of the limits of maritime power projection against continental Eurasia, as suggested in Korea and Vietnam. The jury is still out on the contrasting views of Mahan and Mackinder. The centuries-old record of victory for maritime power still remains formidable. Certainly, the story of U.S. maritime operations in the twenty-first century will take its place in the history of states, from Portugal to Britain, which for half a millennium utilized sea control and power projection in pursuit of their aims in the wide eastern arc of the Eurasian littoral.

194   J. Reeve

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Notes   1 The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author, and in no way represent those of the Australian Government, its Department of Defence, or the Royal Australian Navy.   2 Robert Woodward, The War Within: A Secret White House History 2006–2008 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2008), 422, 425.   3 Some Chinese observers even believe that oil could cause conflict with the U.S. over control of the Middle East. See Vitaly Kozyrev, “China’s Continental Energy Strategy: Russia and Central Asia,” in Gabe B. Collins, Andrew S. Erickson, Lyle J. Goldstein, and William S. Murray (eds.), China’s Energy Strategy: The Impact Upon Beijing’s Maritime Policies (Annapolis: US Naval Institute Press, 2008), 206.   4 Lutz Kleveman, The New Great Game: Blood and Oil in Central Asia (London: Atlantic Books, 2003).   5 Kozyrev, 209.   6 Matthew Edwards, “The New Great Game and the New Great Gamers: Disciples of Kipling and Mackinder,” Central Asian Survey, 22, 1, March 2003, 83–102; Barnett R. Rubin and Ahmed Rashid, “From Great Game to Grand Bargain,” Foreign Affairs, 87, 6, November/December 2008, 30–44.   7 Zbigniew Brzezinski, The Grand Chessboard: American Primacy and its Geostrategic Imperatives (New York: Basic Books, 1997), 39–40.   8 Antony H. Cordesman, The War After the War: Strategic Lessons of Iraq and Afghanistan (Washington, DC: Center for Strategic and International Studies, 2004), 67.   9 C. Dale Walton, Geopolitics and the Great Powers in the Twenty-First Century: Multipolarity and the Revolution in Strategic Perspective (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 74. 10 Robert Kagan, The Return of History and the End of Dreams (London: Atlantic Books, 2008). 11 Paul Kennedy, The Parliament of Man: The United Nations and the Quest for World Government (London: Allen Lane, 2006), xi, xv. 12 James Mulvenon, “Dilemmas and Imperatives of Beijing’s Strategic Energy Dependence: The PLA Perspective,” in Collins, 4–6. 13 Niall Ferguson and Moritz Schularick, “Death Throes of a Monster,” The Weekend Australian, 21–22 November 2009, 23. 14 Kozyrev, 206. 15 Geoffrey Till, Seapower: A Guide for the Twenty-First Century, 2nd rev. edn. (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009), 323–324. 16 For Sino-US cooperation in terms of energy security, see Chas W. Freeman, Jr., “Energy as China’s Achilles Heel?” in Collins, 13–20. 17 Colin S. Gray, “In Defence of the Heartland: Sir Halford Mackinder and his Critics a Hundred Years On,” in Brian W. Blouet (ed.), Global Geostrategy: Mackinder and the Defence of the West (London: Cass, 2005), 18. 18 Paul Kennedy, “Mahan Versus Mackinder: Two Interpretation of British Sea Power,” in Paul Kennedy, Strategy and Diplomacy 1870–1945 (London: Allen and Unwin, 1983); Jon Sumida, “Alfred Thayer Mahan, Geopolitician,” Journal of Strategic Studies, 22, 2/3, June/September 1999, 39–62. 19 Brian W. Blouet, “Halford Mackinder and the Pivotal Heartland,” in Blouet (ed.), Global Geostrategy, 6. 20 James R. Holmes and Toshi Yoshihara, Chinese Naval Strategy in the 21st Century: The Turn to Mahan (Abingdon: Routledge, 2008). 21 Kenneth J. Hagan and Michael T. McMaster, “The United States Navy Since President Ronald Reagan,” in Andrew Forbes (ed.), Sea Power: Challenges Old and New (Sydney: Halstead Press, 2007), 132–134; and the chapters by Robert J. Schneller, Jr.

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U.S. naval operations and geopolitics   195 and David B. Crist on Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom respectively in Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine (eds.), Naval Coalition Warfare: From the Napoleonic War to Operation Iraqi Freedom (Abingdon: Routledge, 2008). 22 Antony H. Cordesman, The Iraq War: Strategy, Tactics, and Military Lessons (Washington, DC: CSIS Press, 2003), 21. 23 Hagan and McMaster, 119, 125–126, 132, 135; Gary Roughead, “The United States Navy: Challenges and Responses,” in Forbes (ed.), Sea Power, 288–289. 24 L. Harding, “Afghan Route Opened via Russia’s Backyard,” Guardian Weekly, 3–9 April 2009, 1–2. 25 Walton, 73. 26 David Kilcullen, The Accidental Guerilla: Fighting Small Wars in the Midst of a Big One (Melbourne: Scribe, 2009), 117. 27 Robert E. Harkavy, Strategic Basing and the Great Powers, 1200–2000 (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 3. 28 Eugene B. Rumer, Russian Foreign Policy Beyond Putin, International Institute for Strategic Studies Adelphi Paper 390 (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 34. 29 A key pipeline, of which the Kazakh section was opened in 2009, to carry gas from Turkmenistan to Xinjiang, is due for completion in 2013: BBC online, 13 December 2009. See also Kozyrev, 204, 216; Rubin and Rashid, 43. 30 Kleveman, 70. 31 A U.S. Department of Energy report of 2001, prior to the 9/11 attacks, portrayed Afghanistan as a valuable energy conduit between the Caspian and the Arabian Gulf. Kleveman, 160–164, 222–227; see also Shawn McCarthy, “Pipeline Opens New Front in Afghan War,” Globe and Mail, 19 June 2008; Shawn McCarthy, “Asia’s New Great Game is all about Pipelines,” Toronto Star, 20 August 2008. 32 Rumer, 34–36; Kozyrev, 217; Philip P. Pan, Craig Whitlock, and Peter Finn, “U.S. Expresses Concern as Opposition Group in Kyrgyzstan Seizes Power,” Washington Post, online, 8 April 2010. 33 Kozyrev, 205. 34 Ibid., 203. 35 M.K. Bhadrakumar, “Shanghai Cooperation Organization Primed and Ready to Fire: Toward a Regional and Global Realignment?,” Japan Focus, 10 August 2007. 36 Brzezinski, 198. 37 Ali M. Ansari, Iran Under Ahmadinejad: The Politics of Confrontation, IISS Adelphi Paper 393 (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 45–47. 38 Shahram Chubin, “Iran’s Power in Context,” Survival, 51, 1, February–March 2009, 165–166, 179–180. 39 Zbigniew Brzezinski, keynote address to the IISS Global Strategic Review, Geneva, 2009; Chubin, “Iran’s Power in Context,” 176–177; Robert Fisk, “The Demise of the Dollar,” Independent, online 6 October, 2009; P. Hafezi, “Alarm as Iran Hails ‘Gas Opec,’ ” Scotsman, online 22 October 2008; Mahdi Darius Nazemroaya, “The ‘Great Game’ Enters the Mediterranean: Gas, Oil, War and Geo-Politics,” Global Research, online 14 October 2007; Nazila Fathi, “Iran Opens Naval Base Near Routes for Gulf Oil,” New York Times, online 29 October 2008; Sarah Baxter, “Pentagon ‘Three-Day Blitz’ Plan for Iran,” TimesOnline, 2 September 2007. For a skeptical view of Iranian ability to close the Strait, see Dennis Blair and Kenneth Lieberthal, “Smooth Sailing,” Foreign Affairs, 86, 3, May/June 2007, 10. 40 Woodward, 423. 41 Glenn Kessler, “In 2003 US Spurned Iran’s Offer of Dialogue,” Washington Post, 18 June 2006; Rubin and Rashid, 42–43; Kleveman, 129, 226. 42 Seymour M. Hersh, “The Iran Plans,” “Preparing the Battlefield,” The New Yorker, 17 April 2006 and 7 July 2008. 43 Robert Kaplan, “Center Stage for the Twenty First Century,” Foreign Affairs, 88, 2, March/April 2009, 25.

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196   J. Reeve 44 Daniel Gouré and Rebecca Grant, “U.S. Naval Options for Influencing Iran,” Naval War College Review, 62, 4, Autumn, 2009. 45 Kozyrev, 179. 46 Rumer, 36. 47 I owe this point to Michael Richardson. 48 Kozyrev, 203. 49 Rajan Menon, “The Limits of Chinese–Russian Partnership,” Survival, 51, 3, JuneJuly 2009, 116–118. 50 Kozyrev, 179. 51 Rumer, 37–38. 52 Robert Gates, “A Balanced Strategy,” Foreign Affairs, 88, 1, January/February 2009, 32; John Erickson, “ ‘Russia Will Not Be Trifled With’: Geopolitical Facts and Fantasies,” Journal of Strategic Studies, 22, 2/3, June/September 1999, 99 et passim. 53 Alexy Muraviev, Russian Naval Power in the Pacific: Today and Tomorrow (Canberra: Sea Power Centre Australia, 2003); Alexy Muraviev, The Russian Pacific Fleet: From the Crimean War to Perestroika (Canberra: Sea Power Centre Australia, 2007), 47–50. 54 Ahmed Hashim, “China’s Evolving Relationship with Iran,” in Collins,162–185; Philip Sherwell and Peter Goff, “Beijing Courts New Allies with ‘Black Gold Diplomacy’,” Sunday Telegraph, 23 April 2006, 28–29. 55 Gabe B. Collins, Andrew S. Erickson, and Lyle J. Goldstein, “Chinese Naval Analysts Consider the Energy Question,” in Collins, 299–335. 56 Collins et al., “Chinese Naval Analysts,” 300. 57 Till, 348; Andrew Erickson, “Ballistic Trajectory—China Develops New Anti-Ship Missile,” Jane’s Intelligence Review, online, 4 January 2010. 58 Introduction and James R. Holmes and Toshi Yoshihara, “China’s Naval Ambitions in the Indian Ocean,” in Collins, xvii, 135–136. 59 Holmes and Yoshihara, “China’s Naval Ambitions,” 122–125; Donald L. Berlin, “India in the Indian Ocean,” Naval War College Review, 59, 2, Spring 2006, 63–64. 60 Cary Lord, “China and Maritime Transformations,” in Andrew S. Erickson, Lyle J. Goldstein, and Cary Lord (eds.), China Goes to Sea: Maritime Transformation in Comparative Historical Perspective (Annapolis: US Naval Institute Press, 2009), 445–446; John Reeve, “The Development of Naval Strategy in the Asia-Pacific Region 1500–2000,” in Geoffrey Till (ed.), Seapower at the Millennium (Stroud/ Portsmouth: Sutton/Royal Naval Museum, 2001). 61 Introduction in Erickson et al. (eds.), Maritime Transformation, xxff. 62 Holmes and Yoshihara, “China’s Naval Ambitions in the Indian Ocean,” 117. 63 Collins, xvi–xvii; Cortez A. Cooper, The PLA Navy’s “New Historic Missions”: Expanding Capabilities for a Re-Emergent Maritime Power (Santa Monica: RAND Corporation, 2009), 10–11. 64 Holmes and Yoshihara, “China’s Naval Ambitions in the Indian Ocean,” 120, 134; Berlin, “India in the Indian Ocean,” 65–69; R. Nicholas Burns, “America’s Strategic Opportunity with India—The New U.S.–India Partnership,” Foreign Affairs, 86, 6, November/December 2007. 65 Andrew S. Erickson and Justin D. Mikolay, “A Place and a Base: Guam and the American Presence in East Asia,” in Cary Lord (ed.), Reposturing the Force: US Overseas Presence in the Twenty-First Century, US Naval War College Newport Papers 26 (Newport: US Naval War College Press, 2006). 66 Bruce Elleman, “A Comparative Historical Approach to Blockade Strategies: Implications for China,” in Collins, 365–386; Gabe B. Collins and William S. Murray, “No Oil for the Lamps of China?” in ibid., 387, 390ff. 67 Introduction in Erickson et al. (eds.), Maritime Transformation, xvi.

16 Conclusions Naval expeditionary warfare and the future of sea power Downloaded by [INFLIBNET Centre] at 06:24 25 September 2012

Bruce A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine1

The naval expeditionary case studies presented in this book should be considered from an operational and strategic level of analysis rather than the tactical level. The operational level focuses on the deployment and coordination of multiple military units in a common theatre in pursuit of a common objective. The strategic level goes beyond military goals to focus on the achievement of the national objectives for which forces have been deployed. Attainment of the military objective should promote the achievement of the national objective, but in most cases the national objective requires the integration of operational success with many other non-military instruments of national power such as diplomacy, finance, intelligence, communications, transportation, production, energy, and so on. This is properly called grand strategy—“grand” because it integrates all the relevant military and non-military elements of national power and “strategy” because these elements of national power are marshaled within a coherent analytical framework to achieve specific national objectives. A national objective only very rarely is a military or operational objective— common national objectives concern the nature of the global or domestic order, or the global or regional balance of power. Not all countries have a grand strategy. Many countries do not go beyond tactical training and operational plans and so can easily mistake operational victory for strategic victory. Yet operational victory at best is a necessary but insufficient condition for strategic victory. Counter-intuitively, stunning operational success can prevent strategic victory if it conjures a countervailing hostile coalition. For instance, Germany’s and Japan’s initial operational successes in World War II brought into being a superior hostile coalition that defeated them both operationally and strategically. At the operational level, naval expeditionary warfare can be analyzed in terms of the factors of time, space, and force; the achievement of military—or operational—goals; and, more importantly, in terms of the contribution to the achievement of national—or strategic—goals. The categories of time, space, and force comprise the standard framework for analyzing military operations. Time addresses both the speed of execution and the duration of a military operation. Space concerns the size and geography of the theatre as well as the sea and land lines of communications linking the belligerents to it. Force refers to the military assets available for use in the theatre.

198   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine

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Time: execution and duration Both the speed of execution and the duration of an expeditionary operation can influence its effectiveness (see Table 16.1). Execution can be rapid or incremental, the introduction of different types of forces can be simultaneous or sequential, and the duration of the operation can range from short to protracted. For instance, the British rapidly blockaded the White Sea during the Crimean War, but for a short period. In contrast, the Commonwealth forces arrived at Gallipoli incrementally and sequentially: the navy bombarded, pause, some army units arrived, pause, and more reinforcements arrived. At Inchon, forces from all services simultaneously converged and proceeded rapidly inland. In contrast, the New Guinea Campaign protracted over several years. The simultaneous deployments of forces and rapid execution in the White Sea Campaign, the Inchon landing, the Paracels, the Falklands War, and in the invasion of Iraq all quickly achieved their operational goals. The White Sea Campaign was hardly a war-winning theatre but, as intended, it imposed comparatively high costs on Russia, given the tiny British force deployed, the relatively large Russian force pinned down, and the extent of the Russian trade it disrupted. In Korea, the Inchon landing was so successful that it led to an expansion of operational and strategic goals—reunification of the peninsula instead of a return to the 38th parallel; war protraction resulted from this expansion of objectives, not from the Inchon strategy. China rapidly took the Paracels and Britain rapidly retook the Falklands. In Iraq, the initial set of operational goals (overthrowing the conventional forces of Saddam Hussein) proved insufficient and the follow-on operational goals (eliminating the insurgency) were much

Table 16.1  Time Case

Execution

Force introduction

Duration

Strategic effectiveness

Peninsula White Sea Gallipoli Mesopotamia

Incremental Rapid Incremental Incremental

Simultaneous Simultaneous Sequential Sequential

Long Short Medium Long

Pearl Harbor Guadalcanal New Guinea Inchon Malaysia Paracels Falklands Iraq

Rapid Incremental Incremental Rapid Incremental Rapid Rapid Rapid

Simultaneous Sequential Sequential Simultaneous Sequential Simultaneous Simultaneous Simultaneous

Long Medium Long Medium Long Short Short Long

Afghanistan

Rapid

Sequential

Long

Yes, imposed high costs Yes, imposed high costs No, wasted forces Yes, but got oil at high    cost No, set stage for defeat Yes, imposed high costs Yes, imposed high costs Yes, forced mass retreat Yes, secured Malaysia Yes, pre-empted Russia Yes, confirmed UK power Unknown, region remains    unstable Unknown, region remains    unstable

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Conclusions   199 more difficult to achieve than the initial set. Regardless of any subsequent complications, all of these expeditions achieved the operational objectives they were designed to achieve. During the opening days of the Pacific War, Japan’s numerous simultaneous attacks throughout the Pacific in late 1941 all swiftly achieved their operational goals. But they brought disaster at the strategic level of warfare by transforming a regional war with China into a global war in which Japan faced a Great-Power coalition of the main sea powers, now intent upon regime change in Tokyo. Thus, swift execution seems linked with operational, but not necessarily with strategic, success. The Gallipoli Campaign followed a different trajectory. Forces arrived sequentially by service and over a long period of time. This gave the Ottoman forces ample time to prepare, with disastrous results for those of the British Commonwealth. The timing of the execution made failure at Gallipoli likely. The Allies and the Japanese also introduced their forces incrementally at both New Guinea and Guadalcanal, but with far less army–navy coordination on the Japanese than the Allied side. Both campaigns were protracted, but protraction is not necessarily bad, particularly if the goal is enemy attrition. The Peninsular War (six years), New Guinea (three years), and Guadalcanal (one year) were all protracted and designed to inflict disproportionate enemy casualties, which they did. However, the winning side in Guadalcanal and New Guinea, in contrast to the losing side in Gallipoli, had—and continued to leverage—its superior access to the theatre, leaving the losing side undermanned and undersupplied. This put time on the side of those with better access to the theatre. When considering the elements of time and duration, it is important, therefore, to distinguish between protraction by error, such as at Gallipoli, and by intent, such as in Iberia. Protraction worked well against an occupying force isolated by geography from the main force, thereby escalating the occupation costs and eventually forcing a withdrawal.

Space: the nature of the theatre In most cases, sea powers use expeditionary warfare against land powers, and most often on a peripheral front, since an opposed landing on a main front can be difficult, if not impossible (see Table 16.2). Even the D-Day landing occurred in a theatre peripheral to the Eastern Front where the overwhelming majority of German forces remained locked in combat against Russia—228 German divisions in the east compared to 58 divisions in the west2—and even on the Western Front the German forces were stationed to defend Calais, not the actual landing site. Only rarely do either sea or land powers engage in expeditionary warfare against sea powers—Japan’s peripheral strategy in World War II is the most famous case and it illustrates the dangers inherent in employing a peripheral strategy against a sea power. A great naval power attacked in this way will make use of the element of space to degrade the sea lines of communication of its

Main theatre/conflict

Russia Crimea France France China China China Pusan Cold War Sino-Soviet Split Cold War GWOT GWOT

Case

Peninsula White Sea Gallipoli Mesopotamia Pearl Harbor Guadalcanal New Guinea Inchon Malaysia Paracels Falklands Iraq Afghanistan

Table 16.2  Space

Iberia White Sea Dardanelles Mesopotamia Pearl Harbor, etc. Guadalcanal New Guinea Inchon Malaysia Paracels Falklands Iraq Afghanistan

Expeditionary theatre Near Far Far Far Far Far Far Far Far Near Far Far Far

Distance from home Sea power Sea power Sea power Sea power Sea power Sea power Sea power Sea power Sea power Land power Sea power Sea power Sea power

Expeditionary power

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Land power Land power Land power Land power Sea power Sea power Sea power Land power Land power Land power Land power Land power Land power

Victim of expedition

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Conclusions   201 adversary to render the peripheral strategy ineffective—and potentially disastrous—as Japan discovered. Expeditionary warfare usually entails the deployment of forces far from their home bases. In virtually all of the case studies examined, distance meant the country under attack could not retaliate effectively against the home territory of its attacker. For the dominant naval power—generally the attacker in naval expeditionary warfare—distance afforded sanctuary. Not only did the oceans offer homeland security, but they also opened numerous potential avenues to attack the enemy. For the land power—generally the victim of naval expeditionary warfare—the oceans constituted both an insurmountable barrier against imposing costs on the enemy and a vulnerability to attack by sea. Although air power and nuclear weapons have degraded the efficacy of the oceanic moat, they have not fully negated the comparative homeland security advantage of sea over land powers. Naval expeditions work best for sea powers against land powers, against isolated islands or peninsulas, or against other, lesser, sea powers dependent on sea lines of communication. Land powers can render such attacks ineffective if their central geographic location provides alternate land lines of communication or if they can draw the sea power forces inland to impose high military costs, as in the Mesopotamian Campaign for Britain. If the land power borders on key allies, these allies can provide critical military aid and sanctuary for military and other assets, causing the war to protract and costs for the expeditionary power to escalate. This was the communist strategy during the Cold War: their two Asian “hot wars” in Korea and Vietnam relied on resupply over land borders. China and Russia armed the local forces, thereby precluding the reunification of the Korean Peninsula, under a non-communist government in the first case, and supporting the unification of North and South Vietnam, under a communist government in the second case. Sea powers do particularly well when attacking an enemy position on an isolated island or peninsula, such as Guadalcanal, New Guinea, the Malayan Peninsula, or the Falklands. This does not guarantee success, as Gallipoli has shown. When enemy supply lines must traverse the sea, the dominant naval power can win as much by cutting these lines at sea as by fighting the enemy on land. This was the case in New Guinea and Guadalcanal. More than any other countries, Britain (10), Australia (7), and the United Sates (5) figure in multiple naval expeditionary operations. This is perhaps not too surprising, since Britain was the preeminent sea power for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries until supplanted by the United States in the twentieth century, while Australia has been a key maritime ally of both countries. By contrast, land powers have a very small chance of successfully attacking another power by sea, which perhaps explains China’s highly selective use of naval expeditionary warfare against Vietnam.

202   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine

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Force: joint and combined operations In addition to time and space, force also constitutes a critical operational dimension of expeditionary warfare (see Table 16.3). Execution of a naval expeditionary attack requires naval forces capable of overcoming an enemy’s sea denial strategies. In most cases, this entailed amphibious landings, ongoing supply and reinforcement by sea, and the protection of these sea lines of communication and their denial to the enemy. The mere execution let alone success of expeditionary warfare requires enormous logistical capabilities. In the era of air power, naval dominance and sea denial require air dominance and air denial. Modern naval expeditionary campaigns are rarely conducted just by surface ships, therefore, but also rely heavily on submarines and air power. Whereas jointness in the past focused on land–sea coordination, with the advent of air power, naval expeditionary warfare requires sea–air coordination as well. Many naval expeditions included not only joint but also combined operations. The Peninsular War, the campaigns of World War I and II, the Inchon landing, the Falklands War, and the initial invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan stand out as prime examples of joint operations. In all but rare cases like the White Sea Campaign, which was almost exclusively conducted at sea, naval expeditionary warfare requires joint operations. If the navy and army do not continuously coordinate then they risk, if not make certain, a Gallipoli. Virtually all naval expeditions have also occurred within the context of coalitions so that most have entailed combined warfare. Coalitions played key roles in the Peninsular War, the Crimean War, World War I, World War II, the Korean War, Malaysia, the Iraq War, and the ongoing conflict in Afghanistan.

Peripheral operations An important subset of expeditionary warfare concerns peripheral operations. A peripheral military operation occurs during an ongoing war in a theatre peripheral to the main front. In other words, a peripheral theatre is a secondary theatre. Peripheral operations figure prominently in strategy because among the most important decisions in wartime is the decision to open, not to open, to contest, or not to contest a new theatre. The deployment of expeditionary forces to a peripheral theatre rests on the decision to open that theatre or to contest it if the enemy has acted first. Generally, such theatres sidestep the enemy main forces to take on a weaker subset. Victory in a peripheral theatre should not be confused with victory in the overarching war. The peripheral theatre is valuable only in so far as it contributes to victory in the greater war and sets favorable conditions for peace. All the case studies examined from the Peninsular War through the Inchon landing in the Korean War occurred in peripheral theatres. The main theatre was not Spain but Russia for Napoleon; not the White Sea but the Crimea for Russia; not Gallipoli or Mesopotamia but France for Germany; not Pearl Harbor but China for Japan; not Guadalcanal or New Guinea but the Japanese home islands for the

Peninsula White Sea Gallipoli Mesopotamia Pearl Harbor Guadalcanal New Guinea Inchon Malaysia Paracels Falklands Iraq Afghanistan

Case

X X

X X X X X X

Mines

Table 16.3  Force

X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Patrols

X

X X X X

Subs

X X X

X X X X

Bombing

X X

X X X X

Re/conquest

X X X X

X X X X X X X X

Invasion X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Land ops.

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X X X X X X X X X

Air ops.

204   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine U.S.; and not Inchon but Pusan for the United Nations. Finally, most peripheral campaigns included land invasions that were not necessarily intended for permanent conquest, but to exert pressure and to sap the resources of the enemy.

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Highly successful peripheral operations Highly successful peripheral operations—the Peninsular War, the White Sea Campaign, Guadalcanal and New Guinea for the Allies, and the Inchon landing—all entailed clearly linked operational and strategic outcomes. In addition, the winning sides in these five cases all gathered more accurate battlefield intelligence than did their enemies, and all demonstrated logistical superiority in both deploying and sustaining forces, as well as superiority in conducting joint operations. Clear strategic links between the peripheral and main theatres meant that victory in the secondary theatre contributed directly to victory on the main front. The war in Iberia, the model case on which Sir Julian Corbett based his naval theories, pinned and attrited French armies, making them unavailable for Napoleon’s fatal Russian campaign. In the White Sea Campaign of the Crimean War, a tiny British force both pinned a much larger Russian force and cut trade, increasing the military and economic pressure on Russia to negotiate a settlement. In World War II, the Allies envisioned victory over Japan through attrition and inflicted unsustainable Japanese losses at Guadalcanal and New Guinea. In the Korean War, Inchon was the operational hammer for Pusan’s anvil; UN forces landed at Inchon in order to encircle and annihilate enemy forces and fatally weaken the North Korean government. Information superiority facilitated operational success. In the Peninsular War, Britain gleaned intelligence from the local population, which was generally hostile to France. During the Crimean War, Britain understood that Russia was singularly unprepared to fight in the White Sea theatre. U.S. information superiority over Japan and Germany in World War II is perhaps the most famous case of code breaking; the ability to decipher Japanese diplomatic, naval, and eventually army codes, minimized Allied losses while maximizing those of Japan. At Inchon, the North Korean leadership clearly did not expect a UN landing, a monumental failure in intelligence, while the UN correctly gauged the weakness of North Korean defenses there. Finally, it is hard to imagine operations more joint than the Peninsular War or the Inchon landing. Throughout the campaign, Wellington’s land forces remained in close communication with those at sea, while MacArthur’s forces depended on naval superiority to land at an extraordinarily difficult location and to wall off the South Korean coastline from North Korean infiltration. Despite lapses in jointness at Guadalcanal and New Guinea, in comparative terms the Allies were far more joint than were the Japanese, whose land and sea services often treated each other as the main enemy. Most successful peripheral operations depended on clearly linked operational and strategic goals, and comparative advantages in intelligence collection and analysis, as well as in the conduct of joint and combined operations.

Conclusions   205

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Unsuccessful peripheral operations Military operations must fit within the larger picture of national resources, goals, and non-military strategies. This sounds obvious, yet remarkable numbers of belligerents have failed to go beyond the operational level of warfare. Many did not completely think out their operational choices to link the anticipated military effects to the desired political outcomes of the war, meaning the nature of the post-war peace. In the cases examined, an unclear strategic relationship between the peripheral and the primary theatres resulted in a boomerang effect in the peripheral theatre. British operations against the Ottoman Empire in World War I, Japanese operations in the Pacific during World War II, and potentially U.S. operations in the Middle East, transformed passive enemies into active belligerents: in World War I and World War II, for example, these operations entailed fighting allies of the main enemy. During World War I, Germany was the main enemy for Britain; in World War II, China was the main enemy of Japan; and at the time of the decision to invade Iraq, al-Qaeda and Taliban fighters in Afghanistan were the main enemies for the United States. The secondary enemies—the Ottomans in World War I and the Western allies in World War II—were actually the dominant powers in the relevant peripheral theatres. This meant that, while Britain and Japan had deployed their main forces elsewhere, their secondary enemy could focus its own forces in the peripheral theatre or, in the case of the U.S. in World War II, was economically so much larger than Japan, that it could still bring more to the peripheral theatre than could Japan. The asymmetries favored the victims not the attackers and led to the attrition of important friendly forces but not of the forces of the main enemy. As a result, these peripheral theatres served to overextend the perpetrator rather than the victim. In the two World Wars, these peripheral operations engaged Britain and Japan in fighting secondary enemies, whom they could have sidestepped entirely. British problems in Gallipoli and Mesopotamia, Japanese problems in Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, and New Guinea, and Argentine problems in the Falklands reflected, in part, another problem of strategy, a failure to identify the enemy’s strategic or operational center of gravity. The Ottoman army in World War I was neither an operational nor a strategic center of gravity for the Central powers. Nor did the locations of Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, or New Guinea bring anything to bear on the China theatre for Japan; quite the contrary, Pearl Harbor instantly conjured a Great-Power U.S.–British alliance with China. In the Falklands, Argentina failed to focus on Britain’s operational center of gravity, its two aircraft carriers. Just damaging one might have escalated the costs of the war beyond what British voters were willing to pay. All of these issues—the irrelevance of the Ottoman armies to the outcome of the war in Europe and of the Pacific theatre to victory in China, and the centrality of aircraft carriers to Britain’s operational and political ability to continue hostilities in the Falklands—are actually obvious in hindsight. Yet recognizing the obvious often requires careful assessment.

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206   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine In addition to problems of strategy, there were also problems of execution. The British-led forces at Gallipoli failed at the execution of joint and combined operations. Indeed, Gallipoli is a negative example illustrating incredible logistical failures: naval and land forces were introduced sequentially and incrementally over many months. Rather than disorienting the Ottoman empire with surprise, Britain gave it ample time to prepare. Proper execution would have required much advance naval and army coordination to pound the coast, land the men, and move up and out as fast as possible toward the Straits to open them to Entente traffic. Superior intelligence is not simply valuable, but critical. Intelligence embraces a wide array of information obtained from a diversity of sources, whose utility depends on competent analysis. The information inferiority of Argentina in the Falklands and particularly of Japan in the Pacific proved fatal to both. In World War II, even with the ability to decrypt many Japanese communications, the United States found the fighting to be hard going.3 Without information superiority, the United States could not have destroyed Japan’s merchant marine, whose loss undermined Japan’s ability to manufacture war materiel, feed the home islands, and shift troops and supplies among distant theatres. Without information superiority, the United States still might have won the island campaigns, but at greater cost, since it would not have known where to bypass Japanese troop concentrations or where to find Japanese carriers and convoys. Costs would have escalated to a level that might have caused the United States to downgrade its objectives. Japan still might have lost the war, but at the price of a negotiated rather than an unconditional surrender. Argentina’s failure to understand either British critical vulnerabilities or London politics cost it the Falklands, which Britain became determined to retain only after Argentina had occupied them. Argentina would have done better with a diplomatic than a military strategy, or, if determined to take military action, had done so only after Britain decommissioned key elements of its Cold War navy. To summarize, peripheral operations failed when not carefully integrated into a greater grand strategy linking both the probable operational result in the peripheral theatre to victory in the overarching war as well as linking the strategy of war with the achievement of national goals. In some cases, the initial attack in a peripheral theatre activated a formerly passive enemy, producing overextension, not—as intended—of the main enemy, but of the perpetrator of the peripheral operation, now spread thin over multiple theatres. A peripheral theatre that was the main theatre for an enemy ally, such as with the Ottomans, exacerbated this outcome, because the enemy’s ally could focus all energies on an adversary with divided attention. It is amazing how many powers have found joint operations nearly impossible to execute. The coordination of land and naval forces for an amphibious landing and for coastal operations seems obvious. Yet navies and armies often work at cross-purposes. Likewise, successful contested landings depend not only on joint operations, but also in superior intelligence for the invading forces to survive the vulnerable landing period.

Conclusions   207

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Finally, international law governing expeditionary warfare suggests that consensual invasions can be particularly costly if the regional ally does not wave numerous provisions of its own domestic laws, which would otherwise be applicable to the expeditionary force. Non-consensual expeditionary actions have the benefit of simpler legal restrictions under the Law of Armed Conflict. For this reason, sea powers have been reluctant to conduct expeditionary campaigns in “failed” states, such as Somalia, and have relied instead on maritime patrols as a stopgap measure.4

Operational versus strategic risk Otto von Bismarck, the great grand strategist of the succession of wars that transformed Prussia into a Great Power, famously observed: “Only a fool learns from his own mistakes.” Bismarck, of course, learned from the mistakes of “others.” Surprisingly few nations consistently focus on grand strategy, a term of British coinage reflecting their highly analytical approach to foreign policy.5 This sin of omission has produced on occasion a corresponding failure to consider risk (see Table 16.4). Pearl Harbor, Inchon, and the Falklands strategies entailed enormous operational risk. Navies have special reasons to be risk adverse. This is because they depend on a comparatively small number of extremely expensive platforms that, once lost, cannot easily be reconstituted. Pearl Harbor and Inchon both put ships and personnel at risk: if the U.S. aircraft carriers had been in the vicinity of but not at Pearl Harbor, Japan might have lost capital ships. During the Korean War, under easily imaginable circumstances, the U.S. might have lost numerous ships and personnel at Inchon, where a sunk ship in the narrow approaches might have impeded land–sea access or where, given the massive tidal flows, delays might have left boats stranded by an outgoing tide on the mudflats to become marks for coastal gunfire. Even small operations, such as the Falklands War, can risk extremely expensive capital ships; damaging just one of the two British aircraft carriers might have changed the outcome of the conflict. But sometimes the stakes warrant the risk. At Inchon, unlike at Pearl Harbor, operational success contributed directly to the defeat of the main enemy. Moreover, Inchon did not guarantee the entry of new active belligerents on the enemy side. In other words, in addition to posing enormous operational risks, Pearl Harbor also posed even greater strategic risks. In World War II, China lacked the capacity under any circumstances to threaten the Japanese home islands. But as Japan quickly found out, the United States possessed and utilized this capa­ city to destroy virtually every Japanese city of any size and to demand unconditional surrender. Japanese leaders, throughout the war with China and the ensuing war with the United States and the British Commonwealth, failed to tabulate the strategic risks of their operational strategies. Pearl Harbor did not promise to end the quagmire in China, only to cut U.S. and British aid. This outcome would not have made Japan any more capable of garrisoning all of China. Quite the contrary, the

Afghanistan

Iraq

Falklands

Paracels

Malaysia

Inchon

Mesopotamia Pearl Harbor Guadalcanal New Guinea Encircle North Korean army

Secure oil, take territory Expel West from Asia Attrite Japanese forces Attrite Japanese forces

Take Dardanelles

Attrite French army Cut trade, pin Russian army

Operational goal

Maximize conquests Cut US and UK aid to China Win by exhausting enemy Shore up ally; win by    exhausting enemy Secure South Korea

Low

Medium

High

Low

Low

High

Medium High Medium Medium

Win by exhausting enemy Medium Increase costs to force Low    negotiations Eliminate weakest enemy ally Medium

Rationale of military strategy Operational risk

Defeat insurgency; maintain Eliminate threat to UK   Malaysian territorial status   economic and strategic quo interests in area Counter Soviet–Vietnam Take Paracels Undermine Soviet–Vietnam    alliance    alliance Demonstrate UK still a Great Take Falklands Demonstrate UK naval    Power    capabilities Stabilize Middle East Overthrow government A reformed Iraq to become    model for region Stabilize Middle East Overthrow government Eliminate al-Qaeda et al.

Overthrow Napoleon Contain Russian expansion in    Ottoman Empire Defeat Ottomans, move on    Central powers Defeat Ottomans Defeat China, secure oil Defeat Japan Shore up alliance with    Australia Changes from status quo ante    bellum to reunification Maintain territorial and    political status quo

Peninsula White Sea

Gallipoli

Strategic goal

Case

Table 16.4  Risk

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Low

Medium

Low

Low

Low

Low

Low High Low Low

Low

Low Low

Strategic risk

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Conclusions   209 opening of new theatres and the proliferation of enemies dispersed Japanese forces to distant theatres, compounding Japan’s overextension. In contrast, Inchon was worth the operational risk because it promised the even higher reward of possibly terminating the war, which it might have done had the United States advanced only as far as the narrow waist of the Korean peninsula between Wonsan and Nampo and then traded back territory in return for peace.6 MacArthur’s strategy in Korea ran into trouble when he ignored strategic risk to continue the offensive all the way to the border, triggering a costly third-party intervention by China. The Falklands also posed high operational risks, but these occurred within the context of naval downsizing in Britain so that naval leaders saw the hostilities as an opportunity to demonstrate the value of the service to put a brake on the downsizing. The strategic risks were low, as the Cold War—the war on which British survival rested—seemed unlikely to heat up as a result of the Falklands War. Yet the prestige value for Britain from a victory against Argentina was high. Britain’s success demonstrated that, contrary to the persistent trend of British decline after World War I, it remained a great military power if defined by the ability to project power far from home.

Allegiance of the local population The Peninsular War is often considered the model for all subsequent peripheral operations, while Gallipoli is reviled, particularly in Australia and New Zealand, which lost so many for so little while under British command. In many ways the theatres were similar. They were far from the main front and isolated from the main adversary, which could not easily reach either theatre. Both were in very strategic locations—the Iberian Peninsula controlled access to the Mediterranean while the Dardanelles controlled access to the Black Sea and southern Russia. Both theatres allowed Britain to leverage its naval dominance and engage its underutilized naval capacity in combat. Clearly at the level of execution, however, the campaigns shared nothing in common. The Duke of Wellington, one of Britain’s greatest generals, commanded his forces in Iberia with a clear understanding of the connection between his military operations there and the greater war in Europe. He worked closely with the Royal Navy to secure his sea lines of communication, which not only entailed the reliable delivery of supplies, but allowed Wellington’s forces to retreat back to the sea when fighting on land became untenable. In contrast, the generals and admirals in charge of Gallipoli resented the diversion of their assets far from the main front and apparently resented each other as well as Sir Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, whose brainchild it was. So there was minimal army–navy cooperation, no visible civil–military coordination, and disastrous execution at every level but the tactical, where Commonwealth soldiers fought bravely at horrendous cost. There was another factor at work. The local population in Portugal and Spain supported Britain during the Napoleonic Wars or, more accurately, Britain

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210   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine s­ upported the local population’s fight against French domination. Together, Wellington’s conventional army and Spanish guerrilla forces put the French forces in the untenable position of having to concentrate to fight the conventional army while having to disperse to fight the insurgency. Then Iberian geography impeded the arrival of French reinforcements with its high mountains and the provisioning of large armies with its arid landscape, while its long coastline greatly facilitated British operations by allowing efficient replenishment, deployment, and escape by sea. None of this would have been possible with a hostile local population. Had the local population been equally friendly, Gallipoli might have succeeded. Indeed, this possibility apparently occurred to the Ottomans. When countering Russia’s simultaneous attack in the Caucasus, they massacred Armenians whom they perceived to be sympathetic to the Entente powers. The tragic Armenian genocide may have been an unintended consequence of the Entente strategy, just as the tragic sectarian violence in Iraq has been an unintended consequence of the Iraq War. In the Pacific theatre of World War II, Japan also faced increasingly hostile local populations. Local volunteers contributed to U.S. and Australian dominance in the information war by aiding the “coast watchers” observing and reporting on Japanese deployments. This was crucial to the interpretation of other intelligence derived from decryptions of message traffic. Likewise, a hostile local population has posed enormous, and potentially growing, problems for U.S. operations in Afghanistan. In other words, an outside power can comparatively easily stir up trouble in a peripheral theatre for an occupation force facing a hostile local population. Arm that population and the ensuing insurgency becomes an expensive proposition for the army of occupation. Britain did this to the French in Spain, the Soviet Union and China did this to the United States in Korea, and this has also arguably happened to the U.S.-led forces in Afghanistan and Iraq. Another insight from this volume’s case studies highlights the importance of intelligence gathering for establishing the location and timing for the opening of a new theatre of operations. Often a sympathetic populace living in-theatre provides key information, so an essential corollary to comprehensive intelligence gathering is the caveat not to alienate the local population, lest allegiances shift to the enemy. Sir Julian Corbett, the greatest theorist of peripheral operations, isolated six strategic factors that must align for an optimal peripheral operation: the attacker (1) must be the dominant naval power in the theatre; (2) must have command of the forces it deploys (rather than their being under allied command); (3) must coordinate with allies fighting in the main theatre; and (4) must be physically separated by sea so that an oceanic moat provides homeland defense. (5) The peripheral theatre must be accessible by sea but geographically isolated, affording the dominant sea power better access than the enemy (presumably a land power). (6) Finally, the perpetrator must deploy a “disposal” force, meaning not a “disposable” force on a suicide run, but a force that can be deployed at acceptable risk so that, in the worst-case-scenario, its loss will not compromise the

Conclusions   211 main war effort or homeland defense. Even given the presence of all of the above factors, Corbett cautioned that the effective execution of a peripheral operation at the beginning of the twentieth century required the continuous coordination of naval and ground forces, meaning exemplary joint operations.8 Based on the case studies examined here, other considerations should include: (1) a clear connection between operational and strategic goals; (2) intelligence superiority not only in theatre but extending to a better understanding of enemy motivations than the enemy’s understanding of yours; and (3) entailing the correct identification of the enemy’s operational and strategic centers of gravity or at least avoiding a gross misidentification; (4) an honest evaluation of both operational and especially strategic risk; (5) a careful examination of the likely allegiance of the local population—if hostile, much less can be achieved in theatre than if friendly; (6) great caution before undertaking a peripheral operation that awakens a passive enemy; or (7) that opens a second theatre for oneself against a one-theatre enemy; or, finally, (8) before undertaking a consensual operation with a regional ally unwilling or unable to minimize the legal complexities. Since Corbett’s time, the development of air power has added a third dimension to jointness, so that, if alive today, he would undoubtedly add air dominance to sea dominance. Air power has degraded the oceanic moat that still protects naval powers but at a reduced rate. For example, on 11 September 2001, alQaeda attempted to jump America’s oceanic moat without a navy or even any conventional forces, by using air power in a most unconventional attack on a distant theatre. Apparently, al-Qaeda’s leaders assumed invulnerability to reprisals given their inland location in Afghanistan, but air power in combination with precision munitions has also degraded the security of formerly remote locations. Like the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the 9/11 attack had a transformative psychological effect on Americans, who immediately embarked on a previously inconceivable foreign-policy objective of regime change, an objective antithetical to their attackers’ interests in both cases. After 9/11, this entailed regime change not only in Afghanistan but, before long, in Iraq as well. Like the Japanese, al-Qaeda enjoyed remarkable operational success in imposing skewed costs. The 9/11 attacks caused a significant loss of life and economic damage at minimal cost to the attackers. But it turned out that highrent office buildings in New York City and a half-empty wing of the Pentagon did not constitute either operational or strategic centers of gravity for the United States. The choice of date, mimicking the common emergency telephone number in the United States of 911, and the choices of targets—the Pentagon and office buildings rather presumptuously called the “World Trade Center”—were all highly symbolic, but symbols cannot defeat a country. Indeed, they are more likely to animate people for battle than for capitulation. So, from the point of view of al-Qaeda, the attacks had a boomerang effect, bringing their activities under the hostile scrutiny of intelligence services world-wide. The United States responded to 9/11 with expeditionary warfare. Indeed, expeditionary warfare is the way of war for naval powers, whose oceanic moat

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7

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212   B.A. Elleman and S.C.M. Paine affords the luxury of fighting on enemy territory, rather than on home territory. Expeditionary warfare rests on vast logistical capabilities not only to deploy at great distance, but also to sustain at great distance. Al-Qaeda, in contrast, could sustain its attacks for less than one day, and the fourth plane never made it to its target because the passengers and crew rapidly understood the situation. For naval powers, the oceans serve as their highway to the theatre and also to global markets. For their land-power enemies, the ocean creates a barrier to retaliation and to trade when the naval power deploys its navy to cut off their access. Once this happens, the clock starts ticking for the economically and militarily constricted land power. Because the naval power enjoys sanctuary at home, its economy and trade forge ahead comparatively unmolested. For the land power serving as the theatre, the longer the war continues, the more the destruction degrades its economy and its long-term capacity to wage war. Therefore, naval powers can sustain protracted wars in a way that land powers simply cannot. During World War II, Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson criticized expeditionary warfare as “pinprick warfare.”9 Yet, the Allies won the War in the Pacific through a succession of peripheral campaigns. Naval expeditionary warfare, in particular in peripheral theatres, is a means for sea powers to achieve victory in war at affordable costs. As expensive as expeditionary warfare is, it is far cheaper than allowing the fight to reach home territory. The 9/11 attacks, the work of a single day, serve as a stark reminder of the human and economic costs as well as the disruption from an attack at home.

Notes 1 The thoughts and opinions expressed in this publication are those of the authors and are not necessarily those of the U.S. Government, the U.S. Navy Department, or the Naval War College. 2 Richard Overy, Russia’s War (New York: Penguin, 1997), 236, 240. 3 Edward J. Drea, MacArthur’s ULTRA: Codebreaking and the War against Japan, 1942–1945 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1992), xi, xiv, 29, 52, 121–122, 200–201, 230. 4 Bruce Elleman, Andrew Forbes, and David Rosenberg (eds.), Piracy and Maritime Crime: Historical and Modern Case Studies (Newport: NWC Press, Newport Paper 35, 2010), 238–240. 5 B.H. Liddell Hart, Strategy (New York: Praeger, 1954), 335–336. 6 Bernard Brodie, War & Politics (New York: Macmillan, 1973), 92–95. 7 Julian S. Corbett, Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, annotated with an introduction by Eric J. Grove. Classics of Sea Power series (Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1988), 52–55, 57–58, 61–63. 8 Ibid., 60. 9 Kent Roberts Greenfield, American Strategy in World War II: A Reconsideration (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1963), 31.

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Selected bibliography

Alberts, D.S., J.J. Garstka, and F.P. Stein. Network Centric Warfare: Developing and Leveraging Information Superiority (2nd edition). Washington, DC: Command and Control Research Program publication, 2000. Aldrich, Richard J., Gary D. Rawnsley, and Ming-Yeh T. Rawnsley (eds.). The Clandestine Cold War in Asia, 1945–1965. London: Frank Cass, 2000. Ansari, Ali M. Iran Under Ahmadinejad: The Politics of Confrontation. IISS Adelphi Paper 393. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Antony, Robert J. Like Froth Floating on the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers in Late Imperial South China. Berkeley: China Research Monograph, 2003. Appleman, Roy C. U.S. Army in the Korean War: South to the Naktong, North to the Yalu (June–November 1950). Washington, DC: Office of the Chief of Military History, Department of the Army, 1961. Armstrong, Terence. Russian Settlement in the North. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965. Ashmore, Sir Edward. The Battle and the Breeze, edited by Eric Grove. Sutton: Thrupp, 1997. Asprey, Robert B. Once a Marine: The Memoirs of General A.A. Vandegrift. New York: Ballantine Books, 1964. Baer, George W. One Hundred Years of Sea Power: The U.S. Navy, 1890–1990. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994. Barbey, Daniel. MacArthur’s Amphibious Navy. Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1966. Barker, A.J. The Bastard War: The Mesopotamian Campaign of 1914–1918. New York: Dial Press, 1967. Bean, Charles E.W. Official History of Australia in the War of 1914–1918: The Story of Anzac V1 (3rd edition). Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1938. Bergerud, Eric M. Fire in the Sky: The Air War in the South Pacific. Boulder: Westview Press, 2000. Berkely, R. (ed.). New Lights on the Peninsular War. Lisbon: British Historical Society of Portugal, 1991. Bix, Herbert P. Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan. New York: HarperCollins, 2000. Blair, Clay. The Forgotten War: America in Korea, 1950–1953. New York: Times Books, 1987. Bland, Larry I. (ed.). The Papers of George Catlett Marshall, vol. 3. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991. Bleakley, Jack. The Eavesdroppers. Canberra: Australian Government Printing Service Press, 1992.

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Selected bibliography   215 Conboy, Kenneth and James Morrison. Feet to the Fire: Covert Operations in Indonesia, 1957–58. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2000. Cooper, Cortez A. The PLA Navy’s “New Historic Missions”: Expanding Capabilities for a Re-emergent Maritime Power. Santa Monica: RAND Corporation, 2009. Corbett, Julian S. and Henry Newbolt. History of the Great War: Naval Operations, 5 vols. London: Longmans, Green, 1920–1931. Corbett, Julian S. and Henry Newbolt. Some Principles of Maritime Strategy. New York: Longmans, 1911. Corbett, Julian S. and Henry Newbolt. Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, annotated with an introduction by Eric J. Grove. Classics of Sea Power Series. Annapolis: U.S. Naval Institute Press, 1988. Cordesman, Antony H. The Iraq War: Strategy, Tactics, and Military Lessons. Washington, DC: CSIS Press, 2003. Cordesman, Antony H. The War After the War: Strategic Lessons of Iraq and Afghanistan. Washington, DC: Center for Strategic and International Studies, 2004. Crawford, Abraham. Reminiscences of a Naval Officer (1851 reprint). London: Chatham, 1999. de Crespigny, Rafe. Generals of the South: The Foundation and Early History of the Three Kingdoms State of Wu. Canberra: The Australian National University, 1990. David, Paul K. Ends and Means: The British Mesopotamian Campaign and Commission. Cranbury: Associated University Presses, 1994. Dennis, Peter and Jeffrey Grey. Emergency and Confrontation: Australian Military Operations in Malaya and Borneo, 1950–1966. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1996. Derry, Thomas K. A History of Modern Norway; 1814–1972. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973. Drea, Edward J. MacArthur’s ULTRA: Codebreaking and the War Against Japan, 1942–1945. Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1992. Dreyer, Edward L. China at War 1901–1949. London: Longman, 1995. Duiker, William J. China and Vietnam: The Roots of Conflict. Berkeley: Institute of East Asian Studies, 1986. Dunsterville, Major General L.C. The Adventures of Dunsterforce. London: Edward Arnold, 1920; facsimile edition, Uckfield, East Sussex: Naval and Military Press, 2007. Dyer, Vice Admiral George Carroll, USN (Ret.). The Amphibians Came to Conquer: The Story of Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner, vol. I. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1969. Edgerton, Robert B. Warriors of the Rising Sun. New York: W.W. Norton, 1997. Elleman, Bruce and S.C.M. Paine. Modern China. Boston: Prentice Hall, 2010. Elleman, Bruce and S.C.M. Paine (eds.). Naval Blockades and Seapower. London: Routledge, 2006. Elleman, Bruce and S.C.M. Paine (eds.). Naval Coalition Warfare: From the Napoleonic War to Operation Iraqi Freedom. Abingdon: Routledge, 2008. Elleman, Bruce, Andrew Forbes, and David Rosenberg (eds.). Piracy and Maritime Crime: Historical and Modern Case Studies. Newport: NWC Press, Newport Paper 35, 2010. Erickson, Andrew S., Lyle J. Goldstein, and Cary Lord (eds.). China Goes to Sea: ­Maritime Transformation in Comparative Historical Perspective. Annapolis: US Naval Institute Press, 2009. Erickson, Edward J. Ordered to Die: A History of the Ottoman Army in the First World War. Westport: Greenwood, 2001.

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216   Selected bibliography Erickson, Edward J. Ottoman Army Effectiveness in World War I: A Comparative Study. London: Routledge, 2007. Esdaile, Charles. The Peninsular War: A New History. London: Penguin, 2002. Evans, David C. and Mark R. Peattie. Kaigun. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1997. Eyal, J. (ed.). War in Iraq, Whitehall Paper 59. London: Royal United Services Institute, 2003. Fayle, C. Ernest. Seaborne Trade, 3 vols. London: John Murray, 1920–1924. Fedorowich, Kent and Martin Thomas (eds.). International Diplomacy and Colonial Retreat. London: Frank Cass, 2001. Fenby, Jonathan. Chiang Kai-shek. New York: Carroll & Graf, 2003. Field, James A., Jr. United States Naval Operations, Korea. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1962. Fleck, Dieter (ed.). The Handbook of the Law of Visiting Forces. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Forbes, Andrew (ed.). Sea Power: Challenges Old and New. Sydney: Halstead Press, 2007. Fortescue, John William. A History of the British Army, vol. 6, reprint Uckfield, 2004. Frank, Richard. Guadalcanal: The Definitive Account of the Landmark Battle. New York: Random House, 1990. Freedman, Sir Lawrence. The Official History of the Falklands Campaign, vol. 1. London: Routledge, 2005. Frei, Henry. Japan’s Southward Advance and Australia: From the Sixteenth Century to World War II. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1991. French, David. British Strategy & War Aims, 1914–1916. London: Allen & Unwin, 1986. Fujiwara Akira (藤原彰) and Imai Seiichi (今井清一) (eds.). A History of the Fifteen Year War (十五年戦争史), vol. 3. Tokyo: 青木書店, 1989. Fuller, William C. Strategy and Power in Russia 1600–1914. New York: Free Press, 1992. Gilbert, Martin (ed.). Winston S Churchill, Volume III, Companion, Part I, Documents, July 1914-April 1915. London: Heinemann, 1972. Gill, G. Hermon. Royal Australian Navy 1942–1945, The Official History of Australia in the War of 1939–1945. Sydney: Collins, 1985. Goncharov, Sergei N., John W. Lewis, and Xue Litai. Uncertain Partners: Stalin, Mao and the Korean War. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993. Goodspeed, M.H. US Navy: A Complete History. Washington, DC: Naval Historical Foundation, 2003. Gordon, Donald C. The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense, 1870–1914. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1965. Grey, Jeffrey. Up Top: The Royal Australian Navy and Southeast Asian Conflicts, 1955–1972. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1998. Grey, Jeffrey. A Military History of Australia (3rd edition). Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Griffith, Samuel B. The Battle for Guadalcanal. Philadelphia and New York: J.B. Lippincott Company, 1963. Grove, Eric. Vanguard to Trident: British Naval Policy Since World War II. London: Bodley Head, 1987. Grove, Eric. The Royal Navy Since 1815. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Gurwood, John (ed.). The Dispatches of F.M. the Duke of Wellington, 1799–1818. London: J. Murray, 1834–1839. Hall, Christopher D. Wellington’s Navy: Sea Power and the Peninsular War 1807–14. London: Chatham, 2004.

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Selected bibliography   217 Hamilton, Richard V. (ed.). Letters and Papers of . . . Sir Thomas Byam Martin, vol. 2. London: Navy Records Society, 1898. Handel, Michael. Masters of War (3rd edition). London: Frank Cass, 2001. Harkavy, Robert E. Strategic Basing and the Great Powers, 1200–2000. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Heinl, Robert Debs, Jr. Victory at High Tide: The Inchon–Seoul Campaign. New York: J.B. Lippincott, 1968. Heinzig, Dieter. The Disputed Islands in the South China Sea. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1976. Holmes, James R. and Toshi Yoshihara. Chinese Naval Strategy in the 21st Century: The Turn to Mahan. Abingdon: Routledge, 2008. Hood, Steven J. Dragons Entangled: Indochina and the China–Vietnam War. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1992. Hughes, Capt. Wayne P., Jr. USN (Ret.). Fleet Tactics and Coastal Combat (2nd edition). Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2000. Ienaga Saburō. The Pacific War 1931–1945 (Frank Baldwin, trans.). New York: Pantheon Books, 1978. Ikeda Kiyoshi (池田清) (ed.). Great War of the Pacific (太平洋戦争). Tokyo: 河出書房 新社, 1995. Iriye, Akira. Japan & the Wider World. London: Longman, 1997. Isely, Jeter A. and Philip A. Crowl. The U.S. Marines and Amphibious War: Its Theory, and Its Practice in the Pacific. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1951. Jackson, Bill and Dwin Bramall. The Chiefs: The Story of the United Kingdom’s Chiefs of Staff. London: Brassey’s, 1992. Jones, Matthew. Conflict and Confrontation in Southeast Asia 1961–1965. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Jones, Rodney W. and Steven A. Hildreth (eds.). Emerging Powers Defense and Security in the Third World. New York: Praeger Publishers, 1986. Jung, Peter. Der k.u.k. Wüstenkrieg: Österreich-Ungarn in Vorderen Orient, 1915–1918. Graz: Verlag Styria, 1992. Kagan, Robert. The Return of History and the End of Dreams. London: Atlantic Books, 2008. Kennedy, Greg (ed.). British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000: Influences and Actions. London: Frank Cass, 2005. Kennedy, Greg (ed.). Imperial Defence: The Old World Order 1856–1956. London: Cass, 2008. Kennedy, Paul. Strategy and Diplomacy 1870–1945. London: Allen and Unwin, 1983. Kennedy, Paul. The Parliament of Man: the United Nations and the Quest for World Government. London: Allen Lane, 2006. Kilcullen, David. The Accidental Guerilla: Fighting Small Wars in the Midst of a Big One. Melbourne: Scribe, 2009. Kiretscu, C. La Roumanie dans la Guerre Mondiale 1916–19. Paris: Payot, 1936. Kleveman, Lutz. The New Great Game: Blood and Oil in Central Asia. London: Atlantic Books, 2003. Kotkin, Stephen and Bruce A. Elleman. Mongolia in the Twentieth Century: Landlocked Cosmopolitan. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1999. Krulak, C.C. Principles of Operational Maneuver from the Sea. Washington, DC: US Marine Corps, 1996. Krulak, Victor H. First to Fight: An Inside View of the U.S. Marine Corps. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1984.

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218   Selected bibliography Larcher, Commandant Maurice. La Guerre turque dans la guerre mondiale. Paris: Etienne Chiron/Berger-Levrault, 1926. Larrabee, Eric. Commander in Chief: Franklin Delano Roosevelt, His Lieutenants, and Their War. New York: Harper & Row, 1987. Las Casas, Emmanuel. Mémorial de Sainte Hélène: Journal of the Private Life and Conversations of the Emperor Napoleon at St Helena. London: H. Colburn and Co., 1823. LeDonne, John P. The Russian Empire and the World, 1700–1917: The Geopolitics of Expansion and Containment. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Ledovsky, Andrei M. The USSR, the USA, and the People’s Republic of China (trans. Nadezhda Burova). Moscow: Progress, 1982. Liddell Hart, B.H. The British Way in Warfare. London: Faber and Faber, 1932. Liddell Hart, B.H. The Defense of Britain. New York: Random House, 1939. Liddell Hart, B.H. Strategy. New York: Praeger, 1954. Lloyd, Christopher (ed.). The Keith Papers, vol. 2. Greenwich: Navy Records Society, 1955. Lord, Cary (ed.). Reposturing the Force: US Overseas Presence in the Twenty-First Century, US Naval War College Newport Papers 26. Newport: US Naval War College Press, 2006. Lorey, Hermann. Der Krieg in den türkischen Gewässern, vol. I: Die MittelmeerDivision. Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1928. Lundstrom, John B. The First South Pacific Campaign: Pacific Fleet Strategy December 1941–June 1942. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1976. Lundstrom, John B. The First Team and the Guadalcanal Campaign: Naval Fighter Combat from August to November 1942. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1994. Lundstrom, John B. Black Shoe Carrier Admiral: Frank Jack Fletcher at Coral Sea, Midway, and Guadalcanal. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2006. Lyon, David and Rif Winfield. The Steam and Sail Navy List, 1815–1889. London: Chatham, 2004. MacArthur, Douglas. Reminiscences. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964. MacArthur, Douglas. Reports of General MacArthur. Washington, DC: Department of the Army, 1966. Mackie, J.A.C. Konfrontasi: The Indonesia–Malaysia Dispute 1963–1966. Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1974. Malthus, Cecil. Anzac: A Retrospect. Auckland: Whitcombe & Tombs, 1965. Millar, Ronald. Death of an Army: The Siege of Kut, 1915–1916. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1970. Miller, Edward S. War Plan Orange: The U.S. Strategy to Defeat Japan, 1897–1945. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1991. Millett, Allan R. In Many a Strife: General Gerald C. Thomas and the U.S. Marine Corps 1917–1956. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1993. Moberly, Brigadier General F.J. Operations in Persia, 1914–1918. Facsimile edition. London: HMSO, 1987. Moberly, Brigadier General F.J. The Campaign in Mesopotamia, 4 vols. London: HMSO, 1923–1927. Molyneux, Thomas More. Conjunct Expeditions: Or Expeditions that have been Carried on Jointly by the Fleet and Army, with a Commentary on a Littoral War. London: R. and J. Dodsley, 1759. Montross, Lynn and Nicholas A. Canzona. U.S. Marine Operations in Korea, 1950–1953. Volume II: The Inchon–Seoul Operation. Washington, DC: Headquarters U.S. Marine Corps, Historical Branch, G-3, 1955.

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Selected bibliography   219 Morison, Samuel Eliot. The Struggle for Guadalcanal: August 1942–February 1943. Boston: Little, Brown, 1949. Morison, Samuel Eliot. Breaking the Bismarck’s Barrier, History of USN Operations in World War II, vol. 6. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1950. Morley, James William (ed.). Deterrent Diplomacy: Japan, Germany, and the USSR 1935–1940. New York: Columbia University Press, 1976. Morley, James William (ed.). The Fateful Choice: Japan’s Advance into Southeast Asia, 1939–1941. New York: Columbia, 1980. Morley, James William (ed.). The China Quagmire. New York: Columbia University Press, 1983. Morley, James William (ed.). Japan Erupts. New York: Columbia University Press, 1984. Morris, Stephen J. Why Vietnam Invaded Cambodia: Political Culture and the Causes of War. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. Mühlmann, Carl. Das Deutsch–Türkische Waffenbündnis im Weltkriege. Leipzig: Koehler & Amelang, 1940. Mukmin, Hidayat. TNI Dalam Politik Luar Negeri: Studi Kasus Penyelesaian Konfrontasi Indonesia–Malaysia. Jakarta: Pustaka Sinar Harapan, 1991. Muraviev, Alexy. Russian Naval Power in the Pacific: Today and Tomorrow. Canberra: Sea Power Centre Australia, 2003. Muraviev, Alexy. The Russian Pacific Fleet: From the Crimean War to Perestroika. Canberra: Sea Power Centre Australia, 2007. Murfett, Malcolm. In Jeopardy: The Royal Navy and British Far Eastern Defence Policy 1945–1951. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Murray, Wick and Robert Scales. The Iraq War: A Military History. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003. Nakamura Takafusa. A History of Shōwa Japan, 1926–1989 (trans. Edwin Whenmouth). Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1998. Nguyen Van Canh. Vietnam Under Communism, 1975–1982. Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 1983. Nobutaka Ike (trans. and ed.). Japan’s Decision for War: Records of the 1941 Policy Conferences. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1967. Nott, John. Here Today Gone Tomorrow. London: Politicos, 2002. Nunn, Vice Admiral Wilfred. Tigris Gunboats: The Forgotten War in Iraq, 1914–1917. London: Melrose, 1932; reprinted London: Chatham, 2007. O’Dowd, Edward C. Chinese Military Strategy in the Third Indochina War: The Last Maoist War. London: Routledge Press, 2007. Ommaney, Capt. E. Hydrographical Remarks on the White Sea in the Summer of 1854. London: Hydrographical Office, Admiralty, 1855. Orita, Zenji. I-Boat Captain. California: Major Books, 1976. Overy, Richard. Russia’s War. New York: Penguin, 1997. Paine, S.C.M. Imperial Rivals. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1996. Paine, S.C.M. The Sino-Japanese War of 1894–1895. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Paine, S.C.M. (ed.). Nation Building, State Building, and Economic Development. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2010. Parshall, Jonathan and Anthony Tully. Shattered Sword: The Untold Story of the Battle of Midway. Washington, DC: Potomac Books, 2005. Peattie, Mark R. Sunburst: The Rise of Japanese Naval Air Power 1909–1941. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2001.

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220   Selected bibliography Pfennigwerth, Ian. Missing Pieces: The Intelligence Jigsaw and RAN Operations from 1939–71. Canberra: Seapower Centre, 2008. Popham, Hugh. A Damned Cunning Fellow. The Eventful Life of Rear-Admiral Sir Home Popham. Tywardreath: Old Ferry Press, 1991. Prados, John. Combined Fleet Decoded: The Secret History of American Intelligence and the Japanese Navy in World War II. New York: Random House, 1995. Preston, Richard A. Canada and “Imperial Defense”: A Study of the Origins of the British Commonwealth’s Defense Organisation, 1867–1919. Durham: Duke University Press, 1967. Prior, Robin. Gallipoli: The End of the Myth. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009. Puddefoot, G. No Sea Too Rough: The Royal Fleet Auxiliary in the Falklands War. London: Chatham, 2007. Ravina, A. Guimera and J.M. Blanco Nunez (eds.). Guerra Naval en la Revolucion vel Imperio. Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2008. Ray, Hemen. China’s Vietnam War. New Delhi: Radiant Publishers, 1983. Rodger, N.A.M. Naval Power in the Twentieth Century. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1996. Ross, Robert S. The Indochina Tangle. New York: Columbia University Press, 1988. Ross, Steven T. American War Plans: 1880–1939. London: Frank Cass, 2002. Rumer, Eugene B. Russian Foreign Policy Beyond Putin. International Institute for Strategic Studies Adelphi Paper 390. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Sanghamitra Basu. Kampuchea as a Factor in the Sino-Soviet Conflict, 1975–1984. Calcutta: Firma KLM Private Limited, 1987. Shisler, Gail B. For Country and Corps: The Life of Oliver P. Smith. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2009. Short, Anthony. The Communist Insurrection in Malaya. London: Muller, 1975. Silberman, Bernard S. and H.D. Harootunian (eds.). Japan in Crisis. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974. Smith, Robert R. The Approach to the Philippines. Washington, DC: Center of Military History, US Army, 1996. Solomon, Richard H. and Masataka Kosaka (eds.). The Soviet Far East Military Buildup. Dover: Auburn House Publishing, 1986. Spector, Ronald H. The Eagle Against the Sun. New York: Free Press, 1985. Stephan, John J. Hawaii Under the Rising Sun: Japan’s Plans for Conquest After Pearl Harbor. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1984. Stevens, David (ed.). The Royal Australian Navy. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2001. Stevens, David (ed.). The Royal Australian Navy in World War II. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2005. Subritzky, John. Confronting Sukarno: British, American, Australian and New Zealand Diplomacy in the Malaysian–Indonesian Confrontation, 1961–1965. London: Macmillan, 2000. Sun Tzu. The Art of War (trans. Samuel B. Griffith). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963. Swanson, Bruce. Eighth Voyage of the Dragon: A History of China’s Quest for Seapower. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1982. Thaku, Ramesh and Carlyle Thayer. Soviet Relations with India and Vietnam. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992. Thucydides. The Landmark Thucydides (ed. Robert B. Strassler). New York: Touchstone, 1996.

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Selected bibliography   221 Till, Geoffrey (ed.). The Future of British Sea Power. London: Macmillan, 1984. Till, Geoffrey (ed.). Seapower at the Millennium. Stroud/Portsmouth: Sutton/Royal Naval Museum, 2001. Till, Geoffrey. Seapower: A Guide for the Twenty-First Century (2nd revised edition). Abingdon: Routledge, 2009. Tredea, J. and E. Sozaev. Russian Warships in the Age of Sail, 1696–1860. Barnsley: Seaforth Publishing, 2010. Tsunoda, Jun. The Final Confrontation: Japan’s Negotiations with the United States, 1941 (trans. David A. Titus, ed. James William Morley). New York: Columbia University Press, 1994. Twining, Merrill B. No Bended Knee: The Battle for Guadalcanal (ed. Neil Carey). Novato: Presidio Press, 1994. Ugaki, Matome. Fading Victory. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991. Vego, Milan. Joint Operational Warfare: Theory and Practice. Newport: United States Naval War College, 2007. Vego, Milan. Operational Warfare at Sea: Theory and Practice. New York: Routledge, 2009. Walton, C. Dale. Geopolitics and the Great Powers in the Twenty-First Century: Multi­ polarity and the Revolution in Strategic Perspective. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Watson, Mark Skinner. Chief of Staff: Prewar Plans and Preparations. Washington, DC: Center of Military History, 1991. Willmott, H.P. The Second World War in the Far East. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books, 2002. Womack, Brantly. China and Vietnam. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Woodward, Admiral Sandy. One Hundred Days: The Memoirs of the Falklands Battle Group Commander. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1997. Woodward, Robert. Plan of Attack. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2004. Woodward, Robert. The War Within: A Secret White House History 2006–2008. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2008. Young, Marilyn B. The Vietnam Wars, 1945–1990. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991.

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Index

9/11 12, 168–70, 182, 183, 185, 187, 189, 195, 211–12 11 September 2001 4, 168, 211 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU) 172, 177 38th Parallel 113, 114, 126, 198 A-bomb see Nuclear Weapons Abadan Island 58, 63 Abraham Lincoln 171 AC-130 176 Acheson, Dean 115 Adak 171, 176, 177 Adour River 26 Aegean Sea 47 Afghanistan 62, 64, 89, 182, 183, 185–7, 188, 189, 193, 195, 198, 200, 202, 203, 205, 208, 210, 211 Africa 67, 191 Ahmadinejad, Mahmoud 189 Ahwaz 60 Aitape 109 Al Basrah 170, 180 Al Basrah Oil Terminal (ABOT) 180 Al Emirat 173 Aleppo 66 Aleutian Islands 101, 115 Alexandria 47 Al Faw Peninsula 168, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176–8 Alfred 16, 17 Algiers 23 Alicante 24, 25 Allenby, Edmund 65, 66 Almada 22 Al-Mansur 173, 178 Al-Mulla, Ahmed Yousef 173 al-Qaeda 89, 168, 171, 173, 178, 183, 185, 186, 187–9, 205, 208, 211, 212

Al Raya 177 Amara 59, 60, 61, 64 American Expeditionary Force 67 Amphitrite Group 143 Amur River 145 Anatolia 55, 62 Andalusia 21, 22 Anderson, Mark 174 Andong 121 Anglo-French Blockade 30 Anglo-Malayan Defence Agreement (AMDA) 131 Anglo-Persian Oil Company 58 Anglo-Russian Rivalry 183 Anglo-Sicilian Expedition 24 Annam 142, 143; see also Vietnam Antarctic 157 Antelope 162 Anti-Comintern Pact 75 Anzac 50–2 Anzac 169, 172, 175, 176 Anzac Forces 46, 47, 48, 49, 52, 53, 54 Aquidneck 171, 177 Arabian Gulf 167, 168, 172, 173, 174, 175, 179, 195 Arabian Sea 168, 169, 176, 186, 188 Arabs 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 66 Arcadia Conference 88 Archangel 2, 29–41 Arctic Circle 2, 33 Arctic Sea 30–2, 41 Ardent 162, 171, 178 Area Maritime Ascendancy see Sea Control Argentina 4, 152–65, 205, 206, 209 Argus 172 Ark Royal 153, 154, 155, 157, 164, 171 Armilla Patrol 155, 161 Army of Catalonia 25

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Index   223 Army of Extremadura 21 Army of Islam 66 Ascension Island 161, 162 Asia 47, 49, 70, 71, 72, 74, 75, 115, 130, 184, 201, 208 Asian Development Bank 188 Asquith, Herbert H. 51 Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) 139 Atlantic Command 153, 154 Atlantic Conveyor 162 Atlantic Ocean 16, 20, 21, 67, 88, 132, 153, 154, 156, 157, 164 Australia 3, 51, 53, 70, 75, 86, 88, 94, 95, 99–111, 130, 131, 132, 134, 137, 138, 140, 155, 157, 167–79, 186, 201, 208, 209, 210 Australia 103 Australia, New Zealand, and Malaya (ANZAM) 131 Austria 55, 58, 61, 67, 69 Austria-Hungary 55, 68 Avenger 162 Aviators 3, 9, 93, 94, 95, 96, 98, 108, 117 Away Game 1, 5, 152, 201, 209, 212 Axis Nations 71, 73, 78, 79, 80 Axis of Evil 189 Ayamonte 21 Aziziya 61 Baby 600 50 Baer, George 114–15 Baghdad 59, 61–2, 64, 65–6, 68, 69, 170, 177, 178 Bahia Paraiso 159 Bahrain 58, 168, 170, 173 Baku 66 Baku-to-Ceyhan Pipeline 188 Balfour, Arthur 62 Balkan 52, 55, 56, 61 Ballistic Missiles 185 Baltic Blockade 30, 39 Baltic Fleet 18 Baltic Sea 15, 22, 26, 29, 30, 39, 41 Banda 136 Bangor 178 Baranof 171 Barbey, Daniel E. 108–9 Barcelona 20, 21 Barossa 22 Barrett, Arthur A. 58, 59 Basra 58–9, 60, 61, 63–4, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175, 177, 178 Battle of the Atlantic 153

Battle of the Bismarck Sea 109, 110 Battleship Hill 50 Beaufort, Francis 30 Beaumanoir 31, 35, 38 Beetles 53 Beijing 145, 193; see also China Beirut 66 Berezov Channel 32, 33 Berkeley, George 22 Berlin 68 Berlin Blockade 114 Betanzos Bay 18 Birdwood, William 47, 48, 52 Bisbal 23 Biscay Coast 18, 20, 23 Bismarck Archipelago 88, 100, 110 Bismarck, Otto von 207 “Bite and Hold” Tactics 51, 52 Black Sea 29, 30, 209 Blockades see Naval Blockades Blyth 178 Boer War see South African War Bolsheviks 66 Bonaparte, Joseph 15 Bonaparte, Napoleon see Napoleon Bonar Law, Andrew 51 Borderlands 187 Borneo 3, 75, 133–5, 137, 139 Bougainville 100 Bourbon King of Spain 15 Boutwell 171 Bowen, James 19 Boyle, Roman P. 37 Bradley, Omar 115 Braithwaite, Walter 51–2 Brazil 15, 154 Breslau 47 Brest 18 Breton Coast 19 Brewer, David L., III 172 Brigand Class 40 Brighton Beach 47 Brisk 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 38 Britain see United Kingdom Britannia 156 British Empire 61, 73, 129, 130 Broadsword 162 Brocklesbury 178 Brunei 3, 133–4, 137 Brunei Rebellion 133, 137 Brush, Charles 91 Brzezinski, Zbigniew 147, 189 Bubyan Island 176, 177 Buenos Aires 17, 157, 158

224   Index

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Bulair 47, 49 Bulgaria 2, 55, 61, 66, 68 Bulwark 154 Buna 91, 104, 105–7 Burgh, Ulick John de, first marquis of Clanricarde 35, 38 Burma 73, 75 Burma Road 73 Bush, George W. 182, 189 Bushido 91 Cable, James 159 Cadiz 15, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 Caffarelli’s Army of the North 25 Calais 199 California 121, 124 Callaghan Government 155 Callwell, Charles xii Cam Ranh Bay 149 Cambodia 147 Canberra 134, 139 Canberra 161 Cao Bang 148 Cape York 101 Carden, Sackville 45, 46 Cardinal 171, 178 Caribbean Ocean 154, 157 Carter, Jimmy 147–8 Caspian Sea 66, 183, 187, 188, 195 Castro Castle 20 Castro Urdiales 25 Catalonia 20, 21, 23, 24, 25 Cates, Clifton B. 121 Caucasus 59, 64, 66, 210 CENTCOM 89, 168, 170, 189 Central Asia 182–3, 187–90, 191 Central Pacific 70, 85, 88, 108, 115, 119 Central Powers 45, 52, 205, 208 Ceylon 86; see also Sri Lanka Chatham 172, 176, 177 Chatham Dockyard 156 Chiang Kai-shek 70–80 Chicago 103 Chile 161 Chin Peng 132, 140 China 3–4, 67, 69, 70–80, 81, 86, 114, 115, 118, 122, 126, 130, 131, 132, 138, 141–9, 184, 185, 187–9, 190–2, 193, 194, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 205, 207, 208, 209, 210; see also People’s Republic of China China Withdraws Advisors to Vietnam 146 Chinhae 118 Chinook 171, 175, 177, 178

Choke Points 135, 136, 191 Chonan 120 Chongqing 72–3, 74 Chumunjin 117, 121 Chunuk Bair 50, 52, 54 Churchill, Winston 45–6, 55–6, 209 CINCFE see Commander Far East Command 114, 122–5, 127, 128 Cintra, Convention of 17 Civilian Property 7 Claims Program 7, 11 Clandestine Communist Organisation (CCO) 135 Clarendon, Earl 30, 31, 39 Clark Air Base 3, 75 Clash of Civilizations 1 Clausewitz, Carl von 85, 96 Coalitions see Maritime Coalitions Coates, Nigel S. 169 Codrington, Edward 23, 25 Cold War 1, 3, 4, 12, 129, 130, 131, 133, 138, 143–4, 152, 160, 165, 182, 185, 186, 190, 191, 200, 201, 206, 209 Collier, George 25–6 Collins, Lawton 115, 123 Combined Operational Intelligence Centre 102 Combined Operations 2, 9, 23, 45–56, 80, 86, 109, 111, 124, 132, 202, 204, 206 Comecon 147 Comet 63 Comfort 171 Commander Far East Command 114, 115; see also FECOM Commonwealth 2, 3, 78, 129, 130, 131, 132, 134, 135, 136, 139, 198, 199, 207, 209; see also United Kingdom Communist International (Comintern) 75 Compostella 18 Concept of Operations (CONOPS) 127 Congress (U.S.) 95, 189 Conqueror 160 Consensual Campaigns 1, 2, 5, 8–12, 207, 211 Constantinople 2, 45, 48, 52, 55, 61, 66, 68 Constellation 148, 171, 174 Continental Power 1, 4, 182, 183, 184–5, 186, 187, 189, 190, 191–2, 193; see also Land Power Continental United States 122, 124; see also United States Contractors 10–11 Convoys 21, 23, 26, 100, 103, 107–8, 109, 110, 111, 118, 154, 206

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Index   225 Conway, James T. 172 Coral Sea 87, 96, 101, 103, 104–5, 106 Corbett, Julian S. xii, 1, 2, 80, 85, 92, 93, 95, 204, 210–11 Cork 15 Cornish Coast 19 Corunna 17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 24, 26 Cossacks 66 Costello, Barry M. 171, 173, 174 Cotton, Charles 16–17 “Counter-attack in Self-Defense in the Paracel Islands” 141, 145 Coventry 162 Cox, Percy 59 Crace, John 103 Crimean War 2, 29–41, 198, 200, 202, 203, 204, 208 Cross Island 31, 32, 33, 34, 38 Ctesiphon 61, 62 Damascus 66 Danube River 69 Dardanelles Committee 52 Dardanelles Straits 45, 46, 56, 200, 208, 209 Darwin 107 Darwin 172, 177 Dayaks 137 D-Day Landings 1, 89, 122, 199 Declaration on Territorial Waters 143–4 De Courcy, Michael 19 Delamain, Walter S. 58 Delane, John 39 Deng Xiaoping 145, 147 Denmark 17, 30 De Robeck, John 46, 48 Dextrous 171, 178 Diego Garcia 187 Doolittle Raid 86 Doyle, James H. 116, 117, 119, 120, 125, 126 Dreadnought 154 Dreadnought Class 47, 50, 51 Dulles, John Foster 143 Duncan Island 144 Dunsterforce 66, 69 Dunsterville, Lionel C. 66, 69 Dutch 38, 75, 102, 134 Dutch East Indies 70, 74, 75; see also Netherlands East Indies Dutton, James 172 Dwina River 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 37, 38, 40 East Africa 67

East Asia 4, 71, 114, 129, 131, 132, 155, 182, 190, 192, 193 East of Suez 134, 152 Eastern Atlantic 153, 156, 162 Eastern Europe 78 Eastern Front 67, 185, 199 Economist, The 39 Edinburgh 172 Edson, Merritt 91 Egypt 46, 47, 62, 67, 186 Eighth Army 116, 119, 121, 123 Emden 58 Emergency in Malaya 3, 129–39 England see United Kingdom English Channel 87, 173 Entente 61, 206, 210 Enver, Pasha 65, 66 Environmental Baseline Study 11 Essex Class 117 Euphrates River 58, 59, 60, 62, 65, 68 Eurasia 74, 78, 182, 183, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193 Europe 2, 3, 4, 17, 26, 66, 70, 71, 74, 78, 88, 114, 115, 130, 132, 153, 154, 163, 182, 190, 192, 205, 209 European Russia 78 Eurydice 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38 Expeditionary Warfare xii–xiii, 1, 2, 4, 5, 15, 17–19, 41, 110, 182, 197–212 Falkenhayn, Erich von 65 Falkland Islands 4, 152, 153, 157, 158–61 Falklands War 4, 152–65, 198, 200, 201, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209 Fallon, William 189 Far East 123 Far East Command 114, 115, 121 Far East Fleet 136, 137 Far Eastern Strategic Reserve (FESR) 132, 138 Fearless 160 FECOM 127; see also Commander Far East Command Ferrol 15, 18, 20 Fieldhouse, John 160, 161, 164 Fifth Pillar 164 Fiji 87, 90, 101, 104 Finisterre Cape 18 Finmark 30, 31, 32, 34 Firebolt 171, 177 Firefly 63, 64 First Marine Division 89, 91 First Sino-Japanese War 76, 78, 79 Fisherman’s Hut 48

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226   Index Flanders 2, 56 Fletcher, Frank Jack 90–1, 103 Fletcher, Richard 22 Flexible Response 153 Flores 136 Fly Class 63 Flying Fish Channel 126 “Force D” 58, 60 Formosa 114, 123; see also Taiwan Forney, Edward 116, 119 Fort Rosalie 172 Forward-Deployed Forces xii, 5, 32, 100, 110, 148, 174, 175, 186, 187, 190, 192, 193 Four Pillars 155, 163 France 2, 15–27, 29, 30–1, 34, 35, 37, 40, 46, 47, 49, 51, 52, 55, 56, 58, 62, 67, 71, 87, 142–3, 200, 202, 204, 208, 210 Franks, Tommy R. 170, 178, 179 French, David 61 French Indochina 73, 74, 142; see also Indochina, Vietnam Friendly Forces 117, 118, 127, 205 Gaba Tepe 47, 48, 49 Galicia 20, 65 Gallipoli 1, 2, 45–56, 61, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 205, 206, 208, 209, 210 Gaspar Straits 135 Gates, Robert 189 Geneva Convention 5, 7, 12 German-Soviet Non-aggression Pact 75, 78 Germany 2, 24, 27, 45, 47, 48, 55, 56, 58, 61, 65, 66, 67, 68, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 84, 87, 88, 135, 153, 156, 185, 197, 199, 202, 204, 205 Ghormley, Robert 89, 90, 93, 97 Ghurkas 53, 54, 57 Gibraltar, Straits of 15, 17, 21, 24, 159, 160, 161 Gilbert Islands 110 Giraud, Henri 51 Gironde 26 Glamorgan 162 Glasgow 162 Global War on Terror (GWOT) 4, 168, 169, 180, 182–3, 185, 200 Globalization 184, 185, 191 Goeben 47 Graham, James 30, 31, 35, 36, 39–40 Grand Strategy 183, 187, 188, 192, 197, 206, 207 Great Britain see United Kingdom Great Depression 71, 72

Great Power 1, 3, 30, 70, 74, 76, 129, 130, 193, 199, 205, 207, 208 Great Wall 72 Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere 71, 74, 76, 99 Greece 47, 55 Greenland 154 Grimsby 172 Gritvyken 159 Grupa Reagowania Operacyjno Manewrowego (GROM) 169, 172, 176, 180 Guadalcanal 3, 84–96, 106, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 208 Guam 3, 70, 75, 117, 192 Guangdong Province 142, 146 Guangxi Province 73 Guerrilla Warfare 21, 23, 25, 27, 130, 131, 210 Guilbert, Pierre-Ėdouard 37–8 Gulf of Aden 168, 169 Gulf of Oman 168, 169 Gulf War 172, 175, 186 Gunston Hall 177 Gwadar 188 Hague Convention 5, 12 Hainan 142, 143, 145, 149 Haiphong 73 Haiti 9 Halsey, William “Bull” 93 Hamas 189 Hamilton, Ian 46–9, 51–3 Hammerfest 29, 31, 34, 38 Han Chinese 72, 78 Han Dynasty 141 Han River 115, 126 Hanoi 141, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149 Hanoverians 38 Harry S. Truman 171 Harward, Robert S. 176 Harwich 15, 17 Havana 22 Hawaii 70, 75, 86, 88, 101 Hawley-Smoot Tariff 71 Healey, Denis 152 Heartland 185 Helder 17 Helles 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54 Henderson Field 91, 92, 93, 94, 95 Herat-Kandahar Corridor 188 Hermes 153, 154, 155, 157, 159, 160, 162, 163–4 Hervey Bay 103

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Index   227 Hezbollah 189 Hill 10 53 Hill 971 52, 53 Hill, Frederick 35 Hill Q 54 Hitler, Adolf 78, 193 Hobart 103 Holland see Netherlands Hollandia 109 Home Game 1, 2, 87, 201, 212 Hong Kong 3, 70, 75, 130, 131 Hood, Samuel 19 Horii Tomitarō 101, 102, 105–6 Hormuz, Strait of 189 House of Commons 35, 157, 160 Hundred Regiments Campaign 74 Hungary 55 Hunter-Weston, Aylmer 47, 51 Hussein, Saddam 4, 167, 173, 178, 179, 189, 198 Hussein-Mahon Agreement 63 Hyakutake Harukichi 104, 106 Hydrogen Bomb see Nuclear Weapons Hydrographer of the Navy 30 Hydographical Remarks on the White Sea in the Summer of 1854 40 I-174 108 Iban 137 Iberian Peninsula 2, 15–27, 199, 200, 204, 209, 210 Iceland 154 Illustrious 155, 157 Inchon 1, 3, 89, 113–27, 198, 200, 202, 203, 204, 207, 208, 209 India 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67, 175, 184, 188, 191, 192, 193 India Office 59 Indian Ocean 86, 96, 101, 130, 131, 141, 157, 191, 192 Indirect Strategy xii, xiii, 1, 49, 70, 186 Indochina 75, 132, 133, 138, 147; see also French Indochina and Vietnam Indonesia 3, 129, 133–9 Indonesian Communist Party 134, 139 Indonesian Marine Corps 137 Indonesian Navy 134, 135, 137 Initial Entry 6, 11 Inner Mongolia 72 Inoue Shigeyoshi 103 Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance (ISR) 92 International Law 2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 71, 146, 207

International Order 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 79 International Settlement at Shanghai 3, 70, 76 International Trade 71 International Waters 118, 135, 192 Invalide Russe 37 Invincible 154, 156, 157, 159, 160, 162, 163 Iran 156, 168, 169, 171, 173, 177, 184, 188, 189–90, 191, 192 Iranian Revolution Guard Corps Navy (IRGCN) 169, 171, 177 Iraq 2, 4, 59, 156, 167–79, 183, 185–7, 188, 189, 191, 198, 200, 202, 203, 205, 208, 210, 211 Iraqi Navy (IRN) 170, 174, 178 Islamic Republic of Iran Navy (IRIN) 169 Italy 71, 73, 74, 76, 135 Iwon 123 IX Corps 52 Jakarta 134, 136, 139 Japan 3, 70–80, 84–96, 99–111, 114–15, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 124–5, 126, 129, 130, 142, 143, 144, 184, 191, 192, 197, 199, 201, 202, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211 Java 99, 135, 136 Java Sea 135 Jehol 72 Jerusalem 66, 68 Jiang Jieshi see Chiang Kai-shek Jihad 59 John Biscoe 159 Johnson, Louis 121 Johnson Reef 148 Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) 89, 115, 123, 124, 189 Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) 135, 158 Joint Operations 2, 45–55, 86, 202, 204, 206, 211 Joint Venture 171, 177 Jonquil 53 Jumariya 177 Junot, Jean-Andoche 17 Jutland 135 Kalimantan 134, 137 Kandahar 89, 186, 188 Kandalaxa, Gulf of 34 Kanimbla 172, 174, 175, 176 Kanin Cape 37 Kaohsiung 142

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228   Index Karakorum Highway 188 Karun River 60, 65 Kaya Okinori 77, 79 Kazakhstan 190, 195 Keating, Timothy 170, 171, 175, 179 Kelly, John M. 171, 174 Kennedy, Paul 184 Keyes, Roger 54 Khawr Abd Allah (KAA) 168 Kilid Bahr Plateau 51 Kipling, Rudyard 183 Kitchener, Horatio 45, 46–7, 52, 54, 59, 60, 61, 62 Kitty Hawk 171 Kokoda 104, 105, 106 Kola 2, 29, 37, 39, 41 Kola Bay 29 Kola River 37 Konfrontasi 3, 129, 133–7, 139, 140 Königsberg 58 Kontra Admiral Xavier Czernicki 172, 174 Korea 1, 3, 71, 89, 113–26, 130, 193, 198, 201, 202, 204, 207, 208, 209, 210; see also North Korea and South Korea Korean People’s Army (KPA) 114 Korean War 1, 113–26, 130, 202, 204, 207 Koro Island 90 Krithia 49, 51 Kuala Lumpur 134, 139 Kum Kale 47 Kunming 73 Kunsan 119, 120, 121, 124 Kurmat Ali 58 Kurna 59, 60 Kut al Amara 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 69 Kuwait 167, 169, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175, 177 Kuwait City 174, 175, 177 Kyrgystan 187, 188, 190 Lae 100, 101, 108, 109 Land Lines of Communication (LLOCs) 117, 197, 201 Land Power 1, 3, 141, 149, 185, 191, 193, 199, 200, 201, 210, 212 Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC) 177 Lang Son 148 Lao Cai 148 Lashio 73, 75 Latin America 191 Law of Armed Conflict (LOAC) 5, 6, 7, 207 Law of the Sea 8 Leach, Henry 159, 160

League of Nations 72 Lebanon 66 Lebensraum 78 Ledbury 172 Leith 159 Lemnos Island 47 Lexington 101, 103 Li Zhun 142 Liddell Hart, Basil H. xiii, 90 Lines of Torres Vedras 22 Lisbon 15, 16, 17, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26 Liverpool 172 Lloyds of London 40 London 4, 15, 31, 37, 38, 46, 51, 52, 54, 58, 59, 62, 66, 130, 131, 134, 137, 159, 164, 206 London Gazette 35 Long Lance Torpedoes 93 Long March 72 Louisiade Archipelago 103 Lugo 18 Luzon 114 Lyons, Edmund 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 41 MacArthur, Douglas 3, 88, 89, 91, 96, 99, 100, 104, 106, 108–11, 113–26, 127, 128, 204, 209 Macassar Strait 135 Macclesfield Bank 149 Macedonia 65, 66 Maceira River 17 Mackinder, Halford 184–5, 193 MacMunn, George F. 64 Madrid 15 Mahan, Alfred Thayer 184–5, 191, 193 Maidan-i-Naftun 58 Majorca 25 Malacca 136, 141 Malacca Strait 133, 138, 191, 199 Malay Peninsula 3, 75, 133, 201 Malaya 3, 70, 75, 129–39, 198, 200, 201, 203, 208 Malayan Communist Party (MCP) 129, 132 Malayan Races Liberation Army (MRLA) 129 Malaysia 3, 129–39, 198, 200, 202, 203, 208; see also Malaya Malta 45, 48 Mal Tepe 48 Malvinas Islands see Falkland Islands Manchukuo 72, 74, 75 Manchuria 70–1, 72, 144

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Index   229 Manila 75 Manus 109 Mao Zedong 144, 145, 146 Maritime Coalitions 4, 70, 95, 167, 168, 170–9, 184, 185, 186–7, 189, 192, 197, 199, 202 Maritime Interception Force (MIF) 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175, 178 Maritime Strategy, U.S. 182, 183, 192 Marlborough 172, 174, 176 Marmont’s Army of Portugal 24 Marshall, George C. 87–9, 95, 97 Marshall Islands 110 Marshall, William R. 66–8 Martin, Byam 26, 27 Martin Mariner Seaplane 117 Massena, André 22 Matsuoka Yōsuke 75 Mattis, James 89 Maude, Stanley 64, 66 Mauritius 67 Mediterranean Sea 21, 67, 124, 132, 152, 153–4, 171, 176, 188, 209 Meiji Restoration 76 Mein Kampf 78 Melbourne 102, 107 Melbourne 132 Mesopotamia 2, 56, 58–68, 69, 198, 200, 201, 202, 203, 206, 208 Mesopotamian Expeditionary Force 64, 66 Middle East 4, 61, 130, 182, 183, 187, 190, 191, 194, 205, 208 Midway 84, 85, 86, 87, 88–9, 93, 96, 101–2, 104–5, 111 Midway 148 Mikawa Gunichi 90 Military Operations and Maritime Preponderance xii Miller, A.J.G. 171 Milne Bay 104, 105–6, 107, 110 Mina Al Basrah Oil Terminal (MABOT) 180 Mindanao 109 Mine Clearance 116, 125, 171, 177, 186 Mine Counter Measure (MCM) 170, 174, 178 Mine Counter Measure Vessel (MCMV) 171, 178 Ming Dynasty 141 Minorca 22 Miranda 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38 Mokpo 118 Molyneux, Thomas More 17

Mondego Bay 16, 17 Mondego River 16 Mongolia 75, 147 Montevideo 159 Moore, John 17–19, 22 Morison, Samuel Eliot 95, 110 Morotai 109 Morto Bay 49 Moscow 144, 145, 146, 147, 148 Mosul 64, 67 Mount McKinley 116, 126 Muccio, John 115 Mudiuga Lighthouse 32, 33 Mudoska Lighthouse see Mudiuga Lighthouse Mudros 67 Muhammerah, Sheik of 59 Mullen, Michael 189 Murman Channel 33 Murman Peninsula 29 Muslim Extremism 1, 183 Muslims 61, 63, 183 Myanmar 191 Nagano Osami 79 Nampo 209 Nanjing 72, 73 Nanning 73 Nansha 143; see also Spratly Islands Napoleon Bonaparte 2, 15, 17, 18, 21, 24, 27, 193, 202, 204, 208, 209 Napoleonic Wars 17, 209 Narrows 51, 52 Nasiriya 60, 61, 65 Nationalist Government 70, 72, 73–4, 78, 142, 149 Nationalist Navy 142 Nationalists 72, 78, 143 Nauru Island 110 Naval Blockades 15, 20, 29, 30, 31–2, 34, 35–41, 73, 109, 114, 118, 132, 169, 186, 189, 190, 191, 193, 198 Naval Campaigns xii, 7, 152 Naval Coalitions see Maritime Coalitions Naval Forces Far East 114, 116, 122 Naval Gunfire Support (NGS) 50, 108, 125, 132, 133, 138, 173, 174, 176, 186 Naval Special Warfare Task Group 176 Nazi Germany 74, 75, 78, 185; see also Germany Near East 30 Netherlands East Indies 109; see also Dutch East Indies New Britain 95

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230   Index New Great Game 182–93 New Guinea 3, 86, 87, 89, 95, 99–111, 124, 134, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 208 New Hebrides 88 New York City 158, 168, 211 New Zealand 3, 51, 53–4, 70, 89, 90, 131, 132, 134, 138, 209 Ney, Michel 20 Nicholls, David C. 171 Nimitz 171 Nimitz, Chester 88, 93, 97, 108, 115 Nixon, John 60, 61, 62 Nixon, Richard 145 Noemfoor 109 Nomonhan 75 Non-Aligned Movement 134 Non-Consensual Campaign 5–8, 9, 207 Non-Governmental Organization (NGO) 6, 8, 9, 12 Norfolk 153 Norfolk 155 North America 155 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) 147, 152–4, 156–7, 163, 164, 188 North Korea 89, 113–26, 204, 208; see also Korea North Sea 45, 46, 47 North Vietnam 4, 141–9; see also Vietnam Norway 29, 30, 31, 32, 39 Northern Alliance 186 Norwegian Sea 154 Nott, John 155–60, 162, 164, 165 Nuclear Weapons 145, 146, 153–6, 162–3, 171, 189, 190, 201 Nunukan 137 Ocean 58, 172 Ocean Island 110 Oikawa Koshirō 77 Oman, Gulf of 168, 169 Ommanney, Erasmus 30–8, 40–1 Onega 29, 31, 34, 35, 37 Open Door Policy 71 Operation ADDINGTON 136 Operation ALTHORPE 136 Operation BLUE 158 Operation BLUEHEARTS 119 Operation CHROMITE 120–2, 123, 124, 128 Operation COUGAR 136 Operation DAGGER 136 Operation DESERT SHIELD 167

Operation DESERT STORM 167, 170 Operation ENDURING FREEDOM 180 Operation FABIAN 136 Operation HEDGEHOG 136 Operation HEMLEY 136 Operation IRAQI FREEDOM (OIF) 167, 169, 172, 177 Operation LILLIPUT 107 Operation MASON 136 Operation Plan 100-B 122–5 Operation Plan 1003V 170–2 Operation RABEL 136 Operation ROSARIO 159 Operation SALAAM 136 Operation SEALORDS 133 Operation SHALSTONE 136 Operation SOUTHERN WATCH 168 Operation SPILLIKEN 136 Operation SPRINGTRAIN 159–60, 161 Operation STRONGBARK 115 Operation UPHOLD DEMOCRACY 9 Operation WATCHTOWER 89 “Operational Maneuver From the Sea” 178, 182 Operational Objectives xii, 5, 34, 48, 51, 52, 53, 58, 59, 60, 62, 79–80, 92, 99, 100, 118, 119, 120, 123, 179, 197, 198, 199, 206 Oporto 16, 20, 23 Orangeleaf 172 Organization of Petroleum Producing States (OPEC) 189 Oro Bay 106, 107 Ostend 17 Ottoman Empire 2, 59, 62, 66, 67–8, 69, 199, 205, 206, 208, 210 Out-of-Area Capabilities 4, 154, 155, 157, 160, 161, 163, 164 Outer Mongolia 144 Owen Stanley Range 101, 104, 105, 106 P-3C Orion 176 P.50 Class 64 Pacific Coast Pacific Ocean 3, 29, 70, 80, 84–96, 99–111, 114–15, 119, 121, 122, 126, 131, 146, 184, 190, 192, 199, 205, 206, 210, 212 Pacific War see World War II Pakistan 89, 183, 186–7, 188, 191 Palamos 23 Palembang 75 Palermo 24 Palestine 2, 65–6, 67, 68

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Index   231 Paracel Islands 3, 4, 141–9, 198, 200, 203, 208; see also Xisha Paris 35, 38, 39 Passages 26 Patriot Missile 174, 177 Peak Oil Theory 184 Pearl Harbor 3, 70–80, 84, 88, 99, 100, 198, 200, 202, 203, 205, 207, 208, 211 Peniche 16, 17 Peninsular War 2, 15–27, 199, 202, 204, 209 Pentagon 121, 211 People’s Liberation Army (PLA) 145 People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLAN) 141, 191, 192 People’s Republic of China (PRC) 4, 132, 143, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 184, 186, 191, 192, 193; see also China Perak 130 Peri Island 36 Peripheral Campaigns xii, xiii, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 15–17, 27, 29, 31, 40, 41, 65, 70–80, 84–96, 99, 110, 129–39, 141, 149, 152, 165, 182, 185–7, 188, 189, 190, 192, 193, 199, 201, 202–5, 206, 209, 210, 211, 212 Persia 2, 4, 58, 59, 60, 62, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 182, 188, 190, 191 Persian Gulf 4, 58, 67, 182, 188, 190, 191 Petraeus, David 187 Pham Van Dong 143, 146 Phase Four Operations 187 Philippines 3, 70, 74, 75, 99, 100, 109, 115, 117, 123, 124, 126, 192 Phnom Penh 147 Pinprick Warfare 212 Piracy 135, 137 Plymouth 18, 26 Pohang 118, 120, 122 Poland 167 Polaris Submarine 160; see also Submarine Popham, Home 25 Port Moresby 87, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 110, 111 Portmar 108 Portsmouth 15, 18, 156, 160, 161 Portugal 2, 4, 15–27, 193, 209 Potsdam Treaty 143 Poujience Channel 33 Pratas Islands 142, 143 PRC Missile Tests 186, 192; see also China Professional Licenses 10

Protector 153 Prussia 207 Psyche 31, 38 Puller, Lewis B. “Chesty” 91 Pusan 3, 115, 117, 118, 119–23, 125, 126, 200, 204 Pym, Francis 155 Pyongyang 120, 122 Qing Dynasty 71, 72, 78, 141, 142 Quadrant Conference 108 Quadrennial Defense Review 183 Queen Elizabeth 50 Queen Elizabeth II 161 Rabaul 75, 86, 89, 94, 95, 100, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109 Radford, Arthur W. 123 Radford-Collins Agreement 131 Ramsgate 15, 17 Rape of Nanjing 73 Rapid Deployment Forces xii Raven 171 Ready Reserve Force 172 Red Sea 176 Republic of China (ROC) 143; see also Taiwan Rhiau Islands 136 Ribbentrop, Joachim von 78 Rice, Condoleezza 189 Richmond 172, 176 Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats (RHIBs) 174, 175, 178, 179 Rimland 182, 185 River Clyde 48, 49 Roebuck 172 Roosevelt, Franklin D. 84, 87, 88, 92, 94, 95, 96, 123 Royal Australian Navy (RAN) 4, 107, 131, 132, 133, 137, 138, 140, 169, 172, 173, 177 Royal Marines 137, 154, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 169, 170, 172, 174, 175, 176, 177 Royal Navy (RN) 2, 4, 15–27, 29–41, 46, 47, 131–2, 139, 152–65, 169, 171–2, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 179, 183, 184, 209 Rules of Engagement (ROE) 2, 6, 9, 11, 169 Rumania 55, 57, 65 Russia 2, 15, 17, 24, 27, 29–41, 59, 64, 65–6, 73, 74–6, 78, 113, 114, 118, 120, 122, 144, 183, 184, 187, 188–9, 190–1, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 204, 207, 208, 209, 210; see also Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR)

232   Index

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Russo-Japanese War (1904–5) 76, 79 Ryukyu Islands 115 Sagami Wan 116 St. Clara 26 St. Helena 27 St. Julien 22 St. Petersburg 35 St. Sebastian 26 Salamanca 24, 25 Salamaua 100, 101 Salonika 66, 67 Samchok 118, 122 Samoa 87, 90, 101, 104 Sampayo 20 San Diego 121 San Francisco 143 San Francisco Peace Treaty 143 San Sebastian 23 Sanctuary 1, 133, 186, 187, 201, 212 Sanders, Liman von 48, 49 Sandown 178 Sangley Point 117 Sansapor 99, 109 Santandar 17, 23, 25 Santona 23, 25 Sarah and Isabella 34 Sari Bair Ridge 52, 54 Sasebo 116, 117 Saudi Arabia 171, 186 Savo Island 90, 92 SCUD Missiles 177 Sea Bases 186 Sea Control 2, 4, 15, 85, 92, 93, 110, 113, 114, 126, 149, 161, 167, 171, 179, 192, 193 Sea Dart 162 Sea Denial 117, 133, 149, 202, 207 Sea Dragon Helicopter 171 Sea Harriers 153, 157, 160, 162 Sea King Helicopter 175 Sea Lanes 23, 75, 146 Sea Lines of Communication (SLOCs) 23, 25–6, 84, 100, 135, 139, 153, 182, 197, 199, 202, 209 Sea Mining 4, 118, 179 Sea Power xiii, 1, 4, 15, 27, 110, 141, 149, 167, 185, 191, 197–212 Search-and-Rescue (SAR) 116 Sea Wolf 162 Seahawk Helicopter 169 SEALs 169, 176, 177 Sebatik 137 Second Island Chain 192

Secondary Theatre see Peripheral Campaign Seddelbahr Fort 48, 49, 50 Seoul 3, 113, 115, 117, 122, 123, 124, 126 Serbia 55, 61 Sevastopol 39 Seventh Fleet see United States Navy Seymour, Frederick 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 38 Shaiba 60 Shanghai 3, 70, 75 Shanghai Cooperation Organization (SCO) 184, 190–1 Shatt al Arab 58, 59, 168, 170, 173, 175, 177 Shatt al Hai 61 Sheffield 162, 163 Shepherd, Lemuel C. 121, 123, 128 Sherman, Forrest P. 115, 121, 123 Shimonoseki Strait 120 Shinnan Guntoa 142 Shock and Awe 170 Shoho 101, 103 Shokaku 101, 102, 103, 104 Siberia 75 Sicily 24 Silver Jubilee Review 154 Simonstown 130, 153, 154 Simonstown Defence Agreement 154 Sinai Desert 59 Singapore 3, 63, 75, 130, 131, 132, 133, 136, 137, 138, 192 Singapore Maritime Police Forces 138 Sinkiang see Xinjiang Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945) 73, 78, 142 Sino-Soviet Split 1, 144, 200 Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship, Alliance, and Mutual Assistance (1950) 144, 147, 148 Sino-Soviet War (1969) 144–5 Sino-Vietnam War of 1979 4, 146–8, 149 Sir Galahad 172, 178 Sir Percivale 172 Sir Tristam 172 Smith, Oliver P. 122, 126 Snelson, David 179 Sokho 122 Solomon Islands 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 100, 104, 105, 106, 107, 110 Solovetskoi Monastery 35, 39 Somalia 184, 207 Some Principles of Maritime Strategy xii Sosnovets see Cross Island

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Index   233 Soult, Nicolas Jean-de-Dieu 20, 24 South Africa 130, 153, 154 South African War 46 South America 15, 158 South Arabistan 59, 60, 65 South China Sea 88, 141–2, 143, 145, 146, 148, 149, 191 South Georgia Island 158, 159, 161 South Korea 1, 113–27, 204, 208 South Pacific 85, 87, 88, 89, 94, 95, 106, 107, 131 South Vietnam 3–4, 133, 141–9, 201; see also Vietnam Southeast Asia 70, 75, 77, 85, 129, 130–1, 139 Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO) 131, 134, 138 Southern Resources Belt 99 Southwest Pacific Area 88, 99, 100, 108 Soviet Union see Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), Russia Soviet-Vietnamese Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation (1978) 147, 148 Spain 2, 15–27, 193, 202, 209, 210 Spanish-American War 74 Spanish Ulcer 15, 27 Spartan 159 Special Operations 186 Speed, Keith 156 “Speed Report” 156 Spheres of Influence 144, 190 Spithead 38 Splendid 159–60, 172 Spratly Islands 142, 143, 146, 148, 149; see also Nansha Spykman, Nicholas 185 Sri Lanka 130; see also Ceylon Stalin, Joseph 114, 144, 148 Stanford, Peter 164 Stark, Harold 88 Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) 8, 12 Stimson, Henry L. 212 Stopford, Frederick 52–3 “String of Pearls” 191 Stromness 161 Struble, Arthur D. 117, 125 Submarines 66, 67, 75, 92, 93, 100, 102, 106, 107–10, 116, 117–18, 131, 136, 146, 148, 153, 154, 156, 160, 161, 162, 163, 172, 176, 177, 190, 192, 202 Suchet’s Army of Catalonia 25 Sudan 59 Suez Canal 4, 59, 63, 134, 152, 155, 158, 161, 170

Sukarno 134, 137 Sumatra 75, 136, 193 Sun Tzu 83, 85, 87 Sunda Strait 135, 137 Sungai Siput Incident 130 Superb 15, 160 Surabaya 135 Suvla Bay 52–3, 61 Suwon 115, 123 Sviatoi Nos Cape 37 Sweden 30 Sydney 130 Syngman Rhee 113 Syria 2, 66, 68 Taegu 121, 123 Taejon 120, 121, 123 Tagus River 16, 18, 22 Taiwan 71, 115, 142, 149, 186, 191, 192, 193; see also Formosa Taiwan Strait Crisis (1995–1996) 186, 192 Tajikistan 187, 190 Takaoshu 142 Talavera 22 Talbot 16 Taliban 89, 183, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 205 Tampa 168, 170 Tannu Tuva 144 Tarragona 23, 25 Tawau 137, 138 Technology 30, 63, 92, 129, 185 Thailand 3, 70, 75 Thatcher, Margaret 155, 158 Theodore Roosevelt 171 Third World 146 Thomas, Gerald 91 Three Alls Campaign 73, 74 Tidepool 161 Tidespring 161 Tiger 154 Tigris River 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68 Till, Geoffrey 184 Tillotson, Michael P. 172 Tōgō Shigenori 79 Tōjō Hideki 76, 78 Tokyo 75, 77, 99, 119, 121, 123, 199 Tomahawk Land Attack Missile 168, 169, 170, 172, 176, 177 Ton Class 138 Tora Bora 89 Toulon 21 Toulon Fleet 21

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234   Index Townshend, Charles 60, 61, 62, 63 Townsville 107 Trafalgar 2, 15 Tran Van Huu 143 Trarkov, N.A. 148 Treaty of Commerce and Navigation (1911) 73 Trident Missile 155–6, 158 Trincomalee 130 Triple Alliance 73 Tropic of Cancer 156 Truman, Harry S. 116, 121 Tulagi 87, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104 Tulagi-Guadalcanal Area 89 Turbulent 172 Turkey 45–56, 58–68, 69, 170 Turkmenistan 187, 188, 195 Turner, Richmond Kelly 90 Turner Joy, Charles 116 Twining, Merrill 91 Ulchin 122 Umm Qasr 170, 172, 173, 174, 177, 178 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) 1, 4, 71, 73, 75, 78, 86, 114, 115, 117–18, 122, 125, 126, 129, 131, 132, 134, 135, 138, 141, 143, 144–9, 152, 153, 154, 160, 162, 165, 187, 190, 191, 193, 200, 208, 210; see also Russia United Front 72, 146 United Kingdom xii, xiii, 2, 3, 4, 15–27, 29–41, 45–56, 58–68, 71, 73, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 88, 102, 117, 129–39, 142, 152–65, 167, 172, 177, 183, 185, 186, 198, 199, 204, 205, 206, 207, 209, 210; see also British Empire United Kingdom Amphibious Task Group (UKATG) 171, 172, 175 United Nations 12, 114, 115, 122, 134, 159, 204 United Nations Peacekeeping Force 8 United Nations Sanctions 175 United Nations Security Council 5, 8, 114 United Nations Security Council Resolutions 127, 167 United States (U.S.) 4, 23, 26, 70, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 84, 85, 88, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 113, 114, 123, 124, 130, 131, 144, 145, 149, 167, 168, 182, 184, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 201, 205, 206, 207, 209, 210, 211; see also Continental United States United States Civil War 79 United States Coast Guard 169, 174

United States Department of Defense xiii United States Marine Corps 89, 90, 116, 119, 123, 125, 128, 186, 192 United States Military Sealift Command (MSC) 172 United States Naval War College xiii United States Navy xiii, 76, 79, 84, 89, 90, 91, 92, 95, 100, 103, 107, 108, 109, 131, 133, 149, 152, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 176, 177, 179, 183, 184, 186, 189, 192, 193 Ussuri River 145 Uzbekistan 187, 190 Vadsoe 34 Valley Forge 173 Vandegrift, Archer 90, 91, 93, 97 Vandenberg, Hoyt 115 Vardohuis 34, 37, 38 Victorious 137 Victory Disease 101 Vietnam 3, 4, 133, 140, 141–9, 192, 193, 201, 208; see also French Indochina, Indochina, North Vietnam, South Vietnam Vigo Bay 18, 19, 20, 23 Vladivostok 117–18 Volga 38 Wakde 109 Wake Island 3, 70, 75 Walker, Walton 116, 119 Wang Jingwei 73 War Office 45, 58, 62, 63, 66 War Plan Orange 85 Warlords 72 Warsaw Pact 162–3 Washington 88, 123, 124, 130, 149, 168, 182, 187, 188, 189, 190, 192, 193 Washington, George 84, 96 Washington, John 30–1 Way Forward Report 156 Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) 168, 170, 189 Wellesley, Arthur 15, 16, 17, 20, 22; see also Wellington, Duke of Wellington, Duke of 2, 15–27, 204, 209–10 Western Europe 74, 114, 115, 154 Western Front 50, 52, 56, 66, 67, 199 Western Hemisphere 187 Western Pacific 192 Western World 68, 71, 76, 85, 86, 124, 135, 141, 142, 163, 183, 187, 188 West Germany see Germany

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Index   235 West Indies 67 White Sea 2, 29–41, 198, 200, 202, 203, 204, 208 Whitehead, John 38 Wilson, James 39 Wonsan 120, 122, 125, 209 Woodlark Islands 108 Woodward, Sandy 152, 160, 161 Woody Island 142, 143 World Trade Center 211 World War I 2, 45–56, 58–68, 121, 130, 132, 185, 202, 205, 209 World War II 1, 3, 4, 70–80, 84–96, 99–111, 114, 115, 116, 120, 121, 124, 126, 129, 132, 185, 197, 199, 202, 204, 206, 207, 210, 212 Wrangle 171 Wright, Edwin 121 Wuhan 72 X Corps 123, 125

Xi’an Incident 72 Xinjiang 144, 148, 188, 195 Xisha 141, 143; see also Paracel Islands Yalu River 126 Yamamoto Isoruku 80, 86, 94 Yangzi River 72, 74 Yichang 74 Yildirim Army Group 65–6 Yokohama 119 Yokosuka 116 York 172 Yorktown 17, 19, 63 Yorktown 101, 103 Yunnan Province 73 Zero Fighter Airplanes 93–4 Zhang Zuolin 72 Zheng He 141 Zhou Enlai 143 Zuikaku 101, 102, 103, 104