The Sources of Military Change: Culture, Politics, Technology (Making Sense of Global Security)

THE SOURCES OF MILITARY CHANGE

Making Sense of Global Security MICHAEL CLARKE,

SERIES EDITOR

THE SOURCES OF MILITARY CHANGE Culture, Politics, Technology

edited by

Theo Farrell and Terry Terriff

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2002 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2002 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: 1-55587-975-6 (alk. paper) 2001058927 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America

∞

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984.

CONTENTS

5

4

3

2

1

Acknowledgments

Part 1

1 2

4 5

Introduction

The Sources of Military Change Theo Farrell and Terry Terriff Military Change in Historical Perspective Jeremy Black

Part 2

3

vii

3 21

Culture

The Spread of Western Military Models to Ottoman Turkey and Meiji Japan Emily O. Goldman

41

World Culture and the Irish Army, 1922–1942 Theo Farrell

69

U.S. Ideas and Military Change in NATO, 1989–1994 Terry Terriff

91

v

vi

CONTENTS

Part 3

6 7 8

The U.S. Military’s “Two-Front War,” 1963–1988 Craig M. Cameron

119

U.S. Military Responses to Post–Cold War Missions Deborah D. Avant and James H. Lebovic

139

Reform and the Russian Military Jennifer G. Mathers

161

Part 4

9 10 11

Technology

The British Army and the Tank John Stone

187

Creating a U.S. Military Revolution Admiral William A. Owens (U.S. Navy, ret.)

205

Complexity and Theory of Networked Militaries Chris C. Demchak

221

Part 5

12

Politics

Conclusion

Military Change in the New Millennium Terry Terriff and Theo Farrell

Selected Bibliography The Contributors Index About the Book

265

279 287 289 301

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T

his project was conceived over a series of discussions, many in smoked-filled bars, at the annual conference of the British International Studies Conference in Durham. That was in late 1996. The fact that it is finally bearing fruit is testimony to the perseverance (and patience!) of our contributors. For this, we thank them one and all. We are also very grateful to our commissioning editor, Richard Purslow, for his enthusiastic support for this project, and to the ever efficient Sally Glover and Lesli Brooks Athanasoulis at Lynne Rienner. In addition, Theo would like to thank the Economic and Social Research Council of the United Kingdom and the University of Exeter Research Committee for funding a year of research leave and conference expenses in support of this project. Terry would like to thank the Economic and Social Research Council’s “One Europe or Several?” program, as well as both the Department of Political Science and International Studies and the School of Social Sciences at the University of Birmingham, for their funding support of this project. Theo dedicates this volume to his twin—Brian. —Theo Farrell —Terry Terriff

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PA R T 1

Introduction

CHAPTER 1

The Sources of Military Change Theo Farrell & Terry Terriff

T

here is widespread evidence of major military change throughout the world as we begin the new millennium. Militaries in the region of the former Soviet Union are being restructured in line with the harsh realities of political and economic collapse. Eastern and Central European militaries are reforming themselves along Western military models. Meanwhile, Western militaries are going low-tech and high-tech simultaneously: they are going low-tech in turning their attention to low-intensity intrastate conflict and in taking on a new range of tasks associated with restoring peace to war-torn societies, and going high-tech in restructuring to take advantage of the worldwide revolution in information processing and communication.1 The central reasons for these militaries to undertake change are quite straightforward. First, the end of the Cold War has resulted in a changed strategic environment in which many of the verities that informed strategic thinking and military planning no longer apply. Second, the end of the Cold War has also exposed militaries to budgetary pressures common in other areas of public policy, forcing them to downsize. Finally, the pace of technological change, in information technology in particular, is creating the possibility of revolutionary change in the conduct of military operations. The ability of developed states, indeed all states, to achieve nationalsecurity policy aims will depend in large part on whether and how well their military organizations adapt to their changing strategic, political, budgetary, and technological environments. There clearly is a need for both academics and policymakers, whether civilian or military, to understand military change. Barry Posen first examined change in military organizations in The Sources of Military Doctrine, 3

4

INTRODUCTION

published in 1984.2 Since then a growing literature examining military change has developed, providing richer insight into the many factors that may influence why and how militaries enter upon change, the processes by which change is undertaken, and whether such efforts are successful. This volume brings together authors from different disciplines to extend this literature by providing an examination of the latest thinking on, and analytical approaches to, the question of change in military organizations.

Military Change Major change of the sort that many militaries are currently engaged in would appear at first paradoxical. On the one hand, militaries are commonly seen as traditional in nature and therefore as being strongly disinclined to undertake major change. This view holds that militaries prefer to preserve tried and tested strategies and structures (making minor adjustments as necessary) rather than adopt new ones. Yet on the other hand, militaries do make major changes in terms of whom and how they prepare to fight. A classic example of this paradox is the prolonged and painful birth of battlefield mechanization.3 In explaining why it took the British Army two decades to mechanize its cavalry, Norman Dixon declared: “Rather than recognize the potential of the tank, [army chiefs] drew the conclusion that innovation and progress are inherently dangerous and therefore to be eschewed.”4 Such an account has intuitive appeal. Large bureaucracies (militaries included) are designed to produce routine, repetitive, and orderly action; that is, they prefer continuity, not change.5 Furthermore, military rigidity in dress and parade-ground practice is suggestive of rigidity in military thought. However, upon reflection, it becomes clear that Dixon’s explanation is incomplete. If the British Army were “eschewing” major change, then why did it adopt the tank at all? This raises the broader question regarding what is meant by military change. Most scholars concentrate on explaining the major forms of change, those that military organizations are least likely to undertake. There are, however, some differences within the current body of literature about what constitutes major change. There is no consistency across the many studies examining military organizations and change with respect to what exactly they are attempting to explain (e.g., doctrinal change, organizational goals, or new combat arms). Some analysts focus on change in doctrine. 6 To focus on doctrine, though, is problematic. First, not all militaries have a doctrinal tradition. Second, in different national contexts, doctrine “has a different meaning, function, and relative importance.” Third, as Stephen Rosen points out, “Changes in the formal doctrine of a military organization [may] leave the

THE SOURCES OF MILITARY CHANGE

5

essential workings of the organization unaltered.”7 Finally, doctrine may be informed by and developed as much for political as for strategic or operational reasons.8 These caveats indicate not that doctrine should not be considered when examining military organizations for military change, only that caution should be taken in doing so. Accordingly, Rosen takes a somewhat different tack, defining military innovation as “a change in one of the primary combat arms of a service in the way it fights or, alternatively, as the creation of a new combat arm.”9 At the same time, however, change of doctrine cannot be entirely ignored, for adopting a new doctrine can result in substantial changes in the practices and structure of a military organization. Moreover, Rosen’s definition, though it appears quite specific, appears to rule out changes in the objectives of military operations, which are taken together to be “winning the war.” The adoption of a new goal, such as is the case of the U.S. military’s adoption of peacekeeping, may have wide-ranging ramifications for the strategies employed or structures used. There seems a need, then, to provide a broader definition that is more inclusive in terms of the range of change considered, yet that remains sufficiently exclusive as to confine inquiry to change that is major in character. Theo Farrell has suggested a definition that seems more suitable in this regard, in that it encompasses change in doctrine and combat arms while also including change in other important aspects of military organizations. Thus, in this volume we define military change as suggested by Farrell: “change in the goals, actual strategies, and/or structure of a military organization.”10 The focus in this volume therefore is clearly on major military change. For example, change in organizational goals includes the adoption of a new primary mission, such as the interwar shift from a light infantry to an amphibious warfare role by the U.S. Marine Corps. The interwar period also provides an example of change in strategy, in this case by the U.S. Navy with its shift from a battleship-based naval strategy to one oriented around aircraft carriers.11 Finally, military organizations may change by restructuring themselves, as when the U.S. Navy replaced battlefleets of the line with carrier task forces. A more dramatic example is the adoption of the radical pentomic divisional structure by the U.S. Army in the 1950s in anticipation of the impact of nuclear weapons on the future battlefield.12 These two examples of restructuring also involved the development of new technologies—aircraft carriers and battlefield atomic weapons respectively—whose adoption required new organizational strategies and structures. Excluded from the definition are military changes of any minor sort— for example, changes in operational means and methods (technologies and tactics) that have no implications for organizational strategy or structure. Thus we are not concerned with explaining the U.S. Army’s innovation of

6

INTRODUCTION

new tactics in its sweep across Europe during World War II, as these tactics were consistent with existing army doctrine and force structure.13 We concentrate on major military change because, quite simply, minor military change is less important. Minor military change has lesser resource implications for the military organization in question, as well as for its host state. And, because minor change does not involve the adoption of new military goals, strategies, or structures, it has lesser implications for international security. Major military change is often treated as being synonymous with military innovation. According to our definition, it is the outcome of military change that determines whether it is major or minor in character. Innovation, on the other hand, is one of three pathways whereby military change occurs, the other two being adaptation and emulation. Innovation involves developing new military technologies, tactics, strategies, and structures. Adaptation involves adjusting existing military means and methods. Adaptation can, and often does, lead to innovation when multiple adjustments over time gradually lead to the evolution of new means and methods.14 Last, emulation involves importing new tools and ways of war through imitation of other military organizations. It is only when these new military means and methods result in new organizational goals, strategies, and structures that innovation, adaptation, and emulation lead to major military change. Military change has attracted considerable scholarly attention in recent years. Most of these studies treat military organizations as the primary agents of military change. This is entirely reasonable; most military action occurs within organizational frameworks in the modern world. For major military change to be realized requires existing military organizations to undertake change by choice or under duress, or the creation of new organizations.15 For example, the bomber may owe its roots to human imagination and invention, but the emergence of aerial bombardment as a new form of warfare depended on the practice of armies and navies and the eventual creation of air forces.16 As the provided definition of military change suggests, we also concentrate on military organizations as the agents of change. The question then becomes, what causes militaries to undertake major change? This volume examines three basic sources of military change: cultural norms, politics and strategy, and new technology. The purpose of this volume is to provide new perspectives on these three basic sources of military change. Part 1 continues with an examination of military change that seeks to place it in a historical and geographical context. Part 2 focuses on culture, with three chapters that examine military change in developing states to illustrate how culture explains emulative patterns of military change. Part 3 centers on politics and strategy, with three chapters that examine

THE SOURCES OF MILITARY CHANGE

7

how strategic and political developments interact, specifically at the civilmilitary interface, in causing military organizations to change their ways, with particular reference to military change in the United States, Russia, and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). Part 4 focuses on technology, with three chapters that examine a number of barriers to technologyled military change, including military resistance to new technology and poor systems fit between new technologies and existing military technologies, tactics, strategies, and structures.

Cultural Norms Cultural norms are intersubjective beliefs about the social and natural world that define actors, their situations, and the possibilities of action. Norms are intersubjective in that they are beliefs rooted in, and reproduced through, social practice. Thus the nonuse of nuclear weapons in the postwar period (particularly in cases where the threat of nuclear retaliation was absent) has been shaped by, and in turn has shaped, a normative prohibition on nuclear use.17 Norms constitute actors and meaningful action by situating both in social roles (e.g., military professionals) and in social environments (e.g., interstate war versus intrastate conflict). In addition, norms regulate action by defining what is appropriate (given social rules, moral codes, etc.) and what is effective (given the laws of science). In short, norms make meaningful action possible by telling military actors who they are and what they can do in given situations. In this way, cultural norms define the purpose and possibilities of military change.18 For this reason we start by looking at culture. Studies on military culture thus far have concentrated on examining how norms specific to national or organizational communities have produced behavioral patterns peculiar to these communities, such as national strategic styles and organizational ways of warfare.19 Cultural norms produce persistent patterns of behavior by becoming institutionalized in community rules and routines. Once institutionalized, norms are either taken for granted or enforced by powerful sanctions. For this reason, culture is particularly useful in explaining why militaries continue to act in ways that are incongruous with prevailing strategic and operational circumstances.20 In such cases military reality changes faster than actors’ perception of it. However, even cultural continuity can shape military change by defining organizational responses to strategic, political, and technological developments. Elizabeth Kier’s work has shown how French military beliefs about the demanding nature of offensive operations led the French Army to switch from an offensive to a defensive doctrine in the interwar period. The French Army believed that short-term conscripts were incapable of con-

8

INTRODUCTION

ducting offensive operations and so when the French government introduced a shorter term of conscription in 1928 (for domestic political reasons), the army felt compelled to adopt a defensive doctrine the following year. In this case, French military change was triggered by a political development rather than military culture. Nevertheless, culture was a source of military change because change was made necessary by French military beliefs.21 Moreover, when military culture does change, it may become a powerful engine for military change. Two processes of cultural change have been suggested in the literature so far. The first is a process of planned change, involving the mobilization of ideas and interests behind new beliefs of identity and appropriate behavior. This is consistent with Rosen’s notion of visionary military leaders leading gruelling campaigns to promote a “new theory of victory” within their organizations.22 Equally, political and military elites may reach out into society and the polity at large to affect cultural change at the national level. Edward Rhodes has recently shown how the development of a powerful U.S. navy originated in a late-nineteenthcentury campaign by military and political advocates of naval supremacy to promote a U.S. identity consistent with naval power.23 Similarly, Craig Cameron has shown how the U.S. Marine Corps in the interwar period recreated its self-image as an elite fighting force, which was carefully fostered within the corps and promoted publicly, to generate a more permissive political environment in which to operate.24 This process of planned cultural change implies instrumental use of culture by military and political elites. This may lead some to question whether any causal weight should be ascribed to culture in explaining behavioral outcomes: If culture is so easily engineered to suit elite interests, then surely, isn’t it politics and not culture that really matters? There are a number of points to be made here in defense of culture. First, this process of planned cultural change is invariably a slow and cumbersome one that requires enormous effort; in other words, beliefs are difficult to change.25 Second, actors may plan to change culture so as to reflect beliefs they truly hold; Rhodes notes that many of the advocates of U.S. naval supremacy were “true believers.” Third, even manipulation by disbelieving elites may still result in genuine cultural change. Elite rhetoric may stir up beliefs that are genuinely held by community members, and elites may end up “buying into” their own rhetoric.26 The second suggested process of cultural change involves an external shock to the local cultural system of such a profound nature as to undermine the legitimacy of existing norms.27 For example, some scholars argue that the development of antimilitarist strategic cultures in postwar Germany and Japan was triggered by the utter defeat of these states in World War II.28 These two processes may operate concurrently to produce cultural

THE SOURCES OF MILITARY CHANGE

9

change; external shock may trigger a lengthy process of planned cultural change, or it may provide the necessary winning blow for a successful campaign of planned cultural change. Jeffrey Legro suggests that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had the latter effect on the campaign to dislodge the pre–World War II battleship bias in U.S. Navy culture.29 To date, little attention has been paid to the role of culture in shaping military emulation. In part, this is because most studies of the role of military culture have focused on the militaries of developed states. Military emulation has a more pervasive and profound impact on military practice in developing states.30 This shortcoming is addressed in Chapters 3 and 4 by Emily Goldman and Theo Farrell respectively. Cultural norms shape and are shaped by military emulation. Goldman and Farrell show how the content of military emulation is shaped by transnational cultural norms shared by military organizations. Goldman examines beliefs about particular military means and methods shared by particular groups of states, while Farrell considers more generic norms of professionalism shared by militaries worldwide. In addition, the process of military emulation may result in cultural change within military communities as the emulator comes to identify with the emulated. Since state development denotes progress, the importation of new cultural norms is most likely to occur when the emulator is located in a developing state, and the emulated is the military of a developed state. Thus Farrell shows how the army of the new Irish state learned and internalized norms of military professionalism through imitation of the British military and observation of the U.S. military. When military emulation results in cultural change by the emulator, this process involves planned cultural change and external shock. Farrell shows how external shock assisted planned cultural change and military emulation by the Irish Army. Attempts by the General Staff of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), the revolutionary predecessor of the Irish Army, to import professional norms into their organization met with little success. During the Irish War of Independence (1919–1921), IRA field units were too hard-pressed or too ill-disciplined to pay much attention to General Staff directives. However, the shock of the Irish Civil War (1921–1922), into which the Irish Free State was immediately plunged, provided the necessary boost for Irish military emulation. The new Irish Army urgently had to adopt a foreign military system to organize itself to defend the state. Accordingly, it rapidly emulated the British Army. The Irish Civil War also led to a split in the IRA, with most members, particularly those most opposed to military professionalism, rebelling against the state. This forced Irish military leaders to raise a new army composed of raw recruits who were more prepared to learn and accept transnational norms of military professionalism. In contrast, Goldman examines planned cultural change. She finds lit-

10

INTRODUCTION

tle evidence of external shock shaping emulation success in Meiji Japan and emulation failure in Ottoman Turkey, as Japan’s emulation was not preceded by the identification of a security threat or experience of military failure, while Turkey failed to emulate despite repeated defeat by Austrian and Russian armies throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. And while Meiji leaders pursued military reform even when it made little strategic and fiscal sense, in order to consolidate internal power and bring Japan into the community of modern nations, Ottoman leaders were not strongly committed to military reform because assimilation of Western “infidel” ways would not enhance state legitimacy but rather threatened the social and religious foundations of the Islamic state. The North Atlantic Treaty Organization, like the United States and Russia, faced a radically changed strategic environment with the end of the Cold War. In Chapter 5, Terry Terriff examines post–Cold War innovation in NATO’s goals and structure. Terriff suggests that there are two approaches to analyzing NATO’s military change. First, NATO can be viewed as a unitary rational actor, and one can adopt a neorealist approach to explain its military change in terms of the changed balance of threat. Second, NATO can be viewed as an organization, and one can adopt a cultural approach to examine the social processes that lead one organization to adopt innovations undertaken by other organizations. Terriff argues that NATO acted rationally, as neorealists would predict, in adapting its goals, but that resultant change in NATO’s military structures, in particular the Combined Joint Task Force Concept, can best be understood by social processes that led to the alliance emulating the adaptive force packages of the U.S. military.

Politics and Strategy The most obvious source of military change is strategic, that is, a changing threat to national security. Most scholars recognize that strategic pressures operate through political processes in shaping military change. In 1984, Barry Posen argued that military change is most likely when strategic considerations, particularly the prospect of defeat, generate direct political pressures in the form of civilian intervention. Stephen Rosen and Kimberly Zisk, however, argue that strategic developments, such as a new enemy strategy, trigger a political process that is primarily internal to the military organization undertaking change: in short, militaries do not have to lose wars or be pushed by civilians to undertake major change. Finally, Deborah Avant suggests that some militaries are more able to resist civilian intervention than others. She argues that this variance may be explained in terms of how civilians seek to ensure military loyalty (through military strength or

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11

weakness) and the structure of domestic political power (whether or not there is a division of power that militaries may exploit).31 Posen, Rosen, Zisk, and Avant all consider how political circumstances condition military responses to strategic development. None consider how the strategic developments that trigger military change may have been shaped by political developments. For example, it may be argued that the emergence of revolutionary regimes in late-eighteenth-century France, as well as in Russia, China, and Iran in this century, dramatically changed (for the worse) the strategic environment for status quo states.32 Revolutionary political change was in turn consolidated by the very social mobilization that these revolutionary regimes undertook in the struggle against status quo powers.33 In Chapter 6, Craig Cameron examines how strategic and political developments interacted in shaping military change in the United States during the Cold War. The focus of Cameron’s chapter is the military’s failure to innovate ground and air strategies for the Vietnam War and the resultant fallout. Cameron argues that in the post-Vietnam environment, which combined turmoil within military ranks with public apathy, the military had little incentive to critically examine its own shortcomings let alone promote substantive change. Rather, it was only with changes in U.S. politics and society in the 1980s with the election of Ronald Reagan that the military opened up strategically and politically. This political sea-change provided a supportive environment in which a post-Vietnam generation of officers could begin to question the military’s conduct of the war and seek to learn lessons from it. In Cameron’s account, the U.S. military’s response to a major strategic development—defeat in Vietnam—was shaped by political developments; it was only when the U.S. military finally won the war back home that it was truly able to lose the war in Vietnam. U.S. military change in the post–Cold War era is examined by Deborah Avant and James Lebovic in Chapter 7. The end of the Cold War has provided the main trigger for some kind of military change, but the question is whether it will lead the U.S. military to depart from its traditional bias for large-scale, high-intensity warfare, and reconfigure itself for a new range of lower-intensity missions such as peacekeeping and peace enforcement, humanitarian assistance, sanction enforcement, antiterrorism, and drug interdiction. Avant and Lebovic consider three approaches to answering this question. The first approach directs attention to the amenability of U.S. military culture and individual service cultures to the new missions, and to possible mechanisms whereby new ideas might progress within the services. Second is an approach based on principal-agent theory that treats militaries as agents of government and focuses on the mechanisms whereby principals (civilian leaders and, ultimately, the electorate) monitor military

12

INTRODUCTION

compliance with their wishes. Third, they use neorealism as an approach to concentrate on military responsiveness to international threats. Avant and Lebovic test these three approaches through a survey of 546 mid-ranking officers selected from all four services of the U.S. military. Their use of three approaches permits them to develop a range of observations in support of their argument that post–Cold War military change in the United States will depend on civilian leaders pushing the military away from old missions, and public opinion pulling the military toward new ones. The end of the Cold War had a much more profound effect on the Soviet Union than on the United States; where the latter thrived, the former collapsed. Notwithstanding this, and failure in Chechnya, Jennifer Mathers notes in Chapter 8 that the Russian military has successfully resisted major change. Instead, unavoidable steady decline has replaced planned reform. Ironically, the foundations for effective military reform were laid by the last Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev. Gorbachev brought civilian experts into defense debates, introduced new concepts based on mutual security, and encouraged movement toward a smaller, more professional, and less threatening Soviet force structure. This reform agenda was abandoned under Boris Yeltsin, first president of the Russian Federation and Gorbachev’s successor. Yeltsin’s primary concern was ensuring the loyalty of the military, particularly in his power struggle with the Russian parliament. Accordingly, he was not prepared to push through any reforms that would cause unrest in the armed forces. At the same time, the lack of progress led reform-minded young officers to leave the military in droves. It is too early to tell whether the new Russian president, Vladimir Putin, will build on Gorbachev’s vision or continue the Yeltsin legacy. Mathers concludes that military reform has so far failed in Russia due to the absence of decisive political leadership, and argues that Russian military reform requires civilian direction, because an enduring tradition of subservience prevents the Russian armed forces from undertaking major change without explicit political guidance and approval. Of all the chapters in this volume, Mathers’s most accords with Barry Posen’s theory that military change requires both strategic imperative and civilian intervention.

New Technology Technology is most commonly seen as following a natural trajectory, with existing artifacts being replaced by better artifacts in a Darwinian-like order of succession. Given how military technology has progressed from steam-driven warships to stealth warplanes, it is certainly tempting to take such a determinist view. Indeed, technological determinism holds particular

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13

attraction for many scholars in the security-studies community, including neorealists.34 It lies at the heart of the popular concept of the “arms race,” that is, a relationship characterized by two or more rival states locked in an intense competition to field better (and more) weapons.35 Technological determinism has been challenged by sociologists who contend that there is nothing natural about technological development.36 The sociology of technology notes that there is more than one way to design an artifact. Designs are chosen and artifacts built not through a process of natural selection whereby weak designs are supplanted; rather, social networks develop around rival designs, each functioning to mobilize resources and build consensus for its own preference. It is this social process, whereby debate closes around a dominant design, and not design efficiency, that shapes technological development. In this way, new military technologies are socially constructed.37 How does technological development affect military change? Consistent with technological determinism, many see new military change as simply following in the wake of new technologies.38 This view was clearly expressed in a major UN study on nuclear weapons: “It is widely believed . . . that new weapons systems emerge not because of any military or security considerations but because technology by its own often takes the lead over policy creating weapons for which needs have to be invented and deployment theories have to be readjusted.”39 Even where the pace of technology does not by itself drive military change, it is assumed that technological development is pushed upon militaries by scientist-entrepreneurs. Thus, according to Solly Zuckerman, former chief science adviser to the British Ministry of Defense, “ideas for a new weapon system derive in the first place, not from the military, but from groups of scientists and technologists.”40 Sociologists challenge this notion of technology and technologists shaping military change.41 Certainly, scientist-entrepreneurs may invent and promote new technologies that promise unexpected or unasked-for military capabilities.42 But the social networks that determine the success or failure of particular designs contain a broad range of influential actors, including military, political, and business elites. This suggests that scientistentrepreneurs will not always have it their own way. Crucially, military elites may oppose a new technology that they consider to be impractical (even fantastical) or threatening to existing organizational routines and structures.43 A good example, and consistent with the widely held belief that militaries are often slow to accept new technologies, is the neutron bomb, which was invented by U.S. scientists in 1958 but “was not built for twenty years for lack of a service interested in it.”44 We should also recognize that militaries are not alone in resisting new technologies: new non-

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INTRODUCTION

military technologies (such as nuclear power, information technology, and biotechnology) frequently encounter resistance from a range of actors in society at large.45 On the other hand, this is also evidence of military techno-enthusiasm. Militaries may demand of scientists capabilities that go far beyond the existing state of technology, such as the U.S. Air Force’s requirement for a nuclear-powered bomber in the 1950s.46 It is even possible that scientists may seek to resist military calls for new weapons technology. Indeed, it has been suggested that this was the main brake on the German nuclear weapons program during World War II.47 What emerges from this discussion is a more complex picture of the relationship between new technology and military change than that suggested by the concepts of technological determinism and military conservatism. This is not surprising considering the obvious tension between these two popular concepts: technological determinism ascribes a much greater role to technology in shaping military change than that suggested by military conservatism. Sometimes change by military organizations will follow the development of new technologies—promoted by scientists, supported by powerful social networks, and unexpected or even unwelcomed by the military in question. On other occasions, militaries may seek new technologies in order to undertake change made necessary by some cultural, strategic, or political development. The concept of military conservatism is critiqued in Chapter 9 by John Stone, in his reexamination of the classic case of the mechanization of the British Army. Stone notes that the traditional view of the British Army as being led by reactionary generals in World War I has been discredited. New historical work has revealed that the British General Staff were broadly supportive of army mechanization. Stone recognizes the question this raises: Given that the British Army accepted the tank, why was the tank’s potential not exploited more fully? Some have argued that the British Army lacked an operational doctrine for effective use of the tank. Stone shows that the army did have an operational style of warfare that was consistent with tactical doctrine, but that the tanks of the day lacked the speed, range, and reliability for operational effectiveness. In short, the tank failed the army, not the other way around. Stone’s account thus reveals how technology-led military change may be hampered not so much by military conservatism as by the technology itself and strategic and political circumstances. This suggests that the problem may not be one of military resistance but rather one of integrating new technology into existing military systems and structures. This forms the main theme of Chapter 10, in which Admiral William Owens presents a personal account of his role as vice chairman of the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff from 1994 to 1996. Although Owens’s task was to “act as an agent of change,” he concludes that while some progress

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was made, it was less than he had hoped for. The basic problem is that while the U.S. military is aware of the need to change its organizational strategies and structures to better integrate information technologies into a new “system of systems,” the military is not actually making the necessary changes. Owens identifies four problems in particular that he encountered. First is service parochialism, which hinders the very high levels of interservice cooperation required for true systems fit. Second is technological parochialism, which prevents project teams working on specific weapons from conceiving their products as part of a larger system of systems. Third is the lack of military attention to developing genuine joint doctrine. Fourth is the growing inability of the civilian and military sides of the Pentagon to work together in shaping military change. Owens notes that the individual military services are using information technologies to greatly improve their own operational capabilities. But he argues that in order to effect a real revolution in military affairs (RMA), and realize the benefits, the individual military services need to move beyond their own narrow perspectives and embrace a new vision of the U.S. military that is joint and fully integrated. A more skeptical look at the U.S. and worldwide changes in military organizations based on information technology is provided by Chris Demchak in Chapter 11. The spectacular success of the U.S. military in the 1991 Gulf War advertised the advantages of these technologies for operational effectiveness, and this has fueled worldwide emulation of the U.S. military. But for Demchak, information technology may do more damage than good, by making militaries more fragile when in war they need to be robust.48 She begins by drawing on four new literatures to examine the requirements for operational effectiveness in critical sociotechnical systems: complexity theory, chaos theory, network literature, and large-scale technical-systems literature. These important literatures are new to security studies and so Demchak describes them in necessary length. She concludes that operational effectiveness depends on having few negative surprises, which in turn depends on less complexity, greater advance knowledge, and better accommodation through redundancy or slack. Critical sociotechnical systems, such as networked militaries, have a high requirement for knowledge precision and are particularly intolerant of negative surprises. However, information technology increases complexity and, by intending to supply knowledge momentarily as needed, actually reduces advance knowledge as well as redundancy and slack in the system (in terms of both knowledge and material inventories). Thus Demchak argues that, contrary to what many expect, this form of modernization will produce more surprise and less ability to handle the knowledge burden generated from it. Demchak’s chapter is controversial, for it directly challenges the current social construction of warfare in the information age.49 Whereas Owens is

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INTRODUCTION

critical of the U.S. military for failing to go far enough in revolutionizing itself for information-age warfare, Demchak suggests that it has gone too far already in expecting information warfare to provide an unachievable level of certainty in operations. *

*

*

The diverse contributions to this volume provide a spectrum of perspectives on military change, and in so doing make the general point that military change has various sources. More specifically, the analyses in the volume make three main points: First, they show that the process whereby strategic developments shape military change is shaped by politics within the state and within the organization itself. Thus they reinforce the view that politics and strategy are inseparable. Second, they provide a perspective on the way that culture can shape state action, in particular the decision to embark on military change through the emulation of another state’s military organization. Third, they show that technology is not deterministic, but rather that strategy, politics, and culture interact with technology in affecting the course and outcome of military change. A common theme that runs through the various analyses, either explicitly or implicitly, is that a state-centric account of military change, such as that of neorealism, is too narrow. The general neorealist argument is that the need to survive will force states to organize for war as efficiently as possible.50 Military change, therefore, is a rational state response to changing strategic circumstances, in particular changes in threat and the balance of power. Barry Posen’s landmark study on military change focused on the relative utility of neorealism and organization theory in explaining doctrinal change. Having pitted organization theory against neorealism, Posen concluded that the latter provides “a slightly more powerful tool for the study of doctrine.”51 Neorealism clearly points to an important reason for military change. Nevertheless, the analyses in this volume provide a picture of military change that is more complex, one that requires the analyst to go within the state, indeed within military organizations themselves, to account also for the role of culture, politics, and technology. Before we proceed to the analyses that examine the role of culture, politics and strategy, and new technology as sources of military change, Jeremy Black in Chapter 2 first provides a sweeping historical overview that locates the rise of the Western military organizational form in the context of the underappreciated diversity and vitality in non-Western military practice. The broad perspective across space and time furnished by Black underscores the limitations of a state-centric approach. As Black warns, “Many military organizations have not been under state control and it is necessary to be cautious about assuming a teleological, let alone triumphal-

THE SOURCES OF MILITARY CHANGE

17

ist, account of state control of the military.” Black points out that, historically, militaries around the world have been remarkably diverse, both in composition and in function. The Western ideal of the military existing apart from society and above domestic politics is not matched by historical experience in the West, let alone the rest of the world. 52 Admittedly, Black’s emphasis on military diversity contradicts the argument advanced by Farrell and Demchak that cultural processes are operating to produce worldwide emulative change toward ever greater similarity in military organization. Nevertheless, Black’s world historical perspective reinforces the general point of this volume: that military change has many sources, all of which must be given due consideration.

Notes 1. Nowhere is this more pronounced than in the U.S. military, in which the era of the Cold War has given way to the era of cyberwar. For a vision of cyberwar, see James Adams, The Next World War: Computers Are the Weapons and the Front Line Is Everywhere (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1998). 2. Barry R. Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984). 3. Edward L. Katzenbach Jr., “The Horse Cavalry in the Twentieth Century: A Study in Policy Response,” Public Policy 7 (1958): 120–149. 4. Norman Dixon, On the Psychology of Military Incompetence (London: Pimlico, 1994 [1976]), p. 111. 5. This point is noted in Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the Modern Military (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), p. 2. 6. Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); Deborah D. Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change: Lessons from Peripheral Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994); Terry Terriff, The Nixon Administration and the Making of U.S. Nuclear Strategy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995). 7. These first three points are taken originally from Theo Farrell, “Figuring Out Fighting Organizations: The New Organizational Analysis in Strategic Studies,” Journal of Strategic Studies 19, no. 1 (1996): 125. 8. Political considerations had a significant effect on the public statements of the U.S. nuclear doctrine of limited nuclear options promulgated in 1974. See Terriff, Nixon Administration, especially pp. 184–203, 230–232. 9. Rosen, Winning the Next War, pp. 7–8. 10. Theo Farrell, “Innovation in Military Organizations Without Enemies,” unpublished paper presented at the International Studies Association Annual Convention, San Diego, Calif., 16–20 April 1996 (original emphasis). 11. These examples are discussed in Emily O. Goldman, “Mission Possible: Organizational Learning in Peacetime,” in Peter Trubowitz, Emily O. Goldman, and Edward Rhodes (eds.), The Politics of Strategic Adjustment: Ideas, Institutions, and Interests (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999); Allan R. Millett, “Assault from the Sea: The Development of Amphibious Warfare Between the Wars—The American, British, and Japanese Experiences,” and Geoffrey Till, “Adopting the

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INTRODUCTION

Aircraft Carrier: The British, American, and Japanese Case Studies,” in Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett (eds.), Military Innovation in the Interwar Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Rosen, Winning the Next War, pp. 76–105. 12. A. J. Bacevich, The Pentomic Era: The U.S. Army Between Korea and Vietnam (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1986). 13. Michael D. Doubler, Closing with the Enemy: How GIs Fought the War in Europe, 1944–45 (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1994). 14. As James G. March notes, innovation is not always deliberate; sometimes it is the result of “normal organizational drift.” March, “Footnotes to Organizational Change,” in March (ed.), Decisions and Organizations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988), p. 176. 15. Barry Watts and Williamson Murray, “Military Innovation in Peacetime,” in Murray and Millett, Military Innovation in the Interwar Period, pp. 372–375. 16. Michael S. Sherry, The Rise of American Air Power: The Creation of Armageddon (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987). 17. Nina Tannenwald, “The Nuclear Taboo: The United States and the Normative Basis of Nuclear Non-Use,” International Organization 53, no. 4 (1999): 433–468; Theo Farrell and Hélène Lambert, “Courting Controversy: International Law, National Norms, and American Nuclear Use,” Review of International Studies 27, no. 3 (2001): 309–326. 18. Peter J. Katzenstein (ed.), The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996). 19. On national and strategic culture, see Colin S. Gray, Nuclear Strategy and National Style (Lanham, Md.: Hamilton Press, 1986); Alastair Iain Johnston, Cultural Realism: Strategic Culture and Grand Strategy in Ming China (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); Peter J. Katzenstein, Cultural Norms and National Security: Police and Military in Postwar Japan (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996); John S. Duffield, World Power Forsaken: Political Culture, International Institutions, and German Security Policy After Unification (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998); Michael J. Hogan, Cross of Iron: Harry S. Truman and the Origins of the National Security State, 1945–1954 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). On organizational culture, see Craig M. Cameron, American Samurai: Myth, Imagination, and the Conduct of Battle in the First Marine Division, 1941–1951 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Jeffrey W. Legro, Cooperation Under Fire: Anglo-German Restraint During World War II (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995); Elizabeth Kier, Imagining War: French and British Military Doctrine Between the Wars (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); Lynn Eden, Constructing Destruction: Organizations, Knowledge, and U.S. Nuclear Weapons Effects (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, forthcoming). For literature review, see Theo Farrell, “Culture and Military Power,” Review of International Studies 24, no. 3 (1998): 407–416. 20. Thus the Royal Navy’s neglect of submarine warfare and the Royal Air Force’s neglect of tactical air support during World War II have been explained in terms of a cultural default in each organization producing a “battleship bias” and “bomber bias” respectively. See Legro, Cooperation Under Fire. 21. Kier, Imagining War, pp. 56–88; see also Kier, “Culture and Military Doctrine: France Between the Wars,” International Security 19, no. 4 (1995): 65–93. 22. Rosen, Winning the Next War, pp. 19–21. 23. Edward Rhodes, “Constructing Power: Cultural Transformation and

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19

Strategic Adjustment in the 1890s,” in Trubowitz, Goldman, and Rhodes, Politics of Strategic Adjustment, pp. 29–78. 24. Cameron, American Samurai, pp. 21–48. 25. This is suggested in Williamson Murray, “Does Military Culture Matter?” Orbis 43, no. 3 (1999): 28. 26. Jack Snyder calls this “blowback.” Snyder, Myths of Empire: Domestic Politics and International Ambition (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991). 27. Thomas U. Berger, “Norms, Identity, and National Security in Germany and Japan,” in Katzenstein, Culture of National Security, pp. 326–327; and Jeffrey Legro, “Culture and Preferences in the International Cooperation Two-step,” American Political Science Review 90, no. 1 (1996): 122. 28. Katzenstein, Cultural Norms; Berger, “Norms,” pp. 317–356; Duffield, World Power Forsaken, p. 251. 29. Legro, Cooperation Under Fire, pp. 80–93. 30. Farrell, “Figuring Out Fighting Organizations,” pp. 131–133. 31. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine; Rosen, Winning the Next War; Zisk, Engaging the Enemy; Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change. 32. Stephen Walt, Revolution and War (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996). 33. Theda Skocpol, “Social Revolution and Mass Military Mobilization,” World Politics 40, no. 2 (1988): 147–168. 34. See, for example, Barry Buzan, An Introduction to Strategic Studies: Military Technology and Strategic Studies (London: Macmillan, 1987). For a critical look at technological determinism, see Colin S. Gray, Weapons for Strategic Effect: How Important Is Technology? (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air War College, 2001). 35. For a persuasive critique of the arms race concept, see Colin S. Gray, “Arms Races and Other Pathetic Fallacies: A Case for Deconstruction,” Review of International Studies 22, no. 3 (1996): 323–335. 36. Wiebe E. Bijker, Thomas P. Hughes, and Trevor J. Pinch (eds.), The Social Construction of Technological Systems: New Directions in the Sociology and History of Technology (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987); Merritt Roe Smith and Leo Marx (eds.), Does Technology Drive History? The Dilemma of Technological Determinism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1994). 37. Donald MacKenzie, Inventing Accuracy: A Historical Sociology of Nuclear Missile Guidance (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990); Graham Spinardi, From Polaris to Trident: The Development of U.S. Fleet Ballistic Missile Technology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 38. George Raudzens, “War-Winning Weapons: The Measurement of Technological Determinism in Military History,” Journal of Military History 54, no. 3 (1990): 403–433. 39. United Nations, Report of the Secretary-General, Comprehensive Study on Nuclear Weapons (New York: United Nations, 1981), par. 67, cited in Spinardi, From Polaris to Trident, p. 165. 40. Solly Zuckerman, Nuclear Illusions and Reality (London: Collins, 1982), p. 103. 41. MacKenzie, Inventing Accuracy, pp. 388–390; Spinardi, From Polaris to Trident, pp. 172–174. 42. Marshall J. Bastable, “From Breechloaders to Monster Guns: Sir William Armstrong and the Invention of Modern Artillery, 1854–1880,” Technology and Culture 33, no. 4 (1992): 213–247.

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INTRODUCTION

43. Lance C. Buhl, “Mariners and Machines: Resistance to Technological Change in the U.S. Navy, 1865–1869,” Journal of American History 61, no. 3 (1974): 703–727. 44. Matthew Evangelista, Innovation and the Arms Race: How the United States and Soviet Union Develop New Military Technologies (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988), p. 250. 45. Martin Bauer (ed.), Resistance to New Technology: Nuclear Power, Information Technology, and Biotechnology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 46. Michael Brown has found that, in general, the performance requirements established by the U.S. Air Force for new bombers have usually far outstripped technological developments. Brown, Flying Blind: The Politics of the U.S. Strategic Bomber Program (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992), pp. 307–316. 47. Thomas Powers, Heisenberg’s War: The Secret of the German Bomb (London: Penguin, 1993). 48. Chris C. Demchak advances a similar argument in her provocative Military Organizations, Complex Machines: Modernization in the U.S. Armed Services (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991). 49. On warfare in the information age, see Alvin Toffler and Heidi Toffler, War and Anti-War (Boston: Little, Brown, 1993). On humanity’s love affair with information technology, see Geoffrey J.E. Rawlins, Moths to the Flame: The Seductions of Computer Technology (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1996). 50. Kenneth N. Waltz, Theory of International Politics (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979), p. 127. See also Barry R. Posen, “Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power,” International Security 18, no. 2 (1993): 82; and Joào Resende-Santos, “Anarchy and Emulation of Military Systems: Military Organization and Technology in South America, 1870–1914,” Security Studies 5, no. 3 (spring 1996): 193–260. 51. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine, p. 239. 52. In addition to Jeremy Black’s chapter in this volume, see his War and the World: Military Power and the Fate of Continents, 1450–2000 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).

CHAPTER 2

Military Change in Historical Perspective Jeremy Black

T

his chapter addresses the development of military organization in order to illuminate the methodological and empirical limitations of any teleological account. Diversity is emphasized, not least through urging a consideration of non-Western societies. The political, as opposed to operational, requirements and obligations of military organization are examined, and organization is explored both in terms of the internal structures of the military and in terms of the military’s wider political and social interactions.

Methodological Problems The role of the military and of military considerations in the development of the modern world is not a theme that is central to historical investigation. In part, this reflects the marginality of military historians within an academic community that regards war and the military critically, and, in part, an interest in other explanations of change. A view that war is an epiphenomenon, that it is less important to human history than structural characteristics centered on socioeconomic and environmental considerations, characterizes most work that adopts a structural perspective, whether or not it is marxisante in type. In short, war can be left outside the historical mainstream. Such an interpretation is unhelpful, both as an understanding of historical change and as an account of the development of the modern world. Indeed, an emphasis on the military dimension is an encouraging feature of recent work on state development in early modern Europe,1 while such an 21

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INTRODUCTION

emphasis continues to be pertinent in other areas, such as India and Mesoamerica.2 Any definition of sovereignty in European culture, or elsewhere, in terms of the attempt and ability to monopolize force directs attention to the understanding of violence and the creation of military units and practices under state control. However, any understanding of military organization must be wary of a state-centric, let alone Eurocentric, perspective, whether in definition, causality, or chronology. Many military organizations have not been under state control and it is necessary to be cautious about assuming a teleological, let alone triumphalist, account of state control of the military. It is questionable how far such a monopolization should be seen as an aspect of modernity. Furthermore, it is appropriate to note the problematic character of modernity as a concept, whether descriptive or prescriptive. Aside from the role of modernization as a polemical device in political debate, there is, in analytical terms, a difficulty in determining how best to define and dissect the concept. The triumphalism that saw it in terms of the rise of mass participatory democracy, secular or at least tolerant cultures, nation-states, and an international order based on restraint has been eroded by a series of critiques, from both within and outside the West. This has a direct bearing on the understanding of military organization. Thus, for example, conscript armies could be seen in progressive terms in the nineteenth century as an adjunct of the extension of the male franchise. Both symbolized a new identification of state and people in countries such as France, Germany, and Italy, but not in Britain or the United States. Conscription was also important in the ideology of communist states; and after 1945, as a new politics was created in what had been fascist societies, conscription was seen, for example in Germany and Italy, as a way to limit the allegedly authoritarian and conservative tendencies of professional armies, particularly their officer corps. In the more individualistic Western cultures of the 1960s and later, however, conscription as a form, rationale, and ideology for the organization of the military resources of society seemed unwelcome. Military service was presented less in terms of positive images, such as incorporating ideology and social mobility, and more as an unwelcome chore and a form of social control. Conversely, in Latin America, conscription had a more (though far from universal) positive image, in part because military service was seen as a means for useful training, and for economic opportunity and social improvement, both for individuals and for society. Such points underline the contingent nature of judgments and the danger in adopting a teleological account of change. They also serve as a warning against adopting what may appear to be a self-evident proposition, namely that the purpose of the military is to win wars, and that military

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organization is designed to improve the chances of doing so. Such a proposition is flawed, both because it fails to note the multiple goals of military organizations, and because, even if the prime emphasis is on war-winning, it is necessary to explain the processes by which such an emphasis affects the operation and development of such organizations.

The Purpose of Military Organizations Taking first the point of multiple goals, military organizations serve a number of functions, some of which are publicly defined and endorsed, while others are covert, implied, or implicit. National security is an aspect of the former, while employing people and providing possible support for policing agencies are aspects of the latter. Far from there being any uniformity in situation or development as far as these various functions are concerned, they vary both, in an objective fashion, by state, period, and branch of the military, and, in a more “subjective” sense, with reference to the views of leaders, groups, and commentators within and outside the military. Thus the French Army’s operations against large-scale smuggling gangs in the frontier region of Dauphine in 1732 could be classed as policing or national security or both.3 Not only is this instrumentality of the military a matter of defining the organization’s necessary purposes, but it also extends to the very character of the military organization in a particular society.4 In other words, the purpose of the organization may not be that of achieving a specific military outcome, or of achieving the potential for such an outcome. Rather, the prime objective of the creators of the organization may be to produce a body or system that fulfills and represents certain domestic sociopolitical goals.

Political Objectives Instrumentality of the military relates to both aspects of its organization: first, the internal structure and ethos of armed forces, and second, the relationship of the armed forces to the rest of society, specifically with reference to recruitment and control. Politicians may be more concerned about ensuring “democracy” in the armed forces, or republican values, or revolutionary zeal, or commanders who will, or who will not, automatically obey the government, than they are about considering the war-making potential and planning of the armed forces. Indeed, the latter may be left to the professional military, provided the desired control culture and value system are in place.

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INTRODUCTION

In 1782 the third Duke of Richmond, master general of the British Ordnance, wrote to Major-General Charles Grey about how to repel a possible French attack on Plymouth. He noted: I am sure you can have no idea of the many real difficulties that exist and prevent one’s doing business with that dispatch that could be wished. I have many delays to surmount in my own office, but depending also upon others, upon the Commander in Chief who has his hands completely full and then upon a numerous Cabinet which is not the more expeditious for consisting of eleven persons who have each their own business to attend to.5

Richmond therein captured the central feature of British military organization. It answered to civilian control and did so in war as well as in peace. Similarly, in 1924 the left-wing government that gained power in France was more concerned about the ideological reasons for shortening conscripts’ terms of service than about preparing for war with Germany. In the modern West, operational military control and political direction are largely disaggregated, although the distinction is hard to maintain, as was discovered in peacekeeping work, for example in Bosnia. A separation of military from political responsibilities and power is not, however, generally the situation outside the West. In some countries, such as Iraq, political direction extends to operational control, and in others, such as Burma, senior military figures run the state, or, as in Pakistan, are autonomous, almost a state within a state. Historically, an aggregation of political and military aspects has been more common than their separation, and this helps to answer the question of how concerns about war-winning affect the development of military organizations.

Composite Armies These theoretical points serve as a prelude to a brief consideration of the chronological development of military organization. At the outset, it is best to consider a sociology of different military systems. The evolution of specialized forces—of trained regulars under the control of “states”—occurred initially against the background of a world in which there was a general lack of such specialization. The absence of powerful sovereign authority across much of the world was such that for A.D. 1–1500 it is commonly more appropriate to think of a tribal and feudal military organization, rather than a state-centric system. Furthermore, diversity was evidence of the vitality of different traditions, rather than of an anachronistic and doomed resistance to the diffusion of a progressive model. Diversity owed some-

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25

thing to environmentalism: the interaction of military capability and activity with environmental constraints and opportunities. Thus there were different options in areas where horses were present and absent. This changed to a certain extent with the diffusion of horses, but they could not be used in some areas, for example the tsetse-fly belt of Africa. The prestige of imperial states, especially China and Rome, was such that their military models considerably influenced other powers, especially the successor states to the Western Roman Empire. However, part and frequently much of the success of both imperial states rested on their ability to co-opt assistance from neighboring “barbarians.” This ensures that any account of their military organization that offers a systematic description of the core regulars is only partial. Indeed, both imperial powers deployed armies that were, in effect, coalition forces. This remained the case with most major armies until the age of mass conscription in the nineteenth century and, even then, was true of their transoceanic military presence. Such co-option could be structured essentially in two ways. It was possible to equip, train, and organize ancillary units like the core regulars, or to leave them to fight in a “native” fashion. Both methods were followed by imperial powers, such as the British in eighteenth-century India. The net effect was a composite army, and such an organization has been more common than is generally allowed. The composite character of military forces essentially arises both from different tasks and from the use of different arms in a coordinated fashion to achieve the same goal: victory on the battlefield. Thus cavalry combine with infantry, light calvary with heavy cavalry, pikemen with musketeers, frigates with ships of the line, tanks with helicopter gunships, creating problems of command and control that affect organizational structures. This composite nature of large forces is an aspect of the coordination of different arms because, for example, in imperial Rome the native ancillary units commonly provided light cavalry and light infantry to assist the heavy infantry of the core Roman units. Similarly, Mongol and Manchu cavalry cooperated with Chinese infantry. The Ottoman Turks were provided with light cavalry by their Crimean Tatar allies, while their Russian enemies were so provided by the Cossacks and, in the nineteenth century, by the Kazakhs. Such cooperation rested not so much on bureaucratic organization as on a careful politics of mutual advantage and an ability to create a sense of identification.6 The politics of mutual advantage affected patterns of command, frequently by ensuring that “native” forces operated as a parallel force with no command integration other than at the most senior level. The frequent combination of “native” cavalry with “core” infantry suggests that, in part, such military organization bridged divides that were at once

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INTRODUCTION

environmental and sociological.7 This bridging complemented the symbiotic combination of pastoralism and settled agriculture that was so important to the economies of the preindustrial world.

The Early Modern Period The period 1490–1700 was one of increased interaction between different parts of the world. The Atlantic European powers were the most active in this process, but there were a number of other expansive powers, including the Ottomans, Safawids, Moguls, and Manchus, as well as lesser states, such as Morocco and Bornu. Military success was as much a matter of political incorporation as of technological strength.8 This incorporation was an important aspect of military organization, as the successful allocation of the burdens of supporting military structures was crucial to the practice of incorporation. The raising of men, supplies, and money was the most important aspect of military organization for the states of the preindustrial world, and the ease of the process was significant to the harmony of political entities, and thus to the effectiveness of their military forces. Organization must be understood as political as much as administrative, and indeed this politicality was more important. Rulers lacking political support found it difficult to sustain campaigns and maintain military organization. This was a problem for Charles I in his conflicts with Scotland from 1638 to 1640.9 The use of agencies and individuals outside the control of the state to raise and control troops and warships was so widespread and dependent on support that the relationship could not be seen simply as devolved administration. 10 This point lessens the contrast that can be made between a “medieval” warfare based on social institutions and structures and an “early modern” system based on permanent organizations maintained and managed by the state. In the period 1490–1700, professionalization and the rise of standing (permanent) forces on land and sea created problems of political and military organizational demand. Structures had to be created, cooperative practices devised. It is unclear the extent to which these structures and practices created a self-sustaining dynamic for change, in an action-reaction cycle or synergy, or the extent to which there was a limit of effectiveness that inhibited the creation of a serious capability gap with forces that lacked such development. This is an important issue, given modern emphasis on organizational factors, such as drill and discipline, in the rise of the Western military.11 Another important aspect of change and professionalization was pro-

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27

vided by the development of an officer corps responsive to new weaponry, tactics, and systems, and increasingly trained, at least in part, in a formal fashion with an emphasis on specific skills that could not be gained in combat conditions. Although practices such as purchase limited state control (or rather reflected the nature of the “state”),12 officership was a form of hierarchy under the control of the sovereign. However, most officers came from the social elite, the landed nobility, and, at sea, the mercantile oligarchy. An absence of sustained social mobility at the level of military command was an important aspect of organization and a constraint on its flexibility. It reflected more widespread social problems with the recruitment of talent. European forces were not the only ones to contain permanent units and to be characterized by professionalism, but the degree of development in this direction in different parts of the world cannot be readily compared, because of the lack of accurate measures and, indeed, definitions. Furthermore, it is necessary to consider how best to weight the respective importance of peacetime forces and larger wartime establishments. In accounts of global military history, the “early modern” period is generally presented in terms of a European military revolution defined by the successful use of gunpowder weaponry on land and sea.13 This is then followed by an onset of late modernity, either in terms of a greater politicization and resource allocation, and alleged rise in determination, from the French Revolution, or in terms of the industrialization of war in the nineteenth century, or in terms of both. Such a chronology, however, is limited as an account of European development, and flawed on the global scale, due to its failure to heed change elsewhere.

1700–1850 In searching for periodization, it is important and useful to abandon a Eurocentric chronology and causation. It is possible to suggest a period in addition to those given above, that of 1700–1850, the age before the triumph of the West. It closes in the mid–nineteenth century, when the impact of the West and Westernization greatly affected areas that had hitherto experienced limited effect: Japan, China, Southeast Asia, New Zealand, inland Africa, and western interior North America. The period begins in about 1700 in order to divide the “early modern” age. This distinguishes the period from that of the initial expansion of the “gunpowder empires.” It also focuses on the impact of flintlocks and bayonets, which were important together, and, largely, the first in India, West Africa, Europe, and North America. Furthermore, it is necessary to discuss

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INTRODUCTION

the sociopolitical contexts of war after the seventeenth-century general crisis that affected so much of the world’s economy, with accompanying sociopolitical strains. Attention in the period 1700–1850 generally focuses on war within Europe: Charles XII, Peter the Great, Marlborough, Frederick the Great, and Napoleon. However, conflict within Europe was less important in raising general European military capability than the projection of European power overseas, a projection achieved in a largely preindustrial world. To this end, it was the organizational capacity of the Atlantic European societies that was remarkable. The Duke of Newcastle, secretary of state for the British Southern Department, claimed in 1758, “We have fleets and armies in the four quarters of the world and hitherto they are victorious everywhere. We have raised and shall raise more money this year than ever was known in the memory of man.”14 Warships themselves were the products of an international procurement system and products of what were, by the standards of the age, massive and complex manufacturing systems. Their supply was also a major undertaking, as was their maintenance. Neither was effortless, and any reference to the sophistication of naval organization must consider the continual effort that was involved and the problems of supplies. This can be glimpsed from the surviving correspondence, for example that of Mithon, the Intendant de la Marine at the French Mediterranean base of Toulon, as he sought to surmount difficulties in the wood supply in late 1733 and thus prepare the fleet for the 1734 campaign. 15 France attacked Austria in late 1733. The following year, a French agent reported on the leading Spanish naval base at Cádiz. He noted Spanish efforts to develop a major navy, but reported on a lack of adequate shipworkers and systems.16 It is necessary to consider such sources alongside the more synoptic, problem-free accounts of organizational development. Naval supply and maintenance required global systems of bases if the navies were to be able to secure the desired military and political objectives. Thus the French in the Indian Ocean depended on Mauritius and Réunion, the British on Bombay and Madras, the Portuguese on Goa, and the Dutch on Negapatam. When in the 1780s the British considered the creation of a new base on the Bay of Bengal, they acquired and processed knowledge in a systematic fashion and benefited from an organized process of decisionmaking.17 The globalization of European power was not solely a matter of naval strength and organization. The creation of powerful syncretic Westernnative forces, especially by the French and later by the British in India, was also important. A different process occurred in the New World. There the Western military tradition was fractured with the creation of independent forces. Their organizational culture and practices arose essentially from political circumstances. Thus in the United States there was an emphasis on

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volunteerism, civilian control, and limited size, for both army and navy, that reflected the politics and culture of the new state. This could be seen in Jefferson’s preference for gunboats rather than ships of the line.18 Within Europe there was also a process of combination. Armies were largely raised among the subjects of individual rulers, but foreign troops, indeed units, were also recruited and there was a process of amalgamation in which alliance armies were built up. Furthermore, in some cases forcible recruiting extended to foreign territories. The Prussians were especially guilty of this process, forcibly raising troops, for example, in Mecklenburg and Saxony.19 Amalgamation could involve subsidies,20 and could also be motivated by operational factors, specifically the recruitment of light cavalry from peoples only loosely incorporated into the state, such as Cossacks for Russia and Crimean Tatars for Turkey.

The West and the Rest Outside Europe in 1700–1850, expanding powers, for at least part of the period, included China, Burma, Siam, the Afghans, Mysore, the Marathas, the Sikhs, Egypt, the Zulus, and the jihads in West Africa. The organizational character of these forces varied greatly, in large part because of the very different natures of the states involved. The contrast between the methodical campaigns of Chinese forces in Tibet in the 1710s and Dsungaria in the 1750s,21 and the more inchoate political structures, less fixed military organization, and more fluid fighting methods of the Marathas,22 can be repeated throughout the non-European world. A notion of different and distinctive European and non-European military organizations, and of their related effectiveness, is visually encoded in the art and imagery of (European) empire. It is of the “thin red line,” an outnumbered and stationary European force, drawn up in a geometric fashion, stationary and ready to fire. This force is being charged by a disorganized mass of infantry or cavalry, a mass lacking uniform, formation, and discipline. This image can be variously presented—the European military, for example, can be imaged in square rather than lineal units—but it is designed to suggest the potency of discipline and the superiority of form. Such an image is central to a teleology of military organization, a notion that organization entails a certain type of order from which success flows. As an account of the imperial campaigns of the second half of the nineteenth century and of European success, such an image is less than complete and is in some respects seriously misleading. The error is even more pronounced prior to the mid–nineteenth century. European forces won at Plassey (1757) and the Pyramids (1798), but not on the Pruth (1711); the organization of forces on the battlefield was only one element in combat;

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INTRODUCTION

some non-European forces had sophisticated organizational structures, both on campaign and in battle; and European armies themselves frequently did not fulfill the image of poised, coiled power.23

Organization and Tactics This misperception can be seen by considering the nature of the revolutionary and Napoleonic battle, which was traditionally presented by British historians as an object lesson in the superiority of disciplined organization. The traditional view of Wellington’s tactics is that his infantry, drawn up in line, simply blasted away at the oncoming French columns and stopped them by fire alone; in short, this view holds that the organization geared to linear formations was as such the more successful on the battlefield. By extension, the history of successful military organization in the nineteenth century is thus, in part, an extension of similar formations and practices of control by the Europeans to other parts of the world and emulation by local powers,24 although in Europe such formations were abandoned later in the century, as they represented easy targets for opposing fire. However, it has been shown that the interaction of organization, discipline, and tactics on the Wellingtonian battlefield was different from the conventional view. Wellington’s favored tactic was for his infantry to fire a single volley, give a mighty cheer, and then charge.25 The key was not firepower alone, but a mixture of fire and shock. This is less different from the situation elsewhere in the world than may be appreciated. In addition, it focuses attention on the role of morale, which is particularly important in shock tactics (although also obviously where there is reliance upon firepower). Shock tactics were not, and are not, however, simply a matter of an undisciplined assault in which organization plays a scant role. This can be seen by considering the columnar tactics of European forces during the period, which can be presented as the organizational consequence of the levée en masse, the addition of large numbers of poorly trained conscripts to the army of revolutionary France. However, columns could also be employed on the defensive, a deployment on the battlefield that required a more controlled organization. The formation was an appropriate one in a variety of ways. First, it was an obvious formation for troops stationed in reserve. Thus infantry brigades and divisions stationed in the second line would almost always have been in column, this being the best formation for rapid movement, whether it was to plug a gap, to launch a counterattack, or to reinforce an offensive. However, columns were of use even for brigades and divisions stationed in the front line. It was possible to intermix lines

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31

and columns in a sort of static version of l’ordre mixte, or indeed to have many units in column, as with the Russians at Borodino in 1812. Far from presenting columns as a product of a relatively simplistic military organization, as a regression from the professionalism and training of the Frederician army, it is therefore possible to argue that columns were not only effective but also a development on what had come before. A sudden onslaught by a line of columns on an attacking force, and particularly an attacking force that had been shot up and become somewhat “blown” and disorganized, was likely to have been devastating. Furthermore, columns could still fire, while they could also be placed side by side to present a continuous front. Columns gave a defender weight, the capacity for local offensive action and solidity: troops deployed in line came under enormous psychological strain when under attack by columns. A brief consideration of what actually happened in combat thus reveals the danger of presenting one form of tactical deployment as necessarily weaker than another. This is important in any discussion of organizational structures, because such structures were clearly related to tactical deployment, although the extent to which there was a causal correspondence varied. Another helpful caveat is provided by sources that reveal the limitations of effective diffusion of tactics and weaponry, both within Europe and farther afield.

1850–1960 From the mid–nineteenth century the world was increasingly under the sway of the West, directly or indirectly. The organization of Japan’s army, in response first to French and then to German models, and of its navy, under the inspiration of the British model, is a powerful example of this impact.26 Such emulation, however, was more than a matter of copying a successful military machine. There was also a sociopolitical dimension that focused in particular on the impact of nationalism, but also on other aspects of nineteenth-century “modernization.” Although systems of conscription did not require nationalism, they were made more effective by it. Nationalism facilitated conscription without the social bondage of serfdom, because conscription was legitimated by new ideologies.27 It was intended to transform the old distinction between civilian and military into a common purpose. Although the inclusive nature of conscription should not be exaggerated, it helped in the militarization of society and, combined with demographic and economic growth, provided governments with manpower resources such that they did not need to turn to military entrepreneurs, foreign or domestic.28 The political and ideological changes and increasing

32

INTRODUCTION

cult of professionalism of the nineteenth century also made it easier for the states to control their officer corps and to ensure that status within the military was set by government. Due to nationalism and the attendant increase in the scale of mobilization of resources, it became more apparent that war was a struggle between societies, rather than simply armies and navies, and this poses questions as to how best to understand military organization. If society was mobilized for war, as was indeed the case in both world wars, then large sections of the economy were directly placed under military authority and became part of the organization of the militarized state. Other sections were placed under governmental control and regulated in a fashion held to characterize military organization. The Ministry of Munitions that was created in Britain in World War I was as much a part of the military organization as the artillery.29 Other sections of society were not brought under formal direction, but can be seen as part of the informal organization of a militarized state. Universal military training and service were expanded in World War I. Conscription was introduced in Britain (1916), Canada (1917), and the United States (1917).30 This accentuated a pattern of military organization that was not based on voluntary service. Such a pattern was central to the armed forces of the combatants in both world wars.

The Demise of Compulsion The trend toward conscription reversed after World War II, in large part in response to the impact of individualism in Western society. Other factors were naturally involved in the abandonment of conscription, not least cost and the growing sophistication of weaponry, but they would not have been crucial had there not been a major cultural shift away from conscription. This shift is the most important factor in modern military organization, because it has opened up a major contrast between societies that have abandoned conscription and those where it remains normal. Again, however, it is necessary to avoid any sense of an obvious teleology. Thus the pattern in Britain was one of a hesitant approach toward conscription, even when it appeared necessary. In 1780, when the British were at war with France, Spain, Mysore, and the American rebels, Charles Jenkinson, the secretary of war, wrote to Lord Amherst, the commander in chief, that he did not see how the strength of the army could be maintained: I am convinced that any plan of compulsion in a greater extent is not only contrary to the nature of the government of this country, but would create riots and disturbances which might require more men for the purpose of preserving the peace, than would be obtained by the plan itself . . .

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33

besides, that, men who are procured in this way almost constantly desert, or at best make very indifferent soldiers.31

In the West, war in the twentieth century has become less frequent and thus less normal and normative. Instead, war is increasingly perceived as an aberration best left to professionals. There has also been a growing reluctance to employ force in domestic contexts. Governments prefer to rely on the police to maintain internal order, and the use of troops in labor disputes is less common than earlier in the century. Britain phased out conscription during the period 1957–1963 and the United States moved in 1973 to an all-volunteer military that reduced popular identification with the forces.32 It is now unclear whether a major sustained conflict in which such states were attacked would lead to a form of mass mobilization. At present that seems unlikely, for both political and military reasons, but were it to occur, another world war might lead to a different situation with mobilization designed to engender and sustain activism as much as to provide military manpower. The abandonment of conscription is an aspect of the manner in which the size and purpose of the military are set by political factors and subject to political debate. An account of military organization as a product of politics is not intended to serve a demilitarization of military history, but it underlines the point that the notion and understanding of fitfor-purpose are essentially set by those who control the military. In some situations this control is vested in the military, as is the case when the political and military leadership are similar. This is true of military dictatorships, both modern ones and their historical progenitors, such as those Roman regimes presided over by a general who had seized power, for example Vespasian. Napoleon I was a later example of the same process. In some societies, such as those of feudal Europe, it may not be helpful to think of separate military and political classifications of leadership. In addition, in wartime, generals may be able to gain control of the definition of what is militarily necessary, in terms of both means and objectives. On the whole, however, generals have had only limited success. In dictatorial regimes, such as those of the Soviet Union and Germany during World War II, the generals were heeded only if their views accorded with those of the dictator. In democracies generals have also been subject to political direction, although with less bloody consequences.

Control and the Military Control is the concluding theme of military organization. First, it is likely that governments will seek to retain direct control over the military and that its organization will remain part of the state. In a period when privatization, or the intermediate stage of “hiving off” into autonomous corporations, has

34

INTRODUCTION

affected government across most of the world, the military has remained largely immune, at least as far as the fighting “edge” (as opposed to the logistical backup) is concerned. If, however, “privatization” is a theme in the discussion of the modern military, then it has possibly to be reconceptualized to take note of the move away from conscription and the contractualism on which voluntary service rests. There are certainly no obvious parallels in modern states to the entrepreneurship of early modern warfare, to the military markets of Europe and India,33 although there are parallels to one aspect, namely the subsidization of the armed forces of allies.34 Modern states might subcontract aspects of military training, but they retain control over the process (and pay for it), and the extent to which officership is a function of state-directed training is crucial to modern military organization. Modern states do not use a military market for recruiting officers, soldiers, or sailors: mercenaries generally play a role only when states are weak and subject to civil conflict.35 There is no ready availability outside the state militaries of the skills and training necessary for modern advanced aerial, naval, and land combat and operations. However, “privatization” could be discussed in terms of the division of responsibilities and benefits within alliances, for example in the Gulf War of 1990–1991. In these terms, Japan and Saudi Arabia in effect paid the United States for the use of its specialized military, in a modern example of protection costing. This organizational division was arguably the most effective aspect of the conflict. Second, any theory of military organization must take note of problems of internal and external control, for organization is not an abstraction: the armed forces are too important in most societies to leave out of the equations of politics, even if only in the wider definition of the latter. In the West, external control has become less of a problem over the last half millennium. Instead, the military has become an instrument of the state, most obviously in the United States. There, the most powerful military in world history has never staged a coup and has had relatively little influence on the structure, contents, or personnel of politics. A cult of professionalism is central to the ethos of the U.S. officer corps and their training is lengthy.36

Varieties of Organization in the Modern World Military organization is very different in Latin America, Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia. Western-style military establishments have a disproportionate independence and impact, sometimes as the major force holding the postcolonial state together. 37 Nigeria in the 1960s exemplifies this process. In some countries, such as Burma, the situation is accentuated by sustained resistance on the part of regions or regional peoples with their

MILITARY CHANGE IN HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

35

own forces, such as the Karens in Burma. Regional resistance and the limited legitimacy of national regimes can combine in a situation where the ability of the state to monopolize force has totally broken down. The notion of a state-directed military means very little, for example, in modern Sierra Leone and Liberia. Indeed, the organizational model that best helps analyze such armies is that of the criminal gang. Frederick Lane’s theory of protection costs takes on a different meaning in such contexts. 38 Ironically, Frederick the Great compared himself in 1757 to a traveler attacked by a gang of brigands.39 Such contrasts in organizational structure and ethos and in the political position of the military are unlikely to alter in the near future. The role of the military as the focus of power (and of social mobility and even the expropriation of wealth) will remain in many states. It is difficult to believe that the ethos of their organization will be primarily set by external military purposes. This will be even more the case if the hegemonic power of the United States can maintain international peace, as in Latin America. The military will therefore acquire advanced weaponry, as if preparing for foreign war, but will primarily fix its sights on domestic goals. Thus in Argentina, the sole South American state to fight a major foreign war in the last half century, the military’s role in the country’s history was essentially that of a domestic political force, rather than a contestant with Britain for the Falklands/Malvinas or a shadow-boxer with Chile over frontier differences.40 Armies in such circumstances can be regarded in part as spoils systems, in which control over force is employed to the profit—political, social, and financial—of their members, especially the leaders. This was also the situation in early modern Europe, but is not so with modern Western militaries. They enjoy handsome salaries but scarcely the economic and political power of, for example, their Indonesian and Chinese counterparts, to select two states that are not under military rule. In such systems promotion can owe little to professional criteria, and status is a matter of politics and ethnicity as much as training and competence. It is necessary to look for narratives and paradigms of military development primarily in terms of contrasting political cultures rather than technological “progress” or operational effectiveness. These political needs and constraints reflect different societies and cultures and hinder any understanding of military development in terms of conformity to, or divergence from, a global model.

Notes 1. B. M. Downing, The Military Revolution and Political Change: The Origins of Democracy and Autocracy in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); B. D. Porter, War and the Rise of the State: The

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Military Foundations of Modern Politics (New York: Free Press, 1994); T. Ertman, Birth of Leviathan: Building States and Regimes in Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 2. R. Hassig, Aztec Warfare: Imperial Expansion and Political Control (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988). 3. On smuggling in Dauphine, see Vincennes, Archives de la Guerre, A1 2687. 4. A good example of recent work in this field is E. Kier, Imagining War: French and British Military Doctrine Between the Wars (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). 5. Richmond to Major-General Charles Grey, 27 April 1782, University of Durham, Department of Paleography, Papers of 1st Earl Grey, no. 61. 6. On the politics of mutual advantage, see W. Irvine, The Army of Indian Moghuls: Its Organisation and Administration (Delhi: Low Price, 1994). 7. T. J. Barfield, The Perilous Frontier: Nomadic Empires and China, 221 B.C. to A.D. 1757 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989); J. Gormans, “The Silent Frontier of South Asia, c. A.D. 1100–1800,” Journal of World History 9, no. 4 (1998): 1–23. 8. D. Potter, War and Government in the French Provinces: Picardy, 1470–1560 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); J. M. Black, War and the World, 1450–2000 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), pp. 40–42. 9. M. Fissel, The Bishops’ Wars: Charles I’s Campaigns Against Scotland, 1638–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 10. F. Redlich, The German Military Enterpriser and His Work Force: A Study of European Economic and Social History, 2 vols. (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1964–1965); D. Kolff, Naukar, Rajput, and Sepoy: The Ethnohistory of the Military Labour Market in Hindustan, 1450–1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). For the situation at sea in the European colonial world, see C. C. Goslinga, The Dutch in the Caribbean and on the Wild Coast, 1580–1680 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1971); L. Blussé and F. Gaastra (eds.), Companies and Trade: Essays on Overseas Trading Companies During the Ancien Régime (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 1981); K. R. Andrews, Trade, Plunder, and Settlement: Maritime Enterprise and the Genesis of the British Empire, 1480–1630 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 11. B. D. Showalter, “Caste, Skill, and Training: The Evolution of Cohesion in European Armies from the Middle Ages to the Sixteenth Century,” Journal of Military History 57, no. 3 (1993): 407–430. 12. T. Barker, Army, Aristocracy, Monarchy: Essays on War, Society, and Government in Austria, 1618–1780 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982). 13. G. Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 14. Newcastle to Andrew Mitchell, 21 September 1758, London, British Library, Additional Manuscripts, vol. 6832, fol. 43. 15. Paris, Archives Nationales, Archives de la Marine, B 3 359, fols. 139–140, 149, 179–181, 189. 16. D’Orves to Foreign Minister Chauvelin, 4 September 1734, Paris, Quai d’Orsay, Archives du Ministère des Relations Extérieures, Correspondance Politique Espagne, 419, fol. 144. 17. G. D. Inglis, “The Spanish Naval Shipyard at Havana in the Eighteenth Century,” in New Aspects of Naval History: Selected Papers from the 5th Naval History Symposium (Washington, D.C.: Naval Historical Center, Department of the Navy, 1982). 18. S. C. Tucker, The Jefferson Gunboat Navy (Columbia: University of South

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37

Carolina Press, 1993); W. Sword, President Washington’s Indian War: The Struggle for the Old Northwest, 1790–1795 (Norman: Oklahoma University Press, 1985). 19. Memorandum by Mecklenburg government, winter 1757–1758, Paris, Bibliothèque Victor Cousin, Fonds Richelieu, vol. 58, fol. 247. 20. See, for example, C. W. Eldon, England’s Subsidy Policy Towards the Continent During the Seven Year’s War (Philadelphia: Times and News, 1938); P. G. M. Dickson, Finance and Government Under Maria Theresia, 1740–1780, vol. 2 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), pp. 158–169, 172–173, 391–393, 395; P. H. Wilson, German Armies: War and German Politics, 1648–1806 (London: UCL Press, 1998), pp. 205–209. 21. P. C. Perdue, “Military Mobilisation in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century China, Russia, and Mongolia,” Modern Asian Studies 30, no. 3 (1996): 757–794. 22. S. Gordon, The Marathas, 1600–1818 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 23. Black, War and the World, pp. 96–202. 24. R. J. Smith, Mandarins and Mercenaries: “The Ever-Victorious Army” in Nineteenth Century China (Millwood, N.Y.: KTO Press, 1978); R. J. Samuels, Rich Nation, Strong Army: National Security and the Technological Transformation of Japan (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994); A. Amanat, Pivot of the Universe: Nasir al-Din Shah and the Iranian Monarchy, 1831–1896 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997). 25. P. Griffith (ed.), Wellington Commander (Chicester: Bird, 1985). 26. S. Lone, Japan’s First Modern War: Army and Society in the Conflict with China, 1894–1895 (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1994); see also Chapter 3 in this volume. 27. J. W. Geary, We Need Men: The Union Draft in the Civil War (De Kalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1991); S. Foster and J. Nagler (eds.), On the Road to Total War: The American Civil War and the German Wars of Unification, 1861–1871 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 28. Regarding the militarization of society, see M. S. Coetzee, The German Army League: Popular Nationalism in Wilhelmine Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990). 29. J. F. Godfrey, Capitalism at War: Industrial Policy and Bureaucracy in France, 1914–1918 (Leamington Spa: Berg, 1987); J. Horne (ed.), State, Society, and Mobilisation in France During the First World War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 30. J. W. Chambers, To Raise an Army: The Draft Comes to Modern America (New York: Free Press, 1987). 31. Charles Jenkinson to Lord Amherst, 24 October 1780, London, Public Record Office, War Office, 34/127, fol. 155. 32. G. Q. Flynn, The Draft, 1940–1973 (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1993). 33. J. E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns: State-Building and Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). 34. P. K. Taylor, Indentured to Liberty: Peasant Life and the Hessian Military State, 1688–1815 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994). 35. G. Teitler, The Genesis of the Professional Officers’ Corps (London: Sage, 1977). 36. S. P. Huntington, The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of

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Civil-Military Relations (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957). 37. S. E. Finer, The Man on Horseback: The Role of the Military in Politics (London: Penguin, 1962). 38. F. C. Lane, Profits from Power: Readings in Protected Rent and ViolenceControlled Enterprise (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1979); N. Steensgaard, “Violence and the Rise of Capitalism: Frederick C. Lane’s Theory of Protection and Tribute,” Review 2, no. 4 (1981): 247–273. 39. Frederick the Great to Margravine of Bayreuth, 22 July 1757, Politische Correspondenz Friedrichs des Grossen, vol. 15 (Berlin: Hoffman, 1879–1939), p. 261. 40. D. L. Norden, Military Rebellion in Argentina: Between Coups and Consolidation (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996).

PA R T 2

Culture

CHAPTER 3

The Spread of Western Military Models to Ottoman Turkey and Meiji Japan Emily O. Goldman

primary conduit for change in military organizations is the diffusion of innovations that have originated in one state to others. One would A expect military and political leaders to monitor the practices of their neighbors and of leading military powers in the system and attempt to adopt the most successful ones, particularly since national survival historically has depended on battlefield success. Despite the importance of diffusion, the literature on military change has tended to focus on dynamics internal to a particular society and military. Extensive research has been conducted on military innovation, though the focus is rarely on the linkages that exist between military organizations and that can produce change.1 This analysis tests two competing interpretations of the diffusion process in order to develop a better understanding of how transnational pressures lead to military change. Two schools of thought—neorealism and sociology’s neoinstitutionalism—offer different interpretations of why states import new military practices from abroad.2 Different assumptions about the motivations for states to adopt new military methods lead to different expectations about national responses to the demonstration of successful military practices abroad, and the scope, pace, and direction of military change. The two theories are considered in light of empirical evidence from Ottoman Turkey and Meiji Japan. The cases present a puzzle for the widely held view that competition is the chief stimulus to the spread of military practices. The cases reveal a range of motives behind diffusion and can assist in developing better theories for why military practices spread. The analysis concludes that while strategic necessity is an important driver of diffusion, noncompetitive or institutional pressures, like the desire for pres41

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tige and legitimacy, are equally potent drivers that shape diffusion, even in the military sphere, where one would expect strategic considerations and competitive pressures to prevail.

Neorealism For neorealists, competition is the key stimulus to the spread of military practices, and the driving force behind military change. The competitive logic governing the international system creates a powerful incentive to emulate the military practices of the most successful states in the system. Kenneth Waltz argues, “The possibility that conflict will be conducted by force leads to competition in the arts and instruments of force. . . . Contending states imitate the military innovations contrived by the country of greatest capability and ingenuity. And so the weapons of the major contenders, even their military strategies, begin to look much the same all over the world.”3 The drive to be as militarily effective as possible produces emulation, either because there is simply one best practice and everyone figures it out, or because figuring out the best practice is difficult, so states satisfice by imitating. Alternative institutional and technological options may be available, but there is an urgency to adopt the most successful forms and practices as demonstrated by the great wars of the period. External balancing may slow the pace of emulation, but only to a degree. Emulation is the primary behavior expected of units in a self-help system. Military historians concur that competition is a powerful factor in the spread of military innovations. John Lynn writes, “More than any other institution, militaries tend to copy one another across state borders, and with good reason. War is a matter of Darwinian dominance or survival for states, and of life or death for individuals. When an army confronts new or different weaponry or practices on the battlefield, it must adapt to them, and often adaptation takes the form of imitation.”4 Neorealism predicts that the likelihood of emulation will be high given the constant pressure of competition in the international system. The strength of incentives to emulate should vary with perceived security. States that are unusually secure, for geographic or size reasons, should be least motivated to emulate. Yet when strategic necessity demands, the desire to emulate should be strong enough to cause substantial efforts to overcome any institutional barriers or internal factors that would tend to cause distortions. Emulation should also be faithful to the source. Everyone should emulate the most successful practices—the most efficient model. Special or limited geography only affects the mission area at issue, not the expectation that efficiency drives model selection given mission requirements. For example, continental powers may decide it is unnecessary or

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43

unaffordable to attempt the sea control mission, but will adopt the most successful practices for coast defense. Overall, diffusion is seen as a smooth process, with military organizations able to easily adopt successful practices developed and honed outside their borders. Militaries can be “rational shoppers,” choosing from the best practices available.

Neoinstitutionalism Sociology’s new institutionalism concedes the importance of competition as a driver of military diffusion, but argues that institutional pressures also stimulate the spread of forms and practices across organizations in the same line of business or profession. Organizations emulate to attain legitimacy within a social system, not just to increase efficiency. In their classic article on homogenization in organizational fields, Paul DiMaggio and Walter Powell argue that isomorphism, which “forces one unit in a population to resemble other units that face the same set of environmental conditions,”5 has institutional as well as competitive sources. Competitive isomorphism resembles market competition, while institutional isomorphism proceeds “in the absence of evidence that [the innovation] increase[s] internal organizational efficiency.”6 This occurs because organizations “compete not just for resources and customers, but for political power and institutional legitimacy, for social as well as economic fitness,”7 both within their own society and within the world system.8 Several noncompetitive mechanisms foster institutional isomorphism.9 First, “When organizational technologies are poorly understood, when goals are ambiguous, or when the environment creates symbolic uncertainty, organizations may model themselves on other organizations.” 10 Modeling is an easy way to adopt a successful practice without investing resources in a search for alternative options. It is analogous to neorealism’s satisficing, yet modeling serves an important legitimating function by enhancing the prestige of the organization to key external audiences. Second, the more professionalized a field, the greater the convergence in organizational form as members come to share norms of appropriate behavior (regulative norms) and identity (constitutive norms). Normative pressures stimulate the spread of new models through a process of socialization that operates through educational and professional networks. Networks “create a pool of almost interchangeable individuals who occupy similar positions across a range of organizations and possess a similarity of orientation and disposition that may override variations in tradition and control that might otherwise shape organizational behavior.”11 Reliance on professional standards makes normative pressures high for military organizations.

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For neoinstitutionalists, diffusion will occur even absent a compelling strategic necessity. The likelihood of emulation will vary with the level of desire for legitimacy within the social system in which the innovation is institutionalized. Highly prestigious models will be prime targets for emulation. Since professional networks are key avenues for the transfer of information, organizations should also pattern their practices after those with whom they have the greatest interaction (i.e., the most familiar model).12 Accordingly, familiar and accessible models, as well as prestigious ones, will be the targets for adoption and not necessarily the most efficient model given strategic circumstances.

Theory Summary Key assumptions of the neorealist and neoinstitutionalist paradigms are summarized in Table 3.1. Neorealists predict a tight coupling between military practices adopted and strategic requirements. States facing high external threats should emulate successful practices, particularly if they have suffered defeat in war. The higher the threat environment, the more rapid and efficient the emulation. As the threat rises, the state will do whatever is necessary, even transform itself, to increase its capacity to mobilize resources for survival. In a low-threat environment, neorealism makes no specific prediction about emulation, though it would be highly unlikely for a state facing little external pressure to transform itself in any fundamental way. Neoinstitutionalists expect no direct relationship between military practices adopted and strategic necessity because emulation can result from normative pressures for legitimacy within a particular social system, and from socialization pressures that operate within a particular profession.

Table 3.1

Paradigms of Diffusion

Diffusion Driver Incentives for Emulation Likelihood of Emulation

Model Selection Criteria

Neorealism

Neoinstitutionalism

Competition Strategic necessity (e.g., external threat, ambition, defeat in war) Varies with strategic necessity and threat

Competition; socialization Efficiency; legitimacy and identity

Efficiency and success (“rational shopper”)

Varies with desire for legitimacy in source’s social system and with extent of interaction/access to source Accessibility, familiarity, and prestige

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45

Accordingly, models perceived as highly legitimate and prestigious, as well as models that are familiar by means of the spread of knowledge through professional networks, will be selected for emulation. The most familiar model and the most prestigious model may be one and the same. If they differ, neoinstitutionalism is agnostic on which will be selected.

Case Selection Comparing the diffusion of military practices from the West to the nonWestern societies of Ottoman Turkey and Meiji Japan is useful for assessing the explanatory power of neorealism and neoinstitutionalism, and for illuminating how transnational pressures produce military change. 13 Ottoman military reform was a protracted process that spanned two centuries. Military change was always hampered by the feudal social and political order of the Ottoman Empire. Only after its collapse in World War I were foreign (i.e., Western) ideas and institutions assimilated. Japan’s military transformation spanned a few brief decades from the 1850s to the 1890s. Meiji Japan adopted Western military and social institutions quickly and faithfully. Given that both societies were feudal and traditional, the dramatic differences in the scope, pace, and extent of emulation of Western models are in and of themselves worthy of analysis. The theories’ predictions about the intensity of motives to emulate for the cases appear in Figure 3.1. Neorealists attribute emulation to competition, strategic necessity, and external threats. The Ottomans faced numerous enemies and frequent defeat by superior Western militaries. The threat to Japan from the West was largely from the sea and, while hardly negligible, more remote. Neoinstitutionalists focus on how socialization and the desire for legitimacy motivate emulation. The Ottomans had no desire to emulate Western “infidel” ways, while the Japanese strongly desired to raise their status in an international society governed by Western norms and practices. Table 3.2 lays out the values of the variables for each of the cases. There is variation on the dependent variables—desire to adopt, which captures the level of commitment to reform; extent of emulation, which captures the breadth of reform (e.g., range of military units affected; how extensively related social institutions adapted); and faithfulness of emulation, which captures how closely the adopter modeled the source. The cases also vary on key independent variables: strategic necessity and quest for legitimacy. The cases present a paradox for the neorealist view that competition and strategic necessity drive military change. In 1904–1905, Japan destroyed the Russian Far East Fleet at Port Arthur and defeated Russia in a

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Figure 3.1

Predictions on Intensity of Motive to Adopt Neorealist Predictions Emulate Emulate

Japanese Japanese Navy Army

Neoinstitutionalist Predictions Don’t Emulate

Table 3.2

Don’t Emulate

Ottoman Army

Emulation Outcomes Independent Variables

Case Ottoman Army Japanese Army Japanese Navy

Dependent Variables

Strategic Necessity

Quest for Legitimacy

Desire to Adopt

High Moderate to low Moderate

Low High High

Low to moderate High High

Extent of Faithfulness of Emulation Emulation Low High High

Low High High

war for control of Manchuria. For the first time, a non-European power defeated a European power, a victory that stunned the world. It was a surprising display of military power given the absence of pressing external threat. The Europeans were bogged down in China and the Crimea. The United States was not interested in colonizing Japan. And Japan’s dependence on overseas trade was negligible, with the empire accounting for just 10 percent of overseas trade in 1910; it would reach one-third, but only a generation later.14 The Ottoman Empire, by contrast, failed to reform, despite high and rising external threats from the eighteenth century until its collapse in World War I. Between 1683 and 1739, wars with Austria, Venice, and Russia pushed the empire back to its sixteenth-century boundaries. 15 The Napoleonic wars ignited Serbian rebellion and another war with Russia that lasted until 1812. The Greek revolt of 1821 led to renewed conflict with Russia in 1828–1829. In 1832, Muhammad Ali of Egypt marched against the Sultan and almost reached Istanbul. The Ottoman case should be a most likely case for neorealism given pressing strategic necessity. The Ottomans had every incentive to adopt superior Western military practices, but they did not.16 For neorealists, Japan’s readiness for war in 1904 and the Ottomans’ lack of readiness in 1914 are surprising. The state with greater external pressure to transform failed to do so, while the state facing milder external pressure effected an unprecedented social and political transformation.

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Superficial Change in Ottoman Turkey By the nineteenth century, Walter Weiker writes, “saving the Ottoman Empire was extremely urgent.” Since the seventeenth century, the government’s jurisdiction had been curtailed by separatist nationalists, and by European military, economic, and political imperialism. Concessions granted under pressure to foreign governments and companies made nonMuslims virtually independent.17 A line of strong sultans sought to lead the empire back to greatness. Primary emphasis was given to military reform because deficiencies there were most evident. The nations of Western Europe were leveraging political unity and developments in science and technology to amass armies and build weapons that left the Ottomans drastically inferior and highly vulnerable. Neorealism predicts that states will emulate superior military practices when external threats are high. Deficiencies often reveal themselves on the battlefield, so reforms should follow military defeat. Foreign expertise and information should be actively sought to promote the adoption of new practices, and the state should make the changes necessary to mobilize sufficient resources, even if this means transforming itself. On the face of it, the Ottoman case appears to support neorealism. Reforms followed military defeat and reformers actively sought foreign expertise.18 After defeat by Austria in 1717, several military missions were sent to Europe, and European officers converted to Islam to train units of the Ottoman Army.19 Studies were made of Western methods of waging war, and treatises on military science were translated into Turkish. In 1734 a European Bombardier Corps and School of Mathematics was established and the navy admiralty offices were reorganized. But these reforms had little enduring impact, and negligible effect on the majority of the military— the infantry (Janissaries) and cavalry (Spahi)—who viewed European teachings as a threat to their privileges and status.20 Western-style military reform waned after Ottoman military successes against the Austrians in 1737, 1738, and 1739. Between 1739 and 1768, the empire enjoyed peace on its European frontiers. Defeat by Russia in 1768–1774, and by a coalition of Russia and Austria in 1787–1792, led to staggering territorial losses and the near complete destruction of the Ottoman Navy. Defeat spurred a second phase of military reform. French officers, technical advisers, instructors, engineers, and shipwrights assisted in casting cannons, improving fortification designs, shipbuilding, military and technical education, and recruiting and training new military units. In 1773 the French began training a new corps of engineers and field artillery, and set up a School of Mathematics. In 1783 they established a military engineering school for officers, and created a rapid-fire rifle and light artillery corps. 21 The artillery and bombardier corps received modern

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equipment and trained regularly. Barracks were built so seamen could train during the winter.22 Again, however, the main body of the army escaped reform. Only the most technical branches—the navy, artillery corps, and cannon corps—were affected. Infantry opposition closed down the mathematics school and disbanded the new field artillery unit.23 More far-reaching reforms in the eighteenth century were introduced by Selim III.24 Again, reform was a response to poor performance on the battlefield against Russia and Austria, and to overall perceived inferiority to European rivals.25 Reforms aimed at the older corps included changes in organization and administration, training and discipline, education, and equipment. General regulations to eradicate nepotism, corruption, incompetence, and inefficiency were instituted. Inspections and examinations were introduced, and promotions became hierarchical. Attempts were made to abolish the practice of selling military positions to the highest bidder regardless of qualification and experience. Drill became regularized and the practice of returning to fiefs in the winter months was curtailed. Army and naval engineering schools opened. The military acquired modern rifles and artillery, the navy built a modern arsenal of ships, and armaments factories began manufacturing cannons, rifles, and gunpowder. Again, reform in the infantry and cavalry was minimal. The Janissaries resisted the new regulations, rejected the new training and weapons, and ignored the advice of European advisers. Foreign advisers and Turkish graduates of the new engineering schools were forbidden to serve with the Janissaries. Selim’s greatest achievement was the Nizam-I Jedid (New Order Army). The Sultan recruited technical advisers and imported modern equipment from France, Britain, and Sweden. German, Russian, and French officers trained and drilled the new force. By 1806 the new army of 25,000 was “armed with modern weapons, trained by western European officers, and praised for their efficiency and good bearing by almost all the Europeans who observed them.”26 Yet the Janissaries refused to serve with the new troops, so the new army could perform only a token service on the battlefield. Conservative elements and the Janissaries deposed Selim, dissolved the New Order Army, and destroyed the supporting infrastructure of schools, factories, and installations. The next phase of reform, under Mahmud II, was again stimulated by military defeat: by the Greeks in 1823, the Russians in 1828, and Muhammad Ali’s Egypt in 1832–1833. Mahmud abolished the Janissary corps in 1826 and replaced it with a new army, the Mansure (Victorious). Active European military assistance was minimal given foreign sympathies for the Greek insurgents.27 The exception was Helmuth von Moltke, future chief of the Prussian and Imperial German General Staffs. His attempts to reorganize the Ottoman Army met with little success.28 Appointments and promotions were to be based on ability and seniority, but ultimately

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favoritism prevailed. The army was drilled regularly, but junior officers received no special training. In the senior ranks, the Court Battalion was created to train officers, but there was no specialized curriculum or training. Disordered and disorganized, the army performed poorly against Syria in 1839 and was defeated.29 Despite the conservative nature of Mahmud’s reforms, his destruction of the Janissaries paved the way for more far-reaching changes. A line of reformers from 1839 to 1876 ushered in a series of military and institutional changes known as the Tanzimat, or Renovation Era. The Ottoman Army was given more permanent form, with seven armies organized on a regional basis into corps, divisions, and brigades. Patterned after the Prussian model of 1860, active service was reduced from five to four years, and three reserve categories were created, including an active reserve status of two years, providing for a force of over 700,000 for external defense.30 Young men went to Europe for military education, and European works were translated into Turkish. Yet reform efforts still failed to imbue the Ottoman military with European norms and practices. Despite repeated attempts to adapt themselves to the military power of their superior European rivals, the desire to emulate was always halfhearted. The extent of emulation was narrowly circumscribed, and faithfulness was superficial. Ottoman leaders acknowledged a need for change, but the evidence indicates that even the most reform-minded were not committed to fully adopting European institutions and practices. As Avigdor Levy points out, “in the Ottoman Empire the forces promoting military reform were those which espoused not only the restoration of a traditional political system, but also the conservation of the existing medieval social order.”31 Over this entire span of two centuries, military reform was seen as a way to restore traditional institutions and authority, and to prevent social upheaval. These efforts have been aptly described as “restorative military reform.” These efforts borrowed new military technologies from Europe but did not tamper with the military’s traditional institutional structure, or with its social and cultural underpinnings.32 Reform was viewed through the most conservative interpretations of Islam. Levy points out that Islamic belief could accommodate reform. “To learn from the infidel enemy was legally permissible on the basis of the Islamic principle of reciprocation, or fighting the enemy with his own means.”33 But proponents of this liberal view were vastly outnumbered by more conservative elements hostile to the adoption of infidel practices. First and foremost, Ottoman leaders were determined to retain fundamental tenets of the Islamic state, even when this flew in the face of strategic necessity. The prohibition against non-Muslims serving in the military provides an excellent example. By the 1870s a manpower shortage was a major factor limiting Ottoman attempts to match the size of Europe’s grow-

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ing mass armies and to compete on par with the Europeans. 34 The Ottomans were not significantly inferior in tactics, as their ability to repulse three Russian advances at Plevna in 1877 demonstrated. In equipment, they had access to the best weapons, provided they could purchase them. Even if they could not, however, any European technological advantage could be effectively offset by poor communications in the European provinces of the empire. The manpower problem, on the other hand, was more intractable. M. E. Yapp points out, the “Ottoman Empire was trying to compete with European armies which were recruited from larger, more rapidly growing, and more homogeneous populations. In doing so she was making an effort which, in relation to her resources, was probably greater than that of any European power.”35 Between 1840 and 1869, the Ottoman Army could raise no more than 300,000 men, a large proportion of which were engaged in police operations. Its size was commensurate with the armies of its European contemporaries, many of which also had to divert large numbers to internal security. The reorganization of European military forces in the 1860s and the adoption of a short/active and long/reserve system were designed to shift the primary emphasis of regular forces away from police functions to international war. In 1869 the Ottomans adopted the Prussian model to increase the wartime size of the army for external defense, but still had to use regular forces for police duties, given substantial internal security problems.36 More important, between 1869 and 1914, the Europeans were able to mobilize larger numbers of men, while the size of the Ottoman Army remained steady or fell.37 A rapidly growing European population coupled with industrialization and improvements in agriculture could support ever larger armies. The empire’s manpower pool, by contrast, was limited by the provision that only Muslims could serve in the military. In 1870 the population of the empire’s two European adversaries, Austria and Russia, was 36 million and 83 million respectively. The Muslim population of the empire that bore the full burden for military service was 16 million, and onequarter of that number lived in areas exempt from conscription.38 The army projected by Huseyin Avni Pasha in 1869 was comparable to that of other European powers in its ratio to the total population of the empire.39 But the Christian population did not serve, placing an undue burden on the empire’s Muslim population and decreasing the size of forces that could actually be fielded. Annexation of new territories probably increased the Muslim population, but not enough to solve the manpower problem.40 Poor communications in the empire did not compensate for manpower differentials. While the Europeans could not deploy full force in the European provinces of the empire, the Ottomans also faced disadvantages.41 At the outbreak of war in 1877, Ottoman forces are estimated at 495,000, many of which were used for local garrison duties. According to Yapp, Ottoman

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forces on the Eastern front never exceeded 120,000, while only 195,000 (plus an additional 200,000 in the general reserve) were available for operations in Europe.42 Early Ottoman sultans used Christian auxiliaries, but for centuries Ottoman armies had been Muslim armies.43 The prohibition was embedded in social and religious traditions. Toleration of non-Muslims in the empire was “predicated on the assumption that the tolerated communities were separate and inferior.”44 The privilege of military service was reserved for the rulers of the empire. Non-Muslim recruitment was considered only to replenish depleted armies. The Ottomans relied on religious devotion and the appeal of Holy War to elicit loyalty, courage, and self-sacrifice, and there was little desire to replace this with Europe’s reliance on equality, fraternity, and patriotism. An attempt was made in the nineteenth century to abolish legal discrimination against non-Muslims by promoting an ideology of “Ottomanism.” The Rescript of the Rose Chamber of 1839, a document ushering in the Tanzimat period, called for reforms to secularize laws and education, open government and military service to non-Muslims, and revise the tax structure that discriminated against non-Muslims. 45 Ottomanism was designed to increase popular loyalty, squelch separatist identities, and operate like nationalism to enhance military and political power. It never succeeded. Muslims resisted any attempts to enlist Christians, apart from a few European instructors, since it meant sacrificing a fundamental tenet of the Islamic state. While the declining competitiveness of Ottoman military forces relative to their European counterparts forced military reformers to flirt with Western models, the halfhearted nature of these efforts is best accounted for by neoinstitutionalism’s emphasis on prestige and legitimacy. Western military reform had emerged from basic social, economic, and political changes that challenged the very foundation of the Islamic state. In Europe, strong centralized governments provided security and welfare for the people in exchange for national allegiance. The Ottoman government served the ruling class. The concept of equality was implicit in Western law and secular education. Political order in the Ottoman Empire rested on the historical division of labor between Muslims and non-Muslims. Bureaucratic rationality was permeating Western institutions, while Ottoman society was built around the purchase and sale of public offices. Roderic Davison emphasizes that Islam “was not only a way of worship but a way of life, a total outlook, and the basis of the law.”46 Islam taught that the world consisted of believers and nonbelievers. Innate scorn of things non-Muslim was deeply embedded in traditional religious views and practices, hindering the transfer of ideas from the West. The Ottoman elite continued to believe in its innate military superiority and believe that by adopting superficial

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aspects of European military tactics they could prevail against their external enemies. They failed to understand that the effectiveness of European military reforms depended on far-reaching social and political changes. Even had Ottoman leaders recognized this, Westernization would not have been embraced, since it would inevitably have undermined the social, political, and religious foundations of the state. The Ottomans faced superior enemies on their European borders. While the European armies with which the Ottomans most regularly came into contact—the Austrians and Russians—were not the most efficient or advanced, they did level decisive defeats on Ottoman forces. In response, neorealism predicts that the Ottomans would make every effort to import superior European technologies and practices, and make more concerted efforts over time as the external threat climbed. Those efforts should include remaking the state as necessary to mobilize resources and survive. In the wake of decisive defeats, Ottoman leaders did attempt to reform their military institutions. Each set of reforms was a response to critical external threats. Yet only a thin veneer of Western practices was adopted. The extent of adoption was limited and faithfulness was superficial. Reform was backward-looking: eliminate abuses and restore the old ways. Adoption was selective, and selectivity was determined by normative considerations. Fundamental incompatibilities existed between modern mass armies and the social and political institutions that had produced them, and Ottoman social and political institutions. Even the most liberal of reformers attributed decay to the failure to obey traditional laws and customs and saw the solution as resurrecting the old corps and its practices. Moreover, only a small bureaucratic and intellectual elite had increasing contact with the outside world. Large segments of the elite and the masses remained isolated. They were convinced that saving the empire required resumption of traditional military practices and that infidel innovations would only corrupt traditional ways, leaving the empire easy prey to its enemies.47 Strong popular opposition reflected a society whose customs and education resisted radical reform in the belief that returning to older ways would revive greatness. Each attempt at reform resulted in a strong backlash against Western influences.48 Given the institutional and social starting points for the Ottoman Empire, neoinstitutionalism predicts that the desire to adopt Western models would be low, the extent of emulation narrow, and faithfulness superficial. As predicted, adoption was narrowly circumscribed in terms of the units affected and the types of reforms adopted. Reforms made marginal inroads into the largest portions of the military, affecting only the smallest, most technical branches and the newly created corps.49 New technologies were more readily accepted than changes in organization, administration,

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and training. Regularized drill was adopted, but reform in appointments, promotions, and secular education proved fleeting. Staunch and widespread opposition to all things “infidel” made not only Western methods but also foreign advisers immediately suspect, undermining their influence significantly. European officers—infidels—could not be trusted with key military positions. The structure of political and social power reflected the realities of the Ottoman Empire as it had evolved over the centuries. Though military reformers flirted with aspects of the European military model, the ruling elite was ultimately unwilling to make a fundamental commitment to change.50 Despite pressing strategic necessity, the evidence shows that Ottoman leaders were not strongly committed to reform because assimilation of Western models would not enhance state legitimacy. On the contrary, infidel ways would undermine the social fabric and religious foundations of the Islamic state. European norms of military professionalism and political equality directly conflicted with the ascriptive and religious basis of Ottoman society. Despite pressing strategic necessity, the threat posed by Westernization to the Ottoman way of life produced partial and superficial diffusion from West to East.

Transformation in Meiji Japan The years between the opening of the treaty ports in Japan in 1853 and the end of the Meiji period in 1912 span “one of the most remarkable social transformations in modern history.”51 Virtually every aspect of social life in Japan was affected, from education to communication, transportation, and taxation. Military institutions were at the forefront of the transformation. When Commodore Perry’s navy flotilla arrived on Japanese shores, the country had no standing army or navy, only a large number of samurai units that lacked unified command, organization, and professional leadership— the hallmarks of a modern army.52 Yet in 1895 the Japanese Army won its first modern war. Its adversary, China, was not a military power on par with the Europeans, but the Japanese Army was organized, efficient, well equipped, and trained for combat.53 A decade later, the Imperial Japanese Navy defeated its first European adversary, Russia. In contrast to the Ottoman experience, the scope and pace of diffusion from the West to Japan was broad, deep, and rapid. The pace of adoption can be accounted for in part by external pressures. When the Japanese were forced to make trade concessions to the West in 1854, the Shogunate recognized Japan’s vulnerability in the face of superior Western military power. The Japanese were aware of Western encroachments on China’s sovereignty, and were aware that the Europeans could colonize Japan as well.54 Yet

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external pressures cannot fully account for the scope and patterns of assimilation. An equally powerful set of motives for adopting Western models was the desire to be accepted as a full and equal member of Western-dominated international society.55 As D. Eleanor Westney points out in her study of Meiji Japan, there was a strong desire to make Japan a modern, internationally respected nation. What better way to achieve this than by emulating Western models?56 The revision of the unequal treaties had been made conditional upon internal reforms along Western lines.57 Donald Shively argues that the display of Western institutions and customs was calculated to impress the Western powers that Japan was a modern nation that should not be subject to the unequal treaties and policy of extraterritoriality.58 Roger Hackett concurs that Meiji leaders wanted to achieve national strength and independence, and also acceptance by the Western nations. “There was more than the desire for Japan to hold its own in the modern rivalry and struggle between nations; there was the ambition to be accepted as a civilized nation, with the standing of a Great Power.”59 The threat to Japan’s sovereignty may account for the speed of reform, but the direction of reform was calculated as much to earn full equality with, and the respect of, the West as to accommodate strategic necessity. Military reform spanned three phases.60 The first phase, from 1853 to 1871, was one of experimentation with Western methods by the armies of the Shogun and the most powerful rival domains, or han. The strongest domains—Tosa, Choshu, and Satsuma—had begun to organize Westernstyle units and train them with modern weapons, as much to prevail over the Shogun as to expel Westerners.61 The Shogun’s defeat in 1866 by the modernized Choshu army demonstrated the superiority of Western methods and equipment. Shortly thereafter, the Shogun embarked on a major reorganization under tutelage of the French, then regarded as Europe’s greatest military power. A French mission arrived in January 1867, but the Shogunate fell from power in November. In 1868 the Emperor was nominally restored—the conventional date for the Meiji Restoration. Efforts proceeded to consolidate central political authority and eliminate feudalism from the army. In preparation for unifying the feudal forces, the central government decreed in 1870 that all domains adopt the British model for their naval forces and the French model for their land forces.62 In 1871 the domains were eliminated and an Imperial Guard of 10,000 was established, made up of modern infantry and artillery units directly controlled by the central government. During the second phase of military reform, from 1872 to the Satsuma rebellion of 1877, modern institutions and customs supplanted feudal ones. A new code of military conduct emphasized loyalty to the Emperor. The power of garrison commanders was subordinated to the state. The French

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trained officers, demonstrated the use of artillery, and advised on matters of administration and finance. The French established a school for noncommissioned officers, a center for marksmanship (the Toyama school), an arsenal for manufacturing arms, and a military academy for officer candidates patterned after St. Cyr.63 In training, tactics, organization, and education, the French model prevailed. The most far-reaching reform during this period was the institution of conscription in 1873. The Imperial Guard was composed largely of samurai loyal to their clans. Recognizing the need to replace a warrior class based on personal loyalty and individual skill with the sword, with mass troops trained to operate in concert and drilled with modern weapons, Meiji leaders dissolved the Imperial Guard and adopted universal conscription. Debate ensued over whether the French or German model should be adopted.64 The Japanese adopted a mixture of the French and Prussian models in 1873, three years after Prussia defeated the army of Napoleon III at Sedan. Conscripts would serve for three years, followed by two years in the active reserve and two years in the second reserve. A large number of exemptions were recognized in advance, replicating the French model.65 The third phase of military reform followed the Satsuma rebellion of 1877. The Meiji government defeated the feudal uprising, but had to commit its entire peacetime force of 32,000, nearly its entire reserve of 10,000, and thousands of police, militia, marines, and cadets. The army’s inadequacies were starkly revealed.66 It lacked mobilization plans, transportation, supply depots, logistics, maintenance, and the command organization that would have provided these services.67 The deficiencies of French training reflected France’s own limited appreciation of command and staff functions. The establishment of an independent General Staff Office in 1878 marked a shift away from the French system and toward the German model. The army’s administrative and operational commands were separated along Prussian lines. A General Staff would control military planning and command, intelligence, and the disposition of the army in peace and war.68 In 1882 an Army Staff College was established, and in 1884 the Prussian officer Major Jakob Meckel was enlisted to teach.69 Meckel lectured on the importance of command, logistics, transportation, supplies, and strategic planning, while de-emphasizing the moral and spiritual dimensions of combat. He advised on administration, recruitment, reserve issues, and mobilization, and made recommendations about organization, rail and communication networks, reconnaissance and mapping, and campaign planning. The army was transformed from a garrison-based defensive organization into a flexible, mobile, offensive force. Through regular staff exercises and large-scale maneuvers, the Japanese learned how to mobilize, prepare for, and execute a full-scale war.

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For the navy, a training school was established in 1869 and staffed with British officers. While imperial decree had designated Great Britain as the model for Japan’s navy in 1870, domestic rebellion was a far more immediate threat than Western maritime pressure. So the army was privileged over the navy.70 In equipment, the navy remained a coast defense force until the 1890s, a bureaucratic and budgetary stepchild to the army. Nevertheless, tutelage under the British proceeded and in 1873 a British naval mission was invited by the government and remained until 1879. The Navy Ministry was organized along British lines. The British instructed in modern naval tactics, organization, and fleet movements. They reformed naval education and imbued the navy, which lacked a strong maritime tradition, with British norms and practices.71 The Japanese also made steady progress in naval construction, launching their first warship, the 900-ton Seiki, at the Yokosuka shipyards in 1875.72 In the late 1880s they turned briefly to the French for naval construction, lured by the Jeune Ecole, the school of naval thought that championed the torpedo boat as an effective weapon against superior maritime power. Flirtation with the French model did not dampen public and government support for enhancing Japan’s position as a maritime power with a large navy. It grew by leaps and bounds and by the 1890s a formally organized fleet began to emerge. By 1894 the navy possessed twenty-eight ships totaling 57,000 tons and twenty-four torpedo boats. In 1896 the Diet approved a building program of six battleships and six armored cruisers. By 1903 the navy stood at seventy-six warships totaling 250,000 tons plus seventy-six torpedo boats.73 Neorealism attributes such a dramatic transformation in military capacity to strategic necessity and high external threat. How real was the external threat facing Japan? When Commodore Perry arrived in Japan in 1853, Shogunal officials recognized Japan’s vulnerability from the sea and capitulated to Western demands, signing a commercial treaty based on the same unequal arrangements that governed Western trade with China. The Japanese relinquished control over tariffs and jurisdiction over Westerners within their borders. Yet Japan suffered no decisive military defeat at the hands of the West. Japanese officials were aware of the British victory over the Chinese in the First Opium War of 1839–1842, but no serious effort was made then to upgrade Japan’s defense posture. Nor did Perry’s visit, or Western reprisals against Choshu and Satsuma forces in 1863,74 lead to any vigorous measures by the Shogun. 75 It was not until the arrival of the French military mission in 1867 that systematic efforts were undertaken to organize and train Japan’s military in modern European methods.76 The initial impetus was not external, but internal. The panic created by Perry’s arrival had receded by the late 1850s, while internal conflicts over foreign policy toward the West between the Tokugawa Shogunate and rival

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domains escalated. The four great domains of the southwest resented the commercial treaties acceded to by the Tokugawa and were determined to overthrow the Shogunate. Fear of invasion from the West lurked in the background, but the West was preoccupied with China, and Japan was remote from any Western naval power. The Japanese were well aware of the impact of Western military superiority abroad—chiefly in China—and the appearance of Perry’s formidable vessels off their coast had made a great impression. But Japan was far smaller than China, lay beyond the Chinese subcontinent, and so was a less compelling center of attraction for European capitalism. 77 Moreover, European expansion slowed down in East Asia, with the British and French bogged down with the Taiping Rebellion (1850–1864) in China and the Crimean War in Europe. The United States was left to open up Japan, but its goal was to secure “port facilities, vital for [its] trade with China, and for [its] whaling industry in the North Pacific,” not to colonize Japan. 78 Japan had sufficient time to consolidate central authority and develop a large-enough and fairly modern competent army—certainly larger than any European expeditionary force—to oppose any Western effort to establish an onshore influence. Nor did Japan’s domestic economy depend on overseas trade in the 1860s; the economy remained largely rural until the turn of the century.79 For Japan’s army, emulation of Western models was not a response to external threat, but to an internal bid for power that followed in the wake of the unequal treaties signed with the West.80 Given that any threat from the West to Japan had to come by sea, and that Japan was particularly vulnerable in this respect, one would expect the Japanese Navy to be the focus of military modernization. Yet the navy remained a coast defense force until the 1890s. Public support for naval expansion began to climb in the 1880s, and tremendous resources eventually were devoted to development of a blue water fleet. The key question is whether this made strategic sense. It might be argued that Japan’s position as a regional power depended on access to the kinds of resources, chiefly oil, that it could only guarantee over very long sea lanes. However, Japan’s commitment to a blue water fleet predated its energy problem. Sato Tetsutaro completed his treatise On Imperial Defense, which shaped the priorities of the Japanese Navy around a Mahanian vision, in 1902. The “eight-eight fleet” plan with its “big navy” ideology, calling for a battlefleet of eight modern battleships and eight modern armored cruisers, was endorsed in the 1907 Imperial Defense Policy, though at the time Japan had no fundamental conflicts of interest with the United States. Technological advances between 1905 and 1920 required any navy with responsibilities beyond coast defense to convert from coal to oil. But it was only in 1916 that Japan’s domestic oil production peaked, forcing the navy to look abroad for petroleum, and it was only

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in the 1930s that the strategic resources of Southeast Asia were perceived as a concrete interest. The further out one looks, the more convincing becomes the case for a blue water fleet to secure oil, but Japan’s commitment to such a fleet far preceded its necessity for one.81 While the need for a blue water navy for defensive purposes probably dates to oil conversion, if we allow for offensive motivations like imperialism, the need for a blue water fleet for strategic purposes could arguably be justified far earlier. Yet Southeast Asia and the island territories of the Western Pacific were virtually entirely in the hands of the Western powers by 1905. Japan had nowhere to advance upon the seas. The one region of the world where Japanese imperialism might realize some success was the northeast Asian continent, and success there required a naval strategy to support the army. David Evans and Mark Peattie make the persuasive case that “the ‘Blue Water’ school represented a Western discourse that obviously had little reference or application to the Japanese situation.”82 A maritime strategy calling for power projection on the high seas made no sense for an empire whose colonial possessions and maritime trade were limited to East Asia. Evans and Peattie also point out that Japan’s modest navy was sufficient to defend its limited transoceanic trade during the Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese wars, and in the following decades there were no threats to these commercial interests. Desire to be an imperial power, on par with the Europeans, required significant land forces and a navy to support them rather than a capacity to project naval power on the high seas.83 Mahanian principles were a powerful tool in the navy’s bureaucratic and budgetary struggles with the army. But navalism captured the Japanese popular imagination because of its promise of national greatness, not its promise as a solution to strategic necessity. One might argue that imperialism itself was a response to strategic necessity. By the 1890s the Western powers began extending their influence into Asia and the Pacific.84 The European scramble for Pacific island territories revealed Japan’s inadequacy in its own backyard, and so the Japanese began modeling Western imperialist behavior, joining the scramble for concessions in China. Yet this made little economic sense. The gains were unclear, and available capital for building railways and developing mines was meager.85 Nevertheless, as Akira Iriye shows in his analysis of Japanese imperialism, expansionism was integral to Japan’s development in a world defined by the major European powers.86 Japanese views of international affairs were shaped by contact with the West during a period of European expansionism. In the 1870s the Europeans were constantly competing with each other for national strength, rarely through outright conflict but certainly by preparing for such conflict and augmenting national strength to prevail in conflict should it occur. In the 1880s it was taken for granted by the

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Japanese that they must engage in this “peacetime war.” A vigorous and expansionist foreign policy was a sign of internal health and power, that Japan had joined the ranks of the great powers.87 Iriye writes, “Imperialism . . . characterized part of the external behavior of modern states in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It expressed the energies, orientations, and interests of a modern state at that particular period.”88 All modern states were imperialist, and had huge armaments programs and elaborate war plans. War with China in 1894 was an opportunity for Japan to assert itself on the world stage, aid its weaker neighbor Korea, and establish a beachhead in Asia.89 War with Russia, even if unsuccessful, would demonstrate that Japan was no longer a second-rate power. The RussoJapanese war was an imperialistic war, but not the product of any immediate economic interests. As Iriye concludes, “The war was not produced by economic pressures but by sentiment inside and outside the government that it was the only alternative if the country were to remain a viable entity as a modern power.”90 Japan’s expansion in Asia, thus, must be understood in the context of a self-perception created through interaction with the outside world about what it meant to behave as a modern power. The impetus for imperial greatness was based on recognition of the relationship between imperial expansion and national power, and this perspective was fueled by the worldwide surge of territorial acquisition by the Western great powers at the end of the nineteenth century. The desire to be accepted by the West as a modern and equal nation can also be seen in patterns of emulation in the army, particularly in the key reform of conscription. The adoption of universal conscription made questionable strategic and fiscal sense, but signaled that Japan was following the example set by the Europeans in building a mass army.91 The Japanese adopted a blend of the French and Prussian systems, which was rational given Prussia’s defeat of France in 1870. However, it is difficult to reconcile conscription in general with Japan’s need to defend itself against encroachments from Russia or the West. Conscription would take years to perfect and offered no immediate protection against invasion, while a quickly trained professional force would, and the argument that conscription would be less costly than a professional force is unconvincing given that proponents of conscription hoped to raise an army of 400,000 men.92 Nor can the argument be sustained that conscription was adopted as a first step toward an offensive foreign policy, for its adoption far preceded any plans for imperial expansion. Finally, the British model of coupling their large navy with a volunteer system was never given the slightest consideration. Conscription was favored over an elite army of ex-samurai because it signaled equality by international standards. In 1872 all European countries had reserves, and even the smallest had regulars numbering 45,000.93 Ernst Presseisen argues that “conscription was a sure sign that [Japan] had

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become a ‘modern’ nation. After the Franco-Prussian war many European states had reorganized their military systems and introduced conscription. Why should Japan not follow them and do the same? It would place her on an equal level with the most advanced country.”94 From the perspective of neorealism, with its emphasis on strategic necessity and the “rational shopper” image, continued emulation of French army patterns after France’s defeat by Prussia, the adoption of universal conscription, and emulation of the British Navy, despite strategic incompatibility between empire building in East Asia and a blue water navy, present paradoxes.95 Neoinstitutionalism’s emphasis on the quest for legitimacy, and the roles played by accessibility and prestige in model selection, resolve the paradoxes. Meiji leaders desired to make Japan a modern nation, equal to the West and “civilized” by Western standards. A related and integral goal was revision of the unequal treaties, which undermined Japanese sovereignty and territorial integrity. In D. Eleanor Westney’s words, “The standards by which these societies measured ‘civilization’ were obviously those of their own societies, and the surest way for Japan to meet those standards was to take their institutions as models. The ‘major powers’ meant primarily Britain and France: where they led, others would follow, and treaty revision was impossible without their assent, particularly the assent of Britain.” The Japanese began to model other states, like Germany in the late 1870s, when they found other states more amenable to treaty revision. Westney concludes, “The Japanese government made a deliberate effort to use the choice of foreign advisors and organizational models as a diplomatic weapon” to secure treaty revision.96 Nor can neorealism explain why the French army model persisted even after France’s defeat at Sedan by Prussia in 1870. For neoinstitutionalists, it persisted because it was more familiar and had more adherents. Though the Prussian model nominally displaced the French model in 1878, no German military instructors were employed in Japan until 1885. Japan was geographically remote from Europe and diffusion of information faced a formidable language barrier. French military advisers had trained the Shogun’s army as early as 1865. The French language school established in Yokohama in 1865 “produced a cadre of Japanese who could communicate with French advisors, and this was a major factor in convincing the Meiji government to continue the use of French military advisors even after the French armies were defeated by the German [armies] in the FrancoPrussian War.”97 From a neorealist perspective, dramatic transformation of Japan’s military institutions should be tied to strategic necessity. Yet when the Meiji government launched its major transformation along Western patterns, the state faced no compelling external threat, had suffered no defeat in war, and possessed no empire to defend. The threat from the West was not entirely

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absent, but certainly more remote than that facing the Ottomans. Rather, the threat to its prestige and dignity posed by the unequal treaties stimulated a search for ways to bring Japan into the community of modern nations. Modeling Western institutions would enhance the legitimacy of Japan abroad and identify the nation as a modern state. Despite a lack of pressing strategic necessity, Japan’s quest for legitimacy and acceptance into the community of modern nations produced broad, deep, and faithful diffusion from West to East.

The Competitive and Normative Motivations for Emulation In Meiji Japan there was a low and rising threat, yet the desire and efforts to emulate were tremendous. The navy adopted and retained an oceanic maritime doctrine and strategy that ultimately proved ill suited for a nation with continental imperial interests.98 The army adopted universal conscription when a trained professional force would have made more strategic and fiscal sense. Japan emulated Western models to achieve great power status, international respect, and acceptance as a modern, civilized society. 99 Ottoman Turkey faced very high and increasing external threats on its European frontiers over the entire period under investigation, and frequent defeat at Western hands. Yet adoption was superficial because Western “infidel” ways lacked legitimacy. A modern military was pursued to shore up traditional feudal institutions. Disparity between strategic necessity for change and efforts at change in the Ottoman case, and dramatic efforts at change relative to strategic necessity in the Japanese case, suggests that the conventional view that competition is the driving force behind military change must be qualified. To the extent that both normative and competitive pressures drive diffusion, this analysis does not refute neorealism. This analysis does qualify neorealism, however, and points to the need for a theory that integrates the competitive and normative motivations for emulation. Neoinstitutionalism acknowledges that both competition and status concerns motivate diffusion, but tells us less about how these two factors interrelate, aside from the argument that efficiency considerations tend to motivate early adoption, while normative considerations are a more powerful influence in later adoption.100 This analysis suggests that competitive pressures influence the timing of diffusion, while normative considerations shape its extent and faithfulness. In Meiji Japan, competition and strategic necessity can account for the timing and pace of emulation, but legitimacy and status considerations drove the scope and patterns. Likewise in Ottoman Turkey, competition and strategic necessity explain the timing for reform efforts, but legitimacy and

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identity concerns dictated the level of commitment to reform and the scope and extent of emulation. Both Ottoman Turkey and Meiji Japan faced threats of varying degrees to their “way of life.” The Japanese elected to Westernize to absorb the threat; the Ottomans resisted Westernization to repel the threat. Opposite responses can be explained by different value orientations, one eager to be socialized into ascending international norms, thus adopting flexibility in defining what is legitimate and aggressively seeking out new information, and the other resistant to socialization, inflexible in defining what constitutes legitimate practice, and closed off from new information.

Notes I would like to thank Chris Demchak, Leslie Eliason, Theo Farrell, Chaim Kaufmann, and John Lynn for their helpful comments, and Carlos Chavez for research assistance. 1. See Barry R. Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984); Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the Modern Military (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991); Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett (eds.), Military Innovation in the Interwar Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Deborah D. Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change: Lessons from Peripheral Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994); Emily O. Goldman, “Organizations, Ambiguity, and Strategic Adjustment: The U.S. Military in Uncertain Times,” Journal of Strategic Studies 20, no. 2 (June 1997): 41–74. Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), does examine the linkages to some extent by arguing that militaries innovate in response to innovations in enemy doctrines. 2. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine, is the landmark study juxtaposing neorealist and organizational explanations of military behavior, though he only examines one strand of organization theory. Since then, there has been a renaissance in organization theory in its approaches to military behavior. See Theo Farrell, “Figuring Out Fighting Organizations: The New Organizational Analysis in Strategic Studies,” Journal of Strategic Studies 19, no. 1 (1996): 122–135. 3. Kenneth N. Waltz, Theory of International Politics (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979), p. 127. Waltz goes even further, arguing that political and economic systems will converge on the most efficient for war. See also Joào Resende-Santos, “Anarchy and Emulation of Military Systems: Military Organization and Technology in South America, 1870–1914,” Security Studies 5, no. 3 (spring 1996): 196. 4. John A. Lynn, “The Evolution of Army Style in the Modern West, 800–2000,” International History Review 18, no. 3 (August 1996): 509. 5. Paul J. DiMaggio and Walter W. Powell, “The Iron Cage Revisited: Institutional Isomorphism and Collective Rationality in Organizational Fields,” American Sociological Review 48, no. 2 (April 1983): 149. 6. Ibid., p. 153. 7. Ibid., p. 150.

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8. Militaries come only one per state, in contrast to other institutions, like law schools, hospitals, or publishers, which must gain legitimacy across the entire profession. Nevertheless, international norms can and do exert a powerful influence on national military organizations. The prestige a particular practice receives in the world system may differ from its legitimacy within the adopting society. But the fact that a form or practice is normatively sanctioned abroad increases the likelihood that it will become a model for emulation. Ibid., p. 148. 9. Ibid., pp. 147–160. The authors note that their typology is an analytic one and that the types are not always empirically distinct. See also Barbara Levitt and James G. March, “Organizational Learning,” Annual Review of Sociology 14, no. 3 (1988): 329–330. 10. DiMaggio and Powell, “Iron Cage Revisited,” p. 151. 11. Ibid., pp. 152, 155. 12. The argument that organizations pattern themselves on those with whom they have greatest interaction does not contradict the general trend toward isomorphism predicted by neoinstitutional analysis. The extent of homogenization across the world system should increase over time as information networks strengthen and widen, and as a particular model achieves worldwide legitimacy. 13. The value of comparing rates and patterns of assimilation and change in these two countries has already been recognized by scholars of comparative politics. See Robert E. Ward and Dankwart A. Rustow (eds.), Political Modernization in Japan and Turkey (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964). Comparing these two cases reflects a most similar systems approach. See Theodore Meckstroth, “‘Most Different Systems’ and ‘Most Similar Systems’: A Study in the Logic of Comparative Inquiry,” Comparative Political Studies 8, no. 2 (July 1975): 132–157. 14. William W. Lockwood, “Economic and Political Modernization: Japan,” in Ward and Rustow, Political Modernization in Japan and Turkey, p. 129. Lockwood (pp. 130–131) goes on to argue that while the economic interests of various groups and classes in Japan were served by imperialism, it is doubtful that Japanese imperialism was motivated by such material interests. Rather, it “set in before there was any serious industrial urge to expand abroad. Agitation over Korea, the war with China, the acquisition of Formosa, the victory over Russia, the early moves into Manchuria, and the Shantung seizure were none of them motivated primarily by calculations of business gain or national economic interest, though these factors were not absent.” 15. Stanford J. Shaw, Between Old and New: The Ottoman Empire Under Sultan Selim III, 1789–1807 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1971), pp. 6–7. 16. For a brief overview of the pressures for change that culminated in the nineteenth-century reforms associated with the Tanzimat period, see Roderic H. Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 1856–1876 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), pp. 3–25. 17. Walter F. Weiker, “The Ottoman Bureaucracy: Modernization and Reform,” Administrative Science Quarterly 13, no. 3 (December 1968): 453. 18. Avigdor Levy, “Military Reform and the Problem of Centralization in the Ottoman Empire in the Eighteenth Century,” Middle Eastern Studies 18, no. 3 (July 1982): 231–239. 19. See Bernard Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), pp. 45–49. 20. Shaw, Between Old and New, pp. 8–9. 21. Ibid., p. 121. 22. Levy, “Military Reform,” p. 237.

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23. See ibid., pp. 234–237. 24. See Shaw, Between Old and New, chaps. 9–12. 25. See Stanford J. Shaw, “The Origins of Ottoman Military Reform: The Nizam-I Cedid Army of Sultan Selim III,” Journal of Modern History 37, no. 3 (September 1965): 291–306; and Shaw, Between Old and New, especially pp. 86–166 for an excellent discussion of Selim’s reforms. 26. Shaw, “Origins of Ottoman Military Reform,” p. 302. 27. David B. Ralston, Importing the European Army: The Introduction of European Military Techniques and Institutions into the Extra-European World, 1600–1914 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), p. 55. 28. Lewis, Emergence of Modern Turkey, p. 82. 29. Avigdor Levy, “The Officer Corps in Sultan Mahmud II’s New Ottoman Army, 1826–39,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 2, no. 1 (1971): 26. 30. Ralston, Importing the European Army, p. 61; M. E. Yapp, “The Modernization of Middle Eastern Armies in the Nineteenth Century: A Comparative View,” in V. J. Parry and M. E. Yapp (eds.), War, Technology, and Society in the Middle East (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975), p. 348; Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 264–266. 31. Levy, “Military Reform,” p. 242. 32. Ibid., pp. 229–230. 33. Ibid., pp. 241–242. 34. Yapp, “Modernization of Middle Eastern Armies,” pp. 349–354. 35. Ibid., p. 353. 36. Ibid., pp. 348–349. For example, 30,000 men were needed to retain order in Istanbul alone. 37. In 1874, Austria could mobilize 1 million, France 1.7 million, Germany 1.3 million, and Russia 1.6 million. By 1897, Austria could mobilize 2.6 million, France 3.5 million, Germany 3.4 million, and Russia 4 million. By 1914, the numbers reached 4 million for France, 5 million for Germany, and 6 million for Russia. Ibid., pp. 339–340. 38. These areas included Istanbul, Crete, part of Albania, Kurdistan, most of eastern Asia Minor, Bosnia, Syria, and Iraq. Efforts were made to conscript from these areas, and they did supply troops as volunteers. But the major burden was borne by the Muslims of Asia Minor. Ibid., p. 351. By 1897 the Muslim population of the empire was approximately 14 million, and the non-Muslim population was 5 million or 35 percent of the total. The Muslim male population was approximately 7.5 million, and the non-Muslim male population was 2.6 million or 35 percent of the total male population. See Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Kural Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), pp. 240–241. 39. Yapp, “Modernization of Middle Eastern Armies,” pp. 350–351. 40. Ibid., pp. 339, 350–353. 41. Yapp (ibid., p. 350) notes, “In eastern Asia Minor it was actually easier for the Russians to assemble their forces than for the Ottomans, and, so long as the Ottoman frontier was well into Europe, they always fought there at a disadvantage.” 42. Ibid., p. 349. 43. Lewis, Emergence of Modern Turkey, p. 337. 44. Ibid., p. 107. 45. Weiker, “Ottoman Bureaucracy,” p. 463. 46. Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, p. 15. 47. Shaw, “Origins of Ottoman Military Reform,” p. 304; Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, p. 406.

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48. See Levy, “Military Reform,” pp. 227–249, for an overview of eighteenthcentury reform. 49. Shaw, Between Old and New, p. 405, notes that simply introducing new corps to make use of new weapons was not enough. The older corps had to be destroyed. The idea of creating new corps to make use of new techniques was a time-honored tradition of Ottoman sultans, dating back to the creation of the Janissary corps in the fifteenth century to make use of rifles, cannons, and gunpowder. 50. There are a host of reasons why the Ottomans were unable, as well as unwilling, to make fundamental changes. These are explored in Emily O. Goldman, “Preserving America’s Military Advantage: Insights from the Pre-Information Age,” draft manuscript. 51. D. Eleanor Westney, Imitation and Innovation: The Transfer of Western Organizational Patterns to Meiji Japan (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), p. 1. 52. D. Eleanor Westney, “The Military,” in Marius B. Jansen and Gilbert Rozman (eds.), Japan in Transition from Tokugawa to Meiji (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), p. 169. 53. Ernst L. Presseisen, Before Aggression: Europeans Prepare the Japanese Army (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1965), pp. 140–143. 54. Marius Jansen, “Changing Japanese Attitudes Toward Modernization,” in Marius Jansen (ed.), Changing Japanese Attitudes Toward Modernization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1965), pp. 56–58. 55. H. Suganami, “Japan’s Entry into International Society,” in Peter Kornicki (ed.), Meiji Japan: Political, Economic, and Social History, 1868–1912, vol. 1 (New York: Routledge, 1998), p. 9. 56. Westney, Imitation and Innovation, p. 19. 57. Suganami, “Japan’s Entry into International Society,” p. 14. 58. Donald H. Shively, “Nishimura Shigeki: A Confucian View of Modernization,” in Jansen, Changing Japanese Attitudes Toward Modernization, p. 213. 59. Roger F. Hackett, “The Meiji Leaders and Modernization: The Case of Yamagata Aritomo,” in Jansen, Changing Japanese Attitudes Toward Modernization, pp. 245–247. 60. Scholars divide these phases differently. The periodization here is adopted from my own reading of events. The most comprehensive treatment of the impact of European influence on the Japanese Army can be found in Presseisen, Before Aggression. 61. Ralston, Importing the European Army, pp. 153–155. Ralston notes the first serious effort to reform the armed forces occurred after an armed confrontation with Western powers in 1863. 62. Westney, “Military,” p. 176. 63. Ibid., pp. 46–47. 64. The French had a selective conscription system with a seven-year period of service and no reserve. Prussia had a mass conscription system requiring a threeyear period of training followed by sixteen years in the reserve, which proved to be more effective for raising a large number of troops in war. 65. Fukushima Shingo, “The Building of a National Army,” in Tobata Seiichi (ed.), The Modernization of Japan (Tokyo: Institute of Asian Economic Affairs, 1966), pp. 193–196. 66. Hyman Kublin, “The Modern Army of ‘Early’ Japan,” Far Eastern Quarterly 9, no. 1 (1949): 39. 67. Presseisen, Before Aggression, pp. 55–56.

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68. Ibid., p. 63. 69. See ibid., pp. 106–137, for a detailed discussion of Meckel’s contributions to the Japanese Army. 70. David C. Evans and Mark R. Peattie, Kaigun: Strategy, Tactics, and Technology in the Imperial Japanese Navy, 1887–1941 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1997), p. 7. 71. Ibid., pp. 8, 12. 72. Chitoshi Yanaga, Japan Since Perry (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1966), p. 116. 73. Ibid., p. 117. 74. R. Ernest Dupuy and Trevor N. Dupuy, The Collins Encyclopedia of Military History, 4th ed. (Glasgow: HarperCollins, 1993), p. 948. 75. Ralston, Importing the European Army, p. 149. 76. Ibid. 77. Suganami, “Japan’s Entry into International Society,” p. 14. 78. Ibid. 79. William W. Lockwood, The Economic Development of Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), p. 18. 80. It could be argued that the Japanese faced a serious external threat in the guise of cultural destruction due to Western hegemony. Neorealism does not address this type of external threat, but nevertheless, treaties negotiated with Western powers under duress opened Japanese ports to foreign presence and goods and threatened national sovereignty. The notion of “cultural” threat, however, is less convincing given Japan’s response. Initially, there were those who called for expelling the “barbarians” and returning to a policy of seclusion. Ultimately, Japanese leaders opted to adopt Western ways through an official policy of Westernization in the 1870s. The military was reformed first, but this rapidly affected other social institutions, and the speed and comprehensiveness of the transformation is without parallel. Military reform was less a way to defend against the Western world than to become a part of that world. This was a decidedly different course than that followed by the Ottomans or Chinese. 81. See Evans and Peattie, Kaigun, pp. 140–141, 150–151, 184–185, 514–515. 82. Ibid., p. 135. 83. Ibid., pp. 133–141. 84. Construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway began in 1891 and, at the same time, the Western powers began courting the Koreans with financial aid and military advisers. Moreover, voices in the West, such as Mahan, began stressing the geopolitical and economic importance of the Asia Pacific region. Ibid., p. 56. 85. Ibid., p. 64. 86. Akira Iriye, “Japan’s Drive to Great-Power Status,” in Kornicki, Meiji Japan, p. 48. 87. Ibid., pp. 48, 57–58. 88. Ibid., pp. 60–61. 89. Interestingly, war was declared against China only sixteen days after Japan had signed a treaty with Britain to abolish extraterritoriality within five years, a treaty that symbolized the willingness of the West to recognize Japan as a modern state. Ibid., p. 59. 90. Ibid., p. 69. Iriye notes that the Japanese had to borrow over 100 million yen to finance the war—nearly one-third of the war’s cost; that while trade with Korea was extensive, it was not the sole cause of difficulties with Russia; that economic interests in Manchuria hardly composed a significant portion of Japan’s total trade; and that there was no significant investment overseas at the time.

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91. Presseisen, Before Aggression, p. 31. 92. Ibid. 93. Hackett, “Meiji Leaders and Modernization,” p. 255. 94. Presseisen, Before Aggression, pp. 31–32. 95. One could argue that Japan only acquired a continental empire after 1905 and that, to the extent that it aspired to seize territories farther west in the Pacific, at least up until the acquisition of continental interests, a maritime strategy based on oceanic defense made sense. But even early on, the Japanese looked to the continent to extend their political frontiers, to which the war with China in 1894–1895 attests. 96. Westney, Imitation and Innovation, p. 22. 97. Ibid., p. 21. 98. Evans and Peattie, Kaigun, pp. 138–141. 99. Westney, Imitation and Innovation, p. 19. 100. Paul J. DiMaggio, “Interest and Agency in Institutional Theory,” in Lynne G. Zucker (ed.), Institutional Patterns and Organizations: Culture and Environment (Cambridge, Mass.: Ballinger, 1988), p. 6. See also Dana Eyre and Mark Suchman, “Status, Norms, and the Proliferation of Conventional Weapons: An Institutional Theory Approach,” in Peter J. Katzenstein (ed.), The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), p. 96.

CHAPTER 4

World Culture and the Irish Army, 1922–1942 Theo Farrell

W

hy are armies around the world organized along such remarkably similar lines? Practically all states have standing and standardized professional armies organized around major weapons systems. This model of military organization originated in sixteenth-century Europe, and its proliferation throughout the world may be seen as part of the Westernization of the world.1 The emergence and worldwide dominance of a Western model of military organization is particularly curious given the broad range of non-state-based military actors—such as mercenary groups, privateers, and mercantile companies—that were extensively used by European states from the fourteenth to the nineteenth century. 2 So how did a single distinct Western military model come to be developed and adopted by states the world over? This question has not been explored by international relations (IR) scholars. Neorealism, the dominant theory in IR, simply asserts: “Competition produces a tendency towards sameness of the competitors . . . [in that] Contending states imitate the military innovations contrived by the country of greatest ingenuity.”3 The neorealist suggestion that similarity in military organizations worldwide is purely the result of a competitive dynamic at the international level fails to give sufficient attention to the differing material circumstances of states. This is particularly important given the massive expansion of, and hence greater variety in, the states system in the twentieth century.4 The point is that the Western model of standing, standardized, and technologically structured armies requires a capital-intensive form of militarization that is only cost effective for states that are well resourced with capital and have need for great military capability. For developing and newly independent states, which tend to have greater 69

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human than capital resources and require a lower level of military capability, armies based on mass mobilization of lightly armed militias provide a more efficient way of generating military power. And yet states have rarely undertaken such labor-intensive militarization. 5 The question of why remains unanswered. Military historians and military sociologists have presented the emergence and dominance of the Western model of military organization as a rational process whereby European states copied each other’s best military practice and were in turn imitated by extra-European states seeking to resist Western military expansion.6 Integral to the rise of the Western way of war was the increasing professionalization of military affairs from the seventeenth century onward. Again, military historians and military sociologists see the professionalization of war as having instrumental purposes and effects.7 The worldwide isomorphism of all organized aspects of social life is highlighted by sociology’s new institutionalism. However, neoinstitutionalists view this process as a cultural one whereby worldwide models define and legitimate actors and action within distinct organizational fields. Worldwide norms, that is, intersubjective beliefs about identity and appropriate action, have been reinforced by the increasing professionalization of many organizational fields. Thus, for neoinstitutionalists, professionalization promotes rationalized, rather than rational, action.8 Neoinstitutionalists have produced studies of isomorphic developments in a broad range of state-organized social activities, including higher education and mass schooling, environmental protection, provision of universal welfare, and scientific research. Only recently have they turned their attention to the isomorphic pattern of state-organized violence, with studies on the worldwide proliferation of modern military technology and the development of worldwide scripts legitimating war.9 The first section of this chapter contributes to the neoinstitutionalist literature on modern war by examining the rise and spread of the Western military model. Also examined is how this rationalized model of military organization was sustained and perpetuated by the professionalization of military affairs. While recognizing that IR has much to learn from sociology’s new institutionalism, Martha Finnemore has criticized neoinstitutionalists for producing only correlative studies on the effects of world culture. She rightly points out that “detailed process-tracing and case study analysis to validate and elaborate the inferences based on correlation are missing.” Finnemore argues that neoinstitutionalists consequently pay insufficient attention to “contestation and coercion” in their portrayal of “world culture march[ing] effortlessly and facelessly across the globe.” Indeed, the role of power and politics in isomorphism is given added importance by the “tensions and contradictions” within world culture, according to Finnemore.10

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The second section of this chapter addresses Finnemore’s criticism by offering a detailed case study of how world culture, expressed through professional norms, shaped the organization of the army in postrevolutionary Ireland. Since “the poor and weak and peripheral copy the rich and strong and central,” we may expect newly independent and developing states to be particularly influenced by world cultural models.11 At the same time, military formation within postrevolutionary states occurs in the context of a highly political process of state and nation building.12 Furthermore, the organization of many aspects of public life within such states may be influenced by local cultural models derived from a revolutionary heritage.13 This points to another possible criticism of neoinstitutionalism, namely its neglect of local cultural models of social organization. Such neglect is deliberate. Neoinstitutionalists explicitly reject the microphenomenological approach, which sees state actors as products of “national cultural and interpretative systems.” Theirs is a macrophenomenological perspective whereby the “culture involved is substantially organised on a worldwide basis, not simply built upon from local circumstances and history.”14 Yet the dominant cultural approach in strategic studies has been microphenomenological. All of the recent cultural studies on military organizations locate organizational culture within national history and circumstances.15 The very prominence of microphenomological approaches to organizational analysis in strategic studies suggests that local cultural models do affect the way states organize for war. How local cultural models do so, including their relationship with world cultural models, needs further exploration. Military change in the Irish case is evident in that the Irish Free State Army was very different, in its organizational structure and routines, from its revolutionary predecessor, the Irish Republican Army (IRA). As a guerrilla army, the IRA was largely militia based, was lightly armed, and employed a mix of units and tactics in the War of Independence against Britain (1919–1921). In stark contrast, the Irish Free State Army was a voluntary standing force, self-consciously modeled on the British Army, with standardized units equipped with the full range of modern weapons systems (albeit poorly so) and trained for conventional warfare. Given its guerrilla heritage, its poor financial state, and the scale of the reemerging British military threat in the 1930s, postrevolutionary Ireland had strong reasons for undertaking labor-intensive militarization. The fact that capitalintensive militarization occurred in Ireland highlights a more general puzzle in international relations. Why have practically all newly independent and postrevolutionary states ended up with expensive and heavily armed professional standing armies? In addressing this question, this chapter takes up the call for constructivists to “explain important international puzzles and phenomena and thereby demonstrate the empirical value of their approach.”16

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World Culture and the Western Military Model The Western model of military organization has three distinct characteristics: it exists on a permanent basis, has standard units, equipment, and training, and is structured around prevailing military technologies. While European industrialization certainly consolidated the central importance of technology to military development, the emergence of permanent and standardized technologically based military force did not depend on industrialization. Rather, it depended on “the substitution of technical proficiency for personal prowess and the transformation of military operations from a selfliquidating form of venture capitalism into a systematically budgeted branch of public administration.”17 These conditions of modern warfare have ancient roots, for they underlay the development of standing, standardized, and technologically structured military forces in Greece in the fifth century B.C., with the massive navy of Athens and hoplite army of Sparta, as well as the Macedonian phalanxes and Roman legions in the preceding two centuries. The discipline, drill, and technical proficiency that characterized these standing armies of antiquity were gradually eroded in the later Roman period, from the second century B.C. onward, with greater reliance on military conscription and mercenaries.18 The Modern Origins of the Western Military Model

Long-term capital investment in military force and military technicalism first reemerged in modern times in the Dutch Republic at the turn of the seventeenth century. What followed was a revolution in field warfare that swept across the rest of Europe. In the late 1590s and early 1600s, the Dutch Republic downsized and radically reformed its army under the direction of its army commanders, Counts Maurice and William Louis of Nassau. Breaking with European practice of the time, the republic offered its soldiers full-time employment and annual salaries that in turn enabled the Nassaus to introduce repeated and systematic drilling of the army. Thus full-time soldiering was born out of a need for technical proficiency and military discipline. With the standing army also came standardization in Dutch military formation, equipment, and training.19 The Nassau military reforms were shaped by political and social imperatives peculiar to the Dutch Republic. The need for military reform was generated by political circumstances, namely the revolt of middle-class Dutch society against the Hapsburg Empire, while the character of these reforms was determined by the social context in which they emerged, namely the very mercantile nature of middle-class Dutch society. In short,

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investing in the army, and maintaining control of it through contracts of employment instead of honor and booty, made perfect business sense to the Dutch.20 At the same time, the Nassau reforms were also shaped by a military imperative common to European states: the need to better integrate organizational structure and the prevailing military technology, namely firearms. Firearms had been in use in Europe since the fourteenth century, and while muskets were comparatively easy to use, musketeers could not produce sufficient fire to outshoot archers or keep pikemen and cavalry at bay. The Nassaus changed this by increasing the ratio of musketeers in their army, improving musketeers’ rate of fire, and introducing volley-fire so that units could fire and advance simultaneously.21 Thus the Western organizational model of the standing, standardized, and technologically structured army was reborn. Professional Norms and the Spread of the Dutch Military Model

But what led to widespread European emulation of the Dutch military model? Neoinstitutionalists see two types of isomorphism at work in the world: competitive and institutional. Competitive isomorphism is analogous with market forces and in this case refers to the neorealist view that states learn best military practice or go out of business. According to neorealists, then, military success spurs military emulation: “As in any competitive system, successful [military] practices will be imitated. Those who fail to imitate are unlikely to survive.”22 The effectiveness of the Dutch military model was demonstrated by the Swedish Army, reformed along Dutch lines, in a series of stunning victories from 1631 to 1645. Consistent with competitive isomorphism, Swedish military success gave other European states good reason to emulate the Dutch model. But the Dutch Army seldom went into battle itself and enjoyed no spectacular successes.23 This suggests that another process was at work in the spread of the Dutch military model, namely institutional isomorphism. This type of isomorphism occurs when organizations compete not for resources but for legitimacy.24 In short, models of behavior rather than military success drive military emulation. Institutional isomorphism challenges the rationalist account of organizational life by presenting organizations as acting according to cultural norms rather than on pregiven interests. Norms work in two ways: first, constitutive norms define and give meaning to actors and the context in which they act, and second, regulatory norms proscribe and prescribe appropriate behavior for actors in defined situations. In other words, “norms establish expectations about who the actors will be in a particular

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environment and about how these particular actors will behave.” 25 In addressing how norms produce institutional isomorphism, neoinstitutionalists present organizations as “open systems” that are shaped by, and shapers of, the environment in which they operate.26 Neoinstitutionalists conceive organizational environments not in geographical terms (within national boundaries), but rather in functional terms as organizational fields that are approximately coterminous with the boundaries of industries and professions. Actors in a particular field gradually develop and act upon collective understandings of appropriate organizational form and behavior. By being institutionalized in organizational fields, constitutive and regulative norms operate to produce isomorphism within them. From a neoinstitutionalist perspective, professionalization is the process whereby norms are institutionalized and produce isomorphism within organizational fields. Professionalization does this in two ways: “One is the resting of formal education and of legitimation in a cognitive base produced by university specialists; the second is the growth and elaboration of professional networks that span organizations and across which new models diffuse rapidly.”27 The creation of a cognitive base, through formal education and authoritative publications, was central to the consolidation and European imitation of the Dutch military model. In 1607, Count John of Nassau arranged the publication of an illustrated drill manual that, through translation into several languages, was widely read and referred to throughout Europe. The first military academy for training officers in Europe was established by Count John at Siegen in 1616, and the first director of this academy published several military manuals based on the Dutch military model. We can also see the emergence of a professional network through which the Dutch military model diffused across Europe. The Dutch Army contained numerous foreign units, including Scottish, German, French, and English; Dutch military instructors were sent to several German states; and the military academy at Siegen trained foreign officers in the Dutch military method.28 Swedish graduates from Count John’s academy took the Dutch model back with them into the Swedish Army. Dutch military ideas found fertile soil in Sweden because of the religious and intellectual culture shared by the Dutch and the Swedes. Dutch reformist beliefs about the importance of discipline and duty in military service were rooted in Dutch Protestant faith, just as reformist beliefs about possibilities of educating ordinary men in technical military subjects were grounded in Dutch humanist philosophy. Thus Sweden adopted the Dutch military model, despite the fact that it was unproven, because as a Protestant country, in particular one committed to training its bureaucrats according to Dutch humanist philosophy, it was uniquely receptive to Dutch reformist ideas in the early 1600s.29

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The Modern State and the Western Military Model

Neoinstitutionalists argue that organizational fields start out displaying considerable diversity, but once a field becomes established, “there is an inexorable push towards homogenization.”30 We have clearly seen this in the spread of the Western military model, the emergence of which was intimately linked to the rise of the modern state. As Charles Tilly famously put it: “war made the state and the state made war.”31 The developments of state bureaucracies, scientific knowledge, and mass education were shaped by, and in turn shaped, the development of the modern military organization.32 But there is disagreement whether military revolution or political change came first.33 For the purposes of this discussion, it is sufficient to note that the Western model of military organization emerged in conjunction with the Western modern state. The Western military model was imposed by European imperial powers on their colonies, and was voluntarily adopted by extra-European states seeking to resist European expansion; it thereby spread throughout the world from the seventeenth century onward.34 Professionalization of the officer corps played an important part in this isomorphic process, and continues to do so. The military revolution in seventeenth-century Europe professionalized war for soldiers, but not for their officers. Officers continued to be nobles and mercenaries. Professionalization of the officer class occurred only over the next two centuries. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, states established their control over entry to the officer class, the officer class began to develop a corporate spirit based on the old ideals of chivalry, and technical training was developed in the artillery and engineering corps. By the end of the nineteenth century, the officer class throughout Europe—with Prussia, France, and Britain leading the way—and in the United States, had become fully professionalized, with entry and advancement by commission and social class being replaced by merit and competence.35 Professionalization of the officer class led to the worldwide institutionalization of collective beliefs about appropriate military forms and practices. Dana Eyre and Mark Suchman have observed the importance of this in the proliferation of conventional weapons in the contemporary world. They identify “two key sets of linkage between military professionals across national boundaries.” One is the “exchange of liaison officers and observers and the development of exchange officers in military schools.” The other is the “development of an international defense literature.”36 One hundred thirty new states have emerged since 1945. It is hard to imagine that all of them have the resources and requirements to undertake capital-intensive militarization. And yet almost all states in the world have standing and standardized armies based around major weapons systems. It

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is through professionalization of the militaries in these new states—whereby officers are sent to be trained in foreign military academies, and whereby foreign military advisers, military literature, and equipment are received—that the Western military model takes root and is perpetuated.37 World Culture and the Making of the Irish Army

How have individual new states actually come to emulate the Western military model? The remainder of this chapter examines this question through a detailed case study of the creation of a professional army in postrevolutionary Ireland. From its inception, the Irish Army was modeled after the British Army. Initially there were good reasons for this. The most effective fighting units of the IRA, based mostly in the Southern counties of Ireland, opposed the terms of the Treaty with Britain and so rebelled against the state that was born of it. Thus the IRA General Staff had to raise a new army to defend the Free State in the short and brutal civil war that lasted from June 1922 to April 1923. The army urgently needed to organize itself, but army leaders were too busy fighting for survival, and in any case lacked the knowledge, to come up with their own organizational structure. Hence the structure of the British Army was adopted almost by default: “The position then existing was that we had no fighting organisation, nor have we sufficient training or expertise to devise one for ourselves. It was essential that we adopt some foreign system as a model, to train and experiment with, and as our armament and equipment was British this was as good a model to adopt as any other.”38 In fact the Irish Army had other compelling reasons to emulate the British. First, the driving mission of the new Irish Army from 1921 to 1925 was the same as that of the former British occupiers, namely suppression of internal rebellion. Second, it contained many men who had served in the British Army. Third, it must have seemed natural for the army to model itself on its British equivalents, since that was what the rest of the Irish government was doing. For the most part, the Irish merely took over the administrative structures and practices that had existed under the British and even retained many British civil servants. The Madness of the British Military Model

These reasons became less powerful as time passed. Circumstances radically changed such that continued Irish imitation of the British Army simply did not make sense. First, the threat of IRA rebellion faded away while the threat of a British reinvasion loomed ever larger as the 1930s wore on. At the same

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time, as a consequence of years of severe underfunding, the Irish Army was unable to defend the state through sustained conventional operations. As early as 1925, external security had assumed greater importance to the army than internal security.39 By 1932 the army had even less reason to worry about internal security when a new government was formed by the very republicans led by Eamon de Valera who had rebelled against the state ten years earlier. By this time the main fear for army planners was that strategic imperatives arising during the next great European War might lead Britain to forcibly reoccupy Southern Ireland. In 1936, Irish Army intelligence reported that Ireland’s “greatest strategic importance is as a base for possible British naval operations in the Western Atlantic, and as a base without which British authorities assert they cannot effectively secure their own sea communications.” Army intelligence therefore concluded that “an attempt to maintain our neutrality would lead to immediate conflict with Great Britain.”40 This prediction appeared to be coming true as the war approached in Europe. The British had agreed in 1938 to give back the ports it had held onto in the Irish Free State on the assumption that they would not be denied access to them in wartime. But when war broke out, the Irish government, led by Taoiseach (Prime Minister) de Valera, denied Britain such port access in order to preserve Irish neutrality. This infuriated Winston Churchill, who as First Lord of the Admiralty had been highly critical of the decision to hand back the Irish ports. He considered them vital to the Royal Navy’s ability to defend Britain. Robert Fisk persuasively shows that this led Churchill, as prime minister from 1940, to have an “unhealthy fixation with the idea that strong-arm tactics might be used against the Irish.”41 Irish political and military leaders were only too aware of the military threat they faced from Britain. At the same time, they also relied on British military support to repel any German invasion. Indeed, there was considerable cooperation between the Irish and British militaries to facilitate this. The Irish government was adamant that the British military should come to Ireland’s rescue only after the Irish Army had first engaged the Germans, and only after Ireland had officially requested assistance. After all, Irish neutrality was primarily about Ireland affirming its sovereignty and asserting its independence from Britain. Yet the British Chiefs of Staff told the British War Cabinet that they could defend Ireland only if British forces entered the country before the invading German force landed in Ireland. Hence the British military devised a course of action (Plan “W”) that would enable them either to answer an Irish call for assistance or, if necessary, to invade Ireland.42 By November 1940 the threat from Germany had been replaced in Irish eyes by a very real and immediate threat from Britain. The Irish chief of staff, Major-General Dan McKenna, later recalled that “in the

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atmosphere then prevailing we could have had an invasion [by Britain] at any time.”43 Taoiseach de Valera was sufficiently worried about the threat of imminent British invasion in December 1940 to cancel all Christmas leave for the army.44 The army’s response to this threat was consistently conventional throughout the 1930s, during which it planned to defend the state by amassing a sizeable field force. In 1932 the chief of staff submitted a program to the government for building up the army, over a fifteen-year period, to a 75,000-strong corps of three divisions well equipped with artillery, tanks, armored cars, and aircraft. The scale of this program was massive at the time, given that the army had only 13,000 troops, little artillery, a handful of armored cars, very few aircraft, and one tank.45 The new government refused to fund such an ambitious program, as the army might well have expected given the years of severe underfunding it had experienced under the previous government. The problem for the army was not the politicians so much as the all-powerful civil servants in the Department of Finance. All public expenditure had been quickly and firmly placed under the control of the department by the government of the new Irish state. Since the department was run by former British civil servants who obviously did not share the Irish Army’s view of the threat from Britain or from Germany (since Britain could come to the rescue), it was content to starve the army of resources. Thus the army budget was slashed from £11 million in 1924 to just over £1 million in 1932.46 The army continued to pursue its program to build up a 75,000-strong field force until 1937, when it gave up in the face of continued opposition from the Department of Finance. Finance officials reasoned that the Royal Navy would prevent a German invasion of Ireland, that Britain itself was unlikely to attack, and that if a British attack did occur, Irish military resistance would be “futile” and only cause “unnecessary bloodshed, suffering and economic destruction.”47 By 1938 the situation had become so desperate that the Army General Staff warned the government that “the actual strength, organisation and equipment of the existing forces restrict their value to that of an instrument for the preservation of internal disorder only.”48 The army had a mere 6,000 troops at the time. The deterioration in world affairs led to a national call to arms on 2 June 1940, and by the end of the year the army was given a war establishment of 40,000 troops.49 But this was too little, too late. In mid-November 1940 the Plans and Operations Branch (G-1) of the Army General Staff switched their attention from completing their general defense plan (GDP 1) against a German attack to drawing up a general defense plan (GDP 2) against a British invasion. The sense of urgency is indicated by the fact that GDP 2 was completed by staff officers, approved by the taoiseach, and promulgated to army commanders within one

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month.50 G-1 expected the main British effort to be an overland drive from Northern Ireland directly down to Dublin. Under GDP 2, the Irish Army reorganized itself into two divisions. The Second Division was given the task of meeting the main British thrust from Northern Ireland. The First Division was tasked with providing reinforcements for the Second Division, and with defending the rest of the country against sea and air landings. GDP 2 determined that a “definite stand must be made as far north of the line Dublin-Athlone-Galway as possible,” and to this end the bulk of the Second Division was to be deployed on a main line of resistance (MLR) along the line of the rivers Boyne and Blackwater. In addition, an infantry outpost system, augmented by patrols and cyclist squadrons, was set up ahead of the MLR to initially delay the enemy advance and allow time for the mobilization of forces on the MLR.51 The Irish Army had no hope of repulsing the British invasion force. G-1 expected the British to invade with three divisions and an armored brigade from Northern Ireland, and a further two divisions from Great Britain, totaling 70,000–80,000 troops with approximately 1,000 armored fighting vehicles and up to 400 field guns. Against this, the entire Irish Army was only 40,000 strong with a mere 73 armored fighting vehicles and 51 field guns.52 Thus the Irish Army’s main objective under GDP 2 was simply to slow down the British advance so as to buy enough time for German forces to intervene on Ireland’s behalf.53 GDP 2 does not explicitly refer to a German intervention in support of the Irish Army, but the Army General Staff clearly saw GDP 2 in this context.54 GDP 2 was bound to fail for two reasons. First, given the level of British military superiority, the Irish Second Division had a slim chance of delaying the British advance for sufficient time to allow for German military intervention. G-1 expected the British to launch a surprise attack with “mechanised and motorised forces . . . utilised in the German model.”55 Such British forces in all likelihood would have swept past the Irish infantry outposts and rapidly overrun the MLR. As one of the authors of GDP 2 admitted, “each forward Battalion [on the Irish MLR] may encounter a force 5 to 9 times its own strength in men alone. In the nature of things unless the enemy blunders badly or we happen to be extremely lucky, the odds are against us.”56 Reports of divisional exercises carried out by the Irish Army in 1942 indicate that it was the Irish who were likely to blunder, and blunder badly. These reports reveal a catalog of basic tactical errors by Irish troops that the better-trained and better-equipped British Army would have been able to exploit with devastating effect.57 Second, GDP 2 ignored the likelihood of Germany’s inability, or even unwillingness, to send an intervention force to bail out Ireland. The Irish General Staff simply assumed that “in the event of Britain initiating acts of war in this country it is quite certain that Germany will at once intervene.”58

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McKenna later admitted that the Irish Army had greatly underestimated the extent to which Germany was deterred from invading the British Isles by the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy.59 Abandoning Ireland’s Guerrilla Warfare Heritage

The Irish Army did have an alternative, namely to deter Britain from attacking by promising a prolonged campaign of military resistance that would of necessity combine conventional and unconventional operations. The army was aware of this alternative, for it was outlined in the army’s first war plan drafted in 1934 by the Intelligence Branch (G-2). In 1934, as six years later, the odds were stacked heavily against the Irish. G-2 estimated that Britain could immediately put at least 71,000 troops in the field against an Irish force of 25,000–36,000. Moreover, it noted that “British units would all be highly trained, completely armed and equipped, and properly organised. The bulk of our troops would be halftrained, badly armed, and imperfectly organised.”60 For this reason, G-2 reasonably concluded that “we could not hope to successfully resist on orthodox lines a British force of even equal size.”61 The obvious alternative was to deter invasion by promising a campaign of guerrilla warfare. Army intelligence officers noted that “the bulk of our present Army officers, and many of our public men, have practical experience of [guerrilla warfare]. Hence there is a constant feeling that having fought the British on this basis before, with a certain measure of success, that it forms the obvious basis upon which we should fight them again.”62 Notwithstanding this, they concluded that Ireland’s defense could not depend on guerrilla warfare alone. While a guerrilla campaign would last longer than a conventional war against Britain, it was designed to attack the institutions of an organized state, not defend them. G-2 concluded that Ireland could not hope to rally international support for its cause if it gave up the institutions of statehood without a fight: “we would be regarded as an organised state which had ignominiously collapsed almost without resistance, and would not, therefore, be worth worrying further about.”63 Based on a recognition of the political reasons for offering organized resistance to a British invasion, and the military reasons for preparing a guerrilla campaign, the 1934 War Plan actually proposed an inventive combination of both whereby “Command would normally initiate its defense on a basis of organised resistance, that as enemy advance progressed, this would be supplemented by guerrilla tactics in his rear and along his lines of communication, that when further organised resistance in any particular Command became impossible that the bulk of the troops would be withdrawn, and resistance continued on guerrilla lines only.”64 But at no time did this plan envisage a static defense against British attack; the plan specifically states this: “When we speak of organised resistance we do not

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suggest that badly armed, ill-trained Irish Brigades should be permitted to sit down to be battered up to pulp by vastly superior British forces.” 65 These light brigades were to be used to fight “a series of continuous delaying actions” rather than attempting to halt a British force at any static line of defense.66 The purpose of the 1934 War Plan was to prolong the military struggle with Britain for as long as possible. This was quite different from GDP 2, which intended for the Irish Army to hold out just long enough for Germany to intervene on Ireland’s behalf. Given overwhelming British military superiority, not to mention the unreliability of German military assistance, preparing a fluid defense that avoided direct military engagement with the main British force was simply prudent. Indeed, such a strategy would have offered a considerable deterrent to British attack, given that Britain would not have wanted to have five army divisions bogged down in Ireland in the midst of a world war. The 1934 War Plan offered an inventive way for the army to capitalize on the operational experience of many of its officers and men in guerrilla warfare. Yet it was roundly rejected by the Irish Army’s leadership. Instead, the army continued to pursue its wholly unrealistic massive program of expansion and modernization. Similarly, G-1 hastily dismissed the 1934 War Plan as having “no practical application” to their own war planning in 1940. However, beyond noting that the war plan was over five years old, G-1 did not actually offer any convincing reason in their reports as to why it was useless.67 Professional Norms and Model Soldiers

Why did the army abandon its guerrilla warfare heritage, reject the 1934 War Plan, and continue to model itself after the British? It had no strategic or self-interested reasons to do so: the finance department was clearly not going to give army leaders the large modern field force they wanted, and so the army simply lacked the force structure to put up a conventional defense of the state. Cultural norms explain the Irish Army’s puzzling behavior: in short, Irish officers viewed themselves as professionals and acted as they believed professional soldiers should act. The drive toward professionalizing the Irish Army actually started in its predecessor, as the IRA General Staff sought to establish standards of training, planning, and operations by field units, and standards of dress and conduct, during the War of Independence. 68 The first training manual issued by IRA General Headquarters (GHQ) to all volunteers emphasized close-order drill and administration above all other skills. 69 The IRA General Staff was particularly concerned with developing a professional officer corps. To this end, they ordered all field divisions to set up officer training camps for the purpose of providing uniform training for IRA offi-

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cers as prescribed by GHQ.70 Predictably, there was renewed emphasis on professionalizing the new army, particularly as the General Staff of the IRA formed the General Staff of the new Irish Army. This was especially evident after the civil war, when the organization showed little loyalty to former IRA members who had sided with the army against the republican rebels, but who then were demobilized because they were not sufficiently professional. At the same time, a number of ex–British officers and noncommissioned officers, who were valued for their professional skills, were commissioned in a reorganization of the Irish Army in January 1923.71 With professionalization came foreign military norms. In creating a new professional army in the early 1920s, army leaders looked to foreign armies for ideas. To this end, an Irish military delegation was sent to the U.S. military academy at West Point in 1926. By emulating other professional armies, particularly the British, Irish officers formed beliefs about how they should organize themselves and fight as a professional army. These norms became embedded in the organization in its formative years, thereby forming its culture. In line with the neoinstitutionalist view of norms as “binding myths of formal structure,” professional norms continued to prescribe a conventional structure for the Irish Army long after such a structure had lost its utility. Thus the British military model kept well beyond its “sell-by date.” As one Irish military planner noted in 1938, “Much of our present organisation, and almost all handbooks and manuals approved by the Department of defense are British. A change to some other source of supply will, therefore, necessitate a mental revolution in the army.”72 We can also see how the Irish Army thought about war through the pages of its professional journal for officers, and in the manner of its training. In the five years the army’s monthly journal, An t-Óglách, was published (1927–1933), there were only two articles on guerrilla warfare. Equally revealing is the syllabus of the Irish Army’s Command and Staff Course in the mid-1930s, which allocated only three hours to guerrilla warfare from a total of 361 hours of training; in contrast, eighteen hours were spent on chemical warfare!73 Predictably, no effort was put into preparing the army as a whole for guerrilla warfare. The Irish Army’s training directives in 1940 contain the barest mention of guerrilla operations (at the bottom of a long list of training priorities).74 Civilian Power, Civil War Politics, and Irish Political Culture

Institutional isomorphism explains the Irish Army’s continued emulation of the British military model. Essentially, Irish officers acted according to professional norms derived from the Western model of military organization.

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But how was this process affected by power and politics, and local cultural models? There has been considerable disagreement within security studies over the mode and impact of civilian intervention in military affairs in the last hundred years. Barry Posen has suggested that civilians often intervene directly to force militaries to reorganize themselves.75 In contrast, Stephen Rosen, Kimberly Zisk, and Deborah Avant have argued that civilian intervention in itself has rarely produced significant change in military organizations.76 In all cases it is assumed that civilians are interested in shaping military change; the disagreement is over how civilian intervention occurs and whether it is successful.77 However, in the case of the army in postrevolutionary Ireland, civilian policymakers showed little interest in how the army organized itself. All they cared about was how much it cost.78 Three years after the Free State had come into existence, the government had still not formulated a policy as to how the country should defend itself. In the end, army leaders had to send a memorandum to the Executive Council to remind civilian policymakers of “the urgent and absolute necessity for placing us in the possession of at least the outlines of the defense Policy of the Government.”79 To the extent that some interest was shown, politicians in the Dáil (Irish parliament), and in successive governments, appear to have expected that the army would simply revert to a guerrilla campaign should Ireland ever be invaded.80 Typical on this score was de Valera’s statement to the Dáil in 1927 as leader of the opposition: “If we are going to defend ourselves against any power we can only do it in the way we did before, and that is, not by a standing army of this particular normal type, but by a force which will make it impossible for that foreign power to rule in the country, or make it very expensive for them at any rate!”81 So if anything, civilians should have intervened in support of the 1934 War Plan. But they did not. Indeed, as taoiseach thirteen years later, de Valera gave formal authorization to the army’s conventional war plans against possible invasion by Germany or Britain. Politics did play a role in the professionalization of the army, even if power did not. Specifically, the process of professionalizing the army was accelerated considerably by the very civil war of which it was born. The military professionalization that had begun in the IRA under the direction of the General Staff, led by the IRA chief of staff, General Richard Mulcahy, was resented by the most active and hence most hard-pressed fighting units of the IRA, which were the southern divisions based in Cork and South Tipperary.82 There was a general feeling in the southern divisions that GHQ provided them with too many directives and not enough financial and military support. When the IRA split in 1922 over the Treaty with Britain, the southern divisions rebelled against the Free State.83 The IRA split and the outbreak of civil war forced GHQ to raise a new army of

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eventually 48,000 from a core of only 4,000 former IRA members. Since much of the IRA old guard had sided against the state, GHQ ended up recruiting many men who had little or no experience in guerrilla warfare.84 Thus its civil war origins were to make the Irish Army much more amenable to being professionalized by GHQ in line with the Western military model. In this case, local cultural models served to reinforce the abandonment of the Irish military heritage in guerrilla warfare and the professionalization of the Irish Army. The local cultural models in question were two competing traditions in Irish political culture, the revolutionary tradition and constitutional tradition. The constitutional tradition advanced the cause of Irish nationalism by operating within the British political system. Consequently, constitutional nationalists copied British political practice, for instance by forming political parties to agitate in the British parliament. In contrast, the revolutionary tradition advanced the cause of Irish nationalism by operating outside the British political system. Revolutionary nationalists emphasized Irish uniqueness in their practices and the structures they formed, such as the influential secret society of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB). Constitutional nationalists hoped to persuade the British to leave Ireland; revolutionary nationalists sought to push them out. Before 1916 the constitutional tradition was more prominent in Irish political culture. Indeed, the Easter Rising of 1916 was launched by the IRB with little popular support. It was the events following the Easter Rising, in particular clumsy British reprisals, that mobilized public support in Ireland for the revolutionary tradition. Thus the rise of the IRA and its war against Britain took place in the context of a shift in Irish political culture. With the end of the War of Independence, the constitutional tradition once again came to dominate Irish political culture. This explains the ease with which the Irish Free State government took over British administrative practices and personnel, and modeled itself after the British government.85 In this way, the shift back to the constitutional tradition in postrevolutionary Ireland provides one explanation for why the Irish Army specifically modeled itself after the British Army, as opposed to some other Western army such as that of the French.86 But it does not explain why professionalization of the army began during the War of Independence when revolutionary nationalism dominated Irish political culture, or why the army so completely rejected its guerrilla warfare heritage when Irish nationalism was once again threatened by Britain. Clearly the army’s behavior was shaped by a more encompassing and consistent belief system, namely professional norms derived from world culture. Thus it is perhaps more accurate to see the revival of the constitutional tradition in Irish political culture as providing fertile ground for these professional norms to take root and flourish.

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Conclusion The worldwide prevalence of a single form of military organization, namely standing and standardized militaries structured around major weapons systems, presents us with a puzzle. Not all states can afford or require such military organizations, yet practically all states have them. Why have almost all states engaged in such capital-intensive militarization when for some states a more labor-intensive militarization producing armies of massmobilized conscripts would have been adequate or even more effective? For newly independent states such as India, which had inherited its military from its departing imperial masters, the financial cost of capitalintensive militarization was probably outweighed by the political cost of disbanding the standing army.87 But for states such as Ireland, which had won its independence through guerrilla warfare, the switch from this laborintensive form of militarization to a capital-intensive one is especially puzzling. While standing and even standardized militaries might be desirable for those states, such as Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, that rely on the loyalty of the army to protect military regimes or not to threaten democractic ones, it is not clear why such armies need to be structured around advanced major weapons systems, such as main battle tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, and air-defense systems. The vulnerable democratic governments in Brazil and Chile may be seeking to “buy off” their military with new weapons systems.88 But this still begs the question: If such weapons are unnecessary, why do the Brazilian and Chilean militaries want them? Furthermore, why do secure democratic governments, as in Ireland, maintain standing, standardized, and technologically structured military organizations? The answer to this puzzle lies in the rise of the Western military model, which was driven as much by worldwide professional norms as by military success. Professionalization of the seventeenth-century Dutch military system not only produced the modern prototype of the Western military model, but also produced the ideas and networks that led to widespread European emulation of this model. The Western military model became institutionalized in a professionalized officer class that emerged in Europe and the United States over the next two centuries. This further ensured the worldwide appeal of the Western military model. Institutional isomorphism thus complements competitive isomorphism in explaining the appeal of capitalintensive militarization on the Western model for states throughout the world, regardless of resources and requirement. The explanatory power of the neoinstitutionalist account of worldwide military development is well demonstrated in the case of military change in postrevolutionary Ireland. The Irish Army abandoned its guerrilla warfare heritage and continued to model itself on the British Army even when

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threatened with invasion and well after the British model had lost its utility. The Irish Army did this because it acted according to worldwide professional norms of appropriate organizational form and action. In short, its officer corps viewed themselves as professional soldiers and believed that guerrilla warfare was not the business of professional armies.

Notes 1. Theodore H. Von Laue, The World Revolution of Westernization: The Twentieth Century in Global Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 2. Janice E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns: State-Building and Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). 3. Kenneth Waltz, Theory of International Politics (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979), p. 127. For neorealist accounts of military emulation, see Barry R. Posen, “Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power,” International Security 18, no. 2 (1993): 80–124; and Joào Resende-Santos, “Anarchy and Emulation of Military Systems: Military Organization and Technology in South America, 1870–1914,” Security Studies 5, no. 3 (spring 1996): 193–260. 4. Christopher Clapham, “Degrees of Statehood,” Review of International Studies 24, no. 3 (1998): 143–147. 5. Alexander Wendt and Michael Barnett, “Dependent State Formation and Third World Militarization,” Review of International Studies 19, no. 3 (1993): 321–347. 6. Regarding the historical view, see William McNeill, The Pursuit of Power: Technology, Armed Force, and Society Since A.D. 1000 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982); Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). John A. Lynn sees this rational process producing a series of dominant models of military organization. See Lynn, “The Evolution of Army Style in the Modern West,” International History Review 18, no. 3 (1996): 505–756. Regarding the sociological view, see Jacques Van Doorn (ed.), Armed Forces and Society (The Hague: Mouton, 1968); Jacques Van Doorn, The Soldier and Social Change (London: Sage, 1975); Maury D. Feld, The Structure of Violence: Armed Forces as Social Systems (London: Sage, 1997). 7. Samuel P. Huntington, The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957); Morris Janowitz, The Professional Soldier: A Social and Political Portrait (New York: Free Press, 1960); G. Teitler, The Genesis of the Professional Officers’ Corps (London: Sage, 1977). 8. Walter W. Powell and Paul J. DiMaggio (eds.), The New Institutionalism in Organizational Analysis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991); W. Richard Scott, John W. Meyer, and Associates, Institutional Environments and Organizations: Structural Complexity and Individualism (London: Sage, 1994); John W. Meyer, John Boli, George M. Thomas, and Francisco O. Ramirez, “World Society and the Nation-State,” American Journal of Sociology 193, no. 2 (1997): 144–181. 9. On the proliferation of modern military technology, see Dana P. Eyre,

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“The Very Model of the Major Modern Military: World System Influences on the Proliferation of Military Weapons, 1960–1990,” Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 1997; Dana P. Eyre and Mark C. Suchman, “Status, Norms, and the Proliferation of Conventional Weapons: An Institutional Theory Approach,” in Peter J. Katzenstein (ed.), The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), pp. 79–113. On the development of worldwide scripts legitimating war, see Ann Hironaka, “Boundaries of War: Historical Change in Patterns of Warmaking, 1815–1980,” Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 1998. 10. Martha Finnemore, “Norms, Culture, and World Politics: Insights from Sociology’s Institutionalism,” International Organization 50, no. 3 (1996): 339, 342. 11. Meyer et al., “World Society and the Nation-State,” p. 164. 12. William Gutteridge, Military Institutions and Power in the New States (London: Pall Mall Press, 1964). 13. Jonathan R. Adelman, Revolution, Armies, and War: A Political History (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 1985). 14. Meyer et al., “World Society and the Nation-State,” pp. 147–148. 15. For discussion on this, see Theo Farrell, “Culture and Military Power,” Review of International Studies 24, no. 3 (1998): 407–416. 16. Jeffrey T. Checkel, “The Constructivist Turn in International Relations Theory,” World Politics 50, no. 2 (1998): 328. 17. Maury D. Feld, “Middle-Class Society and the Rise of Military Professionalism: The Dutch Army, 1589–1609,” Armed Forces and Society 1, no. 2 (1975): 419. 18. Hans Delbruck, History of the Art of War, vol. 1, Warfare in Antiquity, trans. Walter J. Renfore Jr. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1990); Victor Davis Hanson, The Western Way of War: Infantry Battle in Classical Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989). 19. Parker, Military Revolution, p. 20. 20. Feld, “Middle-Class Society,” pp. 422–423. 21. Parker, Military Revolution, pp. 17–20. 22. Posen, “Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power,” p. 82. 23. McNeill, Pursuit of Power, p. 134; Parker, Military Revolution, p. 22. 24. Paul J. DiMaggio and Walter W. Powell, “The Iron Cage Revisited: Institutional Isomorphism and Collective Rationality in Organizational Fields,” in Powell and DiMaggio, New Institutionalism in Organizational Analysis, p. 66. 25. Ronald L. Jepperson, Alexander Wendt, and Peter J. Katzenstein, “Norms, Identity, and Culture in National Security,” in Katzenstein, Culture of National Security, p. 54. 26. W. Richard Scott, Organizations: Rational, Natural, and Open Systems (London: Prentice Hall, 1992). 27. DiMaggio and Powell, “Iron Cage Revisited,” p. 71. 28. Parker, Military Revolution, pp. 20–21. 29. Maury D. Feld, “Military Professionalism and the Mass Army,” Armed Forces and Society 1, no. 2 (1975): 193; Teitler, Genesis of the Professional Officers’ Corps, p. 187. 30. DiMaggio and Powell, “Iron Cage Revisited,” p. 64. 31. Charles Tilly, “Reflections on the History of European State Making,” in Tilly (ed.), The Formation of Nation States in Western Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975), p. 42.

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32. Barton C. Hacker, “Engineering a New Order: Military Institutions, Technical Education, and the Rise of the Industrial State,” Technology and Culture 34, no. 3 (1993): 1–27. 33. Brian M. Downing, The Military Revolution and Political Change: Origins of Democracy and Autocracy in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 34. David B. Ralston, Importing the European Army: The Introduction of Military Techniques and Institutions into the Extra-European World, 1600–1914 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990). 35. Teitler, Genesis of the Professional Officers’ Corps, pp. 34–37; Huntington, Soldier and the State, pp. 19–58; William B. Skelton, “Professionalization in the U.S. Army Officer Corps During the Age of Jackson,” and Gwyn Harries-Jenkins, “The Development of Professionalism in the Victorian Army,” Armed Forces and Society 1, no. 2 (1975): 443–489. 36. Eyre and Suchman, “Status, Norms, and the Proliferation of Conventional Weapons,” p. 112. 37. For example, see Mark Heller, “Politics and the Military in Iraq and Jordan, 1920–1958,” Armed Forces and Society 4 (1978): 75–99. 38. General Staff, “Estimate of the situation that would arise in the eventuality of a war between Ireland and Great Britain,” no. 1, October 1934, Military Archives [MA] DP/00020, p. 55. 39. Major-General Hugo MacNeill, “The Defense Plans Division,” An tÓglách, April–June 1928, p. 7. 40. General Staff, “Fundamental factors affecting Saorstát defense problem,” May 1936, MA G.2/0057, pp. 10, 63. 41. Robert Fisk, In Time of War: Ireland, Ulster, and the Price of Neutrality 1939–45 (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1983), pp. 116–117. 42. Ibid., pp. 187–188, 220–244. 43. Text of address by General Dan McKenna, former Army Chief of Staff, to the Military College, 12 October 1967, MA SCS 1/3, p. 4. 44. General Staff, “Minutes of conference regarding GDP 2 and Operations Order no. 3/1940,” 16 December 1940, EDP 1/2. 45. Chief of Staff to Minister of Defence, 22 September 1932, MA, Assistant Chief of Staff files [ACS] 2/72. 46. For more on the finance department’s control of army expenditures, see Theo Farrell, “‘The Model Army’: Military Imitation and the Enfeeblement of the Army in Post-Revolutionary Ireland, 1922–42,” Irish Studies in International Affairs 8, no. 3 (1997): 112–118. 47. Department of Finance, “Defence Estimates,” 16 January 1939, MacEntee Papers, P67/196, p. 8. 48. Cited in Peter Young, “Defence and the New Irish State, 1919–39,” The Irish Sword 19 (1993–1994): 7. 49. Donal O’Carroll, “The Emergency Army,” The Irish Sword 19 (1993–1994): 20. 50. General Staff, “Outline of General Defense Plan no. 2 (Final Draft),” 28 November 1940, EDP 1/2; GHQ, “Operational Order no. 3/1940,” 17 December 1940, EDP 1/2. 51. General Staff, “Outline of General Defense Plan no. 2,” pp. 5–6. 52. Ibid., p. 2. 53. Colin Mangan, “Plans and Operations,” The Irish Sword 19 (1993–1994): 51.

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54. Assistant Chief of Staff, Major-General Hugo MacNeill, to Chief of Staff, Major-General Dan McKenna, “General Defense Plan 2—German Intervention,” 13 February 1940, EDP 1/2. 55. General Staff, “Outline of General Defense Plan no. 2,” p. 2. 56. Major James Flynn, “Memo: General Defense Plan 2—Final Outline,” 29 November, EDP 1/2, pp. 1–2. 57. General Staff, “Report on Army Exercises 1942,” pts. 1–2, 7 January 1943, MA, p. 45. 58. Colonel J. O’Connell, “German Co-operation Under General Defense Plan 2,” December 1940, EDP 1/2. 59. Text of McKenna address to Military College, p. 3. 60. General Staff, “Estimate of the situation that would arise in the eventuality of a war between Ireland and Great Britain,” no. 1, October 1934, MA DP/00020, p. 55. 61. Ibid., p. 90. 62. Ibid., p. 89. 63. Ibid., p. 90. 64. Ibid., p. 117. 65. Ibid., p. 91. 66. Ibid., p. 90. 67. Deputy GSO i/c Defense Plans, G-1, “Memorandum no. 2: Observations on General Staff Estimate of the Situation no. 1,” 1940, EDP 1. 68. Josst Augusteijn, From Public Defiance to Guerrilla Warfare: The Experiences of Ordinary Volunteers in the Irish War of Independence, 1916–1921 (Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 1996), pp. 122–185. 69. GHQ, An Introduction to Volunteer Training (IRA, January 1920), UCDA, Mulcahy Papers, P7a/22, p. 5. 70. These instructions are detailed in GHQ, Training Manual (IRA, 1921), Mulcahy Papers, P7a/22. 71. Colonel Michael Costello, “Report to Chairman, Army Enquiry Committee,” 22 April 1924, MJC/5, PC 586, pp. 10, 12. 72. Colonel Michael Costello, “Outline of a suggested organisation for the defense forces,” January 1938, MJC/13, PC 586, p. 13 (emphasis added). 73. “Summary of Syllabus—Command and Staff Course: 1934–35,” UCDA, Bryan Papers. 74. General Staff, Training Directive 1941, G1/199, 21 November 1940, EDP 1/12. 75. Barry R. Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984). 76. Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the Modern Military (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991); Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); Deborah D. Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change: Lessons from Peripheral Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994). 77. As Elizabeth Kier argues, civilian policymakers may also seek military change primarily for domestic political purposes. Kier, Imagining War: French and British Military Doctrine Between the Wars (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). 78. Eunan O’Halpin, Defending Ireland: The Irish State and Its Enemies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 84–93.

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79. Memorandum from Defense Council to Executive Council, “Defence Policy for Saorstát Éireann,” 22 July 1925, UCDA, Blythe Papers, P24/107, p. 1. 80. Patrick Keatinge, A Place Among Nations: Issues of Irish Foreign Policy (Dublin: Institute for Public Administration, 1978), pp. 186–187. 81. Dáil Debates, 16 November 1927, cited in Colonel Michael Costello, “Some Features of Our Defense Problem,” An t-Óglách, January 1928, p. 5. 82. Peter Hart, The IRA and Its Enemies: Violence and Community in Cork (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). 83. Michael Hopkinson, Green Against Green: A History of the Irish Civil War (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1988), pp. 40–44. 84. Maryann Gialanella Valiulis, Portrait of a Revolutionary: General Richard Mulcahy and the Founding of the Irish Free State (Dublin: Irish Academic Press, 1992), pp. 160–161. 85. Brian Farrell, The Founding of Dáil Éireann (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1971). See also Tom Garvin, 1922: The Birth of Irish Democracy (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1996), pp. 123–155. 86. A delegation of senior army officers, including the chief of staff, visited France in 1923 to examine the French military system. Chief of Staff to Minister of Defence, 14 August 1923, D/T S587. 87. Stephen P. Cohen, The Indian Army: Its Contribution to the Development of a Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990). 88. Wendy Hunter, State and Soldier in Latin America: Redefining the Military’s Role in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Institute for Peace, 1996).

CHAPTER 5

U.S. Ideas and Military Change in NATO, 1989–1994 Terry Terriff

T

he primary function of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) during the Cold War was to protect Western Europe from Soviet aggression, coercion, or domination.1 Since the end of the Cold War, the Atlantic alliance has sought to adapt itself both politically and militarily. Politically the alliance has sought to reemphasize the promotion of stability, well-being, and economic collaboration among the Allies, acknowledge the development of a European defense identity, and “reach out” and “extend” a hand of friendship to its former Warsaw Pact enemies. Militarily the alliance has sought to adjust its aims and force structure. Though NATO experienced a period of calls that it “go out of business,” the Atlantic alliance is now widely acknowledged as the primary security institution in Europe. Over the past decade there has been increased scholarly interest in the nature and behavior of military organizations, with a particular emphasis on why and how they change. A question about the sources of military change or adaptation has a twofold interpretation. First, one may ask about the causes of, or reasons for, undertaking military innovation. Analysis of this interpretation on a national level has suggested that one motivation for military change is a change in the balance of power or balance of perceived threat,2 and another is that a military organization will innovate in order to exploit the opportunities provided by new technologies or techniques to in turn enhance the prospects of gaining victory in war.3 Second, one may ask about the origins or derivations of the specific change adopted. Efforts to address this question have resulted in some sophisticated analyses examining military emulation.4 These two interpretations of the sources of military change are not necessarily separate; indeed, they may be quite closely interrelated. 91

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The purpose of this chapter is to examine the sources of military change in the inclusive sense, using a focused case study of military change or adaptation in NATO since 1990. Examinations of innovation or adaptation in military organizations focus on “change in the goals, actual strategies, and/or structure of a military organization.”5 Accordingly, this chapter focuses on NATO’s military goals and military structure, with a particular emphasis on the alliance’s adoption of the Combined Joint Task Force (CJTF) concept. Because there is little public information about NATO’s internal debate on military change,6 this analysis relies on background interviews, which are not always cited.7 The chapter begins with a discussion of the analytical perspectives used to address the sources of military change, and then examines why there was a perceived need to change NATO’s aims and why the CJTF concept in particular was adopted in response.

Theoretical Perspectives There are two levels of analysis that can be used to examine change in NATO. First, NATO can be viewed for analytical purposes as a unitary, rational actor; this approach emphasizes the balance-of-power, or balanceof-threat, perspective. And second, NATO can be perceived as an organization; this approach emphasizes particular sociological processes.8 Each of these levels of analysis provides different insights and different understandings of military change in NATO.9 Balance-of-Power Perspective

A balance-of-power/threat perspective suggests that alliance behavior is strongly determined by the international system within which the alliance operates. The balance-of-power perspective embodies environmental factors that can affect alliance behavior, primarily the distribution of military power and the state of military technology. In this perspective, an alliance will undertake military change largely because of changes in the distribution of power or the introduction of new technology. A number of studies on military change have pointed out that innovation in military doctrines can be spurred by concern about perceived changes in the balance of military capabilities or the nature of the threat.10 The balance-of-power perspective is rooted in the realist/neorealist assumption that states compete in a condition of international anarchy in which there is no overriding authority to mediate clashes of interest. In an anarchic system, the prospect that disputes may lead to a resort to force in order to compel a resolution is an ever present, if often background, possi-

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bility. Recognizing that the employment of force is possible, states seek to ensure their security, usually by endeavoring to increase their relative power. States perceiving that other states, whether opponents or potential opponents, are gaining in relative power have a strong incentive to increase their power or capability in response.11 Such “balancing” behavior can take two forms: coalition formation and internal mobilization.12 NATO is an alliance, and though it may seek to add more members to increase its relative power, it is most likely to seek to balance against a perceived increase in threat through internal methods, either by increasing its military capability or utilizing its military capability more effectively.13 Balance-of-power/threat perspectives focus on instances in which there is an increase in threat, not instances in which there is a substantial decrease in threat, as was the case for NATO in the 1990s. Nevertheless, the basic premise is that military capability and the means of applying this capability effectively will vary in response to changes in the military balance, intentions of an adversary, military technology, and military potential, and that responses to changes in the balance of power or nature of the threat will depend on a reasonable assessment by each international actor of its political, economic, geographical, and technological possibilities and problems. Thus it is possible to infer that when there is a decline in threat the alliance will likely reduce the provision of military capacity to levels consistent with maintaining its security, and that the prospect of reductions will be higher if the economic means for providing military capability are perceived as being constrained. A situation in which a reduction of internal capability occurs may in turn create a perceived need to revise the strategies by which this decreased capability may be utilized most effectively. Similarly, if there is a change in the nature of the threat, the alliance should adjust the type of capability it postures and the means of utilizing current capability so as to better counter the perceived threat. Organizational Perspective

Sociology’s new institutionalism draws attention to the fact that organizations in a similar field face forces that lead them to become more similar to one another. In other words, organizations, such as military organizations, are pushed to adopt innovations undertaken by other organizations. NATO’s CJTF concept is clearly modeled on the U.S. concept of joint task forces (JTFs) or adaptive force packages. Unquestionably some organizations do consciously innovate, do create something new and unique, but it is far more timely and cost efficient to model or emulate a successful organization’s solutions to shared problems. According to DiMaggio and Powell, “early adopters of organizational innovations are commonly driven by a desire to improve performance. . . . [But as] an innovation spreads, a

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threshold is reached beyond which adoption provides legitimacy rather than improves performance.”14 An organization that adopts new practices early is likely to do so because the innovation is a suitable, and hence rational, response to particular needs in that it enhances performance. What is not rational, and hence what is of much greater interest to sociologists, is that over time, as ever more organizations emulate the same practices, the relationship between adopted innovations and actual needs is decreased; adoption is not predicated on improving performance but on being seen to have a legitimate structural form. The process of growing imitation or homogenization among organizations is encompassed in the concept of isomorphism. Isomorphism is described as “a constraining process that forces one unit in a population to resemble other units that face the same set of environmental conditions.”15 There are two types of isomorphism: competitive and institutional. Competitive isomorphism emphasizes competition, niche change, and fitness measures. Institutional isomorphism assumes that “organizations compete not just for resources and customers, but for political power and institutional legitimacy, for social as well as economic fitness.”16 There are three processes through which institutional isomorphic change may occur: coercive, mimetic, and normative. Coercive isomorphism “stems from political influence” and occurs through “both formal and informal pressures exerted on organizations upon which they are dependent and . . . cultural expectations in the society within which organizations function.”17 DiMaggio and Powell hypothesize that the greater the dependence of an organization on another, the more likely it will change isomorphically to resemble the organization on which it depends. This can be seen to apply to military organizations, in that the more a military organization depends on another, for training, military supplies, and even combat support, the more similar it likely will become to that military organization. Since its inception, NATO as a military organization has been dependent on the political and military support of the United States; indeed, the U.S. position of primus inter pares within the alliance has been a consequence of the recognition of the importance of the United States to European security and the centrality of its participation in NATO. In strictly military terms, the United States has provided a significant proportion of the forward-deployed alliance forces as well as of the augmentation (or reserve) forces, with U.S. officers occupying upwards of 30 percent of the organization’s command positions, including two of the three top posts, the Supreme Allied Commander, Europe (SACEUR), and the Supreme Allied Commander, Atlantic (SACLANT).18 NATO’s reliance on U.S. military capability and capacity places it at a disadvantage with respect to resisting U.S. efforts, whether explicit or implicit, to have the

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alliance adopt U.S. practices in order to facilitate the accommodation of U.S. needs. Mimetic isomorphism occurs “when organizational technologies are poorly understood, when goals are ambiguous, or when the environment creates symbolic uncertainty.”19 When organizations are faced with uncertainty, they may model themselves after other organizations, which provide to the borrowing organization practices that furnish a solution to the problems confronted. DiMaggio and Powell hypothesize that the more uncertain the relationship between means and ends, or the more ambiguous the goals, “the greater the extent to which an organization will copy practices from an organization it perceives as successful.”20 A search for diversity in practices can be considered to be constrained, as there is generally relatively little variation among like organizations. The process of diffusion of a model may occur unintentionally, as an indirect effect of employee transfer or turnover, or as a direct effect of tasking outside consultants or experts. The 1990s was a decade of considerable uncertainty for NATO, with the changing security environment leading to a reappraisal of its purpose and questions about the suitability of its Cold War force posture and command structure to achieve effectively new goals and missions. Moreover, fourteen of the sixteen member states participate in the integrated command structure, with most officers serving a set duration within the alliance’s military command structure before rotating back to their national command. NATO’s command structure thus has a high degree of “employee” transfer and turnover, providing fertile ground for solutions to problems of uncertainty being modeled on the practices of other military organizations, most likely those of a “successful” member state. Finally, normative isomorphism stems from professionalization and professional networks. DiMaggio and Powell suggest two ways in which professionalization is an important source of isomorphism: first, due to the similarity of formal education and common “cognitive base” and norms, and second, due to “the growth and elaboration of professional networks that span organizations and across which new models diffuse rapidly.”21 The greater the similarity between individuals in education and attributes, the more likely it is that they will tend to see problems in much the same way, see the same policies, procedures, and structures in much the same fashion, and approach decisions in much the same manner. NATO is staffed by soldiers with a common profession—that is, a profession that transcends national differences—fostered by a common West European military model. The relative indistinguishability of individuals within a profession, and hence the relative interchangeability of individuals in particular hierarchical positions, “becomes a matrix for information flows and personnel movement across organizations.”22 One consequence of professionalization

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and professional networks is that central or high-stature organizations that are perceived as having prestigious professional rewards may be used as models in order to confer similar benefits. The NATO command structure in and of itself constitutes a professional network, which brings together professionals in a common cause and in which information about professional rewards in the individual contributing national military organization is easily acquired from colleagues. In contrast to most military organizations, including those of many NATO member states, the global reach and comparative resource-richness of the U.S. military could appear to provide considerably greater scope for professional satisfaction and rewards. The purpose here is not to pit these two levels of analysis against each other. Rather, the purpose is to examine whether the balance-ofpower/threat perspective and the organizational perspective combine to provide a useful framework for analyzing military change.

Military Change in NATO NATO has sought to renovate itself in a significant manner with the end of the Cold War. Although it remains an alliance based on the twin principles that an attack against one member state is an attack against all NATO states, and that the United States and Canada are linked to the security and stability of Europe, NATO since 1990 has developed a new strategic concept, taken on a much wider mission, and altered the means by which it seeks to accomplish its aim of achieving peace and stability in the EuroAtlantic region. The types of military initiatives flowing from these shifts can be distinguished from those of a political nature by using NATO’s own terminology: external adaptation, which concerns the projection of strategic stability and encompasses initiatives such as the Partnership for Peace (PfP), enlargement, and partnership relations with Russia and Ukraine; and internal adaptation, which concerns the alliance’s military arrangements to support the new crisis management mission and encompasses the three interrelated elements of the European Security and Defense Identity (ESDI), the CJTF concept, and the new military command structure.23 Change in NATO did not occur quickly or collectively. Rather, onward from 1990 when NATO publicly recognized the end of the Cold War, the alliance undertook both external and internal change in a somewhat piecemeal fashion. Change in NATO proceeded in two broad stages. First, the alliance in 1990 and 1991 recognized the implications of the end of the Cold War and propagated new aims in its New Strategic Concept. From 1992 to 1994 the alliance further altered its standing mandate of only defending its territorial boundaries to accept a willingness to operate outof-area in support of crisis management. These new aims and missions,

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stemming from the changes in the security environment, informed the initiatives to alter NATO’s military structure. Second, the alliance undertook to alter its military structure. The internal changes lagged behind the external changes, with internal transformation only to begin implementation subsequent to the 1999 Washington summit. The process of effecting change to NATO’s military structure occurred in a series of steps, with the core of the changes, the CJTF, given official political recognition in January 1994. NATO’s Changing Strategic Aims

The political and military changes that swept Europe in the late 1980s and early 1990s revolutionized the security environment in Europe and fundamentally altered the balance of power and balance of threat. The end of the Cold War was preceded by a period of lessening Soviet military threat to Western Europe. The Soviet Union under the leadership of Mikhail Gorbachev from 1986 onward undertook a series of policy steps that began to significantly alter the perception of the threat it posed to Western Europe. The resultant developing rapprochement between the United States (and its allies) and the Soviet Union led in 1988 to significant reconciliations: the treaty banning all Soviet and U.S. intermediate- and shorter-range missiles came into effect, the negotiations on reducing conventional forces in Europe gained momentum toward success, and Gorbachev made his surprise announcement of the unilateral reduction of the Soviet military by half a million troops by 1991 and the withdrawal of 50,000 Soviet troops, along with some 20,000 pieces of military hardware, from Eastern Europe. The implementation of these and other agreements and plans alone clearly heralded a substantial change in the security situation in Europe. This deepening rapprochement, however, was quickly followed by the fall of the Berlin Wall and the emancipation of the Central and East European (C&EE) Warsaw Pact members in 1989, the unification of Germany in 1990, and the dissolution of the Soviet Union into its constituent republics at the end of 1991. The resultant movement of the C&EE states and the now independent republics of the former Soviet Union (and especially Russia) toward reforming their political, economic, and social systems, which if successful would metamorphose them into democratic states analogous to those in Western Europe, meant that the idea of their posing a military threat receded greatly. The decline of the military threat that had in large part defined the security environment in Europe since World War II faded even further as the C&EE states unequivocally realigned themselves politically, and hopefully militarily, with Western Europe, and Russia’s transformation efforts led to significant economic and

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military degeneration. Thus while Russia as a nuclear-armed Great Power potentially remained a security concern, there was no obvious enemy that posed a clear and present military threat to Western Europe and the United States and Canada. The London Declaration

NATO’s key response to the changing security environment was the promulgation of “The Alliance’s New Strategic Concept” in early November 1991. This change was not effected through a single step, but rather through a two-year process that generated internal controversies. The profound implications of the ongoing changes for the security situation in Europe were officially first recognized by NATO at the London summit in July 1990, at a time when, barring unforeseen setbacks, it was clear that the Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty would be ratified and Soviet forces stationed in Central and Eastern Europe would be withdrawn. The “London Declaration on a Transformed North Atlantic Alliance” took as its starting point that, in light of ongoing political and military changes in Europe, the “Alliance must and will adapt.” The alliance announced that it would enhance its political component and reach out to its former enemies in order to build new partnerships that would provide for the security of all Europe. At the same time, NATO publicly acknowledged that, while its stated aim was to remain an alliance for collective defense, the shifting military situation in Europe, and the forthcoming CFE Treaty and the Soviet military withdrawal from Eastern Europe in particular, called for a change in its force structure and strategy that supported this task, including the preparation of a new “military strategy moving away from ‘forward defence’ where appropriate, towards a reduced forward presence and modifying ‘flexible response’ to reflect a reduced reliance on nuclear weapons.”24 The alliance further set forth a number of political guidelines for military change: that its active forces would be smaller and restructured; that these forces would be “highly mobile and versatile” in order to furnish maximum flexibility for the allied leaders; that the alliance would increasingly rely on “multinational corps made up of national units”; that it would reduce the readiness of its active units; and that it would depend more heavily on the ability to augment its forces “if and when they might be needed.”25 Thus the alliance, though unwilling to give up its adherence to the strategy of flexible response, made clear that it was willing to adapt its conventional military posture and the role of nuclear weapons in light of the revolutionary changes in Europe. The statements in the London Declaration about internal military change reflected in part the initial debate within NATO on how the alliance should respond to the ongoing alteration of the political-military environ-

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ment in Europe. Internal consideration of the need to examine long-term defense planning had commenced at the level of the Military Committee in the autumn of 1989, which resulted in a conceptual study into the consequences of the changed environment for NATO’s military strategy. This study, completed in February 1990, basically argued that without its allies or its own forces based in Central Europe, the Soviet Union, while its residual capacity was still a theoretical threat, no longer posed an actual threat, and in particular no longer was capable of threatening in practice the massive surprise attack that had for so long been the basis of NATO’s military planning. This finding alone, if accepted, would be sufficient for a radical rethinking of NATO’s strategy and force posture. But an additional and very important observation of the study was that the threat environment had become less predictable, that the security environment could be characterized by uncertainty. Instead of the direct threat of Soviet military attack, Western Europe would be faced with a range of indirect threats such as conflict between ethnic groups, religious fundamentalism, terrorism, and instability stemming from economic decline. A conclusion drawn was that NATO forces did not need to maintain the same state of preparedness as when facing the possibility of a massive surprise attack and that the alliance needed combat units with increased mobility and flexibility that could be dispatched to crisis areas. The advisement was of a real need to review formally the strategy of flexible response. General Vigleik Eide, then chairman of the Military Committee, explained at the May 1990 defense Planning Committee meeting the argument for the need to develop political guidelines for a strategy review. This effort led the ministers to mention in the final communiqué of their meeting in Turnberry in early June 1990 that their colleagues in defense intended to review NATO strategy.26 The Alliance’s New Strategic Concept

The call for review of NATO strategy in the Turnberry statement did not have an immediate impact, as the London Declaration mentioned only modifying flexible response, not changing it, while providing some very general political direction for how to do so. Nevertheless, NATO began in 1990 an internal review of strategy that was ultimately to result in NATO’s New Strategic Concept, announced at the Rome summit in November 1991. This review proceeded along three tracks. The first track was for the NATO ambassadors in the Permanent Council to develop a broad framework setting forth NATO’s future tasks; the second track consisted of creating a working group in the International Staff, called the ad hoc Strategy Review Group (SRG), that was to develop from a narrower perspective a new political strategy to furnish guidelines for the force structure of the

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alliance’s armed forces and military operational concepts and doctrines; and the third track consisted of the military officials’ development of NATO’s military strategy.27 The New Strategic Concept reflected the consensual political view of the changing security environment. It acknowledged that the risk of surprise attack was greatly reduced and that the alliance increasingly confronted risks that “are multifaceted in nature, multidirectional, which makes them hard to predict and assess.”28 These risks, which could arise as a consequence of economic, social, and political difficulties, were judged as not posing a threat to NATO if they remained limited, but they could “lead to crises inimical to European stability and even armed conflicts, which could involve outside powers or spill over into NATO countries, having a direct effect on the security of the Alliance.”29 Such crises would be covered under Articles 5 and 6, and hence were consistent with NATO’s original mandate. The New Strategic Concept also acknowledged that alliance security interests could be affected by wider, non–Article 5 risks. The role of NATO in such instances, stated as one of four fundamental tasks of the alliance, was “To serve, as provided for in Article 4 of the North Atlantic Treaty, as a transatlantic forum for Allied consultations on any issues that affect their vital interests, including possible developments posing risks for members’ security, and for appropriate co-ordination of their efforts in fields of common concern.” 30 This formulation, in tandem with the Copenhagen statement, assigned NATO an out-of-area role, albeit a very limited one. Overall the New Strategic Concept indicated that, even as the alliance demonstrated a degree of forward-looking vision by broadening the scope of its political activities to foster strategic stability, the general preference in the military realm was to confine NATO’s role to its traditional one of protecting the alliance’s borders from military threats, whatever the source. The reaction of NATO in 1990 and 1991 is broadly consistent with what the balance-of-power/threat perspective suggests. The alliance, as a unitary actor, found itself in a position where the balance of power had shifted substantially to its favor and the primary military threat to its security had substantially receded. The New Strategic Concept stated that a role of the alliance was to maintain a balance of power in Europe, but that given the favorable nature of the change in the security environment, “the overall size of the Allies’ force, and in many cases their readiness, will be reduced.”31 Moreover, it made clear, as had the preceding London Declaration, that with the threat of sudden attack increasingly remote, the static, linear defense of the Central Front against a Soviet or Soviet-led Warsaw Pact invasion was inappropriate. Such a defense posture was not only increasingly unnecessary but also increasingly nonfunctional in terms of dealing with potential crises that might develop on the periphery to jeop-

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ardize the security of NATO territory. The change in the potential threats and the expectation of a smaller military force in the future dictated a reorganization of NATO’s conventional forces to ensure that these would be structured in the most effective manner possible to ensure the protection of alliance territory. Consistent with this the New Strategic Concept set forth political guidance for improving the flexibility and mobility of NATO forces, developing a rapid reaction capability, and reorganizing the command structure.32 Thus a substantial shift in the balance of power—resulting from the end of the Cold War—provided the impetus for military change as NATO sought through internal means to adjust to the new security environment.

Changing NATO’s Military Structure The military adaptation of NATO has been an evolutionary process, starting in 1990 and reaching fruition when the CJTF concept, ESDI, and the new command structure began to be implemented subsequent to the Washington summit in April 1999.33 Taken together, the changes will constitute a substantive change in the alliance’s military structure. The cornerstone of this overall change is the CJTF concept. A combined joint task force can be defined as a deployable multinational, multiservice formation generated and tailored for specific contingency operations. In practical terms, the CJTF concept is simply a command and control arrangement designed to facilitate the generation of a multinational task force. NATO plans to maintain three CJTF headquarters staff that will serve as the framework command headquarters for such a deployed force, a CJTF planning staff for developing mission plans, and the Joint Capabilities Planning Cell to provide coordination. The CJTF model of military interservice and international cooperation is not new. Historically, whenever nations have cooperated militarily, such formations have been used; Operation Overlord, the landing at Normandy in 1944, is a classic example of a combined joint task force.34 At the national level, the U.S. military has been particularly interested in the concept of joint task forces, or adaptive force packages, since the mid-1980s. It is not even innovative within NATO, for Allied Command, Atlantic (ACLANT) regularly operates and exercises what effectively is a naval-specific form of combined joint task forces. However, most such cooperative formations historically have been fragile, put together ad hoc for a specific task and then disbanded. What is new, indeed “unprecedented in military doctrine,” is that the CJTF concept “will permanently institutionalise the multinational task-force concept, which has always been a temporary command-andcontrol arrangement employed by ad hoc coalitions.”35

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NATO’s Initial Response

The CJTF concept can be seen to flow from the political direction regarding the reform of NATO’s defense structure as set forth in the London Declaration and the New Strategic Concept. The 1990 London Declaration set out three objectives for adapting the alliance’s force structure and strategy, the first of which could almost serve as a general definition of the CJTF concept: “NATO will field smaller and restructured forces. These forces will be highly mobile and versatile so that Allied leaders will have the maximum flexibility in deciding how to respond to a crisis. It will rely increasingly on multinational units.”36 The New Strategic Concept called for a force posture that could enable the alliance to respond across the military spectrum, from “managing crises that affect the security of alliance members” to the “unlikely” contingency of a “major conflict.” This multirole force posture was to integrate land, sea, and air power into dynamic arrangements that could “build up, deploy and draw down forces quickly and discriminately” and allow “flexible and timely responses in order to reduce and defuse tensions.”37 Moreover, the object of this early political direction for reform was to produce one force posture that could satisfy both the traditional Article 5 collective defense function and new non–Article 5 tasks.38 Yet despite this early direction, indeed early harbingers, of what NATO political authorities were seeking from military restructuring, the CJTF concept was not introduced for consideration for another eighteen months. The political guidance in both the London Declaration and the New Strategic Concept set in train a revision of NATO’s military organization. First, NATO’s military command structure was to be revamped, with the number of Major NATO Commanders to be reduced from three to two (SACEUR and SACLANT), the numbers of subordinate headquarters reduced, and the command boundaries redrawn to reflect the new strategic situation. Second, NATO’s force structure was also to be renovated; central to this change would be the creation of the Allied Command Europe Rapid Reaction Corps (ARRC), which was to serve as a crisis management tool, and the Multinational Division, which was to incorporate a new operational concept of air mobility. Finally, NATO needed to undertake changes in the associated support structures. Two factors essentially drove these changes: “The first was the reduced direct military threat to NATO, which allowed nations to draw down their active force levels, and to reduce overall readiness standards. The second was the perceived new order of military risks and crisis management tasks, which placed a demand for greater versatility, mobility, and flexibility on NATO’s general military capability.”39 A common underlying theme of this new force structure was the broader application of multinationality than had previously been the case. The

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military rationale for fostering greater integration of NATO’s military forces was to make maximum use of a smaller force structure, with a particular emphasis on being able to integrate the military contributions of smaller nations that could no longer field stand-alone forces. 40 These changes constituted a shift in NATO’s military organization, but despite recognition that the military had a crisis management role, its mandate was to operate only within NATO’s borders and to protect alliance territory; however much these concepts added increased flexibility compared to past operational concepts, they still fell short of what was ultimately needed if the alliance was to operate out-of-area. Thus these changes did not reflect substantial change, only an adaptation to account for a slightly broader role and smaller force size, and proved only an initial step on the road to more sweeping change. Rationale for the CJTF Concept

The CJTF did not come about because of civilian concern about the inappropriateness of the current force structure and did not occur because of direct civilian intervention. To the contrary, it was the military that first examined the possibilities of the CJTF and proposed it to the political authorities. Reportedly, the initial idea for the CJTF emanated in mid-1993 from the office of the SACLANT, who at that time was Admiral Paul D. Miller,41 and subsequently was taken into the office of the SACEUR, then General John Shalikashvili.42 Only after internal discussion in Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) and the International Military Staff (IMS) was the CJTF first proposed to the political authorities by way of then U.S. secretary of defense Les Aspin, who presented the arguments for the adoption of the concept to his fellow ministers in Travemunde, 19–20 October 1993.43 Subsequently, the CJTF concept was officially endorsed by NATO at its Brussels summit in January 1994.44 Three main arguments were put forward to support the adoption of the CJTF concept in the early internal discussions. The first argument was that the CJTF concept introduced the degree of flexibility NATO needed to manage the changed security and political environment. The CJTF concept was interjected at an important juncture of the growing debate over the future institutional structure for European security and growing discussion within NATO regarding the question of whether and how it should operate out-of-area. NATO had in 1991 effectively given itself only an indirect, circumscribed role in out-of-area missions when it assigned itself the role of serving as a forum for consultation and support. The demise of the Soviet Union at the end of 1991 raised anew questions about the role of the alliance, for with specific large-scale aggression no longer even a debatable theoretical threat, what was the purpose of the alliance? Unless a viable

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answer could be found to justify the continued cooperation of the allies, NATO could become moribund. Attention turned to the danger of spillover from small-scale wars on the alliance periphery, a threat made all the more cogent by the outbreak and spread of war in the former Yugoslavia in 1991 and 1992. Many member states, however, remained reluctant to consider operations by the alliance outside its internal area of responsibility, and many perceived that there should be a division of responsibility, with NATO responsible for the defense of its member states from outside aggression and an ESDI, at this time considered the Western European Union (WEU), which was seen as the organization responsible for crises outside NATO’s perimeter. The alliance, however, was being forced by events in Yugoslavia and its growing role in that conflict to come to grips with the question of operating out-of-area. In June 1992 the alliance had announced that it would be willing to consider requests from the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE; now the Organization on Security and Cooperation in Europe [OSCE]) to provide military forces for peacekeeping missions,45 and then in December had stated that it would entertain similar requests from the UN.46 The alliance was also being dragged into the UN Protection Force (UNPROFOR) operation in Bosnia: in late 1992 and the first part of 1993, NATO acceded to requests either to become involved in aspects of or to provide military assets to the UN military mission in Bosnia.47 It was becoming increasingly clear that, as SecretaryGeneral Manfred Woerner put it, NATO was “out-of-area or out-of-work.” Indeed, the CJTF concept was proposed not long after U.S. Senator Richard Lugar challenged NATO either to develop the capability to operate “out-ofarea or to go out of business.”48 By the summer of 1993, it was evident that the question of operating out-of-area had to be addressed head on. NATO had already instigated efforts to move away from its former position of forward defense with the introduction of the Multinational Division (Central) and the ARRC. These formations, however, were not well suited to managing unpredictable crises occurring out-of-area. Woerner, who had been pushing through 1992 and 1993 for the alliance to adopt a mandate to operate out-of-area, also began to argue that there was a need to think through non–Article 5 force goals, processes, and planning.49 Non–Article 5 crises were likely to be unpredictable, sudden, and unique, and no amount of preplanning would be adequate to provide the requisite degree of fit between the specified political objectives and the forces and military capabilities needed to achieve them.50 The CJTF would provide the alliance with an established institutionalized enabling framework by which to develop quickly force packages designed specifically to incorporate all the necessary capabilities needed to match the particular political and military features of any given crisis and the objectives to be achieved.

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The second key argument put forward in support of the CJTF concept was that it provided a means for NATO to do more with less.51 NATO had recognized early that the collapse of the Soviet threat meant that it could provide for the security of its member states with fewer forces than before and that forces of individual member states would be reduced due to domestic budgetary pressures. Significant decreases in the resources devoted to sustaining national militaries do not translate directly, but nevertheless do translate into an important constraint for the alliance.52 NATO as an international institution relies first on direct payments made by its member states to support infrastructure and operating expenses, and national reductions in military expenditures result in a decrease in the direct payments to NATO. The alliance also depends on its member states to make available national military forces, and any reductions in the scale and scope of national militaries adversely affect force availability. Thus a critical issue confronting NATO was how to better support its member states in the future with the same amount of, or even less, money. The reduction of national military force sizes occurred quite quickly and to a significant extent. The overall military force of all NATO states combined declined from 5,778,000 in 1990 to 4,905,000 by 1993—a reduction of over 850,000 in just three years.53 In 1993 there was growing concern being expressed within NATO about the scale of the national reduction. Following the UK’s announcement of its defense cuts in late spring of 1993, some NATO officials were concerned that national drives to secure a peace dividend could lead to a “free fall” in defense cuts.54 The ongoing nature of the defense reductions by the member states made force planning difficult, and raised questions about the capabilities that NATO could draw on. This was particularly the case for smaller states, which already fielded only small forces. Defense cuts in these states increasingly meant it was likely that these militaries would no longer be able to field the panoply of capabilities they would prefer, and that with diminishing force size and smaller budgets they would increasingly become more specialized in the types of capabilities they maintained.55 NATO could no longer count on being able to conduct military operations relying on one service or one nation. If NATO was to be able to provide its military commanders with the means to fulfill their missions, it had to focus “on capabilities, not numbers of ships, squadrons or battalions.”56 A capabilities-based approach was particularly relevant given that no one configuration of military force would be useful across the possible spectrum of missions NATO might take on. As Admiral Miller argued, “We need to achieve a better understanding of what we already have and how platforms and capabilities, regardless of service or national affiliations, can be integrated into a unified, mission-ready Alliance force.” 57 The CJTF concept provided a “paradigm by which

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NATO will assemble its military capability in the future.” 58 Such an approach would permit NATO to meet its full range of possible commitments, especially now that it was moving in the direction of peace support and even peace enforcement operations out-of-area, without overextending its resources. A side argument related to this was that the CJTF concept would provide a new political relevancy for NATO—the need to respond to out-ofarea crises—and hence would facilitate arguments for the maintenance of present national expenditures and force levels; it is politically easy to cut back on expenditures for capabilities that have no obvious need, such as the defense of NATO’s borders from external aggression, but much harder to cut back on capabilities that are being usefully employed.59 This dovetailed with the call by NATO in 1993 for its member states to stabilize their defense budgets and indicate which forces they were willing to commit to NATO.60 A third argument was that the CJTF, which was predicated on pulling together rapidly a capabilities-oriented task force, allowed for variable national participation. Germany, for example, was extremely reluctant about a NATO mandate to operate out-of-area, for it was politically constrained from deploying its forces outside the alliance’s treaty area. Moreover, the lack of consensus within the alliance about the risks and dangers the allies confronted suggested that, as General Dieter Clauss, then Deputy SACEUR, observed, “We will see changing coalitions amongst NATO nations that will react differently to a crisis.”61 Individual member states might acquiesce to a NATO out-of-area operation, but for any number of reasons might not be willing to participate in the operation. The CJTF model also was particularly useful to accommodate the shifting stance of France; indeed it was conceived in part with an eye toward doing so. France’s participation in the naval task force NATO deployed to the Adriatic in 1992 was an early indication that France might be moving toward closer cooperation with the alliance. The variable national participation aspect of the CJTF concept would accommodate France’s stance of “in, but not in” with respect to the alliance, providing a means for France to participate in alliance operations without fully reintegrating back into the military structure. 62 Further, the ongoing debate on ESDI made the prospect of the Atlantic alliance working out some form of arrangement with the WEU or other organization by which NATO would provide some form of direct military support for non-NATO European military operations a very real possibility in the near future. Finally, the multinational character of a CJTF meant that NATO could conduct an operation out-of-area with nonalliance states. This perceived utility of a CJTF approach was not related to the PfP initiative announced at the Brussels summit in January 1994;63 rather, it was a relatively obvious observation that any military offi-

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cer would draw from the examples of the recent Gulf War and the ongoing UNPROFOR operation to which NATO was contributing particular capabilities, as well from the general U.S. experience.64 Organizational Isomorphism

DiMaggio and Powell have suggested that there are three types of organizational isomorphism: coercive, normative, and mimetic. As there is no compelling evidence to suggest the presence of coercive isomorphism, this analysis will concentrate on the other two forms. Normative Isomorphism. Normative isomorphism suggests that professional networks that span organizations provide the basis for the development of common norms and serve to facilitate the transfer of new models. NATO’s military organization serves as a network for the intermixing of the military professionals from each of the military organizations of the member states that participate in the integrated command structure. Discussion about the idea of introducing the CJTF concept largely occurred within the offices of SACEUR and SACLANT, while more widely the idea was discussed among those occupying command positions. Nonpractitioners in upper levels of the military in Brussels working on the political side, such as the Military Committee, were not involved in, indeed reportedly were resistant to, the command and control changes the CJTF concept would entail.65 But among the practitioners and those personnel working on the military side, the concept was readily welcomed and accepted. Regardless of their nation of origin, officers serving a rotation in NATO staff positions, whether in the military command structure or in the IMS, work in an environment in which they are constantly interacting with people of the same profession from a range of countries. They need to adjust not only to NATO’s particular procedures and culture but also to the array of different ways of thinking about matters and alternative ways of doing things that the multinational, multicultural mix confronts them with on a daily basis. Moreover, the mix of individuals is constantly changing, as all military officers seconded to NATO from their national organizations serve a set rotation period; so individual military officers are moving in and out of the NATO military organization on an ongoing basis. There is, in short, a high degree of professional cross-fertilization among military officers in NATO, and officers are socialized to be open-minded and open to change if they are not already so minded. Further, most if not all officers would be at least familiar with the concept of joint task forces and their utility. The size and significance of the U.S. contribution to the common defense means that upwards of 30 percent of command positions are held by U.S. officers, who would have direct

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knowledge and understanding of the adaptive force packages their native organizations developed and employed. NATO allies also would have some experience or knowledge of joint task forces, as the concept had been employed in the Falkland Islands (1982), Zaire (1991), and the Persian Gulf (1991).66 The European allies would also be familiar with the U.S. adaptive force packages employed in recent years, both as they would be keen observers of how their allied military organizations operated and as they would sooner or later almost inevitably be exposed to the idea in some form or other in their discussions with their U.S. colleagues. Thus while the U.S. adaptive force packages and the CJTF emulation of this concept might take interservice and international capabilities integration much further than to which they were familiar or at which they were practiced,67 it would not be a strange or outlandish idea. Indeed, given that the U.S. military had a demonstrably working equivalent that was effective, the idea would, to many at least, almost certainly seem eminently practicable and logical. Normative isomorphism provides a means for understanding the ease by which a military concept can transfer rapidly from one organization to another. NATO’s integrated military structure can be treated virtually in and of itself as a professional network. Information is constantly exchanged among those military personnel who are seconded to serve with the alliance’s command structure, as well as among those military personnel who engage in alliance joint exercises. This is not to suggest that this is the only means by which the individual military organizations of alliance members form networks, for these organizations work with their allied organizations on a bilateral or multilateral basis outside the alliance structure, share common technologies, and so on. Normative isomorphism suggests that a central, relatively high status organization may be copied because of perceived professional rewards or influence that such emulation may bring. Within this matrix of military organizations, the U.S. military can be considered one of the central organizations, not only because of its access to greater resources than its allied organizations, but also because of its tendency to assume the political and military lead as primus inter pares in being the single largest contributor to NATO. But there is no evidence that the emulation of the U.S. concept of adaptive force packages was introduced because of beliefs that it would provide increased rewards. Rather, the U.S. model of a capabilities-based task force was perceived as a rational answer to a problem, with the introduction and acceptance of the CJTF concept by practicing military professionals within NATO being facilitated by the professional network that exists within the alliance’s military structure. Mimetic Isomorphism. Mimetic isomorphism suggests that copying or modeling of the practices of one organization may occur when a second

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organization faces uncertainty. NATO’s military staff work very close at and across the political-military interface of the alliance’s organizational structure. Hence they are not only politically astute but also very politically aware, with a particularly strong awareness of the changing domestic and international political environments and the implications of these for NATO and its likely military missions.68 NATO had shifted its political mandate from solely that of defending its borders, as stated in the New Strategic Concept in 1991, to declaring its willingness to undertake peace operations at the political behest of either the CSCE or the UN. In the first half of 1993 the public political rhetoric was querying the utility of a NATO alliance that was not willing to act out-of-area, to the extent of being challenged with “out-of-area or out of work,” a debate that would strongly suggest that the military faced the prospect of being tasked with out-of-area missions in the future. That the military was repeatedly tasked through 1992 and 1993 with providing capabilities to support the UNPROFOR mission in the former Yugoslavia would lend great credence to such a view. NATO and NATO’s military were in a very uncertain environment. The problem the military, and the alliance as a whole, confronted in 1993, as Admiral Miller pointed out in early 1994, was that “NATO is being pulled in several directions at once and our ability to match diverse commitments with limited resources is challenging fundamental beliefs and traditional approaches to security. Our ability to draft coherent and consistent policy is constrained by the reality that none of us have ever been this way before.”69 The military needed to be able to do whatever the political leadership of the alliance asked of them, even if what this might be was uncertain. The general solution was summed up by General Clauss, who noted in an interview that “the crises to come are unpredictable and so are the answers. NATO members reserve their decisions until a crisis is at hand which means that the only thing the military can do is promote flexibility and mobility.”70 The critical question was how best to promote these characteristics. The CJTF concept provided the answer to this critical question; it was an idea proposed at the right time, and while the political authorities recognized its utility, for the military it was the “perfect” solution.71 The military needed to develop an approach by which to manage the problem of uncertainty in a time of limited resources. And for a military looking for a new approach, as Admiral Miller observed in 1994, “One new approach being undertaken by the United States has direct applicability to the Alliance. In order to maintain required levels of overseas presence and avoid over-commitment, the United States is building adaptive force packages of air, ground, special operations and maritime forces to meet overseas commitments and participate in combined military exercises.”72 If there was an approach that would provide a way to manage the problems NATO’s military faced, the United States was going to be the most proba-

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ble organization to emulate. Only the United States has a military large enough to encounter quite similar problems as NATO, and the experience to identify these problems and put the resources into solving them.73 This, and the large number of U.S. officers in command positions throughout NATO, including the top two posts, virtually ensured that the solution for which the military was looking, if there was in fact one available, most probably would come from the U.S. military. Mimetic isomorphism provides a strong explanation of the transfer of the developing U.S. practice of utilizing adaptive force packages to NATO. Mimetic isomorphism suggests that “when an organization faces a problem with ambiguous causes or unclear solutions, a problemistic search may yield a viable solution with little expense.”74 NATO’s military was facing a particular problem by 1993, in that NATO’s aims were shifting to include out-of-area operations to manage uncertain crises, yet the military was still structured to maximize its effectiveness to protect the alliance’s borders from military incursions, with a particular emphasis on the threat—now greatly receded—posed by the Soviet Union. The problem for the military was twofold. First, it had to face the prospect that NATO’s political authorities could task it to conduct peace support operations, ranging from peacekeeping to peace enforcement missions, and that the nature of the alliance’s collective decisionmaking meant that such decisions likely would come at “the last moment.” Second, the military understood not only that crises would arise quickly, but also that the uncertain political and military context of such crises meant that preplanning was difficult. In sum, the military was confronted by a high degree of uncertainly with respect to the particular aims it would be tasked to achieve in response to unpredictable crises, while at the same time confronting a diminution of the forces it could draw on to fulfill such tasks. The military was in a position whereby its meansends relationship was indeterminate. The most obvious source for a possible solution was from among the military organizations of the member states that ultimately make up NATO’s military. Mimetic isomorphism suggests that there is relatively little variation between organizations, and this applies equally to the national military organizations of the alliance. Any search for a solution would reveal that the U.S. concept of adaptive force packages was not only relatively successful but also relatively distinct from the practices of other allied military organizations. As DiMaggio and Powell observe, while coercive, mimetic, and normative isomorphism are useful analytical types that “tend to derive from different conditions and may lead to different outcomes,” the “types are not always empirically distinct” and often are intermixed.75 Mimetic isomorphism, for its part, provides the strongest and most consistent explanation for why NATO’s military organization adopted the CJTF concept; the U.S. concept of adaptive force packages provided a successful military model

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that could be modified to furnish a solution to the problems the alliance’s military perceived itself to be facing in the early 1990s. Quite clear is that the idea of professional networks—normative isomorphism—provides a partial explanation to how the conceptual model was transferred to NATO and why it was readily accepted by NATO’s military staff. The large number of U.S. officers in NATO’s military structure, and the fact that reportedly it was U.S. military officers who recommended the CJTF concept, might be taken to suggest the proposal of coercive isomorphism, that the greater the reliance of an organization on another organization, the more similar it will become to that organization. There is, however, no evidence to suggest that the alliance’s idea of modeling a U.S. practice stemmed from direct or indirect pressure from the U.S. military, but it is not possible to exclude that this form of isomorphism did not exert some influence.

Conclusion Each of the theoretical analyses presented here—the balance-ofpower/threat perspective and the organizational perspective—tends to have explanatory value for particular aspects of the military transformation of NATO in the 1990s. Together they provide a useful framework for analyzing the behavior of an alliance and military change. The changing security environment occasioned by the end of the Cold War and demise of the Soviet Union provided the key source for the renovation of NATO’s military aims and structures. The overall actions of NATO, when considered as a unitary actor, are consistent with what the balance-of-power perspective would suggest. The end of the Cold War, and the resultant absence of a clear enemy with a threatening military capability, have led to a fundamental reshaping of the political and security environment in which the alliance operates. Moreover, the alliance was confronted by a decline in resources available to it due to the efforts of its member states to realize a peace dividend.76 What the balance-of-power perspective does not explain, however, is why particular changes were undertaken rather than others. To find the answer to this question it is necessary to look to the other analytical perspective. NATO’s military arm was faced with a period of uncertainty with respect to the means it had available to it and to the goals it might be asked to achieve. The sociological concept of isomorphism best captures the process by which NATO adopted the CJTF as opposed to any other particular solution to this problem and contributes to an understanding of why the military took the lead in instigating military change within the alliance. Isomorphism provides a useful framework for the process by which certain innovations diffuse across organizations while others do not. The theory

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identifies three main analytical types by which diffusion may occur—coercive, mimetic, and normative—and suggests that while all three types may be present in an empirical case, one type likely will be dominant. In the instance of the adoption of the CJTF, the mimetic type appears to furnish the best explanation even though there are elements of the other two types. The implication is that an alliance is as susceptible to the sociological processes of isomorphism as any other organization or firm. NATO’s adoption of the CJTF does not perfectly fit the theory of isomorphism, for the alliance is an early imitator of the U.S. practice of adaptive force packages and the emulation will increase organizational efficiency; nevertheless, the theory provides a useful analytical tool for explaining the processes whereby the imitation occurs. The theory of isomorphism is largely oriented to explaining why models diffuse across organizations even when it is not rational for them to adopt the model in question. Looking to the future, the concept of isomorphism suggests that when a central, high-status organization such as NATO utilizes a model of the U.S. adaptive force package concept as an organizing principle for constructing an intervention force, other military organizations will as well, initially because the innovation does improve efficiency in an era of constrained military resources, as was the case for NATO, but increasingly over time simply to impart legitimacy. Thus in time we might expect that middle powers, such as Britain and France, with constrained resources but reasonably extensive interests, to be early imitators of the model of the adaptive force package/CJTF concept in order to increase efficiency,77 while smaller states that are dependent in whole or in part on the United States and NATO for their security and lack significant defense resources may seek to adapt to the CJTF concept by becoming more specialized in order to provide a degree of international and domestic legitimacy or because they are isomorphically coerced to do so. The adaptive force package concept, first introduced by the United States, may well in the future diffuse across the range of allied military organizations to become the organizing principle for generating expeditionary forces among the individual allies, even when an ally has no real need for such a capacity.

Notes I would like to express my sincerest appreciation to Alison Smith and Werner Bauwens of NATO’s Office of Press and Information for their generous help in organizing interviews over the years. I would further like to thank the Economic and Social Research Council’s “One Europe or Several?” program for their funding support. 1. Lord Ismay’s formulation for NATO’s function was not only to keep the Russians out, but also to keep the Americans in and the Germans down.

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2. See Barry Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984); Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); and Terry Terriff, The Nixon Administration and the Making of U.S. Nuclear Strategy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995). 3. See, for example, Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the Modern Military (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991). 4. See, for example, Chapter 3 in this volume. 5. Theo Farrell, “Innovation in Military Organizations Without Enemies,” unpublished paper presented at the International Studies Association Annual Convention, San Diego, Calif., 16–20 April 1996. Quoted with the permission of the author. 6. One very good exception is Rob de Wijk, NATO on the Brink of the New Millennium: The Battle for Consensus (London: Brassey’s, 1997). 7. I would like to express my sincere appreciation to the many military and civilian officials who have given generously of their time and their experiences. 8. John Duffield also uses a three-level approach to analyzing the evolution of NATO’s conventional force posture. He as well uses balance of power and intraalliance bargaining, but, rather than using organization theory, uses institutional theory, which he suggests will constrain change. See Duffield, Power Rules: The Evolution of NATO’s Conventional Force Posture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995), especially chap. 1. 9. NATO can also be examined from the perspective of the states that compose it; this approach emphasizes intra-alliance bargaining. 10. See Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine; and Terriff, Nixon Administration. 11. See Kenneth N. Waltz, Theory of International Politics (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979), especially chap. 6. 12. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine, pp. 61–63. 13. On balancing against threat, see Stephen Walt, The Origins of Alliances (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), especially chap. 2. 14. Paul J. DiMaggio and Walter W. Powell, “The Iron Cage Revisited: Institutional Isomorphism and Collective Rationality,” in Walter W. Powell and Paul J. DiMaggio (eds.), The New Institutionalism in Organizational Analysis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), p. 65. 15. Ibid., p. 66. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., p. 67. 18. As part of the reorganization undertaken since the end of the Cold War, these three posts have been reduced to two—SACEUR and SACLANT. 19. DiMaggio and Powell, “Iron Cage Revisited,” p. 69. 20. Ibid., p. 75. 21. Ibid., p. 71. 22. Ibid. 23. Alliance officials use the distinction of external and internal adaptation. See, for example, General Klaus Naumann, Chairman of the Military Committee, “A New NATO for a New Century,” Address to the Konrad Adenaur Siftung Group, Brussels, 15 October 1997, www.nato.int/docu/speech/1997/s97101b.htm. 24. “London Declaration on a Transformed North Atlantic Alliance,” issued

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by the Heads of State and Government Meeting of the North Atlantic Council, London, 5–6 July 1990 (original emphasis). 25. Ibid. 26. North Atlantic Council, Final Communiqué, Turnberry, 7–8 June 1990. 27. North Atlantic Assembly, Special Committee on Alliance Strategy and Arms Control, NATO’s New Strategic Concept and the Status of the Treaty on the Conventional Forces in Europe, Brussels, October 1991, p. 1. 28. North Atlantic Council, Meeting of the Heads of State and Government in Rome, “The Alliance’s New Strategic Concept,” 7–8 November 1991, sec. 9. 29. Ibid., sec. 10. 30. Ibid., pt. 2, sec. 21. See also pt. 1, sec. 13. 31. Ibid., sec. 46. 32. See ibid., secs. 47–54. 33. This initiative for a new command structure is different from an earlier command restructuring, and stems from the “Long-Term Study” initiated by the Military Committee in 1994. 34. See U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff, Joint Warfare of the U.S. Armed Forces, Joint pub. 1 (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1991), pp. 49–50. 35. Charles Barry, “NATO’s Combined Joint Task Forces in Theory and Practice,” Survival 38, no. 1 (spring 1996): 82. 36. North Atlantic Council, “Alliance’s New Strategic Concept,” sec. 47. 37. Ibid. 38. In 1992, General John R. Galvin, then SACEUR, provided a very succinct account of what had been decided: “Our military forces will be capable of several missions, including deterrence and support for crisis management, peacekeeping, humanitarian assistance, and, as before, the defense of alliance territory.” General John R. Galvin, SACEUR, “From Immediate Defense Towards Long-Term Stability,” NATO Review 19, no. 3 (December 1991): 15. 39. General Vigleik Eide, Chairman of NATO’s Military Committee, “NATO in the New Era: The Military Dimension,” Canadian Defense Quarterly, March 1993, p. 8. 40. For an overview of the changes, see General Vigleik Eide, Chairman of NATO’s Military Committee, “The Military Dimension in the Transformed Alliance,” NATO Review (Web edition) 4, no. 4 (August 1992), www.nato.int/docu/review/1992. 41. Interviews with members of the International Military Staff (IMS) and Office of the Secretary-General, 1997–1998. 42. See de Wijk, NATO on the Brink, p. 76. 43. Ibid. 44. North Atlantic Council, Meeting of the Heads of State and Government, Declaration, Brussels, 11 January 1994, sec. 6. 45. North Atlantic Council, Meeting of Ministers, Final Communiqué, Oslo, 5 June 1992, sec. 11. 46. North Atlantic Council, Meeting of Ministers, Final Communiqué, Brussels, 17 December 1992, sec. 4. 47. Operation Sharp Guard, July 1992; Operation Deny Flight, October 1992; airdrops of humanitarian supplies in February–March 1993; and the protection of safe havens in spring 1993. 48. Senator Richard Lugar, remarks to the Overseas Writers Club, 23 June

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1993, reported in Stephen S. Rosenfeld, “NATO’s Last Chance,” Washington Post, 2 July 1993, p. A19. 49. Interviews with members of IMS and Office of the Secretary-General, 1997–1998. 50. Interview with member of IMS, 1997. 51. Ibid. 52. Interviews with members of IMS and National Delegation, 1997– 1998. 53. “Defence Expenditures of NATO Countries, 1975–1997,” NATO Review 46, no. 1 (spring 1997): D16. 54. Andrew Marshall, “British Defense Cuts Cause NATO ‘Free-Fall’ Fears,” Independent, 7 July 1993. See also Lionel Barbar, “Defence Cuts May Undermine NATO’s Role, Woerner Warns,” Financial Times, 23–24 January 1993. 55. Interviews with members of IMS and SHAPE, 1996. 56. Admiral Paul D. Miller, “Adapting Alliance Forces to Meet Needs,” NATO’s Sixteen Nations no. 1 (1994): 5. 57. Ibid. 58. Ibid. 59. Interviews with members of IMS, 1997. 60. Marshall, “British Defense Cuts.” 61. “The Jane’s Interview,” Jane’s Defense Weekly, 24 July 1993, p. 32. 62. Interviews with members of IMS and member of National Delegation, 1997–1998. 63. Interviews with members of IMS, 1998. 64. See, for example, U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff, Joint Warfare, pp. 42–43. 65. Reportedly the members of the Military Committee believed that the current structure, though developed during the Cold War and oriented to Cold War tasks, was perfectly adequate. Interviews with members of IMS, 1998. 66. Barry, “NATO’s Combined Joint Task Forces,” p. 82. 67. Interview with member of IMS, 1997. 68. Interviews with members of IMS, International Staff, National Delegations, and Office of the Secretary-General, 1997–1998. 69. Miller, “Adapting Alliance Forces,” p. 4. 70. “Jane’s Interview,” p. 32. 71. Interview with member of IMS, 1998. 72. Miller, “Adapting Alliance Forces,” p. 5. 73. Interviews with members of IMS, 1997. 74. DiMaggio and Powell, “Iron Cage Revisited,” p. 69. 75. Ibid., p. 67 (emphasis added). 76. An argument that the end of the Cold War proves the utility of the balanceof-power/threat perspective for elucidating the source or cause of an attempt by NATO to renovate itself cannot be said to be generalizable or in any way revelatory with respect to alliances. Not only is it a single case, but the scale and scope of the collapse of the opposing power or threat is such that, in neorealist terms, what is surprising is that the alliance is still holding together (see, for example, Stephen M. Walt, “Why Alliances Endure or Collapse,” Survival 39, no. 1 [spring 1997]: 156–179). However, the argument does suggest that in cases where there is a less sweeping change in the balance of power/threat, this change may serve as a motivation for an alliance, like any international actor in an anarchic system, to seek to offset the perceived imbalance through internal means, such as adjusting its military

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capacity or its strategies for utilizing available military capabilities more effectively. 77. The UK defense establishment is already considering the utility of the JTF concept for expeditionary forces. For example, the newly created Joint Services Command and Staff College organized a conference on “Jointry in an Expeditionary Era,” 23–24 June 1997. See also Chris Parry, “Maritime Manoeuvre and Joint Operations in 2020,” in Michael Duffy, Theo Farrell, and Geoffrey Sloan (eds.), European Defense in 2020, Strategic Policy Studies 2 (Exeter: Short Run Press, 1998), pp. 45–63.

PA R T 3

Politics

CHAPTER 6

The U.S. Military’s “Two-Front War,” 1963–1988 Craig M. Cameron

I

n examining the U.S. armed forces between 1963 and 1988, it is difficult to account for shifting policies and institutional behaviors without acknowledging a broad range of factors including personalities, service cultures, political intervention, and social climate. Individuals attempted to define and control the environment in which they operated: they did not passively accept some clearly identified or even commonly understood external reality, nor were they simply pawns of unseen systemic forces; they shaped and interpreted events according to a range of preformed personal and institutional attitudes on which they acted. As personal and institutional views within the armed forces during this period became increasingly politicized, the services and U.S. military policies reflected more overtly civil domestic issues. By the end of the second Reagan administration, military innovation had become possible only if it somehow ignored or escaped the dominance of political and social discourse in which the services were constant players. Many individuals and groups exploited the Vietnam War and contested its putative lessons afterward to serve a broad range of often contradictory and irreconcilable goals, frequently driven by political considerations. To the extent that military leaders during and immediately after the war saw the main cause for failure in Vietnam in civilian political interference, there was a tendency to stifle change and become more rigid in defense of doctrinal conventions. Only with a greater willingness to acknowledge more complex reasons for failure, including faults inside the services, did the U.S. armed forces start to restore conditions for change from within. Moreover, this shift occurred only after substantive changes in the political and social climate of the nation as a whole. 119

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Two lines of argument are especially useful in a historical interpretation of U.S. military innovation from 1963 to 1988. First, the services conducted the war in Southeast Asia according to assumptions brought into the theater; for the U.S. Army, Air Force, and Navy this resulted in military campaigns that could postpone defeat—arguably the real intent of the Johnson administration—but at prohibitive expense, with debilitating internal dissent, and without achieving long-term success.1 For a variety of reasons, only the U.S. Marine Corps proved open to experimentation to tailor conduct of the war to existing conditions, but it lacked the size and prestige to inaugurate changes beyond its own limited operational horizons. The second line of argument, concentrating on the period from 1973 to 1988, focuses on political and social change and on the internal discussions and debates in the military, especially the army and air force. These debates reflect well the multilayered institutional and social identities of the services, their shifting relationships to the political leadership, and new societal notions of civic obligation. Briefly stated, during that fifteen-year period the services first reemphasized doctrines and organizational structures based on the world war paradigms, then shifted blame for failure in Vietnam from service deficiencies to attacks on society and the political leadership, and finished by opening up more constructive and self-critical examinations that in conjunction with the Reagan-era buildup restored at least the possibility of substantive change. In explaining and excusing their problems in Vietnam, the services ventured into the realms of politics and social criticism rather than retaining their usual tightly technocratic focus. In other words, fixing the problems went beyond bigger and better aircraft carriers or bombers—although such things remained part of the recipe. Military leaders and critics increasingly came to link permanent solutions to shaping the national political and social culture to reflect various values and priorities ostensibly lost during Vietnam that they and their services had preserved at great cost.

The 1960s: Technocratic Innovation and Strategic Stagnation The year 1963 is a useful starting point in this overview because the U.S. Army began implementation of its most striking innovation of the entire post–World War II period at about the same time that the senior service leadership was embracing strategic direction of the war in Vietnam that virtually guaranteed long-term failure. The findings made in 1962 by the U.S. Army Tactical Mobility Requirements Board, known after board president Lieutenant General Hamilton H. Howze, gave rise to the development of new tactical doctrine, operational capabilities, and redrawing of service

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boundaries that came with the reinvention of army aviation built around helicopters and the concept of air mobile units.2 The rise of air mobility was not tied to Vietnam, nor was it originally focused on addressing the unique problems of mobility posed by the war growing in Southeast Asia, although the army adapted it to the circumstances. The fresh thinking that infused the Howze Board recommendations was in sharp contrast with an absence of innovation within the Military Assistance Command Vietnam (MACV), and the inability of General Paul Harkins or his successor, William C. Westmoreland, to develop a U.S. military strategy suited to the vast and complex problems posed by the Vietnam War. In explaining these contrasting examples of sweeping innovation with the rise of army aviation and stagnation in the top leadership in Vietnam, it is best to start by looking at personalities and institutional structures. The Development of Army Aviation

Defying simple descriptive or prescriptive theory, innovation arising around army aviation came as a result of outside intervention, individual personalities, intra- and interservice conflict, and operational pressures. In 1962, when Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara called for a fresh look at mobility requirements for the army, he seemed to have narrow, concrete concerns before him. The Howze Board opened a unique opportunity for innovation because McNamara’s order bypassed the Army Staff, which generally guarded entrenched bureaucratic interests. Freed from that oversight, composed of officers whose career tracks would not be jeopardized by innovative thinking, and with approval coming outside of normal channels, the board developed a comprehensive report that was the basis for establishing the experimental Eleventh Airmobile Division and creating a more formal basis for technological developments of aviation capabilities.3 The air mobility concept succeeded both on its operational merits and because its proponents found two ways to silence their critics. At the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) level, the army won its case over air force objections by creating new definitions: gunships did not provide close air support— clearly an air force mission; they were simply “aerial fire support” platforms for direct support, in effect flying artillery. Similarly, helicopter transports, like light fixed-wing transports run by the army, were for tactical movement and logistical support rather than for strategic support, which remained with the Air Force Military Airlift Command. This linguistic tightrope not only opened the door to creating the legal foundation for a U.S. Army air force far larger than the U.S. Air Force, it also redefined boundaries within the army that helped smooth the way to its acceptance.4 The second way to silence critics was to buy cooperation of the other branches inside the army. Members of the board came from all the branch-

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es, and they addressed the particular interests of each, which contributed to its acceptance inside the army. It would take another twenty years for the aviation branch to become an independent entity within the army, but as both a practical concern and as a way to divide possible opposition based on entrenched interests, helicopters were placed under existing branches according to roles, the majority in the transportation corps and artillery branches.5 Failings of the Strategy of Attrition in Vietnam

In contrast to the group that made the most of the opportunity opened by McNamara’s intervention, the top levels of the army hierarchy at the JCS and MACV levels demonstrated a strategic rigidity that remained virtually unbending even in the face of its failure in Vietnam. Westmoreland sought to apply the doctrine and methods developed by the army in Europe during World War II to the situation in Southeast Asia. Within three months of introducing U.S. ground forces, Westmoreland had shifted from an active defense to a conventional offensive strategy of attrition that remained the dominant strategy in army circles until the withdrawal of U.S. ground forces eight years later.6 A challenge to historians and theorists is to determine why this rigidity remained despite, or perhaps on account of, competition and dissent both from within the army and from outside. Competing with Westmoreland’s attritional strategy was an emphasis on pacification and antiguerrilla operations held by the marine corps and particular elements in the army. Deployed in the crucial First Corps area in the north, the marines of the Third Marine Amphibious Force (III MAF) quickly developed programs to combat the Vietcong (VC) infrastructure, even drawing off strength from their line forces to create combined action programs in the villages. The army-dominated MACV headquarters, reluctant to get into confrontation with another service by directly imposing its attritional strategy, instead established increasingly explicit measures of activity that forced III MAF to conduct conventional field operations at the expense of its revolutionary warfare efforts. Even critics acknowledged that the marine programs made some significant gains, but Westmoreland always maintained that defeat of main-force VC and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) units had to be the first priority.7 Based on institutional heritage and political power, there is little that is surprising either in the marines’ comparatively greater adaptability and doctrinal flexibility in counterinsurgency efforts or in their inability to influence overall U.S. policy. As special assistant to the JCS for counterinsurgency and subsequently to the commanding general of Fleet Marine Force Pacific (FMFPAC), the administrative headquarters for the marines in Vietnam, Lieutenant General Victor Krulak was the most outspoken advocate for a

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strategy that emphasized pacification and winning the guerrilla war over the army strategy of attrition. In a sense he epitomized the problems facing the marines: he felt the need—and was personally predisposed—to be outspoken to get the attention of men who set policy, but such methods made it easier for the army to push him outside the debates as a partisan and discordant voice. Consistently after 1965, MACV steered the overwhelming bulk of U.S. manpower and resources into the big-unit war and deliberately left to the South Vietnamese pacification and counterinsurgency.8 The most famous and outspoken critic of army emphasis on the attritional strategy was John Paul Vann. After resigning his army commission in anger and frustration with the blindness of his superiors to the failings of the Vietnamese and therefore the advisory effort, Vann returned to Vietnam as a civilian working for Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support (CORDS). Vann saw Westmoreland’s narrow emphasis on operations as a screen to ignore the substantive need for sweeping Vietnamese political reform that had been obvious to many for the preceding ten years. Writing up his criticisms in a ten-page paper titled “Harnessing the Revolution in South Vietnam,” Vann exposed the central flaw in MACV thinking: army leadership had lost sight of the ultimate goal to which military operations should have been subordinated, and instead operations became ends in themselves. Unable to silence Vann, the army attempted to bury him in obscurity, discredit him by giving him roles in unpromising pacification efforts, and finally co-opt him with unprecedented leadership of military forces, notwithstanding his civilian status.9 Those who pushed for more resources in special-forces work with the Civilian Irregular Defense Groups (CIDGs) were more easily marginalized in the army than were those in advisory roles like Vann. With a strongly antielitist in the army chief of staff, the old division between line and elite troops brought little but grudging, scornful acknowledgment of revolutionary war advocates. Leaders of the big-unit war dismissed as cowboys, snobs, or glory hounds Green Berets who worked with local defense forces or in isolated highland camps, and any supporters among senior officers found their influence limited by Westmoreland’s appointments.10 Dissent that Westmoreland found most difficult to ignore came from the “brass lambs,” senior officers who had counseled caution in the 1950s and early 1960s, and who were outspokenly critical in retirement. The difficulty in addressing criticisms from these men was twofold: first, Westmoreland often had personal connections to these men dating back decades, which further curbed his natural reticence to air dirty laundry in public; and second, these men had reputations and influence that could not be dismissed or ignored like more junior advisory, special-forces, or marine corps officers. Maxwell Taylor, James Gavin, and Matthew Ridgeway were the most prominent retired army generals whose dissent was trenchant and

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clearly stated in books, televised hearings, popular magazines, and public addresses. Such voices could not be undercut as uninformed, parochial, or illegitimate. They may also have unintentionally helped push active-duty officers like Westmoreland; Army Chief of Staff, General Harold K. Johnson; or Chairman of the JCS, General Earle G. Wheeler, into defining their role with an even more parochial and ostensibly apolitical focus on operations—servants of the political leaders but not responsible for the consequences of policies imposed.11 Twenty years later legislative action acknowledged the inherently political nature of military decisionmaking at the JCS level and made it more difficult for the top uniformed leaders to abdicate their responsibilities. It still remains to explain why, in the face of institutional competition, internal dissent, and mounting evidence of failure coming from the field, Westmoreland stuck without major modification to his conventional strategy of attrition. A partial explanation can be found in organizational theory and institutional behavior. Wedded to what one author labels the “Army Concept,” meaning “the Army’s perception of how wars ought to be waged,” Westmoreland and the JCS followed mechanically the methods developed with such success since the late 1930s. Because of tradition, personal and collective memory, and success in Europe and Korea, the “Army Concept” remained Westmoreland’s model despite its unsuitability to the situation in Vietnam.12 Another explanation might be found in an emphasis on operational capabilities as ends in themselves rather than as means to larger policy goals. The U.S. Army valued tactical skill and operational skill as ends in themselves rather than as part of a larger, coherent strategy, a point made by Vann, the brass lambs, and subsequent commentators. Westmoreland never entirely rejected other perspectives on the conduct of the war, but he consistently minimized them.13 A third explanation for the army’s strategic rigidity looks to civilmilitary relations and the issues of responsibility. No senior leaders, military or civilian, were especially sanguine about intervention, and indeed, seeing great potential for problems even if ultimately successful, they maneuvered from the beginning to lay blame on the other. To a degree not seen since the Civil War, political leaders involved themselves in operational and even tactical issues that military leaders thought impinged on their expertise; in turn, senior military officers made demands of politicians that they knew could not be fulfilled.14 Westmoreland was not refighting World War II simply because he was institutionally programmed to do so; he at least half expected, and implicitly demanded of political leaders, that they impose similar conditions to the nation’s commitment in Southeast Asia, creating the domestic circumstances that might allow his strategic orientation to work. This was an inherently political interest in which meth-

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ods were the benchmark and circumstances outside of military control were to be adapted to fit a set strategy. Air Power as a Strategic Alternative

Predating the introduction of U.S. combat troops, a strategy of coercion competed with Westmoreland’s attritional ground war and revealed other fracture lines in military policy and service responses. Instigated by McNamara and the focus of Admiral U. S. Grant Sharp, Commander in Chief, Pacific (CINCPAC) and the air force, this strategy called for controlled, limited bombing campaigns outside South Vietnam to hinder the war effort in the south and to force an end to the war by raising the costs for the communist leadership to unacceptable levels. From McNamara’s perspective it was a strategy of behavior modification; for Sharp it was an opportunity to run operations personally and leave his mark as a commander; for the air force it was the centerpiece of their dominant institutional raison d’être, victory through strategic air power. There were some astonishing assumptions behind U.S. strategic bombing in Southeast Asia. Leaving aside extensive interdiction campaigns like Barrel Roll, Steel Tiger, and later the menu bombing up north, over Laos and Cambodia, the main effort of the air war between 1965 and 1968 was Rolling Thunder. There was no great consistency with McNamara or with air force and navy leaders, whether the emphasis was the enemy’s will or its capabilities. Beginning with the Flaming Dart missions in February 1965, McNamara built his strategy of coercion first around punitive strikes, initially taken in answer to provocations by the communists, which gradually changed to sustained air operations. Assumptions, implicit or explicit, included a clear linkage: that those being struck were responsible for the provocation and understood the strike as retaliatory; that the targets held sufficient value that threat of their destruction would weaken the resolve of the communist leadership; and that the costs involved, human, monetary, and others, could be maintained indefinitely and to the benefit of U.S. political goals. Additionally, the strikes were intended to demonstrate U.S. resolve to the communists and U.S. commitment to its allies, and to boost the morale of the government of Vietnam.15 Given the simplistic, monolithic duality of politicians versus airmen fashioned by various critics of the bombing strategy, it is also valuable to keep in mind that key civilians had strong reservations about the resulting policies. By late 1966, McNamara thought limited bombing a failure and a distraction from a more proper focus on pacification in the south. But whereas military leaders called for a lifting of restrictions, McNamara noted that “to bomb the North sufficiently to make a radical impact on Hanoi’s political, economic and social structure, would require an effort

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which we could make but which would not be stomached either by our own people or by world opinion, and it would involve a serious risk of drawing us into open war with China.”16 As was true with Westmoreland’s view of the ground war, implicit in military leaders’ criticism of the bombing campaign was an understanding that the politicians’ job was to smooth away obstacles to unfettered operational control. Far more than the ground war, the air war was characterized by tight, intrusive control of targeting and operations by civilian leaders. Convoluted chains of command characterized all military operations in Southeast Asia, but nowhere were they more Byzantine than in the air war. Operations in the south were under the control of MACV and Seventh Air Force, with the exception of Arc Light strikes by B-52s from Strategic Air Command, which had to be cleared by higher headquarters; outside South Vietnam, control was in the hands of CINCPAC and his component commanders of the Pacific Fleet (PACFLT) and Pacific Air Force (PACAF), with direct access to Seventh Fleet and Seventh Air Force. In practice, however, Sharp could only recommend targets from a limited list prepared by the JCS, with final approval coming directly from Johnson and McNamara on a weekly basis.17 The Second Front: The Cultural Clashes in Civil-Military Relations

At the heart of the civil-military conflict surrounding the air war were conflicting goals and assumptions about the nature and purpose of military force. The political leaders during the Johnson administration were extremely concerned with the means necessary to achieve their policy goals, including manpower requirements, economic costs, and international consequences. To take one example, political leaders were extremely sensitive about striking targets around Hanoi and Haiphong out of fear of provoking greater intervention by the People’s Republic of China and the Soviet Union and stirring international and domestic outcry over collateral damage and civilian casualties. Political leaders also tended to be more sensitive than their military counterparts to the continued erosion of the U.S. reputation for indiscriminate destructiveness and killing of civilians among Europeans and Asians, who did not need to look back far in their histories to find other examples. Over the three years of Rolling Thunder, Johnson and McNamara called eight complete halts to the bombing and five partial halts ranging from twenty-four hours to thirty-six days in order to encourage diplomatic efforts. Most critics of the political leaders agree it was their prerogative to set limits but vehemently denounce the imposition of those limits on the military leaders. The JCS-McNamara feud surrounding 1967

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debates about Rolling Thunder “set off what might have become the gravest crisis in civil-military relations in modern U.S. history.” Feeling betrayed by the civilian leadership, caught in a war to which there could be no successful conclusion, and fearing “that the military would ‘take the fall’ for the impending disaster,” the uniformed perspective of a two-front war against the Vietnamese communists and U.S. political leaders became an enduring legacy of the war.18 Whereas Westmoreland often sought greater guidance from superiors, and in its absence pursued a safe and conventional, if unsuccessful, strategy of attrition, military leaders of the air war wanted a high degree of autonomy to conduct operations with minimal restrictions. Sharp, as the senior officer responsible for Rolling Thunder, was the most critical of the political interference. Exclusion of military professionals from final decisions about bombing targets, he later wrote, “whether by the deliberate intent or with the indifferent acquiescence of Secretary McNamara, was in my view a grave and flagrant example of his persistent refusal to accept the civilianmilitary partnership in the conduct of our military operations.” Johnson and McNamara virtually ignored operational considerations, and as a result air operations were not run with optimal efficiency, nor were targets hit with greatest possible effectiveness, and U.S. losses arguably were higher than if restrictions had been removed.19 Aside from operational considerations, Sharp was also defending the only substantive contribution of the navy to the war, and continuing the interservice conflict over the conduct of strategic bombing. The navy, facing no major maritime threats that would justify a huge surface fleet, had, with the development of ballistic missile submarines, broken the air force monopoly of strategic nuclear forces. It also placed heavy emphasis on naval aviation. Thus in the Vietnam War, as in the annual budgetary battles, the navy and air force were competing in key areas for the same resources. Neither service had much to offer in a guerrilla war, so there was tremendous temptation to redefine the war in more conventional terms in which they would have substantive roles. Independent aerial campaigns, as opposed to close air support of ground operations, thus carried powerful implications for institutional justification and competitiveness, which were clearly so important to the systems analysts McNamara had promoted inside the Department of Defense. Battling to win his place as a wartime military leader, secure for his service a role in the war, and win an advantage in Washington budgetary competition, Sharp was almost inevitably going to come into conflict with civilian policymakers.20 The language that officers used in criticism of civilian interference suggests a divide in culture or values more than simple disagreement over methods and goals. In his memoirs, for example, Westmoreland suggests an

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arrogance among political leaders when he quotes secondhand Johnson’s boast that “‘they can’t even bomb an outhouse without my approval.’” He further condemned the “vocal, wishful-thinking theorists in the academic community, the press, and the Administration” for communicating through the bombing halts “not determination and resolution but weakness and trepidation.”21 Selfless military men were thus carrying out, at great risk and cost, the ideas of ignorant, complacent, out-of-touch leaders at home. William W. Momyer, commander of the Seventh Air Force, commented in a letter to retiring Air Force Chief of Staff John P. McConnell: We had the force, skill, and intelligence, but our civilian betters wouldn’t turn us loose. . . . [A] military man will always be in a dilemma of supporting policy even though he knows it surely restricts the capacity of military forces to produce the desired effect. One has no alternative but to support the policy and take the knocks that inevitably follow when military forces don’t produce the desired effects within the constraints of the policy.22

These critics, broadly echoed elsewhere, were drawing on an idealized historical and institutional memory, with justification, but also with a convenient disregard of long established precedent or inward scrutiny. In the context of the Vietnam War, the dominant historical memory was World War II. It was the benchmark against which all the services operated. Senior officers had their first experiences in the Great Crusade, and it was a golden era in institutional recollection not just because of success and widespread public support, but also because the services were essentially unfettered by close oversight. Political leaders, journalists, and social commentators—in Westmoreland’s opinion some of the more important enemies of the nation’s efforts in Southeast Asia—had raised few questions in 1943 or 1944 about methods or assumptions, and those who did found limited interest and concern among the public. To the extent such issues as the slaughter of enemy wounded, racial hatred, or immolation of civilian populations intruded on U.S. consciousness and sensibilities, they could be dismissed as products of a war forced on the nation, the natural order of things, or necessary to bring the killing to an end.23 The services wanted to revive an insularity provided by a total war and to be free from having to explain and justify the methods used to achieve victory. Moreover, they wanted victory to be measured by what could be achieved with existing capabilities rather than having to make unwelcome and often ineffective adjustment of capabilities to nonmilitary restrictions. In oft-repeated appeals for calling up reserves and mobilizing the country, senior military leaders wanted to galvanize support, secure greater freedom of action, and stifle or mute external dissent. They wanted to shape the war to conform to what they knew and were best prepared to do.24

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Post Vietnam: The Struggle to Define the War’s Legacy Just as the conduct of the Vietnam War was the dominant backdrop to domestic politics in the 1960s and early 1970s, efforts to define the war’s meaning became a leitmotif of political and social discourse after the final U.S. withdrawal in 1973 all the way through the second Reagan administration. Robert Buzzanco’s argument about civilian and military leaders maneuvering during the war to foist blame for failure on the other became at times a centerpiece of political, military, and social debates about Vietnam and more generally about concepts of patriotism and civic obligation. While not breaking down in distinct phases, two general trends shaped these discussions over the last fifteen years under consideration. The first phase, roughly corresponding to the years 1973 to 1982, was characterized by almost blanket popular rejection of the war and condemnation of those who controlled it and those who fought it. The military services retreated from public light and retrenched around old technological and doctrinal paradigms that had marked their heyday. The early 1980s saw a gradual shift, where those who fought the war were resurrected—1982 providing a convenient benchmark with the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial—and the services began more constructive engagement with lessons learned from the war: technological, doctrinal, and, most important, political. The second phase also saw a shift in legislative-executive competition that reflected the politicization of the war’s legacy. Vietnam as Political and Cultural Lightning Rod: The 1970s

The failure in Vietnam, marked by the Paris accords signed in January 1973, had at least roughly paralleled the tide of liberalism that had peaked under Johnson and hit bottom two months before the accords. Nixon’s landslide electoral victory over George McGovern in the 1972 presidential elections may have represented the “silent majority’s” support for his disengagement policies in Vietnam; less equivocally, it was a repudiation of a call for social revolution and an end to liberal activism that came to be associated with 1960s movements. Liberalism was far from dead, but it was increasingly co-opted by mainstream activism in exchange for more moderate methods and incremental change.25 The military services were unable to exploit this apparent triumph of conservative politics, however, because part of the appeal of Nixon’s policies was a de facto repudiation of the war and a relaxation of Cold War U.S. bellicosity that came with détente. Nixon was far from dismissing the values of the patriotic orthodoxy extending back to World War II, but once the Paris accords in January 1973 finalized

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U.S. withdrawal, congressional hostility limited the ability of the president to mobilize public support for military adventurism.26 The lessons of Vietnam were as great in variety as they were limited in value. Both left and right could agree in the wake of the war to the vague notion of “no more Vietnams,” but for completely different reasons, which underlay political divisions during the Ford, Carter, and Reagan years. The simplest lessons of Vietnam—that the nation go to war only with true popular consent and clear objectives—were themselves fraught with ambiguity. Popularity does not necessarily make a war winnable, although that was implicit in the pro-military apologias. Others argued that the country could not afford to restrict its foreign policy to only clearly definable and popular causes.27 Facing huge internal problems even after the Paris accords ended direct U.S. involvement, all the services faced a degree of isolation—partially sought, partially imposed—that fostered a siege mentality toward virtually all civilians. The All-Volunteer Force replaced the draft in 1973, and with it came changes in recruitment, institutional cultures, and assumptions about civic obligation. Military service was in general disrepute, and with market forces dictating enlistment choices, the services further eased disciplinary standards and enforcement; rather than the citizen serving the nation, the nation, and its military services, now seemed to exist to serve the individual through entitlement programs and putative rights emphasizing the limits of authority.28 In response to these new pressures the services retrenched around the strategies, doctrines, and technologies with which they were most comfortable. The army and the air force, the two services with the greatest adaptive failings in Vietnam, were especially quick to return to their preparations for a repeat of the World War II western front. They focused their energies on rebuilding forces in Europe that had been stripped to support efforts in Vietnam, and the respective school systems emphasized traditional armorbased mobile warfare and strategic air power. The navy never had a significant institutional stake in Southeast Asia; it had simply contributed according to existing capabilities, so there seemed no substantive lessons to be learned. The marine corps, as always, lacked the institutional power to push its views, and internal debates tended to raise questions familiar after World War I about how far the corps should venture in developing capabilities that duplicated those of the army. It turned to modified versions of its colonial light infantry role, which was later the basis for the multiservice Rapid Deployment Force (RDF). Except for the RDF, this retrenchment ignored growing threats from sources that did not fit the main east-west confrontation in Europe. U.S. responses to the Khmer Rouge during the Mayaguez incident, to the rising resistance of repressive U.S.-sponsored regimes in Nicaragua and Honduras, or to the Islamic fundamentalists in Teheran were

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hardly suggestive of doctrinal adaptation and again illustrated that technological sophistication was hardly a guarantee of operational success.29 In their efforts to absolve the services of the Vietnam debacle, military leaders offered a remarkably consistent explanation for failure—a stab-inthe-back theory, which has become a sort of catechism for conservative critics up to the end of the century. Political leaders, the theory goes, had tied the hands of the military, setting unacceptable limits that precluded using proven methods that could have won the war; at the same time, antiwar protesters and liberal media coverage had undermined popular confidence and sapped the will of the people and soldiers’ belief in their cause.30 One assumption behind this view was that having ostensibly disavowed interference in political matters, military leaders and their commands were weak puppets in the hands of malicious or simply misguided politicians and journalists, although retaining sufficient strength, ability, and intelligence when turned loose to defeat any external opponent. A second assumption was that public opinion was somehow more susceptible to liberal media as opposed to those of distinctly conservative perspectives, and, notwithstanding electoral results and Nixon policies, that such liberalism took root in the centers of power.31 New Efforts at Reconciliation and New Problems: The 1980s

With the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980 and the resumption of a seemingly unambiguous conflict against a popular enemy, the services and the nation finally began to shift away from the immediate influences of the Vietnam defeat. The services gradually emerged from their siege mentality as popular perceptions of veterans shifted from victimizers to victims, with the triumph of social and political conservatism under Reagan, and with institutional changes. Popular attitudes toward the military shifted in much the same manner as they had for that earlier Lost Cause in U.S. history. Vietnam veterans in the 1980s, with the growing popularity of a patriotic orthodoxy embodied by Reagan, were increasingly honored simply for having served, while any celebratory acknowledgments divorced this service from messy details regarding combatants’ behavior, the causes, or the outcome. This is the same process that allowed the fairly quick reintegration of the Confederate veterans after the Civil War. Images of veterans as maladjusted or psychotic in popular literature, film, and television during the 1970s began to shift by the early 1980s toward an image of the veterans as victims of a blundering, uncaring system that lumped together governmental, military, and business leaders in common materialistic and generational self-interest, and gave audiences with disparate perspectives a sense of common cause with the veterans.32 Emerging from the harsh debates about

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the Vietnam memorial was a symbolic reassertion of veterans as a potentially redemptive force, an icon of resurgent conservatism of war and warriors as positive forces behind national greatness, and a traditional way to curb upheaval from disruptive minorities that could be defined in ways to span the political spectrum.33 Only as a post-Vietnam generation pushed up into the field grades of the officer corps in the mid-1980s was there a significant move to reassess military thought and service doctrines. While many of this newer generation shared the hostility and mistrust of civilians that characterized many of their superiors, these younger officers recognized that there would have to be constructive engagement with the U.S. public and political leaders, that there had been problems with doctrine and strategic goals in Vietnam, and that preparing for another world war did not contribute much to addressing existing and probable future threats. Publishing in the mid- to late-1980s, authors like Andrew F. Krepinevich Jr. and Mark Clodfelter represented fresh thinking in the army and the air force, respectively, that brought out reasoned critiques of Vietnam strategic thought. They helped spur the kind of institutional selfcriticism that leaders of the Vietnam period had stifled or ignored. Aside from the merits of their own works, these writers spurred more expansive consideration of their subjects.34 For instance, other air force officers and scholars at Air University carried Clodfelter’s critique of the Linebacker operations a step further by raising compelling questions about what was achieved at the Paris talks and the extent to which anything positive was connected directly to the bombings.35 In one noteworthy example, Earl H. Tilford Jr. wrote bluntly, “From the top to the bottom, Air Force officers preferred to focus on Linebacker Two as a reaffirmation of traditional doctrines and strategies, thus indulging in self-induced anesthetization against the uncomfortable implications of a failure which, if not recognized, could at least be ignored.”36 At best, the case for the efficacy of strategic bombing remains indeterminate. More positive was growing awareness of the difficulties involved in meshing operational objectives and methods with political goals. Much of air force development has remained narrowly technocratic, but even here, in the case of precision-guided munitions, for example, it provided for greater operational flexibility in tailoring operations according to political limitations. John Warden’s restatement of strategic bombing goals and the range of options for targeting and delivery gave strategic air power a very different appearance in the Gulf War than was seen almost twenty years earlier in the Linebacker missions.37 Although the navy and marine corps were never forced by Vietnam to confront comparably grave strategic or doctrinal shortcomings, the marine corps experienced a different sort of renaissance in the mid-1980s. Having proved, if not ultimately more successful, at least the most adaptable to the

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Vietnam War, the marine corps focused not on doctrinal revision but on restoring its institutional cultural roots that many inside the service thought had since been eroded. James Webb, a marine corps officer in Vietnam and Reagan’s second secretary of the navy, led this shift through his own writings and talks about the failures of Vietnam-era political and social leaders, and he successfully pushed for the appointment of General Al Gray as commandant because he knew Gray cultivated the warrior mystique that had emerged from World War II. Indeed, during his tenure Gray helped to sharpen a growing sense of cultural divide between a self-defined warrior elite that emphasized values ostensibly being redeemed by the whole political conservative movement underpinning Reagan, versus a weak, corrupt society ravaged by AIDS, declining family values, and a long litany of other complaints—a generational successor to the disruptive and failed social movements of the 1960s.38 One important measure of the depth of this civilian-military divide and the precarious nature of tying post-Vietnam military rehabilitation to political and social debates was the Iran-Contra affair. U.S. policies toward both Iran and Nicaragua pointed to stark political and military limits of U.S. power. Prepared, as ever, to fight Reagan’s evil empire, the political and military leaders could not develop effective means to address other threats within constraints that were often attacked using the same rhetoric as the Vietnam critiques. One solution seemed to be to bypass the most inconvenient constraints, and so emerged an active-duty marine corps lieutenant colonel, Oliver North, a retired admiral, John Poindexter, National Security Adviser John McFarland, and a plan to ignore congressional prohibitions to backdoor negotiations for terrorist captives and arms deals.39 In a sense, the Iran-Contra affair was a logical extension of the problems touted by military critics of their political leaders in Vietnam. An evolving culture that emphasized the preservation of values within the military amid their erosion in society at large, a concern that political constraints will unnecessarily endanger lives and military initiatives, and, underlying this, an assumption that going outside established constitutional and political boundaries to preserve that system against its own weaknesses, all have a common touchstone with the famous Vietnam observation that U.S. soldiers had been forced to destroy a village to save it. That all the key military figures in Iran-Contra had formative experiences in Vietnam was not lost on contemporary commentators.40 Change in the U.S. military in the 1980s was less about technology or doctrine than about growing politicization of uniformed officers and service roles in shaping national policies. For the lavishness of military spending under Reagan there was surprisingly little advancement of national military capabilities. The services had hardly budged from methods and perspectives dominant thirty years earlier, but peacetime militarization was

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not just resurgent, but resurgent at unprecedented levels. Through open procurement policies and legislative-executive impasses, and with the legitimacy let loose by the rhetoric of resurgent patriotism, the military services developed a voice in shaping national policies and political discourse in unprecedented ways.41

Conclusion While the sources of military change in the United States between 1963 and 1988 defy easy categorization, some key dynamics might be summarized. Most change was technocratic—whether innovative, like the army’s sweeping developments in air mobility, or adaptive, such as weapons development in Vietnam. The scientific and industrial pillars of twentieth-century U.S. military power continued to flourish throughout this quarter-century period, with McNamara’s corporate analytical approach and Reagan’s budgetary largesse representing high points. The military services could all build a better mousetrap; the problem came when they had to go after different animals. Within the army and the air force, arguably the dominant services in Vietnam, there was some doctrinal adaptation in the face of glaring inadequacies of conventional doctrine applied to revolutionary warfare in Southeast Asia, but overall doctrine and, more particularly, strategic thought were stagnant, and remained so. To understand why there could be significant technocratic change but little change in the realm of military thought, the second front—the political and cultural dimensions of the Vietnam War and civil-military relations—hold the key. Pursuit of disparate goals by civilians and uniformed leaders fostered misunderstandings, sustained conflict, and retrenchment. In some respects, as measured by public opinion and legislative action of the 1980s, the greatest change in these twenty-five years did not lie so much in the traditional realms associated with military expertise but in the overt politicization of the services and uniformed leaders. This is reflected in the Goldwater-Nichols Act redefining the role of the chairman of the JCS. General Colin Powell’s exercise of political authority as chairman of the JCS in the Gulf War witnessed the senior uniformed leader of the country virtually dictating a series of conditions to the political leadership for full and successful use of force. Overt politicization is reflected in the very mixed messages to emerge from the Iran-Contra affair and executive use of uniformed personnel to bypass inconvenient constitutional checks and balances; and it is reflected in the repeated societal “resurrections” of Vietnam veterans and institutional exorcism of that uncomfortable past and the implications of the methods used to make these adjustments.

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Notes 1. Robert Buzzanco, Masters of War: Military Dissent and Politics in the Vietnam Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 4–8, 347–349. 2. U.S. Army Tactical Mobility Requirements Board, Final Report, 20 August 1962; U.S. Army Center of Military History (CMH), Washington, D.C. 3. Part of the oral history program, the series “History of Army Aviation,” provides profiles and comments among these senior officers on their backgrounds and roles in shaping policy. For example, on conflicts among army staff, office of the secretary of defense (systems analysis), and army research and development, see Lieutenant General John J. Tolson, interview, 18 March 1977, pp. 28–30, and Brigadier General Edwin L. Powell, interview, 18 March 1978, p. 51, both part of Senior Officer Oral History Program, History of Army Aviation, CMH. See also Edgar F. Raines Jr., “When There Was Common Ground in the Air,” Army 45, no. 3 (March 1995): 24–31. 4. Headquarters, U.S. Army Combat Developments Command, Institute of Special Studies, “A Short History of Close Air Support Issues,” Study Directorate no. 3, July 1968, pp. 66–76; typewritten manuscript, CMH. 5. U.S. Army, U.S. Army Aviation Operations in South Vietnam (Washington, D.C.: Director of Army Aviation, Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Military Operations, 1962). 6. General William C. Westmoreland to Admiral U. S. Grant Sharp, “U.S. Troop Deployment to SVN,” 070340Z, June 1965; Westmoreland Message File, COMUSMACV, CMH. 7. U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Marines in Vietnam: The Landing and the Buildup, 1965, by Jack Shulimson and Charles Johnson (Washington, D.C.: History and Museums Division, U.S. Marine Corps, 1978), pp. 133–138; U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Marines in Vietnam: An Expanding War, 1966, by Jack Shulimson (Washington, D.C.: History and Museums Division, U.S. Marine Corps, 1982), p. 253n; William C. Westmoreland, A Soldier Reports: General William C. Westmoreland (New York: Da Capo Press, 1976), pp. 166, 216–217. 8. Krulak was an indefatigable advocate of counterinsurgency and his personal papers are full of public addresses and correspondence pushing his views; Victor Krulak, Personal Papers Collection (PPC), Marine Corps Historical Center (MCHC); see also Victor Krulak, First to Fight: An Inside View of the U.S. Marine Corps (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1984). On MACV policies, see U.S. Army, The U.S. Army in Vietnam, Advice and Support: The Early Years, 1941–1960, by Ronald H. Spector (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army CMH, 1986); Westmoreland, A Soldier Reports, pp. 99–100, 210–217. 9. “Harnessing the Revolution in South Vietnam,” tms., 1967 rev., John Paul Vann Papers, U.S. Army Military History Institute (MHI); Neil Sheehan, A Bright and Shining Lie: John Paul Vann and America in Vietnam (New York: Vintage Books, 1988), pp. 537–558. For an example of Krulak’s echoes of Vann’s criticism of U.S. misuse of firepower, see his letter to the Honorable Robert S. McNamara, 11 November 1965, box 2, fol. 12, Krulak, PPC, MCHC. 10. For criticisms, see General Harold K. Johnson, interview, Senior Officer Debriefing Program, 8 January 1973, p. 27, CMH. On marginalizing or purging senior supporters, see General Richard G. Stilwell, Senior Officer Oral History Program, 1979, pp. 139–141, 146–147, 167–168, CMH; and General Bruce Palmer Jr., Senior Officer Oral History Program, 1975, pp. 202, 228, CMH. On general

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background of this line-elite division, see David W. Hogan Jr., Raiders or Elite Infantry? The Changing Role of the U.S. Army Rangers from Dieppe to Grenada (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1992), pp. 155–163, 184–186. 11. Maxwell D. Taylor, The Uncertain Trumpet (New York: Harper and Row, 1959) and Swords and Plowshares (New York: W. W. Norton, 1972); James Gavin, Crisis Now (New York: Random House, 1968) and “A Communication on Vietnam,” Harper’s, February 1966, pp. 16–20; Matthew Ridgeway, “Indochina: Disengaging,” Foreign Affairs 49, no. 2 (winter 1971): 583–592; Robert Buzzanco, “The U.S. Military’s Rationale Against the Vietnam War,” Political Science Quarterly 101, no. 3 (winter 1986): 559–576. 12. Andrew F. Krepinevich Jr., The Army and Vietnam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), pp. 4–7 (original emphasis). 13. Buzzanco, Masters of War, pp. 342–344; Krepinevich, Army and Vietnam, develops this point in his chapter “A Strategy of Tactics,” pp. 164–193; this emphasis on operational art disconnected from political goal mirrors Michael Geyer’s critique of the Wehrmacht: “German Strategy in the Age of Machine Warfare, 1914–1945,” in Peter Paret (ed.), Makers of Modern Strategy from Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), pp. 527–530. 14. Buzzanco, Masters of War, pp. 12–23. 15. U. S. Grant Sharp, Strategy for Defeat: Vietnam in Retrospect (San Rafael, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1978), pp. 153–157; Mark Clodfelter, The Limits of Air Power: The American Bombing of North Vietnam (New York: Free Press, 1989), pp. 47–49, 56–64; Guenter Lewy, America in Vietnam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 374. 16. Buzzanco, Masters of War, p. 193; The Pentagon Papers: The Defense Department History of United States Decisionmaking on Vietnam, Senator Gravel ed., vol. 4 (Boston: Beacon Press, 1972), p. 350. 17. Command relations are addressed in many places; noteworthy are Clodfelter, Limits of Air Power, pp. 76–88; and James Clay Thompson, Rolling Thunder: Understanding Policy and Programming Failure (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980), pp. 5–12, 41, 155–156. 18. Clodfelter, Limits of Air Power, pp. 117–120, 141–146; Sharp, Strategy for Defeat, pp. 165–175; Westmoreland, A Soldier Reports, pp. 117–122; Buzzanco, Masters of War, pp. 300–301 (portion quoted). 19. Sharp, Strategy for Defeat, pp. 87 (portion quoted), 114–116, 187–198. 20. Buzzanco, Masters of War, pp. 15, 75–79, 140. 21. Curiously, in the latter passage, Westmoreland credited the bombing campaign as the only way to hurt the North Vietnamese; attrition could not apparently do so, at least directly; Westmoreland, A Soldier Reports, pp. 119, 120. 22. Letter, William W. Momyer to John P. McConnell, 3 July 1969, Personal Papers of General John P. McConnell, file 168.7102–15, Air Force Historical Research Center (AFHRC). 23. Journalists could be remarkably blunt about soldiers’ behavior, like systematically killing enemy wounded; Richard Tregaskis, Guadalcanal Diary (New York: Random House, 1943), pp. 145, 147. On other voices of dissent and their lack of influence, see John Dower, War Without Mercy (New York: Pantheon, 1986), pp. 3–33; and John D. Chappell, Before the Bomb: How America Approached the End of the Pacific War (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1997), pp. 132–156. 24. There were recommendations during the war for call-up, and most senior officer memoirs and oral histories point to that as a failure of the administration— see, for example, General William B. Rosson, interview, Senior Officer Oral

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History Program, 1981, p. 339, MHI; Lieutenant General William R. Peers, Senior Officer Oral History Program, 13 April 1977, pp. 14, 81, MHI; Westmoreland, A Soldier Reports, pp. 143, 357–359; Sharp, Strategy for Defeat, pp. 166, 172, 268–271. 25. James Reichley, Conservatives in an Age of Change: The Nixon and Ford Administrations (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1981), pp. 232–239, 407–419; Tom Wicker, One of Us: Richard Nixon and the U.S. Dream (New York: Random House, 1991), pp. 571–575. 26. Louis Fisher, Presidential War Power (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1995), pp. 128–136. The expression “patriotic orthodoxy” evolved into a key concept of the “culture wars” of the 1980s and 1990s; Edward Linenthal, Symbolic Defense: The Cultural Significance of the Strategic Defense Initiative (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1989), pp. 12–16, 113–119. 27. Michael Sherry, In the Shadow of War: The United States Since the 1930s (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), p. 336; Geoff Simons, Vietnam Syndrome: Impact on U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998), pt. 2, pp. 163–266. 28. Charles Moskos, The U.S. Enlisted Man: The Rank and File in Today’s Military (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1970), pp. 37–38, 64–68, 74–77; Morris Janowitz, The Reconstruction of Patriotism: Education for Civic Consciousness (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983), pp. 192–203. 29. Daniel P. Bolger, Americans at War, 1975–1986: An Era of Violent Peace (Novato: Presidio Press, 1988), pp. 3–16, 443–452. 30. Jerry Lembcke, The Spitting Image: Myth, Memory, and the Legacy of Vietnam (New York: New York University Press, 1998), pp. 1–10; Ward Just, Military Men (New York: Knopf, 1970). 31. Daniel C. Hallin, The Uncensored War: The Media and Vietnam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), pp. 3–12, 211–215; Clarence Wyatt, Paper Soldiers: The U.S. Press and the Vietnam War (New York: W. W. Norton, 1993), pp. 216–219; Michael Wheeler, Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics: The Manipulation of Public Opinion in America (New York: Liveright, 1976), pp. 155–164, 245–247. 32. Lembcke, Spitting Image, pp. 85–87; Jeremy M. Devine, Vietnam at 24 Frames a Second (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland, 1995), pp. xi–xii, 198–200; Gilbert Adair, Vietnam on Film (London: Proteus, 1981); Philip H. Melling, Vietnam in U.S. Literature (Boston: Twayne, 1990). 33. Sherry, In the Shadow of War, p. 363; Lembcke, Spitting Image, pp. 161–182. 34. Daniel P. Bolger, Savage Peace: Americans at War in the 1990s (Novato: Presidio Press, 1995), pp. 379–390; Clodfelter, Limits of Air Power, pp. 177–202. 35. U.S. Air Force, Linebacker II: A View from the Rock, by James R. McCarthy and George B. Allison (Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1979), pp. 171–175. Clodfelter’s personal background as an army airborne soldier in Vietnam also shaped his critique; see Mark Clodfelter, Mad Minutes and Vietnam Months: A Soldier’s Memoir (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland, 1988). 36. Earl H. Tilford Jr., Setup: What the Air Force Did in Vietnam and Why (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air University Press, 1991), pp. 283–297 (portion quoted, p. 284). Examples of student theses include Robert A. Cline, “Air Power in Conflict Resolution,” tms. (Carlisle Barracks, Pa.: U.S. Army War College, 1996); Warren L. Harris, “The Linebacker Campaigns: An Analysis,” tms. (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air War College, 1987); George R. Jackson, “Linebacker II: An Examination of Strategic Use of Airpower,” tms. (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.:

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Air War College, 1987); Leonard D.G. Teixeira, “Linebacker II: A Strategic and Tactical Case Study,” tms. (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air War College, 1990). 37. David R. Mets, The Air Campaign: John Warden and the Classical Airpower Theorists (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air University Press, 1998); John A. Warden, The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1988). 38. For insights into Webb, see Robert Timberg, Nightingale’s Song (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), pp. 397–410, 457. Webb’s novels outline common elements of his views on Vietnam and civil-military relations: see James H. Webb, A Country Such As This (Garden City, N.J.: Doubleday, 1983), Fields of Fire (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1978), and A Sense of Honor (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1995). For a good sense of this civil-military cultural divide, see Richard H. Kohn, “Uncivil Relations,” Current 364 (July 1994): 16. 39. Amy Fried, Muffled Echoes: Oliver North and the Politics of Public Opinion (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997); Lawrence E. Walsh, Firewall: The Iran-Contra Conspiracy and Cover-Up (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997). 40. Timberg, Nightingale’s Song, pp. 31–49. 41. Fisher, Presidential War Power, pp. 199–206; Mackubin T. Owens Jr., “Goldwater-Nichols: A Ten-Year Retrospective,” Marine Corps Gazette 80, no. 12 (December 1996): 48; James Webb, Harry G. Summers, Stephen R. Lyne, and Victor H. Krulak, “A Symposium on McNamara, America, and Vietnam,” Strategic Review 23 (fall 1995): 47–58.

CHAPTER 7

U.S. Military Responses to Post–Cold War Missions Deborah D. Avant & James H. Lebovic

T

he end of the Cold War brought with it a variety of potential new tasks for the U.S. military. These new tasks, peace enforcement, drug interdiction, antiterrorism, and the like, cut against decades of responding to the Soviet threat. They also sit uneasily with the predominant biases within the U.S. military for large-scale, capital-intensive, high-technology operations.1 The evidence about the U.S. military’s response to these new missions is ambiguous. Some military members have spoken out publicly about their reluctance to participate in the kinds of limited conflict such missions entail,2 but organizations have generated doctrinal innovations to prepare for their new peace role.3 While military reluctance toward peace missions has been among the factors analysts cite when worrying about a fundamental divergence between civilian and military perspectives and questioning the extent of civilian control over the military,4 there seems to be increasing agreement between military and civilian leaders on foreign policy concerns.5 Despite the presumed military reluctance to participate in low-level conflicts, civilian leaders and the public seem to be pleased with the job the military is doing in peacekeeping and peace enforcement. 6 Furthermore, though the conventional wisdom holds that soldiers are reticent to engage in their new “peace” role, some soldiers deployed in peacekeeping missions have positive attitudes about those missions.7 The ambiguity of present evidence on how the military views peace missions leads us to explore this question more directly, by asking midlevel officers about the appropriateness of new versus traditional missions. We argue that the prevailing biases in the U.S. military are most likely to be represented by these officers and therefore understanding their attitudes can help us ascertain the degree to which change is occurring more generally. 139

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In the following pages, we begin by reviewing the literature on military change. Then we turn to our data. We first describe how these officers view new versus traditional missions. We then examine what kinds of factors tend to co-vary with support (or not) for these missions. Does an officer tend to support missions when he or she perceives a relevant threat? Does support vary with what officers believe civilians want? Or does support for missions vary with the role an officer plays within the military? Finally, building on the pattern of variation we find, we extrapolate the set of conditions most likely to lead U.S. military organizations to embrace new missions.

Theories of Military Change We divide the primary contenders for understanding military change into two categories: those that look at change as a response to the external environment and those that look at change as something internally generated. A prominent external source of change is a change in the nature of the threat. Analysts informed by realist thinking argue that military change is likely only when the threat environment (or the perception of it) changes.8 Another source of external change is the political direction an organization receives. If we look at the relationship between civilian leaders and military organizations as a hierarchy, we might expect the military to change when civilian leaders ask it to.9 Following this line of thinking, principal-agent analysts argue that military organizations are agents of the government. Therefore, they suggest, we must look to the preferences of the principals (civilian leaders, and ultimately the electorate) and the structure of monitoring as the key variables that affect military preferences. There is some dispute among principal-agent analysts as to whether Congress, the president, or agreement between the two matters most for military behavior.10 Nonetheless, this literature is united in its focus on civilian leaders as initiating or mediating the process of military change. The military should change to accommodate civilian demand. Others explain change by examining factors within the military itself. For example, some suggest that particular military organizations may be prone to adopt new missions because of previous cultural biases. 11 Or change may occur when new leaders take charge within an organization with different ideas about how to deal with their environment. When new ideas become dominant, change in behavior follows.12 Some are more specific about documenting the incentives required for organizational change. Stephen Rosen focuses on patterns of promotion. If promotion patterns reward a new focus, that focus is more likely to dominate.13 Overall this literature on change is largely focused on explaining

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behavioral outcomes rather than attitudes. One might argue that this literature makes no claim about changes in attitudes. Theories about behavioral outcomes, however, have implications for how we might think about the factors that influence attitudes and can be a useful source of new hypotheses. Drawing on the realist school, some examine attitudes and preferences within military organizations as distinct precisely because they are devoted first and foremost to defending the nation’s interest. These analysts expect military personnel to be hypervigilant about threat.14 According to this reasoning, we could expect to see a strong relationship between perceptions of threat and mission appropriateness among military officers. It thus leads us to ask whether the officers we surveyed are more willing to perform missions when they believe the international system presents a relevant threat. Principal-agent analyses are similarly focused on explaining outcomes, but they look at military organizations as responsive to the hierarchical structure of which they are a part. This leads us to wonder about how military attitudes relate to military beliefs about their civilian superiors. Do military officers see themselves as responsive to civilian wishes? Does an officer’s attitude track with what he or she believes civilians want? Particularly, is this the case even for those missions that have often been resisted by the U.S. military (like peacekeeping and peace enforcement)? Finally, organizational cultural analysts might lead us to wonder first whether military attitudes have begun to change in the post–Cold War era. Do U.S. military organizations support new post–Cold War missions? Also, are attitudes toward possible missions uniformly held by the military, or do they differ according to the organizational culture of each branch? Are some within the military more inclined to accept change than others? Is acceptance of a mission related to the function a member provides, or is it determined by what gets rewarded in the organization? We address these questions by looking at the beliefs of officers in the U.S. military upon which service missions, civilian preferences, and external threats are supposedly imprinted. One might wonder whether attitudes have any necessary relation to behavior or policy. Though we do not argue that officer attitudes can give us a complete picture of the military’s bias, we do believe that these officers’ responses give us important indications of the degree to which new missions are accepted. Our perspective is supported by recent studies, which have shown that attitudes do matter for behavior. John Brehm and Scott Gates demonstrate that the best indicator of whether public servants will work or shirk is their preference toward working or shirking. 15 If people want to do a job and feels the job is appropriate, they are more likely to do a good job. Others have suggested that the best way to get employees to work well is to get them to buy into the identity of the organization for which they work—whether public of private.16 So understanding military attitudes toward new missions can be

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an important indicator of how well the military will perform these missions. By examining how officers’ attitudes vary with their perceptions of threat, their beliefs about civilian preferences, and their place within the U.S. military, we can generate expectations about one dimension of military change: the conditions under which new missions are likely to be accepted.

Questions and Responses Our analysis is based on the survey responses of 546 mid-ranking officers of the U.S. Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines enrolled at five professional military education (PME) institutions: the Air Command and Staff College at Maxwell Air Force Base (Alabama); the U.S. Marine Corps Command and Staff College at Quantico Marine Corps Combat Development Command (Virginia); the College of Naval Command and Staff at the Naval War College at Newport (Rhode Island); the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth (Kansas); and the Armed Forces Staff College at Norfolk (Virginia). We surveyed the air force, navy, and marine corps in the fall of 1996, the joint school in January 1997,17 and the army in the fall of 1997. The respondents, averaging thirtyseven years of age, are almost exclusively majors and navy lieutenant commanders (some are lieutenant colonels and navy commanders). We chose to assess the perspectives of officers at this rank because we believe their attitudes are most likely to reflect a prevailing bias amid their organizations. They are senior enough to have internalized the mind-sets of their respective service branch, but not so senior that they might shed the constraints of the service perspective. Also, because these officers have chosen (and been selected) to attend a Command and Staff college, they are more likely than others of equivalent rank to have an interest in and potential for a leadership role. We believe these officers as future leaders best tell us about the direction of service perspectives, though we do not maintain that these samples represent this leadership opinion in any one of the branches.18 We asked these officers a variety of questions having to do with their background, the appropriateness and likelihood of a variety of missions, the danger posed by various threats, the influences on defense planning in their branch, and their evaluations of different civilian institutions.19 Here we focus on their attitudes toward various military missions and how these attitudes relate to their service branch, their service specialty, their beliefs about the danger posed by threats associated with these missions, and their beliefs about the attitude of the president, Congress, and the public toward these missions.

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143

Military Attitudes Toward Post–Cold War Missions At the most fundamental level, we need first to ask whether we see evidence that these officers are embracing the new post–Cold War missions. For the first part of our analysis, then, we asked service members to rate, on a five-point scale, the appropriateness of nine different missions. More specifically, they were asked, “on a scale of 1–5, where 1 is not appropriate and 5 is very appropriate, how appropriate do you believe it is for a member of the U.S. military to participate in the following missions?” The results in Table 7.1 suggest the existence of a traditional military bias.

Table 7.1

Service-Member Ratings and Rankings of Appropriate Missions

Mission

Air Force

Navy

Marines

Army

Joint

Total

General (World) War

1

1

1.5

1

1

Regional War

4.79 2

4.90 2

4.83 1.5

4.68 2

4.84 2

Counterinsurgency

4.56 3

4.50 4

4.83 3

4.57 5

4.75 3

Peace Enforcement

4.11 7

3.85 6

4.09 5

3.81 3

4.00 7

Peacekeeping

3.59 8

3.28 9

3.53 7

3.86 7

3.51 8

Humanitarian Assistance

3.37 5

3.03 7

3.39 6

3.71 4

3.43 6

Antiterrorism

3.85 4

3.24 5

3.41 4

3.82 6

3.56 4

Drug Interdiction

4.01 9

3.55 8

3.58 9

3.75 9

3.84 9

Sanctions Enforcement

3.35 6

3.21 3

2.88 8

2.96 8

3.08 5

3.72

3.89

3.17

3.61

3.77

1 0.59 4.81 2 0.70 4.64 3 0.95 4.06 7 1.03 3.56 8 1.10 3.38 5 1.07 3.69 4 1.03 3.86 9 1.22 3.19 6 1.04 3.62

N

300

30

109

28

79

546

Average Mission/Service

3.93

3.72

3.75

3.86

3.86

3.87

Notes: Upper numbers: Rank order of threat; 1 = greatest, 8 = smallest. Lower numbers: Average rating; 5 = very appropriate, 1 = not appropriate. Italics: Standard deviation.

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Overall (the totals in the last column), officers reserve their highest appropriateness ratings for the traditional missions associated with fighting a world war and a regional war.20 Indeed, these missions are ranked first and second, in that order, by all but the marines, who regard these two missions as equally important. The officers we surveyed saw nontraditional missions (drug interdiction, peacekeeping, peace enforcement, sanctions enforcement, and humanitarian assistance) as least fitting for their service.21 On the other hand, the officers did, on average, support all nine missions (if a rating of 3.00, halfway between inappropriate and very appropriate, is the point of indifference).22 The evidence for change, then, is mixed. While not rejecting new missions out-of-hand, these officers nonetheless rank missions in accordance with traditional military values. As striking as the overall support for traditional military missions is the consistency in rankings across service branches. The members of different services show strong similarities in their overall willingness to participate in military missions (judging by their average mission appropriateness ratings at the bottom of each column). Still, the services do exhibit minor differences beyond their first two choices. Navy officers regard sanctions enforcement (in which the navy role is central) as the third most appropriate mission, a ranking considerably higher than that provided by service members as a whole. For army officers, counterinsurgency is only the fifth most appropriate mission, though it is the third-ranked mission for the services as a whole. The army’s centrality in counterinsurgency operations, mixed with its unhappy counterinsurgency history in Vietnam, may explain this lack of enthusiasm.23 By contrast, army members exhibit greater enthusiasm for combat operations associated with peace enforcement (not including peacekeeping).24 In all then, the officers we surveyed do support new missions. However, they reserve their greatest support for more traditional missions. Furthermore, there is wide variation in attitudes toward new missions, which is not explained by differences between the service branches.

External Influences: Threat and Civilian Leadership Is the variation in officer attitudes explained by individual officers’ perception of threats? We begin our analysis of external influences by examining this question. We asked service members to estimate the five-year and tenyear danger presented by eight different threats. In particular, we asked, “on a scale of 1 to 5 with 1 being no danger and 5 being a great danger to U.S. security in the next 5 years [10 years], how would you rank the following potential threats?” The results in Table 7.2 show that these estimates

4.21 1

4.54 6

3.45 3

3.88 7

3.35

3.98 1

4.49 5

3.37 3

3.60 6

3.00

Terrorism

Drug Trafficking

Low-Level Regional

Environment

3.32

2.83

3.73 6

2.93 3

4.30 5

3.83 1

3.50 2

2.77 4

2.70 7

8

5-yr.

30 3.64

3.20

4.03 6

3.13 3

4.33 7

4.23 1

3.93 2

3.33 4

2.93 5

8

10-yr.

Navy

3.49

3.03

3.83 6

3.66 2

4.34 4

3.78 1

3.48 3

2.97 5

2.81 7

8

5-yr.

109 3.83

3.39

3.97 7

3.76 3

4.48 5

4.03 1

3.92 2

3.72 4

3.34 6

8

10-yr.

Marines

3.34

3.07

3.50 6

3.32 3

4.39 4.5

3.79 1

3.32 2

2.79 4.5

2.57 7

8

5-yr.

28 3.69

3.39

3.89 7

3.57 3

4.61 6

3.96 1

3.75 2

3.64 4

2.68 5

8

10-yr.

Army

3.39

2.95

3.59 6.5

3.39 3

4.38 4

4.08 1

3.27 2

2.95 5

2.62 6.5

8

5-yr.

79

Joint

3.64

3.23

3.80 7

3.41 3

4.52 5

4.24 1

3.57 2

3.37 4

2.95 6

8

10-yr.

3.45

8 0.95 2.86 7 0.96 2.94 4 0.90 3.43 2 0.97 3.93 1 0.79 4.43 5 1.46 3.40 3 1.09 3.65 6 1.06 2.99

5-yr.

546

Total

3.75

8 1.02 3.19 5 1.00 3.53 4 0.89 3.83 2 0.93 4.17 1 0.74 4.52 6 1.10 3.49 3 1.02 3.90 7 1.08 3.34

10-yr.

Notes: Upper numbers: Rank order of threat; 1 = greatest, 8 = smallest. Lower numbers: Average rating; 5 = great danger, 1 = no danger. Italics: Standard deviation.

Average Threat/Service

3.76

3.86 2

3.46 2

Proliferation

3.49

3.51 4

2.99 4

Major Regional

300

3.27 5

2.99 7.5

Emergent Powers

N

8

7.5

Resurgent Russia

10-yr.

5-yr.

Air Force

Service-Member Ratings and Rankings of Specific Threats

Specific Threat

Table 7.2

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contrast sharply with the judgments of appropriateness.25 Indeed, absent the prior findings on mission preferences, the five- and ten-year results would have led us to very different conclusions about service priorities. Respondents perceive that the greatest dangers lie in threats against which they are least enthusiastic about defending. For all of the services, the five- and tenyear terrorism threat tops the list as the most dangerous threat, with lowlevel regional conflict following a somewhat distant third. At the same time, the threats from major regional war, emerging powers, and a resurgent Russia rank fourth, seventh, and eighth as five-year threats. Notably, while respondents do not believe that it is appropriate for them to be involved in drug interdiction, they regard the danger posed by drugs to be no less than that posed by major military powers. Also, while they regard preparing for general war as their highest priority, they downplay the threat posed by Russia or emerging world powers. The results do not deny the possibility that officers’ attitudes toward missions may be tied to their assessment of international danger. Indeed, in a regression analysis performed for another study, we did find some support for the importance of threat.26 When we regressed member attitudes toward each of the above missions on a host of variables linked to bureaucratic politics, civilian attitudes, and threat, we determined that threat does explain some mission preferences, but only weakly and inconsistently. Of all missions, drug interdiction appears most sensitive to underlying conceptions of threat, though the antiterrorism and regional war missions are also apparently sensitive to underlying perceptions of danger (from terrorism and low-level regional threats, respectively).27 Nonetheless, these findings do not suggest a strong relationship between mission preferences and perceived threat. Furthermore, the results of a factor analysis we report in still another paper demonstrate that service members do draw sharp distinctions between high- and low-intensity missions.28 Respondents group general war and regional war together as high-intensity missions, and peacekeeping, peace enforcement, humanitarian assistance, antiterrorism, drug interdiction, and sanctions enforcement together as low-intensity missions. Only counterinsurgency defies easy classification, though it generally groups with high-intensity missions (in point of fact, counterinsurgency can be performed as an independent mission or as a complement to a more conventional mission). The analysis shows a similar, but softer, distinction between high- and low-intensity threats. Because these officers appear to divide up missions and threats in a similar way, we are only left more puzzled by the seemingly disconnected relationship between judgments of mission appropriateness and defined threats. The findings for mission appropriateness and threat do not support the notion that threat and mission appropriateness are closely linked. This con-

U.S. MILITARY RESPONSES TO POST–COLD WAR MISSIONS

147

tradicts both the idea that the military ties its perspective on mission appropriateness to international threats and the notion that the military is likely to invent threats to justify its existence and thereby should be impervious to external influence.29 One possible explanation for these findings is that officers recognize threats, but worry about political support for the associated missions. Indeed, some principal-agent hypotheses suggest service members will hesitate to embrace missions if there is not consensus among the civilian leadership supporting them.30 This leads us to look at the other dimension of external influence, civilian leaders. We asked the respondents to assess separately how the president, Congress, and the public view the appropriateness of these missions. The responses, found in Table 7.3, indicate that the differences among the services are smaller than the differences in perspective attributed to the president, Congress, and the public. More specifically, members of all the service groups believe that the president supports new military missions more than does either Congress or the public.31 Moreover, judging by the average appropriateness ratings attributed to the president, Congress, and the public, members of all the services believe that the president generally supports the full set of missions more than does Congress and that Congress supports these missions more than does the public. Officers from the different branches not only exhibit similar preferences, they tend to agree on the perspectives of relevant civilians. We next explore whether officers’ beliefs about civilians’ support for missions matter to their own perspectives. They are more likely to view missions as appropriate when they believe the president, Congress, or the public exhibit high support for those missions. (High presidential, congressional, and public support is defined as support above mean levels within the full sample.) Table 7.4 displays the results. The findings definitively establish that officers’ support for high-intensity missions varies with perceived presidential, congressional, and public support for these missions. The officers’ support for low-intensity missions, on the other hand, varies primarily with perceived congressional and public support for these missions. Notably, members are no more likely to support peacekeeping or drug interdiction when believing that these missions have presidential support (the difference in means between the high and low presidential support samples for these two missions is statistically insignificant). Moreover, the differences in means between the high and low presidential support subsamples for other low-intensity missions is smaller than that recorded for these same missions between the high and low congressional subsamples and the high and low public support subsamples. The implication from this table is clear. Service members are more likely to follow congressional and public assessments than presidential assessments of new missions. More elaborate statistical analysis confirms

1

4.58 2

4.32 5

3.75 7

3.63 8

3.57

2

4.43 5

4.35 8

3.79 4

4.37 3

4.28

General (World) War

Regional War

Counterinsurgency

Peace Enforcement

Peacekeeping

C

P

Air Force

2.92

2.95 9

3.16 8

4.01 6

4.53 2

1

Pb

4.47

4.37 3.5

3.89 6

4.48 7

4.60 2

1

P

3.50

3.63 9

3.86 7

4.50 5

4.87 2

1

C

Navy

3.03

3.23 9

3.10 7

4.03 8

4.77 2

1

Pb

4.64

4.54 2

4.16 5

4.67 6

4.63 1

3

P

3.70

3.76 6

3.95 4.5

4.70 3

4.73 2

1

C

Marines

3.22

3.25 9

3.52 8

4.73 5

4.81 2

1

Pb

4.57

4.50 1.5

4.18 3

4.57 6.5

4.46 1.5

4

P

3.57

3.50 5

3.71 7.5

4.43 4

4.54 2

1

C

Army

2.89

2.82 8

3.29 9

4.29 5

4.32 2

1

Pb

Service-Member Views of Civilian Ratings and Rankings of Appropriate Missions

Mission

Table 7.3

4.63

4.62 4

4.23 5

4.64 8

4.72 3

1

P

3.74

3.71 8

3.87 9

4.58 7

4.74 2

1

C

Joint

2.97

3.03 9

3.23 8

4.50 7

4.73 2

1

Pb

2 0.92 4.52 4 0.87 4.48 8 1.08 3.95 5 0.80 4.45 3 0.76 4.49

P

1 0.86 4.62 2 1.07 4.24 6 1.19 3.25 8 1.04 3.03 9 1.07 2.99

Pb

(continues)

1 0.76 4.65 2 0.86 4.45 4 1.01 3.81 7 1.01 3.66 8 1.05 3.62

C

Total

3.56 6

3.73

3.75 6

4.11

Sanctions Enforcement

3.51

3.15

3.35 7

3.85 5

3.69 3

4

Pb

4.23

4.43

3.60 5

3.80 9

4.47 8

3.5

P

3.99

4.13

3.60 3

3.77 8

4.03 6

4

C

Navy

3.60

3.53

3.60 5

3.70 4

3.37 3

6

Pb

4.39

4.15

3.95 7.5

4.15 9

4.60 7.5

4

P

3.94

3.67

3.50 7

3.64 9

3.80 8

4.5

C

Marines

3.75

3.35

3.50 7

3.65 6

3.74 4

3

Pb

4.33

4.18

4.11 6.5

4.00 8

4.43 9

5

P

3.79

3.50

3.46 7.5

3.56 9

3.82 6

3

C

Army

3.39

3.00

3.04 7

3.43 6

3.39 3

4

Pb

4.50

4.46

4.22 6

4.36 9

4.66 7

2

P

4.08

3.96

4.01 6

4.14 4

4.00 3

5

C

Joint

3.63

3.35

3.44 6

3.81 5

3.63 3

4

Pb

4.29

1 0.72 4.57 7 1.00 4.06 9 1.09 3.87 6 0.98 4.19

P

3.92

3 0.96 3.92 5 1.01 3.80 9 1.01 3.61 6 0.97 3.76

C

Total

3.58

4 1.05 3.66 3 1.06 3.78 5 1.08 3.39 7 1.11 3.23

Pb

Notes: P = President’s view, C = Congress’s view, Pb = Public’s view. Upper numbers: Rank order of threat; 1 = greatest, 8 = smallest. Lower numbers: Average rating; 5 = very appropriate, 1 = not appropriate. Italics: Standard deviation.

3.88

3.79 9

3.98 9

Drug Interdiction

4.19

3.95 4

4.57 7

Antiterrorism

Average Mission/Service

3

1

Humanitarian Assistance

C

P

Mission

Air Force

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Table 7.4

Difference in Mission Support Between Officers Who Believe the President, Congress, and the Public Show High and Low Support Average Mission Support High President Low President

General War Regional War Counterinsurgency Peace Enforcement Peacekeeping Humanitarian Assistance Antiterrorism Drug Interdiction Sanctions Enforcement

4.94**** 4.45 4.84**** 4.26 4.18**** 3.81 3.64** 3.46 3.42 3.32 3.80**** 3.46 4.03**** 3.74 3.20 3.18 3.84**** 3.41

High Congress Low Congress

4.95**** 4.35 4.89**** 4.21 4.31**** 3.67 3.74**** 3.35 3.61**** 3.12 3.89**** 3.29 4.08**** 3.50 3.31**** 3.04 3.89**** 3.21

High Public Low Public

4.92**** 4.39 4.90**** 4.26 4.50**** 3.79 3.98**** 3.40 3.59**** 2.99 3.97**** 3.30 4.09**** 3.41 3.47**** 2.92 4.00**** 3.37

Overall Mean

4.81 4.64 4.06 3.56 3.38 3.69 3.86 3.19 3.62 546 (total)

Notes: * = mean for top group higher than bottom group. * 0.10 ≥ p > 0.05, ** 0.05 ≥ p > 0.01, *** 0.01 ≥ p > 0.001, **** p ≥ p > 0.001.

this finding. The regression analysis previously cited finds that officer support for both high- and low-intensity missions varies with whether members believe that this is what civilians want. But it also shows that civilian preferences, and especially those of the public and Congress, count more when service members turn to nontraditional missions. This finding suggests a potential difference in which civilians and officers look to for guidance when considering involvement in high- and low-intensity missions. For high-intensity missions, the public matters least. Officers seem to take their cues from Congress and, to a lesser extent, the president. They thus appear willing to reduce support for these missions with changes in the congressional and presidential perspectives, perhaps backed by budgetary incentives.32 For low-intensity missions, however, the public is sometimes the only set of civilians that matter; and the president often matters only as a negative point of reference. We are struck by what we can only describe as antipathy toward the president’s opinion in the important missions of peacekeeping and antiter-

U.S. MILITARY RESPONSES TO POST–COLD WAR MISSIONS

151

rorism (even though respondents recognize terrorism to be the preeminent global threat). It is tempting to discount the apparent resistance of these officers toward executive leadership as a passing military response to the “Clinton problem”—an unappealing president with no military service. Equally, we could dismiss their apparent deference toward the public as an excuse to reject unappealing missions that civilian leaders support. But the descriptive evidence in Table 7.1 shows service members generally support those missions. Also, as we report in a second study, a substantial (factor) dimension shows respondent attitudes converging with their beliefs about the missions both Congress and the public support.33 Finally, members increase their support for low-intensity missions when believing that they enjoy public support (as much as they decrease support when believing that these missions lack public support). So the evidence is strong that these officers look to the public for cues rather than using the public as a convenient cover from which they can pursue their own traditional preferences. The officers surveyed for this study clearly believe that their convictions are consistent with civilian opinions about the appropriateness of new missions. Thus the data support the suppositions we drew from principalagent theory that military officers are aware of their position in the hierarchy of the U.S. state and that they pay attention to what civilians prefer when constituting their own attitudes. The primacy of the public for officer attitudes about new missions, however, suggests a need to think more about how principal-agent relationships work. Although it is not inconsistent with the principal-agent logic to imagine that agents may pay attention to their boss’s boss (the electorate), principal-agent models rarely make that assumption.34 Instead the results speak to the wisdom of those who look toward the particular nature of the U.S. polity to understand the prospect for military change.35 The president may indeed lead cultural change, but only when he can convince Congress and the public to follow. The military services, like other U.S. bureaucracies, are most likely to change their minds when they see a civilian consensus around new missions.

Internal Influences: Affiliation and Occupational Specialty Is there evidence that internal factors are driving change in U.S. military attitudes? Does an officer’s place in the U.S. military matter for his or her perspective about the appropriateness of different missions? Though we found only small attitudinal differences between the service branches, there are a variety of other factors within the military that may matter for whether an officer supports new missions. One argument to which we allude above is that change is hindered if innovators are punished.36 If only

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tried and tested behavior is rewarded with promotion and some service specialties are relegated to a peripheral position in the organization, we should not expect change. Organizational change is more likely, on the other hand, if those leading the way believe they will be rewarded for their adaptive behavior, that is, if those whose careers are most closely tied to the future of the organization support new missions. To determine whether support for new missions is tied to organizational rewards, we group officers by their perception of how their military occupational specialization (MOS) is affecting their career progress. We determine this by asking each respondent whether they believe their MOS enhances, detracts from, or has little impact on their career opportunities. From their responses, we create a “high-affiliation” subsample from the service and joint-service samples composed of members who believe their MOS enhances their professional opportunities, and a “low-affiliation” subsample from those who believe their MOS has, at best, no effect on their opportunities. We also consider the possibility that incentives to perform traditional missions might hinder acceptance of new missions. Since incentives within the U.S. military have traditionally been seen to favor combat positions, we separate combat from noncombat personnel by coding the occupational information supplied by the respondents. The sample is about evenly divided between high and low affiliation and combat and noncombat personnel. We look for indications that incentives affect mission support in several ways.37 First, we look for evidence of movement away from the perception that combat enhances career opportunities. If significant numbers of noncombat personnel fall into the high-affiliation sample, this would suggest that officers perceive noncombat roles as career-enhancing in a way that their counterparts did not during the Cold War. Second, we look to see how combat personnel, themselves, view new missions. Combat specialties have been considered the traditional core of the military services, and the prevailing military culture has been attributed to these members. If combat personnel begin to show support for missions such as peacekeeping, that would be evidence of declining incentives to maintain traditional attitudes. Third, we look at how affiliation affects officers’ perspectives on new missions. If officers who believe their MOS is closely tied to the future of their service support new missions, that would supply further evidence of the effects of a changing incentive structure. Finally, we look to see how affiliation and combat status together affect officers’ perspectives on new missions. The results are found in Table 7.5. In the table, the first three columns show the mean attitude for high-affiliation and low-affiliation officers in the full sample, the subsample of combat personnel, and the subsample of noncombat personnel, respectively. The next three columns show the mean

U.S. MILITARY RESPONSES TO POST–COLD WAR MISSIONS

Table 7.5

Difference in Mission Support for Samples of Officers with High and Low Affiliation, Combat and Noncombat Positions High Affiliation Low Affiliation

General War Regional War Counterinsurgency Peace Enforcement Peacekeeping Humanitarian Assistance Antiterrorism Drug Interdiction Sanctions Enforcement Subsample N

153

Combat Noncombat

Full

Cmbt

NCmbt

Full

HAffl

LAffl

4.81 4.81 4.68 4.61 4.06 4.08 3.66 3.48 3.47* 3.30 3.75 3.62 3.88 3.87 3.20 3.20 3.66 3.59 278

4.86 4.88 4.73 4.69 4.02 4.13 3.63* 3.41 3.37 3.20 3.63 3.51 3.79 3.80 2.09 2.14 2.60 2.57 170

4.73 4.77 4.60 4.56 4.12 4.05 3.71 3.52 3.63** 3.36 3.94* 3.70 4.03 3.92 2.39 2.25 2.74 2.61 108

4.87**** 4.74 4.72* 4.55 4.06 4.06 3.54 3.58 3.31 3.46 3.60 3.78** 3.78 3.94* 3.09 3.29** 3.59 3.56 279

4.86* 4.73 4.73 4.60 4.02 4.12 3.63 3.71 3.37 3.63** 3.63 3.94*** 3.79 4.03** 3.09 3.39** 3.60 3.74 170

4.88 4.77 4.69 4.56 4.13 4.05 3.41 3.52 3.20 3.36 3.51 3.70 3.80 3.92 3.14 3.25 3.57 3.61 102

253

102

151

267

108

151

Overall Mean

4.81 4.64 4.06 3.56 3.38 3.69 3.86 3.19 3.62 546 (total)

Notes: Full = Full sample, Cmbt = Combat, NCmbt = Noncombat, HAffl = High affiliation, LAffl = Low affiliation. When the mean for a group is statistically higher than the mean for the other: * 0.10 ≥ p > 0.05, ** 0.05 ≥ p > 0.01, *** 0.01 ≥ p > 0.001, **** p ≥ p > 0.001. (Some values for affiliation are missing; hence cases may not sum to 546.)

attitudes for combat and noncombat officers for the full sample, the subsample of high-affiliation officers, and the subsample of low-affiliation officers, respectively. To judge the statistical significance of the observed differences between the mission attitudes of the high- and low-affiliation groups and the combat and noncombat groups within each column, we perform “differences in means” tests (t-tests) on each set. The sizes of the various subsamples are indicated at the bottoms of the columns. The results clearly demonstrate that officers believe traditional missions are most appropriate. Their overall scores for the appropriateness of general war and regional war are 4.81 and 4.64, respectively.38 They are less enthusiastic about peace enforcement and peacekeeping missions. Their overall support for these missions is 3.56 and 3.38, respectively. Beyond this, the results also demonstrate that an officer’s position

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within the organization matters for his or her attitude about the relative appropriateness of these missions. First, the largest of all groups (170) consists of high-affiliation, combat officers, while the second largest of the groups (151) consists of low-affiliation, noncombat officers. Clearly officers believe that the organization still rewards participation in traditional combat roles more than participation in noncombat roles. We also find that combat position is associated with traditional mission support. Combat personnel are more likely to view general wars and regional wars (e.g., Desert Storm) as appropriate (see column 4). Nevertheless, high affiliation seems to contribute to support for peace missions. As shown in column 1, the officers who believe their MOS leads to future success are statistically more likely to support new service roles in peace enforcement and peacekeeping than those who believe their MOS does not enhance their career success. The effects of high affiliation vary, though, with whether an officer serves in a combat or noncombat role. Noncombat officers with high affiliation are more willing to assess peacekeeping and humanitarian assistance (nontraditional military roles) as appropriate (column 3) than those with low affiliation. Combat officers with high affiliation, however, are more willing to assess the role of peace enforcement (column 2) as appropriate than combat officers with low affiliation. It seems that the airmen, soldiers, and sailors, whose performance was central to Cold War missions, keep up with the times by more strongly promoting a “peace” mission, peace enforcement, that is more similar to traditional missions. Among highaffiliation officers (column 5), combat personnel are less enthusiastic about peacekeeping, humanitarian assistance, antiterrorism, and drug interdiction compared to noncombat personnel. Among low-affiliation officers (column 6), combat status is not associated with any attitudinal difference. Taken together, the responses suggest that perceived career rewards are a force associated with the acceptance of new missions, and combat status is a force associated with resistance to new missions. In general, those who see themselves as upwardly mobile within their service tend to be more approving of peace roles; those who perform combat functions tend to be less approving of peace roles. The results also provide evidence of an interaction effect: support for new peace missions is most apparent among officers with high affiliation and noncombat roles. The actual number of officers who belong to these various groups caution against overstating officer support for new missions. The largest group (roughly one-third of the sample) includes high-affiliation officers in combat roles. The attitudes of these officers toward new missions are somewhere in between those of the high-affiliation and combat groups. In comparison, the high-affiliation, noncombat group that demonstrates the most support for new missions accounts for only about one-fifth of the sample. And, at least in numbers, this group is offset by the low-affiliation, combat

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group (also about one-fifth of the sample) that exhibits the greatest reluctance to think positively about new missions. Nonetheless, our large subsample of combat officers are more likely to support new peace missions when they believe their MOS enhances their career potential. Thus our analysis demonstrates that officer attitudes vary with factors internal to the military organization. Follow-up analyses, however, reveal that officers’ perspectives of civilian attitudes still matter even when we control for internal distinctions. Deference to the legislature and public is widespread; even combat personnel are more likely to exhibit support for low-intensity missions when believing that these missions have high legislative and public support. On the other hand, even within the highaffiliation subsample, high presidential support is not enough to induce enthusiasm for drug interdiction and induces only mild positive effects on member support for a range of other low-intensity missions (specifically peace enforcement, peacekeeping, and humanitarian assistance). In fact, when we examine the opinions of only those officers who believe that Congress and the public provide low support for the various low-intensity missions, we find that member support for these missions is unrelated to their perception of presidential support. In other words, controlling for congressional and public support, the president’s view appears inconsequential.

Conclusion This analysis has used the survey responses of mid-level officers in the U.S. military to examine whether U.S. military officers endorse new post–Cold War missions and to explore the mechanisms by which organizational change occurs. We first looked to see how officers feel about a variety of post–Cold War missions. Then, drawing broadly from the literature on military change, we looked to see whether officers’ attitudes about new missions varied with their perception of threat, their perception of civilian preferences, and their place within the military. We found that officers exhibit strongest support for traditional, Cold War missions and that members of different service branches do not differ significantly in their attitudes toward missions. We also found, however, that on average officers support a variety of new missions. Despite a military culture in the United States that has generally focused on traditional war-fighting missions, high technology, and unlimited use of force, some officers appear to be open to a variety of nontraditional missions that operate in low-technology, limited arenas. Therefore, we examined both external and internal mechanisms to assess what could best account for the mix of continuity and change. We first examined whether perceptions of threat mattered for officer

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perspectives on mission appropriateness. We found some support for this supposition, but the importance of threat for officers’ judgments about the appropriateness of missions was weak and inconsistent. Indeed, officers’ ranking of threats bore little resemblance to their ranking of appropriate missions. This leads us to hypothesize that changes in the nature of threat alone are not likely to cause a change in military attitudes. We found stronger support for the idea that officers’ beliefs about civilian perspectives matter for their attitudes toward missions. When thinking about the relative appropriateness of new missions, officers link their opinions to those of the public (and, to a lesser extent, Congress). This leads us to expect that the military will be most likely to embrace new missions if military personnel perceive a general consensus among civilians as a whole, and in particular the public, in supporting these new missions. The idea that new missions depend on officers’ beliefs about public rather than civilian leader perspectives suggests new hypotheses for principal-agent analysts of civil-military relations. We also looked at internal variables that might affect officers’ mission attitudes—particularly we looked for evidence that officers believed new missions were being rewarded by their organization. We found strong evidence that officers who believe their military occupational specialty offers career rewards are more likely to accept new missions. Conversely, those officers with combat specialties tend to be more committed to traditional missions. The fact that officers who believe their specialization leads to career rewards generally support new missions should, according to Rosen, be a positive indicator for change. Officers serving in combat specialties, however, have traditionally been considered the vanguard, and these officers tend to be committed to traditional missions. Still, the roughly onethird of the sample that both served in a combat specialty and believed their specialty would yield career rewards had a mixed perspective on new missions. Even these combat officers thus appear open to change. In all, then, the internal variables give us important information about the characteristics of officers who hold to the old versus those seeking the new. These variables also show some changes in attitude even among the traditional military “core.” Overall our analysis provides a window into understanding the mechanisms by which change occurs (or does not occur) within military organizations. It suggests the need to look at how international threat, civilian leadership, and military culture interact in order to assess how a new international environment is likely to impact the preparations of military organizations. Changes in threat may indeed matter for new military attitudes, but a change in threat does not have much effect independent of civilian beliefs. Internal cultural changes do seem to matter for officer perspectives, but these changes appear to occur in response to civilian control

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(e.g., promotional criteria). While members of military organizations do appear attached to a traditional military identity, we are impressed by the degree to which they acknowledge changes in the world and, when they believe civilians support them, approve of the new missions that are needed to respond.39

Notes 1. There is a strong conventional wisdom that U.S. military organizations prefer conventional, high-intensity missions to low-intensity ones; see Russell Weigley, The American Way of War: A History of U.S. Military Strategy and Policy (New York: Macmillan, 1973). Morris Janowitz both expected the military would resist a “constabulatory” role and confirmed that they did; see Janowitz, The Professional Soldier (Glencoe: Free Press, 1960) and “Civic Consciousness and Military Performance,” in Morris Janowitz and Steven Wesbrook (eds.), Civic Education and the Military (Beverly Hills: Sage, 1983). This preference was particularly apparent in the army’s attitudes and performance in Vietnam; see, for example, Douglas Blaufarb, The Counterinsurgency Era: U.S. Doctrine and Performance, 1950 to the Present (New York: Free Press, 1977); and Andrew Krepinevich, The Army in Vietnam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985). In a survey of analyses of soldiers serving in Vietnam, Peter Dawkins found that soldiers believed participating in nonconventional units such as special-forces units hurt their chances of promotion and were not appreciated by the army; see Dawkins, “The U.S. Army and the ‘Other’ War in Vietnam,” Ph.D. diss., Princeton University, 1979. The navy has been faulted for a similar perspective toward the “brown water” tasks associated with riverine warfare in Vietnam, and only the marines have been noted for their acceptance of low-level tasks, at least in Vietnam; see Deborah D. Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change: Lessons from Peripheral Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994). 2. For the prominent example of public comment, see Colin Powell, “Why Generals Get Nervous,” New York Times, 8 October 1992. 3. See, for example, “Joint Doctrine for Military Operations Other Than War, 1995” (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: TRADOC, 1995); and “Peace Operations,” U.S. Army Field Manual (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: TRADOC, 1994), pp. 100–123. The air force’s development of the air expeditionary forces and the navy’s focus on littoral warfare offer additional examples of innovation. 4. See Richard Kohn, “Out of Control: The Crisis in Civil-Military Relations,” The National Interest 35 (spring 1994): 3–17; Thomas Ricks, “The Widening Gap Between the Military and Society,” Atlantic Monthly, July 1997, pp. 67–78; Russell Weigley, “The American Military and the Principle of Civilian Control from McClellan to Powell,” Journal of Military History (special issue) 57, no. 5 (October 1993): 27–58. For analysis and debate on the crisis, see Deborah Avant, Andrew Bacevich, James Burk, Cori Dauber, Michael Desch, and Peter Feaver, “A Symposium on Civil-Military Relations,” Armed Forces and Society 24, no. 3 (spring 1998): 375–462. 5. See Ole R. Holsti, “A Widening Gap Between the U.S. Military and Civilian Society? Some Evidence, 1976–96,” International Security 23, no. 3 (winter 1998/99): 5–42; tabs. 8 and 9 show evidence on agreement between civilian and military leaders in 1996.

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6. See Frank Newport, “Small Business and Military Generate Most Confidence in Americans,” Gallup poll, 15 August 1997, www.gallup.com/poll/ releases/pr970815.asp; Deborah Avant, “Are the Reluctant Warriors Out of Control? Why the U.S. Military Is Averse to Responding to Post–Cold War Low-Level Threats,” Security Studies 6, no. 2 (winter 1996/97): 51–90. 7. Laura Miller, “Do Soldiers Hate Peacekeeping? The Case of Preventative Diplomacy Operations in Macedonia,” Armed Forces and Society 23, no. 3 (spring 1997). 8. Barry Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), makes the clearest argument linking threat to military change. He argues that threats both induce civilians to intervene to force change, and create awareness among the military leadership about the need for change. See Stephen Walt, The Origin of Alliances (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), for the argument that perception of threat is most important for inducing action. 9. Jack Snyder, The Ideology of the Offensive (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), looks at the quality of civilian oversight as being important for military doctrine. Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change, examines the civilmilitary relationship as a principal-agent problem. 10. For an argument against congressional dominance, see Terry Moe, “An Assessment of the Positive Theory of Congressional Dominance,” Legislative Studies Quarterly 12, no. 4 (1987): 475–520. For an argument about the importance of civilian agreement, see Deborah Avant, “Are the Reluctant Warriors Out of Control?” 11. This logic leads some to expect the U.S. Marines to be more responsive to low-intensity missions than other branches. See Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change, chap. 4. 12. Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993). 13. See Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the Modern Military (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991). 14. Thus Samuel Huntington sees the military as inherently conservative and Harold Lasswell sees the potential for a garrison state. See Huntington, The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957); Lasswell, “The Garrison State,” American Journal of Sociology 46, no. 4 (1941): 455–468. 15. John Brehm and Scott Gates, Working, Shirking, and Sabotage: Bureaucratic Response to a Democratic Public (Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press, 1997). 16. Gary Miller, Managerial Dilemma: The Political Economy of Hierarchy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); James Q. Wilson, Bureaucracy: What Government Agencies Do and Why They Do It (New York: Basic Books, 1989). 17. The Armed Forces Staff College at Norfolk latter is a joint-service PME institution. 18. Our concerns about representativeness are allayed by the stability of our findings among the various organizations and by the relatively large size of some of our service samples (particularly for the air force and the marines). 19. In each case, staff at the PME institutions administered the survey. In all but Fort Leavenworth, the surveys were also collected at the institution. The respondents from Fort Leavenworth were required to mail the surveys directly to the

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researchers. The response rate ranged from a low of 43 percent (from the College of Naval Command and Staff at Newport) to a high of 94 percent (from the Marine Corps Command and Staff College at Quantico). 20. When composing the survey, we neglected to distinguish between the appropriateness of high- and low-intensity regional war, though we did distinguish between the two when asking about future threats. Nevertheless, we assume that service members associate regional war with the most demanding high-intensity mission because the question about the appropriateness of participating in regional war directly follows the question about participating in general war and precedes separate questions about participating in counterinsurgency and peace enforcement missions, and because service members express strong approval for preparing for both general and regional war but much less enthusiasm for various low-intensity missions. 21. The high relative preference for humanitarian missions is somewhat surprising. But such missions might appear less entangling to the services than involvement in the civil conflicts associated with peace enforcement. In any case, all the services do not strongly support humanitarian assistance (the marines and joint group regard it as their sixth preferred mission and the navy regards it as only their seventh). 22. The variation in service member responses is consistently greater for less preferred missions: the full-sample standard deviations for the drug interdiction (1.22) and peacekeeping missions (1.10) are higher than those for any other missions (certainly exceeding the 0.59 recorded for general war preparedness). 23. See Krepinevich, Army in Vietnam. 24. Nevertheless, the similarity of the average ratings cautions against overstating the distinctiveness of army officers’ preferences. 25. Since the ten-year danger is more inclusive than the five-year danger, service members rate ten-year threats as more dangerous than the corresponding fiveyear threats. Nevertheless, service members perceive a significantly increased danger from emerging powers in the five- to ten-year threat range: they rate it as the seventh most serious five-year threat but the fifth most serious ten-year threat. 26. Deborah Avant and James Lebovic, “Bureaucratic Beliefs: Threat, Mission, and the U.S. Military in the Post–Cold War,” paper presented at the International Studies Association Annual Convention, Washington, D.C., 16–20 February 1999. 27. Interestingly, while clear high- and low-intensity dimensions emerge in all the analyses, the factor scores derived for the various mission and threat dimensions are virtually uncorrelated, supporting the descriptive finding that respondents partition their thinking about appropriate missions and threat. 28. Avant and Lebovic, “Bureaucratic Beliefs.” 29. See, for example, John Steinbruner, The Cybernetic Theory of Decision (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974). 30. Avant, “Are the Reluctant Warriors Out of Control?” 31. Nevertheless, the responses of different service branches differ, sometimes considerably, when assessing by how much and on what the president, Congress, and the public disagree. 32. We hesitate to draw too much from the findings about variation in support for traditional missions because there was not a great deal of variance. 33. Deborah Avant and James Lebovic, “Agents or Advocates: Military Perspectives After the Cold War,” draft manuscript, 1998. 34. John Brehm and Scott Gates, Working, Shirking, and Sabotage (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), do suggest that the most important

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indicator of whether an agent will work, shirk, or sabotage public policy is the agent’s predispositions—that oversight and management matter less than choosing agents that have the public good in mind. Despite evidence that management is not always effective, however, they also show that agents are generally more publicminded than a bureaucratic politics perspective would suggest: bureaucrats want to carry out the public good. Our findings are not inconsistent with this conclusion. 35. See G. John Ikenberry, David Lake, and Stephen Haggard, The State and American Foreign Economic Policy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988). 36. See Rosen, Winning the Next War; Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change. 37. We do not have responses to the same questions during the Cold War, but infer the common understanding from studies of military perspectives about unconventional missions such as Dawkins, “U.S. Army and the ‘Other War’ in Vietnam.” 38. They also believe civilians share their view. Officers rate presidential, congressional, and public beliefs about the appropriateness of participating in general war as 4.52, 4.65, and 4.62, respectively. They rate presidential, congressional, and public beliefs about the appropriateness of participating in regional war as 4.48, 4.45, and 4.24, respectively. See Avant and Lebovic, “Bureaucratic Beliefs.” 39. Analysts arguing for the importance of military culture admit that organizational-culture approaches are less useful if culture seems to change easily under the sway of other factors. See Jeffrey Legro, “Which Norms Matter? Revisiting the ‘Failure’ of Internationalism,” International Organizations 51, no. 1 (winter 1997), p. 38. Legro does not examine civilian influence as an alternative to organizational culture.

CHAPTER 8

Reform and the Russian Military Jennifer G. Mathers

T

he resistance of the Russian armed forces to serious reform is striking. Since the end of the Cold War, Russia has changed dramatically, as has the world around it, and yet in many respects the Russian military has continued to cling to concepts and practices that date from the Soviet period and the height of East-West military confrontation. The Russian military has undergone a succession of external shocks, from the end of the Cold War to military defeats suffered by proxy (in the case of the Soviet-armed Iraqi troops in the 1990–1991 Gulf War) and by Russia’s own forces (in Chechnya). Any one of these might have been expected to jolt its leadership into immediate action aimed at fundamentally reorganizing the armed forces to respond to the needs of the post–Cold War world. But instead of embarking on a serious effort at significant change, the Russian armed forces have suffered steady and relentless decline masquerading as reform. This chapter will explore the reasons for this lack of significant military change in a country where it is desperately needed and will argue that the crucial factor has been the absence of decisive political leadership giving a clear direction to military reform. Although Mikhail Gorbachev’s approach to security policy could have acted as the foundation for major military change, the impetus for such change came not from within the armed forces but from a reforming political leadership with a clear agenda and a set of priorities for defense. Under Boris Yeltsin’s presidency the innovations of the Gorbachev years were ignored and indeed reversed. Yeltsin had little interest in military reform or indeed in the armed forces themselves beyond whether they would support him in a series of internal power struggles. During Yeltsin’s presidency the armed forces were left to their own devices, with the result that lip service 161

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was paid to the need for reform, but the only significant changes that occurred in the Russian military were those that were completely beyond the control of the defense ministry in Moscow, such as the sharp decline in recruitment and retention at every level. There are some more encouraging signs for the cause of military change in Russia from the first months of Vladimir Putin’s presidency. Although blighted by the tragedy of the sinking of the submarine Kursk (and Putin’s inept handling of it) and the second military intervention in Chechnya, this Russian president does demonstrate a greater degree of comprehension of the nature of the problems facing the country’s armed forces as well as the scale of policy changes that are required. Putin has publicly recognized the need to reduce Russia’s total military effort and to focus on preparing for those threats that Russia is most likely to face in the foreseeable future, although it is not yet clear whether he has found a way of achieving those goals. If he does, then he may be the political leader the Russian Army has been waiting for.

Gorbachev: Laying the Foundations for Military Reform Few aspects of life in the Soviet Union were untouched by the political, economic, and societal changes initiated by Gorbachev’s program of perestroika, and the Soviet armed forces were no exception. Significant change in Soviet security policy and within the armed forces themselves was an essential condition for the success of Gorbachev’s economic and political reforms. If Gorbachev did not visibly and dramatically reduce the threat the Soviet Union posed to the security of the West in general and to the United States in particular, there would be little chance of easing East-West tensions and taking the steam out of the superpower arms race, thus diminishing the Western security threat to the USSR. A more stable and reassuring international security climate was in turn vital to make it politically possible for Gorbachev to shift substantial resources from the armed forces and the defense industry into the civilian economy. Significant military change therefore became possible—and even probable—as a result of Gorbachev’s wider political and economic agenda, but the catalyst for change had to come from outside the Soviet armed forces because of the nature of civil-military relations in the USSR. From the very beginnings of the Red Army, the Bolsheviks took great pains to ensure that the military would occupy a role subordinate to the political leadership of the new state. A special department of the party was created to oversee the armed forces, while the loyalty and performance of individual officers (many of whom had been recruited for their military experience under the

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old regime) were monitored by “political officers” who served in the units by their sides and had the power to countermand their orders. Later a third aspect of party control was added: the individual party membership of military officers. Joining the party was a prerequisite for career advancement in the armed forces as in other Soviet organizations. By the time Gorbachev came to power, most senior Soviet officers belonged to the Communist Party and the military was well represented on important party bodies such as the Central Committee. In this way the party co-opted the country’s senior military officers into the ruling elite and ensured that they shared a core set of values, including loyalty to the party and the state as well as an acceptance of the authority of party leaders.1 These methods of subordinating the Soviet armed forces to civilian authority were reinforced by an informal arrangement that Gorbachev’s predecessors in the Kremlin had developed with their counterparts in the Soviet military leadership, creating what Western scholars have described as a “loosely-coupled” decisionmaking system.2 This system involved a division of powers, responsibilities, and benefits between the civilian and military leaderships. As a result of this arrangement, the Soviet military enjoyed high levels of resources, a prestigious position for the institution and its members in Soviet society, a large degree of decisionmaking autonomy in its own sphere (especially the operational details of how to implement policy decisions), and, together with the intelligence services, a virtually unchallenged position as the source of policy advice for the Politburo on defense matters by virtue of their close control over information related to defense and security. For their part, the political leadership were ensured the loyalty of the armed forces to the Communist Party and the Soviet state, the authority to make policy decisions that would be binding upon the armed forces, and the noninterference of the military in domestic politics. The combination of formal, structural mechanisms of control and informal divisions of privileges and responsibilities was remarkably successful in creating a culture among officers of noninterference in political matters. While in many respects the Soviet officer corps was heavily politicized (for example through party membership and service on party committees), individual officers felt very strongly that the military was and should be separate from politics. The Soviet armed forces as an institution was therefore entirely dependent upon the civilian authorities for any major policy decision. This was particularly the case for any policy decision involving significant military change. Any large-scale organizational change or changes to the rules governing conscription would always come from the political rather than the military leadership. As a result of Gorbachev’s need to make significant changes to so many different aspects of the economy, politics, society, and foreign policy, the Soviet leader weakened the foundations of the civil-military relation-

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ship in the USSR. Gorbachev’s aim of reducing Soviet defense spending threatened the resource base of the armed forces and the defense industry, while the practice of glasnost began to expose the military to unprecedented public scrutiny and criticism, which helped to diminish the respect previously accorded to the armed forces and their members. The effects of Gorbachev’s emphasis on democratization within the Communist Party and his attempts to encourage popular participation in politics were visible in the military and threatened to remove restraints preventing the army from interfering in matters of domestic politics. Political education sessions organized within the units of the armed forces began to include discussions about the progress and merits of perestroika. Officers responded to the calls from their political leaders for ordinary people to become involved in politics and began to organize themselves into lobby groups of sorts, such as the Officers Union and the Officers Assembly, as well as to seek and win seats in the newly established USSR and the republican-level Congresses of People’s Deputies. But while each of the measures mentioned above represented a significant change to the practice of civil-military relations in the USSR, the culture of military subordination to civilian authority proved remarkably enduring. Instead it was the changes that Gorbachev introduced to the processes of policy advising and policymaking that perhaps had the greatest potential to ensure that radical reform would be experienced by the military. Policymaking

One of the most radical innovations of Gorbachev’s approach to defense policy lay in his widening of the security policy community to include civilians as policy advisers.3 As noted above, one of the characteristics of the Soviet defense decisionmaking process before Gorbachev’s leadership was the way that policy advice in this area was offered almost exclusively by the armed forces. The regime’s concern—even obsession—with the security of classified information meant that no one apart from senior members of the armed forces, the intelligence services, and the Communist Party was given access to such details as the USSR’s weapons capabilities and deployments. The armed forces’ privileged access to this information ensured that no civilian analyst was in a position to offer authoritative defense policy advice to the country’s political leadership. Gorbachev was eager to introduce change in this area partly because he personally found civilian experts’ ideas and ways of thinking about defense and security matters more congenial than the views that were expressed by the armed forces. Gorbachev’s experiences during his formative years as a student at Moscow State University and working his way up the party’s career ladder had brought him into contact with many of the academics

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whose ideas shaped the entire perestroika project. In sharp contrast to most of his predecessors in the Kremlin, Gorbachev had no personal experience of military service to establish affection for and affinity with the armed forces. In addition to the influence of Gorbachev’s personal views and preferences, the new Soviet leader was also aware that the leaders of the armed forces had played a large role in shaping the disastrous security policy decisions of the 1970s and early 1980s, which in turn helped to bring the USSR to such a dire state both at home and abroad. Simply put, the military’s way of going about defense policy had been given ample trial and had failed the country badly. Now it was time to give civilian experts a chance. To accomplish this, civilian institutions were brought much more closely into the policy advice and decisionmaking processes. During Gorbachev’s leadership the Ministry of Foreign Affairs played a more significant role in arms control negotiations, supported by its new section on arms control and disarmament headed by Viktor Karpov, the former chief Soviet negotiator in SALT II. 4 The International Department of the Communist Party’s Central Committee also developed expertise on arms control,5 and more generally was encouraged under the leadership of former Soviet ambassador to the United States Anatoli Dobrynin to develop into a source of alternative policy ideas for the Soviet political leadership.6 In similar fashion, several of the research institutes associated with the USSR Academy of Sciences, such as the Institute of World Economy and International Relations and the USA and Canada Institute, were frequently called upon to offer their advice to Gorbachev and the Politburo on foreign and security policy issues.7 The new process of greater involvement of civilian bodies in decisionmaking was accomplished at the expense of the institutions of the Soviet armed forces, which found themselves increasingly marginalized. The military, and in particular the General Staff, came under pressure from above to relax their tight grip on information related to Soviet national security.8 While the number of individuals trusted with such information continued to be very small, the ending of the military’s monopoly on access to securityrelated information was of both symbolic and practical significance. It demonstrated that Gorbachev was serious about looking outside the ranks of the armed forces for defense policy options, and it meant that the military was no longer the only source of informed advice on security issues. As a result, from 1987 onward civilian experts on security and international affairs such as Alexei Arbatov, Andrei Kokoshin, and Andrei Kozyrev began to write in some detail about the military aspects of Soviet security policy, including issues related to military doctrine. Civilian analysts addressed issues that previously had been exclusively in the domain of the Soviet armed forces, such as the role of command and control,9 and the strategic defensive operations carried out by the USSR during World War

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II.10 This represented the first entry since the 1920s of civilians in significant numbers into such debates in the USSR,11 and is the main reason why Gorbachev’s approach to security was able to break out of the mold of previous Soviet leaderships, which were shaped by more traditional “military” solutions to security issues. It was the civilian advisers who were responsible for introducing and articulating many of the concepts of New Political Thinking discussed below and who encouraged a privileging of political over military solutions to security problems. As Kimberly Marten Zisk has pointed out, Gorbachev’s expansion of the security policy community was a crucial factor in shaping the military doctrinal planning process, but Zisk was overly optimistic in her assessment that Gorbachev’s innovations in this area would have a long-term impact.12 Concepts

The most encompassing of the concepts that underpinned New Political Thinking was that of interdependence, a term from Western social science that had been discussed among academics in the Soviet Union since the 1960s but had not previously had an impact on policymaking circles. Gorbachev was quick to see the relevance of this notion to international security relations in the age of nuclear weapons, and he used it to support his argument that ideological competition between socialism and capitalism was no longer the driving force behind international relations. In an era when the use by one superpower of its nuclear weapons could result in destruction on a global scale, Gorbachev warned that the ideological competition between states had been transcended by the existence of common, human values. Closely related to interdependence was the concept of mutual security. Gorbachev and other proponents of New Political Thinking asserted that the security of states could no longer be treated as a zero-sum game, wherein one state increases its security at the expense of another’s. Instead, any attempts by one state to increase its security unilaterally through weapons buildups or other threatening behavior would prove counterproductive by provoking a compensatory response from its rivals, therefore reducing security for all. Security, Gorbachev argued, could not be achieved unilaterally and could therefore only be mutual or common. Moreover, security was depicted by Gorbachev and his civilian advisers as a political, not a military, problem and one that therefore required political solutions. The use of military means to solve political problems was identified as the source of many of the foreign policy disasters of the Brezhnev years. In addition to making greater use of political and diplomatic methods of resolving the problems of international security, Gorbachev and his

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civilian advisers advocated taking practical, concrete steps to reduce the threat posed by the Soviet Union to other countries, particularly those in the Western alliance. They argued that the size, composition, and capabilities of the USSR’s armed forces should be sufficient, but not more than sufficient, to provide a defense for the country against attack. This was the concept of “reasonable sufficiency” advanced by advocates of New Political Thinking as a guideline for determining how much of the country’s resources should be devoted to defense. The companion concept of “defensive defense” developed reasonable sufficiency further by asserting that the USSR should have only those military capabilities suitable for selfdefense against attack, excluding not only offensive but also counteroffensive operations. The concepts of New Political Thinking had a clear impact on doctrine and strategic thought. The first signs of change were visible in the new military doctrine of the Warsaw Treaty Organization, announced in May 1987, which was largely defensive in orientation. According to statements at the time by senior Soviet defense officials Marshal Sergei Akhromeyev and Colonel-General M. A. Gareyev, the defensive orientation was already being reflected in changes to manuals and training practices, and in fact a major Warsaw Pact training exercise in March 1988 involved a defensive and very limited counteroffensive response to a simulated large-scale invasion by the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO).13 Although the draft of a new Soviet military doctrine was not published until 1990, from 1987 onward senior Ministry of Defense officials asserted that the military doctrine of the USSR was also being reoriented toward defense and the prevention of war. When the final draft Soviet military doctrine was published in a special issue of the General Staff journal Military Thought, it was clearly the product of the New Political Thinking agenda. The 1990 draft went beyond a reorientation toward the defense. The prevention of war was specifically mentioned as a task of military doctrine, and the importance of the USSR working jointly with other states to resolve security issues was emphasized.14 Peace was described as the highest human value, while war, the use of military forces, and the threat of force were all explicitly and unconditionally rejected in this draft. The doctrine stated unequivocally that the USSR would never be the first to use military force, either conventional or nuclear, against another state. Both the intention and capability for preemptive strikes and large-scale offensive operations were ruled out, and it was emphasized that any necessary defensive operations should be accomplished, where possible, within the borders of Soviet territory. There were no references to the notion of “victory” or “defeat” of the enemy.15 As R. Craig Nation notes: “The emphasis in [Soviet] military doctrine had shifted

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from the contingency of war to the necessity of peace, and assuring an adequate and non-provocative defense had become the armed force’s primary military-technical task.”16 Military Reform

The same issue of Military Thought in which the 1990 draft of Soviet military doctrine was published also contained a lengthy piece titled “Draft Concepts of Military Reform.” In many respects this plan was overly ambitious and probably would not have been fully implemented in this form even had Gorbachev’s leadership and the USSR itself lasted beyond 1991, but nevertheless the document is valuable as a clear indication of Gorbachev’s intentions for the Soviet armed forces. The tenets of New Political Thinking provided the conceptual framework for this reform plan, and many of the proposals for specific change represent a logical continuation of the policies that Gorbachev had already introduced in such areas as arms control and confidence-building measures. The draft reform plan envisaged a three-stage process, beginning immediately and culminating in 2000, when all major reforms would have been implemented.17 The main areas discussed included staffing; size, composition, and structure; and civilian oversight. Staffing was a crucial issue for the Soviet armed forces. During the Gorbachev period the Soviet military faced serious manpower shortages, which were a direct consequence of the new policy of glasnost, or openness. Soviet newspapers and television programs had begun to reveal the harsh realities of life for ordinary soldiers, including shortages of food and suitable clothing, callous commanding officers, and a system of institutionalized bullying for conscripts (dedovshchina) that often involved singling out recruits from non-Slav ethnic backgrounds for particular punishment. In the light of such revelations, fewer and fewer young men were willing to comply with conscription orders, and the foundation of the Soviet armed forces’ manpower policy began to crumble. From about 1988 onward serious debates about the rival merits of conscription and a professional army began to be visible in the Soviet media and within the senior ranks of the armed forces. While some officers criticized any moves away from conscription on the grounds that it would be very expensive and would risk divorcing the army from Soviet society, they had clearly been overruled by June 1990, when Defense Minister Dmitri Yazov announced that a trial of voluntary or “contract service” in the navy would be introduced in the following year and, if successful, would be extended.18 The 1990 draft plan for military reform proposed developing a mixed system combining conscription (for a reduced period of eighteen months) with a substantial and growing proportion of volunteer soldiers. Emphasis was placed on the need

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for the democratization of relations between officers and soldiers and on respect for the rule of law within the armed forces. Provision was to be made also for alternative forms of service for conscientious objectors.19 Plans for changes to the size, composition, and structure of the Soviet armed forces in the military reform draft focused on creating a smaller but more effective and efficient organization with an unambiguously defensive orientation. The major impetus to reduce the size of the Soviet military undoubtedly came from Gorbachev’s pressing need to rein in the defense budget and to alter the external perception that the USSR posed a serious military threat. Gorbachev had already begun to take steps in this direction, as we can see from his announcement in a speech to the UN in December 1988 of a unilateral Soviet reduction of 500,000 troops and 10,000 tanks,20 together with the cuts in conventional and nuclear weapons required by the arms reduction treaties that were negotiated and signed during his leadership and the withdrawal of Soviet troops from Afghanistan in 1989. The 1990 plan for military reform envisaged maintaining an armed forces of five services (strategic missile forces, an air force, air defense forces, a navy, and ground forces), but reducing each one by 6–20 percent and putting particular emphasis on cutting the numbers of senior officers and those defense ministry staff in support and administrative posts.21 The guiding principle for restructuring the armed forces was the requirement of reasonable and reliable sufficiency for defense in the context of an international security environment where the likelihood of nuclear or large-scale conventional war was significantly diminished. The 1990 military reform plan stressed the importance of qualitative improvements in conventional weapons and equipment, referring to the need to close the gap between the USSR and NATO armies in this area, while at the same time reducing the Soviet Union’s reliance upon nuclear weapons.22 Finally, the 1990 draft reform plan highlighted the importance of ensuring that the armed forces would be under effective civilian oversight and accountable to the elected representatives of the Soviet people. The USSR’s armed forces would be under the control of a civilian commander in chief (the Soviet president), answerable to the Congress of People’s Deputies as the highest organ of state power on defense policy, with the Supreme Soviet’s approval necessary in such areas as the defense budget and changes to military doctrine or the structure and size of the armed forces. The defense ministry was assigned the role of implementing the decisions of civilian authorities, leading the armed forces, and ensuring its combat readiness.23 The changes to security concepts and the proposals for military reform that were developed during Gorbachev’s leadership came from outside the Soviet military, and some aspects of them were very controversial within that organization. There was strong resistance in particular to the notion

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that defense was the only acceptable form of military operation. A number of officers publicly objected to the ruling that counteroffensive actions should not be undertaken and that an enemy who had launched an attack on the USSR should not be pursued beyond the country’s borders.24 But while there were disputes about the practical consequences of reasonable sufficiency and a defensive doctrine, the broader aims of Gorbachev’s reform program were accepted and even welcomed by many in the Soviet armed forces, who understood that defense was placing a crushing burden on the country’s economy. These officers recognized that this burden would have to be lifted and the economy revitalized to permit the USSR to compete effectively with its Western rivals, both economically and militarily.25

Yeltsin: Reform Abandoned While Gorbachev and his civilian advisers introduced new ways of thinking about defense and security that led directly to a concrete program for military change, during Yeltsin’s eight years as president of the Russian Federation there was little real impetus for military reform. Far from building on the foundations that Gorbachev had established in this area, Yeltsin presided over the dismantling of several of its key components. As a result the chance was lost to establish a Russian armed forces oriented toward the security requirements of the post–Cold War world. Policymaking

By the beginning of the 1990s many of Gorbachev’s most radical policy advisers had abandoned their original patron. Disillusioned with the Soviet president’s shift to the right to appease his most conservative critics in the Communist Party leadership, reform-minded academics and analysts flocked to the rival camp of Boris Yeltsin, the populist political leader making a name for himself as the champion of political and economic reform. However, Gorbachev’s former advisers did not stay for long in Yeltsin’s inner circle. Once he had established himself as president of an independent, post-Soviet Russia, Boris Yeltsin followed the time-honored tradition of his predecessors in the Kremlin and surrounded himself with those from his native region (Sverdlovsk, subsequently renamed Ekaterinberg) in order to repay old debts or bestow new favors. Moreover, once his chief political rival (Gorbachev) was out of the picture, Yeltsin paid little attention to the various academics, writers, and philosophers whose support had encouraged Western leaders to take him seriously during 1990 and 1991.26 The civilian analysts who had shaped perestroika and New Political Thinking found Yeltsin increasingly inaccessible and uninterested in their ideas and

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drifted away from the Kremlin. 27 Some established their own research institutes while others, such as Alexei Arbatov, won seats in the Russian Duma (parliament) and attempted to influence Russia’s security policy from that direction. The departure of reform-minded civilian advisers was one of several important changes to security policymaking during Yeltsin’s presidency that led directly to another: the reemergence of the armed forces as the most significant source of defense policy advice. In the absence of competition from civilians who had the ear of the leader, the armed forces were able to regain lost ground and return to being virtually unchallenged as providers of defense policy options. The military were aided in this process by Yeltsin’s canny political instincts. His experiences in August 1991 and October 1993 provided dramatic illustrations of the importance of getting and keeping the armed forces on his side. Restoring them to their former status as privileged advisers was a small price to pay to ensure that the armed forces continued to support Yeltsin’s position.28 The loss of civilians as national security policy advisers and the reestablishment of the military in this role were both aspects of a tendency under Yeltsin’s leadership to narrow the community of people with influence or power over policymaking in all areas. While Gorbachev initiated the democratization of policymaking and presided over the first parliament with genuine lawmaking powers in the USSR since the Bolsheviks seized power in 1917, Yeltsin took steps to ensure that real power and decisionmaking were concentrated in the hands of an ever diminishing number of people, chiefly himself. Toward the beginning of his tenure as president of an independent post-Soviet Russia, Yeltsin introduced the Security Council as an advisory body, but as its membership increased and its remit expanded, decisions began to be taken by a small inner circle of key officials and presented to the full council for ratification. Meanwhile the powers of the Russian parliament in defense policy as in other areas were sharply curtailed by the constitution adopted in the aftermath of the October 1993 challenge to Yeltsin’s authority by some members of the Supreme Soviet. Russia’s new constitution gave the president extensive powers over foreign and defense policy, abolished the post of vice president, which could have acted as a counterweight to the president, and left the legislature with little say in the substance of Russia’s defense policy and the appointment of those required to implement it. Parliament was given the right to approve the defense budget, but has since been denied access to detailed information about precisely how the Ministry of Defense spends its allocations, which is regarded as too sensitive to be shared with mere civilians.29 The effect of these changes to security policymaking during Yeltsin’s tenure as Russian president was to decrease sharply the accountability of

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defense policy decisions and the Ministry of Defense. The armed forces were answerable not to Russian citizens through the hundreds of their elected representatives in parliament, but to a single elected official: the president. Some of the most radical changes in the area of security that were introduced by Gorbachev were thus reversed by his successor, producing a military establishment that was increasingly inward-looking, narrowly focused, and subject to the whims of its senior leadership. In 1997, Russian defense journalist Pavel Felgengauer described the Ministry of Defense as “a pyramid of purely military staffs and administrations whose inner workings are hidden from the public and beyond the control of the political leadership.”30 Concepts

The change of leadership from Gorbachev to Yeltsin and the shifts in the processes of defense policymaking outlined above had a dramatic effect on the conceptual basis of Russia’s defense policy during Yeltsin’s presidency. Among those with power or influence over defense policy there were very few who wanted to develop further the most radical ideas advanced during the Gorbachev period. Yeltsin himself had little interest in abstract notions and never articulated any “big ideas” comparable to Gorbachev’s New Political Thinking. As we have seen from the discussion above, the civilian experts who had been instrumental in creating the major security concepts of the Gorbachev leadership were soon removed—or removed themselves—from the scene. A potential source of new ideas about the direction of defense policy lay within the armed forces, among those younger, reform-minded junior and middle-ranking officers who had supported the aims of perestroika. But these were among the first to leave the military as pay and conditions for those in service declined in comparison with opportunities in civilian life for energetic and intelligent young men created by Russia’s new market economy. Less than two years after the Russian armed forces were formed they had lost some 155,000 officers, most of whom were under the age of thirty. The task of developing an intellectual framework to guide the development of Russia’s defense policy and its armed forces was left to those who remained: for the most part these were senior officers in the General Staff who had devoted their careers to preparing for large-scale nuclear or conventional war against NATO forces.31 The effects of these developments could be seen almost immediately in the provisions of Russia’s new military doctrine, which was adopted in November 1993 and which eliminated the most radical aspects of the 1990 draft.32 Although the 1993 doctrine placed emphasis on the possible catastrophic effects of war in the nuclear age and the importance of avoiding

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conflict, there was no repeat of the 1990 renunciation of the threat or use of military force. On the contrary, Russia explicitly reserved the right to use military force to achieve peace and to maintain it. “Sufficiency for defense” was still referred to as the guiding principle for the size and composition of the armed forces, but the phrase was redefined to include the capacity to conduct offensive operations to meet the requirements of the conflict. The pledge not to be the first to use nuclear weapons or other weapons of mass destruction was qualified by the provision that Russia would treat attacks on “potentially dangerous targets,”33 such as its nuclear weapons or power stations, as the use of weapons of mass destruction by the attacker, even if conventional weapons had been employed. In a return to the emphasis on comparing numbers that was so characteristic of the Soviet period, militarystrategic parity was defined as approximately equal quantities rather than capabilities of weapons. Finally, although the 1993 doctrine stated that Russia did not regard any state as its enemy, it contained a number of veiled references to the United States and NATO in the section on sources of military danger, warning about the threat posed by those states that strive for regional or global domination or that deploy troops and weapons near Russia’s borders.34 An examination of Russian military publications during the Yeltsin period demonstrates that attempts were made to develop Russian strategic thought in accordance with the security requirements of the post–Cold War world. Some farsighted military strategists recognized that Russia would face its greatest security challenges from local or regional conflicts fought with conventional weapons and guerrilla tactics close to or indeed within its own borders.35 But the most striking aspect of Russian strategic thought during much of the 1990s is the extent to which those within the armed forces who wrote about future war approached the subject with the same assumptions that had guided Soviet strategic thinking during the Cold War. Emphasis was placed on the military capabilities and possible hostile intentions of NATO (a position vindicated, many in the Russian military felt, by the alliance’s eastward enlargement). 36 The 1990–1991 Gulf War was viewed as the model for future warfare, and Russian strategists warned of the dangers of failing to match the Western powers in their acquisition of the most technologically advanced “smart” weapons. 37 Of course the assumption that underpinned this assessment of the Gulf War was that Russia would be facing an opponent armed with such weapons rather than the low-technology weapons and strategy employed so effectively by the Chechens.38 Even Russian officers searching for a scapegoat in the aftermath of the 1994–1996 Chechen conflict admitted that Moscow’s use of the most advanced weapons would not have ensured Russia’s victory in that war.39

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Military Reform

In May 1992 the Russian armed forces were formally created and their first defense minister, General Pavel Grachev, took up his new post with an apparent commitment to substantial military reform. The outlines of his plans can be seen in Grachev’s July 1992 speech to the Royal United Services Institute in London, in which he stressed the goal of developing a small but highly effective armed force characterized by the use of “action readiness forces” and “mobile forces” (apparently modeled on Western rapid deployment forces) to meet the demands of local and regional conflicts, especially within the borders of the former Soviet Union.40 A threestage reform process was planned, involving a reduction in the size of the armed forces from 2.7 million to 1.5 million, the gradual elimination of conscription and its replacement with an all-volunteer force, and the streamlining of the structure of the military, including the shift from military districts to a smaller number of joint strategic commands and the merger of the air defense and strategic rocket forces into the air force. According to this plan, all reforms were to be completed by 2000.41 Grachev’s reform program stalled at an early stage and accomplished little, despite periodic public statements by him and Yeltsin congratulating the armed forces on the progress of military reform. 42 In fact the only changes that took place within the armed forces were, on the one hand, the paper transfers of responsibilities from one office to another and, on the other hand, the disastrous declines in staffing, combat readiness, and morale that occurred spontaneously and were beyond the control of senior defense ministry officials in Moscow. Further evidence of the ineffectual nature of Grachev’s program is the fact that each of his successors found it necessary to undertake a public relaunch of military reform. The appointment of Igor Rodionov, who replaced Grachev in July 1996, was generally greeted with approval within the armed forces, where he had been an advocate of creating a military able to respond to the security threats of the post–Cold War era (although he included large-scale attack by NATO forces among those threats). But Rodionov soon met with opposition in political circles to his insistence that military reform be funded more generously than the Duma and the government were willing to do. Rodionov was sacked in May 1997 and replaced with Igor Sergeyev, who did have some success in implementing elements of Grachev’s original reforms. In 1998 (six years after the intention was first announced) the air defense forces were subsumed into the air force. Other organizational changes under Sergeyev’s leadership included the integration of the military space forces and the missile space defense forces into the strategic rocket forces, the elimination of the ground forces as a supreme command and its subordination to the General Staff, and the merger of two military districts.43

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Although by the end of Yeltsin’s presidency some progress had been made in implementing military reform, it is not a very impressive record, and the changes that were introduced are minuscule in comparison with the scale of the changes to the external security environment and the domestic social, political, and economic realities facing Russia. Why, then, has the process of military reform in Russia been so painfully slow and ineffectual? The first and most important reason is the absence of political leadership committed to substantial change within the armed forces. The contrast here between Gorbachev and Yeltsin is very instructive. Gorbachev had a clear agenda for military reform, and he needed the armed forces to change if his program of domestic and foreign policy reforms was to be successful. Yeltsin completely lacked a comparable motive for encouraging reform within the military. On the contrary, because the Russian president’s primary concern regarding the armed forces was their loyalty to him, Yeltsin had a strong interest in avoiding any policies that might cause instability and unrest within the defense ministry (although, ironically, the very absence of significant, planned reforms contributed to an extremely unstable situation in the military). This is why Yeltsin delayed so long before acting on well-founded accusations of corruption and incompetence against Pavel Grachev, and why Rodionov and Sergeyev received less than enthusiastic support for their attempts at reform during their stints as defense minister. The absence of a strong political leadership pushing the military reform process was a crucial factor, because in Russia the armed forces are incapable of reforming themselves. In part this is the legacy of the system of political control employed by the Communist Party. Although the formal structures the party used to ensure the military’s loyalty and obedience have now disappeared, a repugnance for taking action without the explicit approval and guidance of the country’s political leaders was absorbed into the culture of the armed forces and has proven remarkably enduring. This tradition of subservience was reinforced by the dramatic weakening of the armed forces during Yeltsin’s presidency. If the Russian military was simply unwilling to take any unauthorized actions at the start of Yeltsin’s first term of office, by the end of his second term it was also unable to do so. The living and working conditions experienced by members of the Russian armed forces during Yeltsin’s presidency were appalling. To a large extent this situation is the result of the steady decline throughout the 1990s in the level of funding provided by the Russian government to the Ministry of Defense. The proportion of Russia’s gross national product devoted to defense declined from 5.6 percent in 1994 to 2.3 percent in 1999, while the share of the national budget given to defense during this same period dropped from 20.89 percent to 16.29 percent.44 It is important to recall that this decline in Russian defense budget allocations occurred during a period

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of intense price inflation. Soldiers and officers alike were paid a pittance and routinely had their pay delayed by months. Officers with families struggled to survive on salaries that, according to some estimates, covered less than half the minimum living expenses. Food rationing became common practice within the military in Russia amid numerous reports of soldiers starving to death.45 Combat readiness was understandably compromised by such conditions and was further undermined by the limited training that soldiers in Russia received, which was also a consequence of the shortage of funds. The armed forces could not afford to purchase supplies of fuel and spare parts in quantities that would permit the level of training taken for granted in Western countries. Just to provide one example, during Yeltsin’s presidency pilots in the Russian Air Force only managed an average of 5–8 hours of flying time per year, in comparison with the bare minimum of 150 hours annually that NATO regards as necessary for maintaining proficiency.46 During the course of the 1990s the Russian armed forces lost their most valuable resources: the best and brightest of their soldiers. Thousands of the most intelligent and able officers—the ones who would have been in the forefront of a reform effort—were among the first to decide that there was no future in a military career. Many of the most entrepreneurial quickly found ample scope for their abilities in the civilian economy, or were driven to find better-paying jobs outside the armed forces in order to provide for their families. The 1994–1996 Chechen conflict saw the departure of several hundred more officers who resigned or were sacked for their opposition to the conflict.47 Those who remained were either ground down by the demands of doing an impossible job (and in some cases were driven to commit suicide) or were military dinosaurs: senior officers unwilling to leave the security of military service for the uncertainties of civilian life and uninterested in serious reform.48 Problems of recruitment and retention at the lower levels of the armed forces were no less acute. During Yeltsin’s presidency evasion of conscription became the rule rather than the exception. Tutored by local Committees of Soldiers’ Mothers, young men took advantage of legal loopholes that permit exemptions for certain health, education, and family reasons, went to live with distant relatives, or paid bribes to be declared medically unfit for service. Many of those who did report for duty were rejected due to ill health (including drug or alcohol addiction) or for having criminal records. Others who were accepted by the armed forces were judged to have below-average intelligence or had failed to complete even a basic level of secondary education.49 The introduction of contract (voluntary) service was at best a partial solution to the failure of conscription. Senior officials in the defense ministry had hoped that young men coming to the end of their periods of compulsory military service would be attracted by

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the relatively higher rates of pay for contract soldiers and would form a core of experienced and trained volunteers. Not surprisingly given conditions within the army, few conscripts were willing to extend their stay in the military. Instead contract service attracted men who were unable to find work in civilian life as well as substantial numbers of women, many of whom were the wives of officers living in remote areas with few other opportunities for paid employment. Although every indication suggests that women soldiers have made a valuable contribution to the Russian military, the restrictions on the types of jobs that women are permitted to do has prevented the defense ministry from taking full advantage of this new source of labor.50

Putin: Reform Rediscovered? The presidency of Boris Yeltsin came to an end when he unexpectedly resigned in December 1999 in favor of his heir apparent, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin. In the months that followed Yeltsin’s resignation, Putin devoted considerable attention to courting the military vote. His first trip as acting president was to meet Russian soldiers fighting in Chechnya, and he made a point of visiting military bases throughout the presidential campaign.51 First as prime minister and then as acting president, Putin made a show of giving the armed forces a free hand in the eruption of the conflict with Chechnya that began in 1999. He promised to devote considerably more resources to the military, which would translate into higher pay, improved morale, and greater professionalism. With his youth, physical fitness, and background in a highly disciplined and efficient organization (formerly the Soviet KGB, now the Russian Federal Security Service), Putin appeared to many in the armed forces to be the man who could rescue Russia’s military from the brink of total collapse. As of the time of this writing, Putin has been in power for more than a year, but it is difficult to say whether Russia’s new president will indeed be the one to force the military to embark upon fundamental and far-reaching reforms. On a positive note, he seems to have had no difficulty in identifying major problems. Putin has publicly criticized the Russian military for its poor standards of training and for its failure to deal more effectively with the Chechen separatists.52 In March 2001 he ended the lengthy and bitter squabbling between Defense Minister Igor Sergeyev and Chief of the General Staff Viktor Kvashnin over whether emphasis should be placed on nuclear or conventional weapons by replacing Sergeyev with Secretary of the Security Council Sergei Ivanov. Putin also indicated that he wanted to tackle the deep-rooted problems of corruption and financial mismanagement within the defense ministry by appointing former finance ministry

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official Lyubov Kudelina as a deputy minister of defense (the first woman to occupy such a post in recent times). Putin and Ivanov have both emphasized the need for further cuts in the personnel of the armed forces, which is now due to fall by 365,000 during the period 2001–2005, and for a gradual shift to an all-volunteer force. 53 Ivanov has also begun to put his imprint on the organization of the armed forces, separating the military space forces and the space missile defense forces from the strategic rocket forces and reestablishing the chief command of the ground forces.54 On the other hand, few of Putin’s early promises have materialized, and there has been little improvement in the daily lives of soldiers and officers.55 More money has gone into the defense coffers, but much of that has gone toward paying for the seemingly endless conflict in Chechnya. In a worrying reversion to pre-Gorbachev practices, the plan for military reform that Putin approved in January 2001 has not been made public. Policy actions and statements so far from Putin and Ivanov do not suggest that drastic changes have been made to previous reform plans or that Russia’s political and military leaders have new ideas about how to achieve military change. In December 2000, Putin gave an interview during which he was asked about his plans for reforming the armed forces. Putin replied that the Russian Army should be smaller, mobile, highly professional, well trained, and well equipped.56 These were precisely the kind of remarks that were routinely made by Pavel Grachev and Boris Yeltsin but that led to no significant reforms. Similarly, the emphasis by Putin and Ivanov on managing further staff reductions (which also help to mask failings in recruitment), and Ivanov’s reversal of organizational changes introduced by his predecessor, suggest continuity with past practice rather than innovation.57 At the level of top appointments, Putin has surrounded himself with people who have had careers in the security services, but it is not clear whether his defense policy advice comes primarily from that direction or whether he continues to rely upon the defense ministry staff to set out policy options. The only defense concepts that have been articulated during Putin’s leadership have been the latest versions of Russia’s strategic concept58 (adopted in January 2000) and military doctrine59 (adopted in April 2000). Both of these documents were substantially influenced by Russian shock and displeasure at NATO’s actions over Kosovo in 1999. The strategic concept expressed considerable concern about attempts to create a structure of international relations that is dominated by the United States and about the dangers inherent in the international community’s ignoring Russian interests when major international problems are being addressed. Similarly, among the main external threats to Russia’s security that are listed in the 2000 version of the military doctrine are attempts to ignore Russia’s international security interests, the deployment of foreign troops near the borders of the Russian Federation and its allies, and the expansion

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of military blocs and alliances detrimental to Russia’s security. Attempts to weaken or ignore existing mechanisms of international security such as the UN and the Organization on Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) and the use of military operations as humanitarian intervention without the sanction of the UN Security Council are identified in the doctrine as “destabilizing influences” on international security. Although this latest version of military doctrine includes a number of references to the dangers posed by small-scale, local conflicts and by internal threats to Russia’s security, the focus is predominantly on the threats that come from outside, chiefly (it is implied) from the West. The document clearly anticipates a war against an enemy that makes extensive use of high-tech weapons and air campaigns. Any diminution of the military threat facing Russia is attributed to Moscow’s preservation of its military capabilities, especially its nuclear weapons, and the 2000 doctrine echoes the 1993 version by reserving the right to respond with nuclear weapons against attacks on Russia, even those that only use conventional means. It is clear that Vladimir Putin wishes to preside over the creation of an efficient, effective, highly professional, and motivated military. The danger is that he will rely on the same old methods of reorganization and shrinking troop numbers, which are necessary but not sufficient conditions for genuine military reform. For military reform to succeed in Russia, sustained leadership is required from the civilian authorities, including guidance on rethinking the conceptual foundations of the armed forces. The greatest threats to Russia’s security since the end of the Cold War have come not from NATO’s military might but from political, social, and economic instability in neighboring regions and within the Russian Federation itself. The most recent versions of Russia’s strategic concept and military doctrine indicate that Moscow has gone some way toward recognizing this, but it is clear that Russian military thinking still has one foot in the past. While the West and the United States in particular have not been very skillful in handling Russian sensitivities over issues such as NATO expansion and the Kosovo operation, as long as Moscow continues to be distracted by the unlikely prospect of an attack from the West it will waste time, resources, and creative energy that should be focused on creating an armed force capable of meeting the security demands of the twenty-first century.

Conclusion Military reform in Russia is long overdue and is vital if the security needs of the country are to be addressed. At first glance it is difficult to understand why the Russian armed forces have so far failed to adapt to the new international and domestic circumstances of the post–Cold War period.

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This chapter has argued that the key to this puzzle is the nature of the relationship between the military and civilian authorities in Russia. The leaders of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union ensured that the subservience of the armed forces to the country’s political leadership was institutionalized and also that the military elite internalized the values of the ruling regime, especially an abhorrence of the military taking action without the explicit authorization of the civilian leaders. The Gorbachev period demonstrated the important role played by the political leadership in introducing military change. During the late 1980s the highest levels of the political elite in the USSR took a sustained interest in reforming the armed forces, creating the conceptual basis and specific proposals for developing a new type of military. Gorbachev’s program of glasnost and perestroika also threatened to undermine the old basis of civilmilitary relations in the USSR, as officers and soldiers began to express dissenting political opinions openly and to take a more active role in political life. But the economic and social dislocation that accompanied the collapse of the USSR and the introduction of the workings of the market served to strengthen the tendency of military subservience. The exodus from the armed forces of the most able and reform-minded officers and the dramatic deterioration of conditions within the service meant that Russia’s army was even more dependent upon political leadership for effective military reform than its Soviet predecessor had been. Unfortunately for the armed forces, political leadership is precisely what was lacking during Boris Yeltsin’s two terms as Russian president. Yeltsin paid lip service to the need for significant military change but did little to ensure that change took place. Old, pre-Gorbachev ways of thinking and acting were reestablished and much time was lost in posturing and paper exercises. With each passing year of Yeltsin’s presidency the Russian armed forces became less professional, less combat-ready, and less able to defend the country from security threats. As the need for military reform became more pressing, it also became less likely that the armed forces would be able to initiate such change without clear guidance from the Kremlin. Vladimir Putin began his presidency very well from the perspective of military reform. He has given the problems and the needs of the armed forces a high public profile and has expressed his support for the creation of a smaller and more professional force. In-depth analysis of Putin’s intentions for the armed forces is difficult due to the secrecy with which this (and not only this) policy area is treated by the new leadership, but so far Putin and his new defense minister, Sergei Ivanov, appear to be employing the same methods that proved ineffectual in the 1990s while being distracted by such issues as NATO enlargement and the Kosovo operation. Russia’s new president must undertake a realistic assessment of the country’s security threats if he is to accomplish the task he has set himself of

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rescuing Russia’s armed forces from collapse and turning them into an effective force that is capable of meeting the challenges of the twenty-first century.

Notes 1. For an extensive discussion of the mechanisms and extent of party control of the Soviet armed forces, see Timothy J. Colton, Commissars, Commanders, and Civilian Authority: The Structure of Soviet Military Politics (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979). Colton argues that the relationship between the party and the military was essentially cooperative. For a study arguing that this relationship was fundamentally conflictual, see Roman Kolkowicz, The Soviet Military and the Communist Party (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967). 2. See Condoleeza Rice, “The Party, the Military, and Decision Authority in the Soviet Union,” World Politics 40, no. 1 (1987): 55–81. 3. For more on the role and significance of academic advisers during the Gorbachev leadership, see Jeff Checkel, “Ideas, Institutions, and the Gorbachev Foreign Policy Revolution,” World Politics 45, no. 2 (1993): 271–300; Robert G. Herman, “Identity, Norms, and National Security: The Soviet Foreign Policy Revolution and the End of the Cold War,” in Peter J. Katzenstein (ed.), The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), pp. 271–316; Stephen M. Meyer, “The Sources and Prospects of Gorbachev’s New Political Thinking on Security,” International Security 13, no. 2 (1988): 124–163; and Thomas Risse-Kappen, “Ideas Do Not Float Freely: Transnational Coalitions, Domestic Structures, and the End of the Cold War,” in Richard Ned Lebow and Thomas Risse-Kappen (eds.), International Relations Theory and the End of the Cold War (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), pp. 187–222. 4. Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), pp. 123–125. 5. Mark Kramer, “The Role of the CPSU International Department in Soviet Foreign Relations and National Security Policy,” Soviet Studies 42, no. 3 (1990): 438–439. 6. Stephen Shenfield, The Nuclear Predicament: Explorations in Soviet Ideology, Chatham House Papers no. 37 (London: Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1987), p. 82. 7. Archie Brown, The Gorbachev Factor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), pp. 218–220. 8. For an article written by a Gorbachev adviser contrasting the new openness in Soviet security policymaking with past practice, see A. Arbatov, “Sokrashchenie Strategicheskikh Vooruzhenii: Problemi i ‘Neproblemi,’” Mirovaya Ekonomika i Mezhdunarodnie Otnoshenie [MEMO], February 1991, pp. 5–17. 9. A. Arbatov and A. Savel’ev, “Sistema Upravleniya i Svyazi Kak Faktor Strategicheskoi Stabil’nosti,” MEMO, December 1987, pp. 12–23. 10. A. Kokoshin, “Razvitie Voennogo Dela i Sokrashchenie Vooruzhennikh Sil i Obichnikh Vooruzhenii,” MEMO, January 1988, pp. 20–32. 11. Zisk, Engaging the Enemy, pp. 120–177. 12. Ibid., p. 121.

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13. Edward L. Warner III, “New Thinking and Old Realities in Soviet Defence Policy,” Survival 31, no. 1 (1989): 22, 25. 14. All references to the 1990 draft military doctrine are taken from “O Voennoi Doktrine SSSR,” Voennaya Misl’ (special issue) (1990): 24–28. 15. For a detailed discussion of Soviet military statements about the defensive orientation of military doctrine, see Raymond L. Garthoff, Deterrence and the Revolution in Soviet Military Doctrine (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1990), pp. 101–108. For further discussion about the 1990 draft military doctrine, see Stuart Kaufman, “Lessons from the 1991 Gulf War and Russian Military Doctrine,” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 6, no. 3 (1993): 375–396; and Charles C. Petersen, “Lessons of the Persian Gulf War: The View from Moscow,” Journal of Strategic Studies 17, no. 3 (1994): 238–254. 16. R. Craig Nation, Black Earth, Red Star: A History of Soviet Security Policy, 1917–1991 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992), p. 294. 17. “Kontseptsiya Voennoi Reformi (Proekt),” Voennaya Misl’ (special issue) (1990): 8–9. 18. William E. Odom, “The Soviet Military in Transition,” in Frederic J. Fleron Jr., Erik P. Hoffmann, and Robbin F. Laird (eds.), Soviet Foreign Policy: Classic and Contemporary Issues (New York: Adline de Gruyter, 1991), p. 526. For a discussion of the debates within Soviet military circles about conscription versus a volunteer army, see David Holloway, “State, Society, and the Military Under Gorbachev,” International Security 14, no. 3 (1989/90): 5–24. 19. “Kontseptsiya Voennoi Reformi,” pp. 7–8, 11–12. 20. Dale R. Herspring, “The Soviet Military and Change,” Survival 31, no. 4 (1989): 321. 21. “Kontseptsiya Voennoi Reformi,” pp. 9–11. 22. Ibid., pp. 4–5, 7–8, 16–17. 23. Ibid., pp. 6–7. 24. For discussion and examples of the debates within the Soviet armed forces about the implications of New Political Thinking for defense, see Garthoff, Deterrence, chaps. 4–5. 25. For more on the military’s support for Gorbachev’s reforms, see Stephen Brooks and William Wohlforth, “Power, Globalisation, and the End of the Cold War,” International Security 25, no. 1 (winter 2000/01): 5–53. 26. Author’s conversation with Dr. Alexander Pikayev, Department of Disarmament Studies, Institute of World Economy and International Relations, Moscow, March 1992. 27. Neil Malcolm, “Russian Foreign Policy Decision-Making,” in Peter Shearman (ed.), Russian Foreign Policy Since 1990 (Boulder: Westview Press, 1995), p. 32. 28. Mikhail Tsypkin, “The Politics of Russian Security Policy,” in Bruce Parrott (ed.), State-Building and Military Power in Russia and the New States of Eurasia (London: M. E. Sharpe, 1995), pp. 22–23. 29. Tsypkin, “Politics of Russian Security Policy,” pp. 15–17. 30. “Does Latest Shakeup Bode Civilian Control of Army?” Current Digest of the Post-Soviet Press 49, no. 35 (1 October 1997): 7, quoted in Stephen Blank, “Russia’s Armed Forces on the Brink of Reform,” Conflict Studies Research Centre C97 (Sandhurst: Royal Military Academy, October 1997), p. 2. 31. Christopher C. Locksley, “Concept, Algorithm, Indecision: Why Military Reform Has Failed in Russia Since 1992,” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 14, no. 1 (2001): 10–12.

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32. All references to the 1993 military doctrine are taken from the draft version published in Voennaya Misl’ in 1992: “Osnovi Voennoi Doktrini Rossii (Proekt),” Voennaya Misl’ (special issue) (May 1992): 3–16. 33. “Osnovi Voennoi Doktrini Rossii (Proekt),” p. 4. 34. For discussions of the 1993 military doctrine, see Mary C. Fitzgerald, “The Russian Military’s Strategy for ‘Sixth Generation’ Warfare,” Orbis 38, no. 3 (1994): 457–476; and Christoph Bluth, The Nuclear Challenge: U.S.-Russian Strategic Relations After the Cold War (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), pp. 51–54. 35. See, for example, Army General M. A. Gareev, “Problemi Podgotovki Vooruzhennikh Sil v Svete Sovremennoi Voennoi Doktrini Rossii,” Voennaya Misl’ 11 (1993): 2–12; General Major (ret.) I. N. Vorob’ev, “Taktika v Lokal’nikh Voinakh i Vooruzhennikh Konfliktakh,” Voennaya Misl’ 1 (1995): 39–45; General Lieutenant A. S. Skvortsov, General Lieutenant N. P. Klokotov, and Colonel N. I. Turko, “Ispol’zovanie Geopoliticheskikh Faktorov v Interesakh Resheniya Zadach Natsional’no-Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti,” Voennaya Misl’ 2 (1995): 15–24. 36. See Charles J. Dick, “Military Reform and the Russian Air Force 1999,” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 13, no. 1 (2000): 2; and Fitzgerald, “Russian Military’s Strategy,” pp. 467–469. 37. For further discussion of the impact of the Gulf War on Russian strategic thought, see Jacob W. Kipp, “Russian Military Forecasting and the Revolution in Military Affairs: A Case of the Oracle of Delphi or Cassandra?” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 9, no. 1 (1996): 1–45; and Fitzgerald, “Russian Military’s Strategy,” pp. 457–476. 38. On the inadequacy of Russian strategic thought in the Chechen conflict of 1994–1996, see Stephen J. Cimbala, “Small Wars and Operations Other Than War: Russia in Search of Doctrine,” Low Intensity Conflict and Law Enforcement 7, no. 2 (1998): 87. 39. General Lieutenant M. I. Karatuev, “Raketnie Voiska i Artilleriya v Lokal’nikh Voinakh i Vooruzhennikh Konfliktakh,” Voennaya Misl’ 1 (1998): 36. 40. Army General Pavel S. Grachev, “The Defence Policy of the Russian Federation,” Royal United Services Institute Journal 137, no. 5 (1992): 5–7. 41. Alexei Arbatov, “Military Reform in Russia: Dilemmas, Obstacles, and Prospects,” International Security 22, no. 4 (1998): 112; Pavel Baev, The Russian Army in a Time of Troubles (London: Sage, 1996), pp. 66–68. 42. Baev, Russian Army, pp. 70–71. 43. Alexei Arbatov, “Russia: Military Reform,” in SIPRI Yearbook 1999: Armaments, Disarmament, and International Security (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 203–204. 44. Arbatov, “Russia: Military Reform,” p. 200. 45. Robert W. Duggleby, “The Disintegration of the Russian Armed Forces,” Journal of Slavic Military Studies 11, no. 2 (1998): 8–10. 46. C. J. Dick, Russian Military Reform: Status and Prospects C100 (Camberley: Conflict Studies Research Centre, June 1998), p. 2. For further descriptions of the deteriorating conditions in the Russian armed forces during Yeltsin’s presidency, see Christopher Donnelly, “Evolutionary Problems in the Former Soviet Armed Forces,” Survival 34, no. 3 (1992): 28–42; Dale R. Herspring, “The Russian Military: Three Years On,” Communist and Post-Communist Studies 28, no. 2 (1995): 163–182; and Lilia Shevtsova, “Russia’s Fragmented Armed Forces,” in Larry Diamond and Marc F. Plattner (eds.), Civil-Military Relations and Democracy (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), pp. 110–133.

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47. Anatol Lieven, Chechnya: Tombstone of Russian Power (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), pp. 105–106. 48. Kimberly Marten Zisk, “Institutional Decline in the Russian Military: Exit, Vice, and Corruption,” PONARS Policy Memo Series, Memo no. 67 (September 1999), www.fas.harvard.edu/~ponars/policy%20memos/zisk67.html. 49. Arbatov, “Military Reform in Russia,” p. 100. 50. For more on women’s military service in Russia, see Jennifer G. Mathers, “Women in the Russian Armed Forces: A Marriage of Convenience?” Minerva: Quarterly Report on Women and the Military 18, nos. 3–4 (2000): 129–143. 51. Dmitri Trenin, “Russia’s Military: Adapting Rather Than Reforming,” in Edward Skidelsky and Yuri Senokosov (eds.), Russia on Russia: Issue Three Russia Under Putin (London: Social Market Foundation, 2000), p. 42. 52. Michael Binyon, “Putin Condemns ‘Inept’ Army for Chechnya Losses,” The Times, 21 November 2000, p. 16. 53. Vadim Solov’ev, “Rossiya ne Mozhet Vesti Bol’shuyu Voinu,” Nezavisimoe Voennoe Obozrenie 43 (17–23 November 2000): 1. 54. International Institute for Strategic Studies, Strategic Survey 2000–01 (Oxford: Oxford University Press for the IISS, 2001), pp. 118–119. 55. Kimberly Marten Zisk, “Putin and the Russian Military,” PONARS Policy Memo Series, Memo no. 155 (October 2000), www.fas.harvard.edu/~ponars/policy%20memos/zisk155.html. 56. Vitalii Tret’yakov, Tat’yana Andoshina, and Mikhail Leont’ev, “Armiya Dolzhna Bit’ Professional’noi,” Nezavisimoe Voennoe Obozrenie 49 (29 December 2000–11 January 2001): 2. 57. For examples of Ivanov’s statements on military reform, see Vladimir Mukhin, “Special Report: Reshuffle Brings Putin People to the Top,” The Russia Journal 4, no. 17 (4–10 May 2001), reproduced in the Post-Soviet Armies Newsletter, http://perso.club-internet.fr/kozlowsk/build_russian.html. For a skeptical view of the likely impact of Putin’s military reforms, see Alexander Golts, “Special Report: Signals of Reform, but Under Soviet Principles,” The Russia Journal 4, no. 17 (4–10 May 2001), also reproduced in the Post-Soviet Armies Newsletter. 58. All references to Russia’s strategic concept are taken from “Kontseptsiya Natsional’noi Bezopasnosti,” Nezavisimoe Voennoe Obozrenie 1 (14–20 January 2000): 1, 6–7. 59. All references to Russia’s 2000 military doctrine are taken from “Voennaya Doktrina Rossiiskoi Federatsii,” Nezavisimoe Voennoe Obozrenie 15 (28 April–11 May 2000): 1, 4–5.

PA R T 4

Technology

CHAPTER 9

The British Army and the Tank John Stone

E

ver since the industrial revolution gathered momentum during the mid–nineteenth century, technological innovation has been recognized as a powerful engine for change in the field of military affairs. Early misgivings among military officers about the runaway pace of technological innovation by no means prevented them from embracing the burgeoning variety of new weapons and other useful pieces of equipment that were now arriving with increasing frequency. Indeed, by the late nineteenth century there had emerged a deliberate tendency to seek technological solutions to tactical problems, while the twentieth century witnessed the introduction of new arms and services whose very existence was predicated on the exploitation of cutting-edge technologies.1 Nevertheless, the enthusiasm with which military organizations have regarded new technologies since the 1850s has not always been matched by their ability to exploit them to their fullest potential. This difficulty is least discernible where technological innovation resulted in the incremental improvement of weapons systems along dimensions that permitted existing missions to be carried out more effectively. More problematic were instances where the effective exploitation of new equipment demanded a thorough overhaul of long-established roles and organizations. In such cases it is frequently possible to detect a strong degree of resistance to such change, if not an actual failure to perceive its necessity altogether. The demands associated with the accommodation of technological change have long been a subject of scholarly interest. More recently, however, the importance of making the correct institutional responses to new technology-related opportunities has been highlighted by the debate on the U.S. revolution in military affairs, and the burgeoning literature on “mili187

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tary revolutions” in general.2 According to this literature, realizing the major increases in military capability that are associated with such a revolution is a process that demands much more than the mere “weaponization” of new technologies. “Innovative operational concepts” and “organizational adaptation” are also required before the potential inherent in new technologies can be fully exploited.3 Clearly, then, the military’s track record in this area is one that merits attention. The standard texts on military technology treat institutional conservatism as the product of two main issues, the first of which is associated with the unpredictable nature of technological change.4 Indeed the tendency of technological innovation to produce unexpected results is felt in all areas of modern life,5 although it is a particular problem for military organizations, which train and equip themselves for war but whose day-to-day existence is conditioned by the state of peace. Under such conditions it can be difficult to assess the true potential inherent in new technologies, which means that military organizations must equip themselves with weapons systems whose operational effectiveness is essentially the subject of “educated guesses.”6 Add to this the daunting prospect that guessing wrongly might mean defeat in the next war, and it is possible to understand why military organizations may resist undertaking major changes in order to absorb promising—but imperfectly understood—equipment.7 The second source of resistance to technology-related change is associated with the peculiar nature of military organizations themselves. Those departments whose responsibility it is to explore new capabilities tend, for example, to be highly compartmentalized in deference to the requirements of secrecy. This inevitably restricts the free exchange of information, which in extreme cases can severely inhibit the formulation of appropriate missions for new systems.8 More generally, military organizations are designed to operate in the uncertain environment that characterizes war, with the result that they have established modes of procedure that are intended to minimize uncertainty, but that may also stifle flexibility. Strict discipline and rigid hierarchies, along with standard operating procedures, drills, and parsimonious forms of language, contribute to an intellectual climate that is inimical to creative thought.9 Moreover, psychologist Norman Dixon has argued for the existence of a conformist and stability-seeking personalitytype who is attracted to the rigid order and predictability that life in a military organization can provide. Individuals who possess this personalitytype may find a conducive environment within such organizations. Nevertheless, they may also encounter great difficulties in coping with the high levels of uncertainty that accompany the actual conduct of war, and can be expected to manifest “an implacable resistance to the ‘uncertainties’ of innovation, novelty and new scientific aids to warfare.”10 In combination, these insights provide us with a basic conceptual

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framework for understanding the relationship between military organizations and technology-related change. In particular, they alert us to the tensions that result from the efforts of an inherently conservative institution to accommodate uncertainty. But where this framework is less helpful is in explaining the variable success with which military organizations have historically managed such tensions. Why have some been more successful than others? As late as the final decades of the nineteenth century, there remained important structural differences between “first-rank” military organizations, which may partly account for the variable success with which technology-related change was managed during this period.11 By the early twentieth century, however, the emergence of a standard “Western model of military organization” was substantially complete, with internal structures becoming more similar in the process.12 This in turn suggests that the variety of responses elicited by the rapid pace of technologyrelated change since 1914 have largely been shaped by differences in the broader political and strategic contexts within which military organizations operate. Such overarching imperatives are undoubtedly important in this sense, although the variety of ways in which their influence has historically been felt makes generalization difficult. This chapter will explore the impact of such factors on a single (and much maligned) instance of institutional response to new technological opportunities—the British Army and the tank.13 It will show that the army’s cautious employment of armor during World War I was limited not so much by the General Staff’s conservatism as by the modest operational capabilities associated with the first tanks. Rapid developments in their performance during the interwar period subsequently outpaced the official concepts that governed armored operations, and the early stages of World War II were consequently a learning period during which the army developed a fuller understanding of the potential inherent in contemporary tanks through painful experience. This chapter will also show that the real barriers to the realization of this potential lay—once again—not so much with the army’s institutional conservatism as with the operational restrictions associated with the demands of coalition warfare with the United States. In particular, Eisenhower’s operational style proved to be wholly at odds with Montgomery’s more ambitious views on the employment of armored forces. Finally, this chapter will show that such armored formations as the army retained during the postwar era were essentially “hobbled” by the political imperative of Forward Defence, which rendered them little more than a tripwire for NATO’s strategic nuclear arsenal. Flexible Response notwithstanding, it was not until the 1980s that effective attempts were made to raise the nuclear threshold in Europe and to conventionalize the defense of the Central Front. Once this process was under way, however, the tank reemerged as the weapon system around which such operations

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would be organized, and the army lost little time in reacquainting itself with the idea of armored warfare. In short, therefore, this chapter will show that institutional conservatism did intermittently form a barrier to the effective exploitation of the technological opportunities associated with the tank, but that other external constraints were at least as important in this regard.

Initial Responses to the Tank The traditional view that the British Army of World War I was officered by reactionary “cavalry generals,” who harbored an instinctive dislike of all things mechanical, has recently been discredited. Its place has been usurped by the image of an organization determined to come to terms with the character of modern industrial war, and willing to embrace new technologies— of which the tank is a prime example.14 A difficult question associated with this school of thought, however, is why—given its acceptance of the tank— the army did not subsequently exploit its potential more thoroughly. The tendency to mechanize the traditional infantry and cavalry arms, rather than developing a new tank-centered variant, was common to all armies during the interwar period; and given the manner in which military organizations typically absorb new capabilities, we might expect this to have been the case. Nevertheless, the British Army’s apparent failure to learn from its experiences during the early stages of World War II, and to develop a German- or Soviet-style “theory” of armored warfare, has continued to attract opprobrium.15 The absence of such a theory has been interpreted as symptomatic of a wider failure to develop a coherent and explicitly articulated body of doctrine during the first half of the twentieth century. More specifically, the problem is seen to lie at the level of operational doctrine because it is at the operational level of war that the potential of the tank can be most fully realized.16 In this respect, it is interesting that the army’s former resident historian, Brian Holden Reid, has found no evidence for an institutional appreciation of the operational level during the world wars and much of the postwar period, while Edward Luttwak has located the British Army’s operational style within a broader Anglo-American tradition, dominated by the concept of attrition and lacking organizing principles beyond tactics and logistics.17 Only with the so-called doctrinal revolution of the 1980s, it is argued, did the army formally adopt the operational level of war.18 And not until this had been achieved did it prove possible to unshackle the tank from the infantry-support role that it had acquired in 1916. The arguments advanced by Reid and Luttwak provide a wholly satisfactory account of the postwar army’s operational style. However, they do

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not adequately address certain events during the first half of the century that suggest an institutional familiarity with what today might be termed operational-level activities. These events include the armywide introduction of doctrinal publications that discuss—albeit tangentially—such activities. They also include various feats of British generalship that, doctrinally inspired or otherwise, were seemingly influenced by operational-level considerations.

Doctrine in World War I The British Expeditionary Force did not go to France in 1914 without an explicitly articulated body of doctrine. Indeed, the Field Service Regulations (1909) represented the first of a series of manuals that were designed to meet exactly this requirement, and that ultimately informed the army’s operational style during both world wars. The 1909 Regulations provided a concise exposition of the army’s views on the manner in which modern operations should be conducted. Battle was characterized as an essentially Napoleonic affair, which consisted of three distinct stages: preparation, decisive attack, and exploitation.19 It is of course true that the operational level of war per se receives no mention, but this omission should not be surprising, as the term was not then in vogue. What we find instead is something approaching a Napoleonic-style “template” for action, which was viewed as being applicable at all levels from the battalion upward. Army-level operations—in which divisions maneuvered as tactical formations—were seen as little different from a battalion attack writ large.20 A bit of reading between the lines is necessary, but it is nevertheless clear that the principles set down in the Field Service Regulations were intended to transcend the level of tactics. That the army officially adopted the 1909 Regulations was in large part due to the efforts of Major-General Douglas Haig, who had actively campaigned for them in his capacity as director of staff studies.21 It is therefore hardly surprising that their influence is evident in Haig’s initial plans for the Somme and Passchendaele offensives of 1916–1917. Both were initially intended to deliver decisive, Napoleonic-style blows against the German Army, and only once they had failed to yield such results did Haig then invoke the concept of attrition in order to explain his actions.22 It was not until the Great Offensive of 1918 that the army departed from its Regulations and directed a series of carefully planned and coordinated attritional blows against the opposition. This approach proved to be an effective one in the face of a steadily weakening German Army, and underlined the point that the pursuit of decisive victory was no longer practical under modern operational conditions.

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It is probably fair to say that the British Army’s adoption of innovative tactics and an “unofficial” operational style was more important for the outcome of the war than technical developments such as the tank. Nevertheless, it is only recently that these tactical and operational developments have attracted the attention they deserve, while the debate over the impact of the tank, and whether it could have been employed to greater effect during 1916–1918, has much longer roots. It is indeed the case that the tank was seen as a tactical instrument during the war. Colonel Ernest Swinton, who laid down the army’s first doctrine for the use of tanks in 1916, stated that they were to be employed as “an auxiliary to the infantry . . . and in operation be under the same command.”23 Moreover, the small number of tanks that were initially committed to action during the Somme offensive meant that their impact was at best very localized. Only later, when sufficient numbers were available to mount concentrated and powerful blows against the German lines, was their offensive potential more fully revealed. The battles of Cambrai (November 1917) and Amiens (August 1918) were important pointers to the future in this regard. In many respects they represent “model” armored operations in World War I terms, inasmuch as their planning accurately reflected the limitations of contemporary tanks. More ambitious concepts for deep armored penetrations, along the lines of J. F. C. Fuller’s “Plan 1919,” would certainly have fallen afoul of extant restrictions on speed, range, and reliability. Fuller himself was, of course, aware of these limitations and looked forward to the introduction of the new “Medium D” tank, which promised much-improved performance.24 However, it was not until 1920 that the first prototype was tested, whereupon significant problems with reliability revealed themselves. By 1918, therefore, the tank was proving to be an effective weapon system within the context of attritional warfare, but had not yet reached a level of technological maturity that would permit it to be used effectively as an instrument of exploitation at the operational level. Accordingly, there is no need to invoke the idea of reactionary generals—who did not perceive the tank’s true potential—in order to explain why it was not used to greater effect.

The Interwar Period Given the painful consequences arising from the pursuit of a decisive, Napoleonic-style victory in 1916–1917, one might expect such a goal to have been rejected by the postwar army. This, however, was not immediately the case. In his final dispatch as commander in chief of the British Army, Haig depicted the war as a single, albeit very large, Napoleonic-style battle that contained the “same general features and the same necessary stages

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which between forces of approximately equal strength have marked all the conclusive battles of history.” Haig was thus able to locate the Somme and Passchendaele offensives within a framework that treated them as necessary precursors to the decisive blow in 1918.25 As such, Haig’s 1919 dispatch represents an uneasy compromise between doctrinal principles and operational reality. The new operational reality was ultimately reflected in the army’s postwar (1924) edition of the Regulations. Operations were now expected to unroll along broadly familiar lines, beginning with the “advance to the battlefield,” followed by “battle between the main forces,” and ending with “withdrawal and pursuit.” In light of experience, however, this three-stage process was expected to be repeated “again and again during the course of a campaign until the power of one side or the other is broken and decisive victory is obtained.” 26 Thus battles were now being viewed as “steppingstones” in an attritional process that would lead to ultimate victory; and in this context it is perhaps surprising that the tank’s steadily improving potential for operating in the pursuit role did not attract wider interest. By the terms of the army’s own logic, less attrition would be necessary if each individual battle could be made to yield greater operational results; and the tank constituted one possible way of achieving this. Fuller and B. H. Liddell Hart notwithstanding, the interwar British Army was far from universally hostile toward the tank corps, which remained an independent arm and even gained its “Royal” status in 1923. Later in the decade the army also commenced its famous series of forwardlooking exercises with armored formations on Salisbury Plain. It remains the case, however, that official efforts to capitalize on the tank’s steadily improving operational mobility were distinctly conservative in nature. Official statements during the 1920s severely circumscribed the operational freedom of armored units, effectively limiting them to mounting tank “raids” and “assisting the cavalry” during pursuit operations.27 In neither of the army’s two central publications on the subject of armored warfare during this period—Mechanised and Armoured Formations (1929) and Modern Formations (1931)—was a full appreciation of the tank’s operational potential in evidence.28 In the army’s defense, it is clear that official views in Europe and the United States on the employment of armor were no more advanced, although Stalin’s Red Army developed a sophisticated operational doctrine during the 1930s. Moreover, mechanization was still an “emerging” technology during the interwar period, and the practical feasibility of the ideas espoused by Fuller and Liddell Hart were by no means uncontested. Reliability problems would continue to plague British armor throughout the interwar period and beyond, while the logistic demands created by armored formations, and their ability to survive in the face of the antitank gun, raised continuing doubts.29 For all this, however, the fact remains that the

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army of the interwar period adopted a conservative position on the issue of the tank. It may have introduced tanks into its armory, but it failed to develop a sophisticated theory for their employment.

World War II The German Panzers had seemingly swept all before them during the Battle of France, and in its aftermath the British Army embraced armor as the weapon of the future. Moreover, conditions in the North African Desert, where the army was next called on to fight, lent themselves to a freeflowing, mobile style of warfare in which mechanized forces would play a central part. However, it rapidly became evident that British enthusiasm for the tank was not matched by competence in its employment. Bottling up the Italians in their desert fortifications was one thing, but defeating Rommel’s Afrika Korps would prove to be a far more demanding problem. The tank, it emerged, had by no means rendered the traditional stock of military wisdom wholly redundant. Improved mobility certainly did not compensate for the Eighth Army’s early tendency to disperse its strength and decentralize its assets, with the result that it was all too often defeated by numerically inferior (but concentrated) German forces. Not until Montgomery was appointed to command the Eighth Army in 1942 was the principle of “concentration of force” accorded sufficient importance, and the requisite level of operational coherence imposed to achieve it at army level. Indeed, Montgomery’s facility with what we now call the “operational level of war” was an important ingredient in the Eighth Army’s subsequent victories. Without an overarching operational concept to guide the employment of his forces, he would not have been able to capitalize on the numerical advantage that his command now enjoyed over the Afrika Korps. Montgomery described both Alam Halfa (August 1942) and Second Alamein (October 1942) as “army battles” in order to highlight this fact and contrast his approach with that of his predecessors.30 The new emphasis on centralization and concentration exercised a constraining effect on the employment of armor. Moreover, Montgomery was always concerned to avoid the dangers associated with overextension—of losing one’s “balance.”31 This may partly explain why British armor was kept on a short lead at Alam Halfa, and was not committed to a counterstroke operation of the kind that might have more comprehensively defeated Rommel’s forces.32 Similarly, Montgomery was criticized for failing to press his advantage more assiduously during the fluid operational conditions that followed Second Alamein. 33 In the face of an accomplished opportunist such as Rommel, however, Montgomery’s concern with balance was at least understandable, while the charge that he did not under-

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stand the potential inherent in the tank must also be assessed in light of his subsequent record in Europe. Indeed, the Battle of Normandy clearly demonstrated Montgomery’s views on the value of armor as an instrument of decision. His orchestration of the Allied breakout from the Normandy beachheads resulted in a dramatic phase of mobile operations, during which organized German resistance temporarily collapsed as the remnants of their forces struggled back across the Seine. It was at this point that Montgomery pressed for the concentration of resources behind a “narrow thrust” that would pass north of the Ardennes and strike out in the direction of the Ruhr—the industrial region vital to the continuation of Germany’s war effort. Montgomery’s concern with balance was now replaced by a desire to maintain the momentum of the Allied offensive. Concerted offensive action, rather than consolidation, he believed, remained the best option as long as German forces remained in a state of disarray. Eisenhower’s decision to impose his own direction on the conduct of Allied operations from September 1944 effectively forestalled Montgomery’s narrow thrust. As supreme allied commander, Eisenhower naturally possessed the final word on such issues; and he was not enamored with his subordinate’s plan for a variety of reasons. For one thing, any concerted blow that fell north of the Ardennes would have been a British-led effort, and would have required the withdrawal of resources from Bradley’s Twelfth U.S. Army Group, which contained Patton’s famous Third Army, and which had already achieved some spectacular advances in the wake of the Allied breakout. As their supply lines lengthened, both Montgomery and Bradley generated logistic demands that the Allied sustainment system could not meet. And yet Eisenhower well knew that there would be political repercussions arising from any decision to concentrate resources behind one or another of the alliance’s national contingents.34 The supreme commander therefore compromised. To the surprise and consternation of the British, he opted for a more even allocation of logistic support among his subordinates. Offensive operations were temporarily closed down in favor of a period of reorganization and consolidation. Thereafter the Allied advance into Germany would be characterized by a broad front rather than a narrow thrust. Important political and sustainment considerations may have forced Eisenhower’s hand in September 1944, but it is also clear that his decision was informed by the U.S. Army’s long-standing tendency to view military operations in terms of logistics and attrition. First U.S. Army’s experience of European operations in 1917–1918 had previously suggested to its senior officers that modern warfare effectively precluded opportunities for large-scale maneuver. The size of armies meant that only in the earliest stages of a war might it be possible to exploit an open flank. Thereafter operations would be limited to frontal assaults, in which superior firepower

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and numbers would be the decisive factors. It was, moreover, a model of operations with which the U.S. Army was already acquainted, in the form of General Ulysses S. Grant’s famous Virginia campaign of 1864.35 Thus in opting for a broad-front offensive, Eisenhower was doing no more than falling back on institutionally approved methods that privileged logistics and attrition over operational maneuver. The final stages of the war in Europe therefore lacked the dynamism and operational coherence that Montgomery had sought to achieve (realistically or otherwise). The tank played an important role as the Allies advanced steadily eastward in the face of crumbling German opposition, but it was a role that harked back to the orthodoxy of the interwar years, and hardly reinforced the notion that the Allies had mastered the practice of armored warfare.

The Postwar Era The constraints associated with coalition operations by no means disappeared during the postwar era. Additionally, by the time that Britain had officially committed troops to the defense of Western Europe, the steady growth in the U.S. nuclear arsenal was making itself felt on the nature of preparations for general war. The British strategist Liddell Hart had been quick to point out the problems associated with Western reliance on nuclear weapons, and had characteristically called for small, professional, mechanized forces as an alternative.36 A comparable enthusiasm for armored warfare was expressed by the likes of the veteran tank-advocate Lieutenant General Giffard Martel: It is now generally agreed [claimed Martel] that the way to take on the Russians . . . is by making use of highly skilled mobile armoured forces operating from firm bases. In this role mobility must have top priority. It replaces the numerical strength of the Russian masses. The latter are terrified of a repetition of that form of warfare which they encountered when the highly trained Panzer and mechanized forces advanced against them in comparatively small strength in 1941.37

Despite Martel’s claim, such ideas received no official sanction. Until the mid-1950s preparations were made to conduct a river-line defense of Western Germany, based on the Rhine or the Elbe. It was considered that Soviet forces would need to concentrate prior to crossing a defended river, and would thereby present excellent targets for nuclear attack. Armored forces would be employed in a reserve role to complete the process of destroying enemy concentrations. 38 Their mobility would therefore be exploited in a tactical, but not in an operational, context.

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The river-line scheme was abandoned after 1955 in the wake of West German rearmament. The consequence of West Germany playing a major role in its own defense was the adoption of a “forward” posture designed to meet Soviet aggression at the inner-German border. The result at the operational level was an extremely brittle defensive scheme, which once again provided limited scope for the employment of mobile armored formations. Lacking strong conventional forces, and the ability to mount defensive operations in depth, NATO’s line would have quickly been shattered by a determined assault. In conventional terms, therefore, Forward Defence made little sense. Backed by a burgeoning nuclear arsenal, however, NATO’s new posture underlined the reliance that both the United States and Britain were now placing on deterrence. In this context, their conventional forces constituted a tripwire whose tactical defeat would trigger a massive nuclear response. The result may have satisfied the political imperative for security at bearable cost, but as far as the British Army was concerned, it provided neither the scope nor the incentive for the development of a doctrine for armored warfare. Related comments were made by the former secretary of war, John Strachey, who observed in 1962 that the whole character of the N.A.T.O. forces, their numerical strength, the types of armaments which they will possess, their disposition, their training and for that matter their efficiency and morale, will inevitably depend upon this issue [i.e., nuclear weapons]. To put the point bluntly: experience has shown that if the doctrine of an early and almost automatic first use of tactical, and then if necessary strategic, nuclear weapons is adhered to, no conventional forces fit in quantity, equipment or quality, to meet a considerable emergency will ever be raised.39

Strachey’s book was published during a period in which significant efforts to revise NATO’s nuclear posture were in fact being more widely considered. By the early 1960s it had become clear that U.S. vulnerability to Soviet attack was undermining the credibility of extended deterrence. Accordingly, the Kennedy administration’s move to a strategy of Flexible Response marked a new interest in the conventionalization of European defense, and also sparked a fierce debate on the issue within NATO. Providing force levels for a ninety-day conventional war was resisted by NATO’s European members on grounds of expense, and the fact that a reduced reliance on nuclear weapons might make other forms of war more likely.40 Ultimately, the French withdrawal from NATO’s military command structure paved the way for a consensus on strategy, but only at the cost of divesting NATO of a significant proportion of its existing conventional strength, along with important logistics facilities and airfields.41 Moreover, Washington’s decision to escalate the war in Vietnam resulted in

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U.S. force levels being run down to a significant degree in Europe.42 In Britain too, the official position was that nuclear weapons would quickly be used within the context of a European war, after which it was “almost certain that, unless the aggressor quickly decided to stop fighting, the conflict would escalate rapidly to a general nuclear exchange. . . . Organised land warfare would then soon become impossible. We have, therefore, urged on the alliance that it should abandon those military preparations which rest on the assumption that a general war in Europe might last for several months.”43 Thus, when the strategy of Flexible Response was officially adopted in 1967 the force levels necessary for a sustained conventional defense of Western Europe were not present. The notion of immediate and automatic escalation through the nuclear threshold may have been officially rejected, but in practice the conventional phase of a war in Europe might well have been measured in just days, rather than weeks or months. Once again, therefore, the requirement for an operational-level doctrine for armored warfare was virtually nonexistent as far as the British Army was concerned. Without strong reserves, or defensive positions in depth, the only response to a tactical defeat would be the employment of nuclear weapons in the hope that such an act would bring a peremptory end to hostilities. The prospect of mounting a robust conventional defense of Europe was temporarily raised during the early 1970s in response to technological rather than doctrinal innovation. The 1973 War in the Middle East had witnessed the first large-scale use of the antitank guided missile (ATGM)—a weapon system that had long been considered a potential antidote to the tank, and that had now inflicted some startling losses on incautious Israeli armored formations. Early claims that the tank had been rendered obsolete by the ATGM were moderated in light of a more careful analysis of the Israeli experience and the efficacy of their tactical responses to the new threat. Nevertheless, Western armed forces integrated a new generation of ATGMs into their infantry units, while noting the fact that such initiatives might liberate large numbers of their own tanks from the task of protecting such infantry from armored attack. In theory, these developments provided scope for the creation of a powerful armored reserve, whose mobility could then be exploited to great operational effect. In practice, however, the political imperative of Forward Defence continued to deprive NATO’s conventional forces of the depth necessary to introduce such initiatives. Thus the ATGM prompted considerable revisions to the prevailing tactical schemes of the period, but its influence was not manifest at the level of operational doctrine. As far as the British Army was concerned, the introduction of the ATGM facilitated the abandonment of a defensive scheme based on delay and withdrawal by successive echelons, and the introduction of a new scheme designed around “killing zones” within which enemy forces would

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be destroyed by concentrated firepower.44 In neither case, however, was the army in a position to capitalize upon the operational mobility of its armored forces. It was not until the 1980s—a decade marked by renewed Cold War tensions and the erosion of the West’s superiority in theater nuclear weapons— that the tank was finally permitted to transcend its tactical role. Within this new political and strategic climate, conventional forces acquired more importance than had previously been the case, as NATO made efforts to raise the nuclear threshold, and ultimately accepted a relaxation of the hitherto strict interpretation of Forward Defence. Under these conditions, the British Army lost no time in reinstating the tank as an instrument of maneuver within the context of an operational style that it had not practiced since 1944. 45 Indeed, under its commander, General Sir Nigel Bagnall, First British Corps’ planning focus was shifted upward from the tactical to the operational level, while the emphasis on attrition was blended with a strong element of maneuver warfare. The impact of these initiatives is most evident in the counterstroke concept, which was designed to destroy a Soviet penetration through the operational maneuver of a strong armored reserve—a task that would have relied on surprise and shock action as much as on attrition.46 Bagnall’s approach to armored warfare was therefore highly innovatory within the context of the postwar British Army. Nevertheless, Montgomery’s understanding of the operational level of war, and the potential of the tank in this context, strongly suggest that the doctrinal innovations of the 1980s were by no means an entirely new departure for the army. To the extent that the political and strategic situation permitted, similar operational concepts had been developed and practiced during World War II. Indeed, what makes the army’s postwar shift toward operational maneuver a particularly interesting event for present purposes is the conditions under which it occurred. That it only began once the so-called Second Cold War had encouraged NATO to augment its conventional capability is further evidence of the extent to which broader political and strategic variables had hitherto been constraining the British Army’s ability to capitalize on the operational opportunities associated with the tank.

Conclusion An overview of the British Army’s historical relationship with the tank suggests that its development was influenced by differing sets of factors during two discrete periods of time. The years 1916 to 1942 might be characterized as the period in which the army struggled to exploit the potential inherent in the tank, but was held back in this endeavor by its own institu-

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tional conservatism. In its earliest stages, this task had been facilitated by the fact that the first machines were capable of little beyond supporting an infantry assault, and so their presence could be accommodated without disruption to existing arms and missions. Additionally, although there is evidence to suggest that the army of 1914–1918 appreciated the notion of operational-level coherence, the tanks’ limitations meant there was no incentive to integrate their activity at this level. It was not until the postwar era that armor’s rapidly improving performance represented a challenge to these responses. In common with most armies of the day, it was a challenge that the British Army only partially met—resulting in little more than a completion of the wartime policy of mechanizing traditional arms. Indeed, the fact that contemporary doctrine mandated the exploitation of battlefield success—a difficult task for which the tank was a strong, but overlooked, candidate during this period—demonstrates the strength of institutional conservatism in the face of technology-related change. And thus the outbreak of World War II found the army without a clear understanding of armored warfare, an omission that was not effectively addressed until Montgomery’s rise to prominence in 1942. There then followed a brief interregnum during which Montgomery built on his initial successes in the North African Desert and completed the process of integrating the tank into a coherent operational framework. The result was the Battle of Normandy, which marked a milestone in the army’s approach to armored warfare while simultaneously heralding the introduction of the second major period in late 1944. During this period, which commenced with Eisenhower’s assumption of operational control over the land battle in Europe, the British Army’s conduct of armored operations was hobbled less by its own outlook than by the overarching political and strategic context within which it operated. Indeed, it was within the context of Eisenhower’s broad-front offensive that the tank’s potential as an instrument of decision went unexploited, and its contribution to the final stages of the war in Europe failed to transcend the tactical level. The political and technological backdrop against which postwar preparations for the defense of Europe took place also proved inimical to the development of a more sophisticated operational doctrine. The political imperative of Forward Defence both literally and metaphorically provided little room for maneuver in this regard, while NATO’s continuing reliance on nuclear weapons meant that its relatively meager conventional forces were unlikely to recover from an initial tactical defeat. Within this restrictive context the British Army was unable to realize the tank’s potential for operational maneuver. Instead armored formations were employed as tactically mobile assets within the context of a series of operationally static defensive schemes. Only toward the end of this second period, when NATO’s forward defensive posture was relaxed under the pressure of new

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political and strategic developments, did the tank transcend its tactical role and regain its status as the arm of decision that it had lost in 1944. Clearly then, although technology constitutes a potentially powerful source of change in military affairs, there exist obstacles to the optimal exploitation of this form of innovation. The problems that military organizations have experienced in formulating appropriate responses to new technologies have traditionally been viewed as the result of a conservative and stability-seeking institution’s attempts to accommodate a phenomenon whose developmental trajectories are inherently difficult to predict. If the British Army’s historical relationship with the tank can provide any measure, this task can be rendered still more difficult by developments in the broader context within which organizational responses to technologyrelated change are forged. Even when an institution provides the tactical and operational environment within which the full potential of technological innovation might be realized, the overarching strategic and political environment can generate constraining influences of its own. More work remains to be done on this issue, but it is likely that many suboptimal responses to technology-related change were subjected to a broader set of structural constraints than is commonly realized.

Notes 1. William H. McNeill, The Pursuit of Power: Technology, Armed Force, and Society Since A.D. 1000 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983), pp. 185ff. 2. For an introduction to the revolution in military affairs, see Lawrence Freedman, The Revolution in Strategic Affairs, Adelphi Paper 318 (London: Oxford University Press for the IISS, 1998); Colin S. Gray, The American Revolution in Military Affairs: An Interim Assessment, Occasional Paper no. 28 (Camberley: SCSI, 1997). 3. “Is There a Revolution in Military Affairs?” Strategic Survey 1995/96 (London: IISS, 1996), p. 30; Andrew F. Krepinevich, “Cavalry to Computer: The Pattern of Military Revolutions,” National Interest no. 37 (autumn 1994), p. 30. 4. Standard texts include Martin van Creveld, Technology and War: From 2000 B.C. to the Present (London: Collier Macmillan, 1989); McNeill, The Pursuit of Power; R. L. O’Connell, Of Arms and Men: A History of War, Weapons, and Aggression (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989). 5. John Street, Politics and Technology (London: Macmillan, 1992), pp. 118–122. 6. This in part explains the intense interest that both superpowers demonstrated in the effectiveness of their weapons systems during events such as the 1973 Arab-Israeli War. 7. O’Connell, Of Arms and Men, p. 7; Edward L. Katzenbach, “The Horse Cavalry in the Twentieth Century: A Study in Policy Response,” in Richard G. Head and J. Rokke Ervin (eds.), U.S. Defense Policy, 3rd ed. (London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), pp. 406, 421. 8. Van Creveld, Technology and War, p. 220. The example of the French

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mitrailleur—a precursor of the modern machine gun—is instructive here. The mitrailleur was put into production in 1866, but the degree of secrecy that attended this process was so great as to have a stultifying effect on the development of an appropriate tactical doctrine for the new weapon. On the eve of the Battle of Froeschwiller, during the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), only one noncommissioned officer could be found who knew how the mitrailleur worked. Although it proved quite simple to operate, it resembled an artillery piece, and its employment as such markedly reduced its effect. Michael Howard, The Franco-Prussian War: The German Invasion of France, 1870–71 (London: Routledge, 1988), p. 36. 9. Van Creveld, Technology and War, p. 220; Katzenbach, “Horse Cavalry in the Twentieth Century,” p. 421. 10. Norman Dixon, On the Psychology of Military Incompetence (London: Jonathan Cape, 1976), pp. 401–402 and passim. 11. An important example is the general-staff system, which was introduced to great effect by the Prussian Army, but which was only adopted by the French after their defeat in the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), and by the British after the problems encountered during the Boer War (1899–1902). 12. Regarding the standard Western model, see Chapter 4 in this volume. 13. The following discussion of the British Army’s relationship with the tank is based on my book, The Tank Debate: Armour and the Anglo-American Military Tradition (Amsterdam: Harwood, 2000). 14. See, for example, Robert H. Larson, The British Army and the Theory of Armoured Warfare, 1918–1940 (London: Associated University Press, 1984); J. P. Harris, Men, Ideas, and Tanks: British Military Thought and Armoured Forces, 1903–1939 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995). 15. For a concise exposition of this view, see Edward N. Luttwak, “The Strategy of the Tank,” in Luttwak (ed.), Strategy and Politics: Collected Essays (London: Transaction Books, 1980), pp. 295–304. 16. Operational doctrine is commonly seen as a precondition for “true” armored warfare because it is only at this level that the full potential of the tank can be realized. Operational-level planning (the operational art) is intimately concerned with the manner in which the tactical results of individual battles are combined to achieve strategic aims. This is a process that is greatly facilitated by the tank’s mobility—a quality that, theoretically at least, reduces the degree of intermediate tactical activity necessary to achieve any given strategic aim. From this perspective, armored warfare is about reducing the requirement for battles rather than fighting them, thereby making the conduct of operations more efficient. Conversely, in the absence of operational-level planning, the impact of armor is confined to the attritional effects associated with its battlefield presence, and its mobility is largely a wasted asset. As a result, the prospects for avoiding direct confrontation with the enemy are significantly reduced, which in turn means that the attritional content of operations will be higher. 17. Edward N. Luttwak, “The Operational Level of War,” International Security 5, no. 3 (winter 1980/81), pp. 61–79; Brian Holden Reid, “Is There a British Military Philosophy?” in Major-General J. J. G. Mackenzie and Brian Holden Reid (eds.), Central Region vs. Out-of-Area: Future Commitments (London: Tri-Service Press, 1990), pp. 1–16; Reid, “The Operational Level of War and Historical Experience,” in Major-General J. J. G. Mackenzie and Brian Holden Reid (eds.), The British Army and the Operational Level of War (London: Tri-Service Press, 1989), pp. 1–12. See also Reid’s contribution to Army Doctrine Publication, vol. 1, Operations, Army Code 71565, pt. 1 (June 1994): 1A-1 – 1A-15. 18. The idea of a “quiet revolution” in the British Army was advanced by C. J.

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McInnes, “BAOR in the 1980s: Changes in Doctrine and Organization,” Defense Analysis 4, no. 4 (1988): 377–393. It is developed in Colin McInnes, Hot War, Cold War: The British Army’s Way in Warfare, 1945–95 (London: Brassey’s, 1996). 19. War Office, Field Service Regulations, pt. 1, Operations, 1909 (Reprinted, with Amendments, 1914) (London: HMSO, 1914), pp. 130–145, 158–159. For related comments, see Tim Travers, The Killing Ground: The British Army, the Western Front, and the Emergence of Modern Warfare, 1900–1918 (London: Allen & Unwin, 1987), pp. 86–87; Larson, British Army, p. 43. 20. This approach is more clearly evident in War Office, Infantry Training, 1905 (London: HMSO, 1905). 21. Gerard J. De Groot, Douglas Haig, 1861–1928 (London: Unwin Hyman, 1988), p. 128. 22. Travers, Killing Ground, pp. 127ff; Robin Prior and Trevor Wilson, Passchendaele: The Untold Story (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), pp. 45–53. 23. Major-General Ernest D. Swinton, Eyewitness: Being the Personal Reminiscences of Certain Phases of the Great War, Including the Genesis of the Tank (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1932), p. 214. 24. Major-General J. F. C. Fuller, Memoirs of an Unconventional Soldier (London: Ivor Nicholson & Watson, 1936), pp. 326–331. 25. Lieutenant-Colonel J. H. Boraston (ed.), Sir Douglas Haig’s Despatches (December 1915–April 1919) (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1979), pp. 319–321. 26. War Office, Field Service Regulations, vol. 2, Operations, 1924 (London: HMSO, 1924), p. 36. This thinking was also repeated in War Office, Field Service Regulations, vol. 2, Operations, 1929 (London: HMSO, 1929), p. 35. 27. Tank and Armoured Car Training, vol. 2, War, 1927 (Provisional), quoted in Charles Messenger, The Art of Blitzkrieg, 2nd ed. (London: Ian Allen, 1991), p. 43; Field Service Regulations (1929), p. 149. 28. Harris, Men, Ideas, and Tanks, p. 222. 29. See, for example, Victor Wallace Germains, The “Mechanization” of War (London: Sifton Praed, 1927); Field Service Regulations (1929), p. 18; War Office, Field Service Regulations, vol. 2, Operations: General, 1935 (London: HMSO, 1935), p. 3. 30. Montgomery, The Memoirs of Field-Marshal the Viscount Montgomery of Alamein (London: Collins, 1958), pp. 110–111, 125. 31. For a brief discussion of “balance,” see Montgomery, El Alamein to the River Sangro (London: Hutchinson, n.d.), p. 4. It is a concern to which Montgomery frequently returns in this book. 32. Montgomery’s caution in this regard was also reinforced by doubts about the Eighth Army’s standard of training. Ibid., pp. 7–8; Montgomery, Memoirs, pp. 109–110. 33. For a brief overview of Montgomery’s generalship, which mentions this issue, see Michael Carver, “Montgomery,” in John Keegan (ed.), Churchill’s Generals (London: Warner, 1993), pp. 148–165. 34. For Eisenhower’s views on the situation, see Dwight D. Eisenhower, Crusade in Europe (London: Heinemann, 1948), pp. 316–350. 35. For pertinent discussions of the development of U.S. operational style, see Russell F. Weigley, Eisenhower’s Lieutenants (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1981), pp. 2–7; Weigley, “American Strategy from Its Beginnings Through the First World War,” in Peter Paret (ed.), Makers of Modern Strategy: From Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age (Oxford: Clarendon, 1986), pp. 440–443. 36. B.H. Liddell Hart, Defence of the West: Some Riddles of War and Peace

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(London: Cassell, 1950), pp. 90–98 and passim; Michael Carver, “Conventional War in the Nuclear Age,” in Paret, Makers of Modern Strategy, pp. 781–782. 37. Lieutenant General Sir Giffard Martel, “Tank Policy,” The RUSI Journal 96, no. 583 (August 1951): 450. See also Martel, “The Land Aspect,” in “The Pattern of Future War,” The RUSI Journal 95, no. 578 (May 1950): 225. 38. Martel, “Land Aspect,” p. 224; Carver, “Conventional War in the Nuclear Age,” p. 782. 39. John Strachey, On the Prevention of War (London: Macmillan, 1962), p. 106; Reid, “The Operational Level of War and Historical Experience,” p. 3. 40. On the ninety-day conventional war, see Alain C. Enthoven and K. Wayne Smith, How Much Is Enough? Shaping the Defense Program, 1961–1969 (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), pp. 214–215. 41. Beatrice Heuser, “Victory in a Nuclear War? A Comparison of NATO and WTO War Aims,” Contemporary European History 7, pt. 3 (November 1998): 318; Carl H. Amme Jr., NATO Without France: A Strategic Appraisal (Stanford: Hoover Institution, 1967), pp. xi, 156. 42. William P. Mako, U.S. Ground Forces and the Defense of Central Europe (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1983), pp. 20–23. 43. Cmnd. 2901, Statement on the Defence Estimates 1966, pt. 1, The Defence Review (London: HMSO, 1966), p. 6. 44. Colin McInnes, NATO’s Changing Strategic Agenda: The Conventional Defence of Western Europe (London: Unwin Hyman, 1990), pp. 134–135; A Camberley Team, “Tactical Dialogues 3—The United Kingdom,” The RUSI Journal 120, no. 1 (March 1975): 75. 45. This was a process that occurred in tandem with broadly similar revisions to the U.S. Army’s operational style. The result was the AirLand Battle doctrine, which was definitively articulated in FM 100–5, Operations (Washington, D.C.: Department of the Army, 5 May 1986). The extent to which U.S. doctrine influenced its British counterpart has not yet been investigated in any detail. 46. General Sir Nigel Bagnall, “Concepts of Land/Air Operations in the Central Region: I,” The RUSI Journal 129, no. 3 (September 1984): 59–62.

CHAPTER 10

Creating a U.S. Military Revolution Admiral William A. Owens (U.S. Navy, ret.)

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he United States hovers on the cusp of a significant transformation of its military forces, nearly a decade after the demise of the bipolar world for which we built those forces. Our hesitation to boldly enter this transformation—to seize the innovative prize that beckons ahead—stems from many factors, but part of it comes from a failure to recognize the fundamental shift in what drives military innovation in the United States. The era is gone when U.S. innovation was a by-product of threat. The United States responded well to that era in that it avoided war and ultimately established the foundation for the next great revolution in military affairs, one built upon information technology. Now, however, we are in an era when the underlying rationale for innovation in U.S. military affairs is not threat, but opportunity. This transition is one of the products of the demise of the Soviet Union. Like other products of that phenomenon, we recognize and understand the change in the dynamic of innovation only dimly, and are cautious—perhaps too cautious—about moving ahead quickly to consummate the revolution we have begun.

The Sources of Incrementalism in U.S. Military Change For nearly half a century, U.S. force planning took its cues from what we projected Soviet military developments would be. While the Soviet Union may have reacted largely to U.S. capabilities as they existed—the United States was, after all, the first to develop nuclear weapons, the defining military technology of the Cold War—the United States, in its force planning, 205

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largely reacted to projections of future Soviet military capabilities. We designed and planned our forces, experimented with military organization and structure, and modified our operational style mostly in anticipation of what we expected Soviet military capabilities to be in the future. We reacted less to demonstrated capabilities than to our estimates and projections of future ones. The pattern of Soviet military developments facilitated this. Over the four decades of the Cold War there were few nonlinear leaps in Soviet military technology or in overall military capabilities. The pattern was evolutionary, incremental, and surprise-free, not revolutionary. Looking backward at U.S. official projections of future Soviet weapons systems and military capabilities, it is remarkable how accurate such forecasts turned out. U.S. planners tended to see future Soviet capabilities essentially in terms of straight-line projections, something that planners in the Soviet Union, charged with bringing the future capabilities about, apparently shared. The significance of this was not just that the U.S. forecasts of Soviet military capabilities were surprisingly accurate.1 The deeper significance was how the underlying assumptions about military innovation became embedded in U.S. military planning. We adopted the linear, incremental improvements typical of Soviet military change in our own planning. It was easy and convenient, for as our confidence of being able to forecast Soviet developments grew, we saw little real need to accelerate change in our own forces. We accepted the prospect of a protracted conflict and feared instability in the superpower relationship that could degenerate into a nuclear confrontation. What was important as far as planning was concerned was to correctly compensate for the opponent’s improvements, and, as we came to believe that the “threat” would grow incrementally and linearly, our compensating reaction to it could also settle into a similar pattern. The Cold War, or rather our planning adjustments to it, provided the pattern of innovation military institutions inherently prefer—evolutionary, predictable, controllable, and steady. The threat was identifiable, quantifiable, and manageable. Our planning and force development rested on a consensus as to the dimensions of the threat and as to the rate at which it would change. This did not mean that U.S. planners did not innovate or that the character, size, and structure of U.S. forces were immutable. U.S. forces changed constantly and a comparison of those forces shows considerable modification from decade to decade through the Cold War. The rate of change was, however, incremental and slow. By the late 1960s it dominated the pattern of U.S. military change, and this evolutionary pattern still characterizes U.S. military affairs today. Yet while U.S. military change during the Cold War was essentially incremental—more evolutionary than marked by sudden leaps and disconti-

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nuities—the last two decades built the foundation for a dramatic shift in the pattern. Some call it the U.S. revolution in military affairs.

The Origins of the U.S. Revolution in Military Affairs The information age began in military affairs in the 1970s, driven largely by new U.S. technology and a shift toward different operational concepts. This was most prominent in the U.S. Army, which, under the rubric of “extending the battlefield,” began to develop a much greater capacity to see and track events at greater distances and attack with longer-range, precision weapons. But the U.S. Navy and U.S. Air Force also began to explore the military leverage of combining better sensors, communications, and precision weapons through the power of digital information. Each of the military services started to put together a much improved fulcrum for applying military power effectively. It was composed of intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance systems that could achieve dominant battlespace awareness, new communications systems that could transfer that awareness quickly and surely, and precision guidance that could deliver violence over greater distances with speed, accuracy, and devastating effect. The result, by the mid-1990s, was the potential of a huge leap in U.S. military effectiveness and the transformation of U.S. military forces. Interestingly, Soviet military theorists picked up on this development before most of its U.S. architects or observers in the West did. Allusions to a “military technical revolution” began to appear in Soviet military journals as early as the mid-1970s. Those in the U.S. intelligence community and elsewhere who followed Soviet military discussions initially interpreted them as claims by the Soviets that they had achieved such a revolution, perhaps by combining space-based observation with rapid and effective targeting for the large and growing number of Soviet land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles. It later became clearer that the Soviets were writing not about their own military accomplishments, but of their concern about what they saw developing in the U.S. military. In any case, by the mid-1980s the interest in a military technical revolution rose to the senior-most Soviet military levels. The chief of the Soviet General Staff, Nikolai Ogarkov, became its champion, and openly suggested that the United States was ahead in the military technical revolution. The solution, according to Ogarkov, was to increase the Soviet military budget, shift decisionmaking on military industrial priorities back to stronger military control, and reorient procurement toward the kind of electronic investment to which the United States seemed committed. Ogarkov’s nattering—he called too openly for a major budget increase

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to fund a Soviet military technical revolution—ultimately got him fired. But by the time Gorbachev shipped him off to a figurehead position with the Warsaw Treaty Organization, Ogarkov’s articles had stirred enough interest among Russian watchers in the West to reduce his hypotheses to an acronym—“MTR,” for the “military technical revolution.” They also spawned a new cottage industry among Western experts on the Soviet military, dedicated to defining what the Russians were really trying to do under this new rubric. Andrew Marshall, long a Soviet watcher and director of Net Assessment in the Pentagon, however, was convinced by the mid-1980s that the Soviet military was in decline. 2 And when the Soviet Union imploded in the late 1980s, many in the Pentagon lauded Marshall’s premonition. Yet beneath the pride in the Cold War victory, there was a new disquiet. Georgii Arbatov, director of the Soviet Institute of the USA and Canada Institute, captured the paradox of victory when he slipped into a moment of sour-grapes in 1989. Speaking to U.S. reporters about the changes in the Soviet Union, he slapped at U.S. smugness: “You see,” Arbatov said, “we’re doing the worst possible thing we can to your militaryindustrial complex. We’re removing your threat and the whole rationale for your military’s being.”3 Not everyone in the Pentagon laughed, for suddenly the defense department had to re-address some basic questions: If the Cold War, a bipolar world, and protracted hostility were no longer the basic parameters for thinking inside the U.S. defense establishment, what were the new measures? The historic analogy that might hold some answers, Marshall suggested, was the interim period between the end of World War I and the beginning of World War II. While the interregnum between the world wars had been a period of relatively little U.S. interest in the world abroad, it was also a time of considerable military innovation in the United States and elsewhere. The gestation of many of the military “revolutions” of World War II—the “blitzkrieg,” amphibious operations, strategic bombing, the strategic use of aircraft carriers—all stemmed from the technologies and doctrines built or refined in the 1920s and 1930s. Perhaps, Marshall and his colleagues opined, this interesting era might provide a good historical guide for the future. By 1993, Marshall and his analysts declare the phrase “military technical revolution” inadequate. Their studies of earlier periods of military change suggested that while new technology could alter military capabilities, it was not sufficient alone to account for real revolutions. Most of the case studies Marshall had sponsored indicated that big changes in military capabilities took place when new weapons or other military equipment had been accompanied by shifts in tactics, doctrine, and organization.4 Marshall

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and his colleagues, writing mostly in the pages of U.S. military journals and in internal Pentagon memos between 1989 and 1993, argued that Ogarkov’s “military technical revolution” was too narrow a concept. What was involved was broader than military technology. Real military revolutions affect the entire spectrum of military affairs. So by 1993 “MTR” slipped from the discussion, to be replaced by the new acronym “RMA,” for “revolution in military affairs.” The new term carried important implications for the quandary inside the defense department. Marshall concluded his historical studies of previous RMAs by emphasizing that because a revolution in military affairs involves so much change across the board, revolutions don’t happen very often, and when they do, they take time. A lot of time. History, he argued, indicates that previous revolutions in military affairs took decades. This interpretation fit well with the dominant view inside the Pentagon regarding military change. It coincided with the desires of most of the military leadership, who in the early 1990s were lining up in favor of conserving, rather than changing, the U.S. military. The caution in the early 1990s is understandable. Those in charge of the U.S. military rode the crest of victory, first in the Cold War, then in Desert Storm. They were convinced, with considerable justification, that the quality and effectiveness of the military they had built over the previous two decades were very high. Familiar reasons for changing—the perception of a threat or, as in the case of the U.S. Army after Vietnam, an internal sense that things were broken—simply did not exist. So despite the rhetoric that filled military journals and public pronouncements about “new eras,” “peace dividends,” and “military revolutions,” the U.S. military was quite happy to avoid rapid change. The Pentagon was not really interested in pushing a revolution in military affairs, and few in other parts of the executive branch or in Congress were either.

Visionary Leadership for Systems Integration My last military assignment was that of vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS), 1994–1996. My mission was to act as an agent of change. I believe that most, if not all, of the technology for a jump to a higher order of military effectiveness was essentially in place as early as 1994. The nation had poured vast resources into the technological race with the Soviet Union over the previous four decades, and since the late 1970s a lot of that investment had been channeled into the smart end of conflict. The programs those investments had spawned posited a dramatic jump in military capability. But this was hard to recognize. For the most part, the separate

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military services handled the development, usually without regard for or awareness of what the others were doing. What each of the services was doing was individually impressive. They were all increasing their ability to collect information about a battlefield, to squeeze out important targets with faster and better analysis, to assign those targets to the right forces, and to destroy them with accuracy and precision at longer ranges. But the integration of these capabilities that had been of such concern to the Soviets—and that Secretary of Defense William Perry had found as the significant potential of Desert Storm5—lagged. I used a three-column listing of existing defense department programs to demonstrate the situation, titling the first column “ISR,” the second “Advanced C4I,” and the third “precision force.” The “ISR” column included programs that were improving intelligence collection, surveillance, and reconnaissance. The “Advanced C4I” column—the acronym stood for “command, control, communications, computer systems, and intelligence processing”—listed programs that were making dramatic changes in command, control, and communications. The third column included precision-guided weapons. Each of the lists included programs already fielded as well as the systems and weapons that would enter U.S. military inventories between 1994 and 2002. The lists had acronym after acronym. And no flag officer or senior civilian defense official I showed the list to could describe what a majority of the acronyms stood for or the capabilities they represented. Not surprising. That’s how the Pentagon works. It’s a collection of experts and offices that all deal with parts of the picture—a picture so detailed and complex that its composition, texture, and implications are hard to comprehend from even the loftiest Pentagon positions. The generals, admirals, and senior civilian officials who most defined what the forces of the future would be, what they would be able to do, and how soon they would be able to do it, focused on and understood only their separate pieces, the ones for which each was responsible. Their understanding of what another military service, agency, or laboratory was doing was shallow—almost by design, because they all worked within an unspoken agreement that what others did was their own affair, as long as it did not challenge or hinder what they intended to do. Yet the mosaic we were assembling would ultimately present a very different composite picture of U.S. military capabilities, for the programs we tended to see and treat as discrete were not only individually powerful. Together their interactions posited revolutionary changes. If the United States could integrate them into a higher system-of-systems, it seemed to me we would be able to achieve dominant battlespace knowledge, communicate that knowledge throughout our forces, and react to the battlespace with speed, precision, accuracy, and devastating effect. Successful integra-

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tion would propel the United States to a qualitatively new order of military power. The programs that promised all this were interesting, and to some a bit scary, however, for what they did not include. The Pentagon is used to seeing lists of “important” programs and spends an inordinate amount of time preparing them for external consumption on the Hill and by the public. But this list didn’t have the kind of programs that normally appeared; there were no new fighter aircraft, bombers, tanks, surface combatants, or submarines on it. This was disconcerting to some. Here was a different set of systems that, I suggested, were more important than the next tank, or airplane, or ship. Not everyone was happy about such an implication. Platforms were the normal coin of the Pentagon’s realm, and the standard that had bolstered the Cold War planning had been how to get airplanes, ships, and tanks that went farther, faster, longer. Yet I was proposing an alternative standard. What really counted in the years ahead was not new and improved platforms, but the systems they would carry—systems that would allow all U.S. forces to work from a common understanding of what was occurring in a conflict and with speed and integrated effectiveness. That meant a new set of planning priorities and a different way of thinking about and using U.S. military power. Looking back now, I think those of us who wanted to accelerate change were successful in several respects. We changed the vocabulary. Today it is replete with allusions to “transformation,” “revolution in military affairs,” new “systems-of-systems,” and “jointness.” That was far less the case in 1994. We modified planning processes, established new planning instruments, and adjusted the style, stakes, and procedures in the planning process. But how much we changed the output that counts—the future size, structure, and character of the U.S. military—is debatable. In retrospect, we made less progress than we had hoped. Why was this so, and what does it say about military innovation in the years ahead?

Service Parochialism We term commitment to a single military service’s interests either “parochialism” or “service loyalty,” depending on the connotation we are trying to impart. But regardless of what one calls it, it involves a narrowing of perspective. Parochialism is more than a belief in the superiority of one’s own service. It is also the presumption that expanding the capabilities of one’s “superior” service—regardless of the loss of capabilities and resources by another military service—advances the interests of the nation. And this makes it difficult to innovate across the entire force. Those argu-

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ing for change and innovation, therefore, have to make their case in four separate courts in which each “jury” evaluates the arguments in terms of what is best for their single service. In Washington, where the focus is predominantly on building future forces, service parochialism is most manifest in the sanctity of budget shares and the quest to maintain, if not expand, the share accorded one’s own service. JCS Chairman, General Colin Powell understood this well in 1992 when he introduced what he called the “base force.” At the time, the prospects of a major defense budget decline had unleashed what promised to be a vitriolic interservice debate. For as the prospects of a significant overall defense budget decline grew clearer, each service was readying its white papers and congressional contacts to prove that it should be spared and the reductions taken from another service. Powell’s genius, as clever as it was conventional, was to proclaim that the reductions would be taken evenly across the military services. We avoided the heat of an interservice debate. And in the process, of course, we delayed a serious consideration of what the end of the Cold War really meant for the kind of military forces we needed for the future. The Clinton administration’s first effort to grapple with what the nation needed for the future—the “Bottom-Up-Review” or “BUR”—approached the issue as had Powell, while seeking to reduce the overall budget slightly more than the Bush administration had proposed. The biases in favor of proportionality, maintaining budget shares, the sanctity of organization and structure, and avoiding serious discussion of roles and missions remained high. Those biases continued in the second Clinton administration’s assessment of defense needs—the “Quadrennial Defense Review”—and continue to dominate planning today. Consequently we have not made the tough decisions or yet had a serious debate about how to “right-size” the U.S. military in the aftermath of the Cold War. We have chosen instead the more politically palatable temporizing course of proportional downsizing while avoiding discussion and decisions on structure and organization.

Technological Parochialism Although much of the system-of-systems technology base is in hand, acceleration of its full integration to the forces depends on completing the development of particular parts of this base. These are technologies that help tie the core systems together. Virtually all the research and most of the development of the machines, software, and devices that allow us to collect vast amounts of information, in a comprehensive, real-time manner, is in place. Yet our ability to process this information in a timely manner still needs considerable improvement. Likewise, the basic means of transferring infor-

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mation rapidly and accurately throughout the forces is also essentially in place—largely because of the migration of older communications systems to the new Global Command and Control System (GCCS) and the Global Communications Support Systems (GCSS). We still need to improve the ability of our communications systems to transfer information from machines to humans, however. And while precision-guided weapons are proliferating through the various force components, we need to refine and develop further the technical ability to allocate the right weapons to targets and to assess the results faster. It should not be hard to fill in these gaps, but the fact that they exist suggests there is more to it than logic. Part of the problem would seem to be the continuing difficulty we have in thinking and planning in systemic terms. That is, the research and development community tends to have the same difficulty thinking outside its own compartments as the U.S. military has in seeing the interdependencies and potential synergy across the individual service stovepipes. At the general level, this myopic focus tends to see major hardware systems—like tanks, aircraft, and ships—as relatively self-contained platforms, rather than as components of broader sensor-toshooter systems. Until quite recently, for example, most aircraft development efforts worked within the relatively narrow belief that the problem was to improve aircraft. The primary issue was how to make the aircraft under development excel in terms of the canonical measures of aircraft capabilities; how to make it fly better, farther, faster, and higher. It has been hard to envision future aircraft as components in the larger system-ofsystems, and to measure their designs against how well they fit into broader information systems, as collectors, processors, and communicators of information in addition to the traditional criteria of flight speed, altitude ceilings, and payloads. The research community has been slow to make the shift toward seeing, designing, and developing military equipment in these terms. This is changing, and we have a good idea of what has to be done to fill in the remaining gaps of the emerging system-of-systems. But we face two essentially bureaucratic problems in doing it expeditiously. The first is the fragmented and highly independent character of the defense department’s research and development community. The second is that the techniques and technologies best suited for filling the remaining links in the system-of-systems have shifted from government laboratories and contracted research and development centers to the nongovernmental commercial sectors. During the Cold War the U.S. defense department’s research and development strategy was to stretch the search widely for militarily useful technology. From time to time press stories point to resulting projects that seem bizarre. The investigation of nuclear-powered aircraft, some of the high-

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altitude sensing devices that still spawn speculation of alien visits near Roswell, New Mexico, and research on parapsychology are examples. The U.S. bias was, quite simply, to avoid narrowing the initial research and development focus while relying on a series of screening mechanisms to sort out the less promising projects later on in the development and procurement processes. The result was the construction, over the four decades of the Cold War, of a relatively robust, widespread, and fragmented research and development community lodged in both the government’s own laboratories and the defense contractors that tied the research and development functions to procurement. This remains the basic character of the defense department’s research and development community. And this kind of structure contributes to two contemporary phenomena: it is actually very difficult to get a comprehensive and intelligible overview of what the research and development community is doing and equally difficult to focus its efforts. Defense research and development is managed primarily by exception. From time to time, a very highly placed military or civilian official would seize upon an idea that would then be given extra funding and publicity, or, as had become increasingly the pattern in the 1980s and early 1990s, be placed into a highly classified “black program” that limited public and congressional scrutiny. Meanwhile the bulk of research and development work went on pretty much as usual. That was the way it had been through most of the last half of this century, and that was the way we had designed the system and let it evolve. The difficulty was that this kind of fairly free-wheeling research and development effort tended to develop vested interests on the part of the scientists, analysts, and project officers in projects they themselves initiated. If, as I discovered as the deputy chief of naval operations in charge of analysis, planning, and programming on the Navy Staff, ice-penetrating sonar buoys were “out” because of the collapse of the Soviet Union’s submarine force, then the same project could continue, perhaps with even greater funding, by calling it the new—very “in”—littoral warfare sonar buoy project. It was very hard to enlist the establishment in a coordinated push in a particular direction. Each individual project had its dedicated defenders, and the number and range of what projects were under way defied any understanding of how it fit together. This fractionated, diverse community could, however, unite to oppose anyone who tried to look elsewhere for research and development—particularly outside the official community in the commercial sector. And there was the rub, because much of the technology that promised to tie the emerging system-of-systems together and thus accelerate its arrival was “outside.” If you want to understand what is possible as far as the next jet aircraft’s speed and stealth characteristics are concerned, turn to

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the traditional defense contractors who build fighter aircraft. If you want to understand what goes into tank armor or the best design for the next supercarrier, talk to the traditional contractors. But if you’re interested in what direct broadcasting can do, I found it was good to talk with the Cable News Network executives. Or if your interest shifted to man-machine interfaces, the people who were developing high-definition television for the commercial market had a lot of interesting insights. Whether it was semisubmersible vessels that could provide new basing options, the global fiber optic net that could provide virtually unlimited bandwidth on demand, or huge leaps in computer memory power, the place to look was the relatively unfamiliar, less comfortable realm of the commercial sectors.

Doctrinal Speed Bumps Doctrine has historically been the responsibility of the military services. Each has decided how it would fight, largely autonomously and within the context of its own long-standing roles and missions—as well as its cultures and traditions. Not surprisingly, the army has focused on ground combat with heavy divisions—largely an inheritance of its World War II experience. The navy is as much a captive of its past as the army, and is still convinced of the utility of the carrier battle group as the ultimate arbiter of policy and, equally within its submarine subculture, of the continued relevance of the nuclear submarine. No less convinced of its singularly important role is the air force, a service totally wedded to the decisiveness of air power. A joint doctrine formulation process, largely the stepchild of Goldwater-Nichols legislation, was created in part to overcome some of this parochialism.6 Institutions like the Joint Doctrine Center in Norfolk and staff offices on the Joint Staff have now produced, literally, tons of publications sketching, and sometimes providing exquisite details for, what they term “joint doctrine.” Yet this growing literature constitutes less an independent doctrine than the amalgamation of service doctrines. The institutions charged with producing “joint doctrine” have no independent source of data, information, or concept of how new synergism could be generated from the interaction of different military services, other than what the service components tell them. They rely on inputs from the staffs of each service, which focus on that particular service’s doctrine. As a result, the purplecovered “joint doctrine manuals” emitted regularly from these joint institutions are usually a compilation of how each service goes about doing a particular thing, or a highly coordinated summary of what all the services do similarly. Indeed, the process by which joint doctrine is promulgated ensures the continued dominance of service perspectives, because it is vetted through the services before it is published. It is doctrine by the lowest

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common denominator and it rarely challenges established service doctrine. Thus the platform-driven, parochial service perspectives remain largely sacrosanct in joint doctrine.

The Civil-Military Gap Complicating the pervasive effect of service parochialism and an out-oftouch research and development community in curbing the U.S. revolution in military affairs is a seeming decline in the state of U.S. civil-military relations. We’re not on the verge of the kind of military coup that sometimes excites Hollywood’s imagination; the United States is not going to go through a real-world version of the military-takeover attempt portrayed in movies like Seven Days in May. But the character of civil-military relations has changed a lot over the last three decades and the trend bears careful watching. Some of the changes have reflected broad sociological shifts and demographic dynamics, highlighted by the fact that the United States went to an all-volunteer force a quarter century ago. Today, everyone in the U.S. military is there by his or her own choice. Compared to their counterparts in the 1960s and 1970s, those in the service today are, on average, better educated, better paid, better trained in their military specialties, and more professional. The military claims, accurately, to be one of the, if not the most, color- and gender-blind institutions in the United States. The profile of the military today is different in other respects too. A higher portion of today’s military personnel are married than was the case twenty-five years ago. They stay in the military longer. The flip side of these characteristics is, of course, that today’s military is less a cross section of U.S. society. Twenty-five years ago about 25 percent of all U.S. men between the ages of thirty and fifty had served in the active U.S. military. Today veterans make up less than 15 percent of all U.S. men thirty to fifty years of age. In 1975 nearly 75 percent of the members of Congress had had some military service. Today less than half are veterans, and less than a quarter of the freshman class in Congress served in the military, ever. A similar pattern of declining direct experience with the military exists inside the Pentagon’s civilian bureaucracy. And the context within which the new generations of defense bureaucrats, politicians, and pundits pound out defense policies and the size and structure of future U.S. military forces is different too. The boundaries between articulating goals and defining military requirements have never been precisely clear. From time to time, a relatively strong secretary of defense has asserted central direction over the process and pushed his authority deeper into defining military requirements. But over the last decade or more, this has not been the case. More

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recently, the articulation of national goals and interests has become less precise, reflecting the erosion of the old Cold War consensus and a relative decline in the importance of national security issues among the nation’s elected officials. This has further blurred the separate steps in the deductive translation of goals to requirements at the center of the Pentagon’s planning, programming, and budgeting process. And this, coupled with the fragmentation of the defense secretary’s staff and the continued parochialism of service perspectives, adds to the difficulty of introducing changes to the direction U.S. military capabilities are moving and to the rate at which they are occurring. In the absence of clear goals, it becomes difficult to say that a given requirement is more or less important than any other. And in the absence of an authoritative forum for sifting among the large numbers of “requirements” for those that are most important, all the competitors have essentially the same chance until the tough decisions on how much money each will get have to be made. Unfortunately, the product of the planning, programming, and budgeting process in the defense department is increasingly becoming simply the sum of the desires of its individual participants. And as the defense budget goes down, all the participants in that process—the individual services, the agencies, the representatives of the various special interests on the defense secretary’s staff—retreat to what they consider their core institutional interests. So do these trends portray anything significant? Yes. They would seem to indicate a growing inability of the civilian and military sides of the Pentagon to work together in the nation’s benefit. In the past, the civilian side of the defense department was better at balancing the views of the military, and in the face of the military’s tendency to lean toward parochialism, the defense secretary and his staff helped bridge the tension this created. We in the military didn’t always like it. Because the secretary and his once considerably smaller and unified staff worked effectively, however, the nation had better overall military capability. The civilian side understood the adjustments that had to be made to make the military components work better together. And they made it happen. Now, that’s harder to do. The expansion, and particularly the addition of special-interest offices to the secretary’s staff over the last two decades, have diluted civilian control of the military. The secretary’s staff today is less oriented toward developing and supporting a consistent, coherent policy and planning perspective that can counter service parochialism inside the military. It has become much more of a representative institution, intent on giving authority and presence to a wider range of views and priorities from U.S. society. The price has been, of course, a cacophony from the civilian side of the Pentagon that surpasses that from the military side. As the demographic impact of the all-volunteer military takes hold, the portion of the civilian side of the defense department with any direct experience

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with the military will continue to slip downward. If this is paralleled by a greater willingness by the civilian authorities to cede to the military more policy and planning initiative, either because they believe military affairs are simply too esoteric for nonprofessionals to understand, or because they see their jobs narrowly and seek simply to defend the interests of the special-operations forces, or the military medical corps, or women in uniform, or any of the other special interests within the defense establishment, we’re in for serious problems.

The Need for Vision All these hurdles—service and technological parochialism, service-serving doctrine, civil-military strains—are surmountable. History tells us that all the factors sketched here that work against transformations have been around, in some form, for ages. Yet they have been overcome too many times in the past to believe they are immutable. The coincidences that combine to surmount them are complex and probably unique for each age, for each revolution in military affairs. There are, however, some common threads that seem to run through previous revolutions. The most important of these is a vision, shared by enough of the people who can make a difference, articulated well enough so that others will accept changes in its pursuit. I believe that the major factor in why we are not rushing ahead with the transformation of the U.S. military is that we have not yet reached a consensus on the vision that tells us why we should. This is not to say that there are no candidates for this. But the rhetoric has not yet sparked the kind of broad debate that our system demands for us to accelerate the rate of change or shift its direction. We need to have that debate.

Notes 1. To be fair, not all these forecasts of Soviet military capabilities were accurate. While the forecasts of future Soviet systems’ capabilities generally turned out to be relatively precise, many of the projections exaggerated the numbers of systems the Soviets would eventually deploy and the ability of the Soviet military’s logistics systems to sustain what was deployed. 2. Hints that the USSR might not be the growing military power portrayed by the Weinberger administration at the time were not something that was easy to argue inside the Pentagon in the mid-1980s. The hypothesis was suggested under tight security wraps. It surfaced publicly, however, in 1988 as part of the work of the Pentagon’s Commission on Integrated Long-Term Strategy. See The Future Security Environment: Report of the Future Security Environment Working Group (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, October 1988).

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3. Quoted in Jonathon Kaufman, “Facing a World Without the Wall for Americans: A Search for a New Role,” Boston Globe, 12 November 1989. 4. Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett (eds.), Military Innovation in the Interwar Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 5. What distinguished the U.S. operations in Desert Storm from previous conflicts, Perry argued, were new systems and a refined approach to warfare. Intelligence sensors, precision navigation data, and communications gave the coalition field commanders an understanding of the battlefield never achieved in previous military operations. The ability to suppress the opponent’s defenses was unprecedented as well, and precision-guided weapons provided dramatic battle leverage. But as impressive as each of these capabilities was by itself, their combination was the most telling: “All of these were links in the chain of effectiveness, and if any one had been removed, the overall effectiveness of the chain would have been significantly diminished.” Perry coined a term for this kind of interaction—he called it a “system-of-systems.” See William J. Perry, “Military Action: When to Use It and How to Ensure Its Effectiveness,” in Janne E. Nolan (ed.), Global Engagement: Cooperation and Security in the 21st Century (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1994), p. 240. 6. The Goldwater-Nichols Act, passed in 1986 and named after the chairmen of the Senate and House Armed Services Committees respectively, made the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff the senior military adviser to the president and the secretary of defense. This in effect replaced what was a committee of senior military advisers of the previous Joint Chiefs of Staff with a single individual. The act also established the office of the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and made the occupant of this position senior to all U.S. military officers other than the chairman.

CHAPTER 11

Complexity and Theory of Networked Militaries Chris C. Demchak

System Fits and Starts The long-term structural effects of the emergent worldwide change in military organizations, based on information technologies, are not well understood.1 Especially in crises, the opaque characteristics of relying on these complex technologies for peace and security can reverberate through unobtrusive organizational changes to produce extremely costly surprises. Complexity in all aspects of the new information-networked military will make the overall capabilities and learning needs of military organizations less clear while simultaneously driving organizational adaptations through objective support demands and subjective social constructions. If a poor system fit occurs, organizational actors may be less able to accurately foresee the consequences of crucial operational decisions. In crises where actual use is contemplated or engaged, the surprises can prove to be devastating if the organization was not “internally receptive” to the demands of the new equipment and adapted in unfortunate ways.2 The global spread of the concept of an information technology (IT)–enabled military as the model of a fully modernized force is unlike established historical patterns of iterative changes in militaries. 3 The media-promoted success of the 1991 Gulf War and the U.S.-led framing of the attributes of a modern military have spurred a global narrowing of institutional options and, while militaries have always copied each other, this breadth and commonality of vision of what constitutes “modernity” is unique to this era. However, for most of the nations involved, achieving

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ambitious modernization plans, especially with electronic warfare and integrated platforms, will come at great cost to the extant organizations and their societies. The price will be paid both in operational difficulties as surprises and knowledge shortfalls emerge in the organizations and in budget opportunity costs paid by the wider society. More significantly for international peace, the organizational changes, costs, and imported social constructions of modernization will strongly affect both the interpretations of reality and the readiness to act that are embedded in defense organizations.4 A poor systems fit is emerging in militaries across the world as these organizations modernize, due in large part to the widespread misunderstanding of complexity and surprise among defense leaders. Such misappreciations emerge due to a lack of applicable network theory, to a widespread and strongly U.S. tendency to inappropriately and incompletely transfer private firm lessons to public task environments, and to a widespread presumption promoted by the computer industry that surprise and complexity can be marginalized in computer networks with or without human operational involvement at key nodes. As these misunderstandings are enacted in the modern military institutions,5 the consequences can be deeply disturbing in the form of misperceptions before and during crisis, misspent budgets, and lost or disrupted lives. This work has three goals: (1) to provide a language for, and notionally model, a set of relations capturing the ubiquitous nature of surprise in complex (networked) systems; (2) to identify these elements in this globally diffusing and largely U.S. model of a “modern military”; and (3) to present the preliminary expression of a new midrange theory of networked military organizations.6 Following this introduction, the second section will present the language and concepts needed to lay the groundwork for integrating the empirical data with the emergent military model. The third and fourth sections, respectively, present the empirical data and the attributes of this model. The fifth section then presents a preliminary theory of military change based on this global diffusion of a model of networked militaries. Throughout, the discussion draws heavily on notions of complexity, social constructions, and organizational control responses to knowledge shortfalls in crises, as well as comparative research on militaries and technologies. Given space limitations, this presentation will necessarily be broadly brushed in details. The significance of doing this kind of work is considerable. Having the remaining superpower—the United States—convulse itself to modernize its military into IT-enabled structures may be enough reason for concern. Developing a global community of putatively rapidly deployable information warfare (IW) militaries, however, will dramatically change the future assessments of threat and strongly influence the willingness to use military forces in crises.7

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Surprise in Complex Systems: Literatures, Definitions, and Theoretical Relations This work focuses on emergent surprises in complex systems, especially within socially critical organizations. Technological innovations are moving faster than the evolution of cognitive models with which to interpret these dynamically interacting phenomena. Furthermore, while scholars have inadequate theories of complexity or surprise, major social institutions (e.g., militaries) are creating huge natural experiments in managing complex systems-of-systems. Hence this work in part attempts to prepare some common conceptual ground for understanding. Until recently it was widely assumed that new technologies were beneficial, and that the most valuable artifacts would survive market mechanisms. Now in an era of more environmentalism, it is assumed that some technologies may be accident-prone, but that our theoretical and experiential knowledge of complex systems is adequate, and that better designs will reduce risk to acceptable levels. In short, failures in cognitive models or physical artifacts will always inevitably be manageable. This work is skeptical of these initial views and adopts the approach of sociotechnical ensemble theory as a useful tool. This perspective represents a middle ground linking technology and society (or organizations) in highly coupled, interdependent, heterogeneous ensembles. Arising from technical, organizational, social, political, and economic elements, these ensembles pose societally significant control, risk, and social-shaping dilemmas. A particular expression of this theory is found in the literature on large-scale technical systems (LTS).8 This work presumes that managers’ need for control of contingencies and constraints drives the sociotechnical system changes.9 First, managers seek to control contingencies in advance to the extent that they perceive the risk to be costlier than simply enduring undesirable outcomes, and second, humans are inherently prone to view negatively those outcomes that are unplanned and disrupting to expected events—surprise in operations is generally considered negative.10 Several terms in particular are essential for incorporating the notions of complex systems into the discussion of military modernization. These include systems fit, effectiveness, complexity, knowledge burden, accommodation, rogue set, and surprise, as well as networks, precision, and largescale technical systems. 11 A more concise presentation in notional and mathematical terms is provided in the chapter appendix. Concepts of Complexification, Rogues, Knowledge, Networks, and Large-Scale Technical Systems

Four newer literatures with rising conceptual power are directly relevant to understanding the rising complexification of modern military structures,

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environments, and missions. The first is complexity theory, led by the Santa Fe Institute scholars but increasingly distributed across disciplines as other scholars individually seek a way to handle large-scale, dynamic, integrated systems. 12 Increasingly, variations of this work are called “surprise theory.”13 This literature focuses on how qualitative rules operating through a complexifying system can produce unpredictable and path-dependent outcomes that can differ each time the system operates. The goal is to seek the minimal set of underlying rules that govern the surprising outcomes in complex systems and to be able to identify the broad outlines of likely outcomes—the “trends”—in advance.14 The second is chaos theory, or nonlinear dynamics literature.15 It is more advanced conceptually, less concrete, and more broadly distributed than complexity theory. It is focused on how one simple equation, iterated millions of times, will suddenly, although predictively over time, exhibit chaotic results. Yet if left to iterate further, the chaotic results themselves will then define patterns in the chaos.16 The third is the network literature that has emerged simultaneously from both engineering and sociology. Networks are fundamental phenomena. As soon as a dyadic relationship becomes a triad, we can say a network is nascent. Scholars here study groups of elements that have formed into structures whose relations show important characteristics.17 While not yet defined by a common theory,18 this literature is relatively rich in case studies of extant social and technical networks and in the possible surprising outcomes. Finally, the fourth is the literature on large-scale technical systems. Modern society is increasingly marked by the growth of these highly integrated, often socially critical systems.19 More of a culminating literature drawing conceptually from the first three, LTS studies are focused on identifying the constellations of sociotechnical circumstances most likely to incur costly or catastrophic surprises for whole communities.20 Surprise, complexity, and chaos in large networked systems. To begin with, the most important characteristic of complexity is that it produces surprise in extensively networked, precision-dependent systems.21 At some point unpredictable in form or frequency, the mass of varying relationships in a complex system undermines even the most careful programming of every component.22 The more tightly coupled the system,23 the more the effect cascades as minor variations sum unpredictably into an unforeseen outcome that is as likely to be undesirable as desirable.24 This point in the evolution of the system has been called the “threshold point” in the general systems literature, or the “edge of chaos” in the chaos literature. 25 For humans in or dependent on the system, this outcome invokes feelings of being surprised, of being unprepared for the events.

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Up to a certain point, the importance of complexity in any system is relative to the critical knowledge available about the system. Complexity grows more important to the extent the system cannot be certain to have the correct knowledge precisely when and where needed in order to immediately compensate for unexpected, deleterious (“rogue”) outcomes. Knowledge is found in whatever is needed at precisely the moment and place of the undesirable events (i.e., the “point of surprise”) in order to mitigate, compensate for, or possibly reverse the effects. If those items are precisely as needed, then the rogue outcome is largely “accommodated.” In this work, knowledge is more than information carried by an individual or contained in human learning. Knowledge is embedded in the design, operation, and demands of machines. A spare part embodies knowledge. Generally, complex machines require more precision in their inputs, and creating those inputs requires knowledge. Hence the inputs represent knowledge. A highly integrated machine will have a smaller tolerance for error in the connecting cables between multiple layers of internal elements; more sophisticated machines are required to produce the cables themselves and therefore more knowledge is required for the machine to operate as anticipated. Systems high on the scales of indicators of complexity require more knowledge for successful operation; effectiveness is successful operation. Knowledge, precision, and surprise are related. The narrower the permissible deviation in the substance, format, or delivery timing of the knowledge needed between elements of the system, the more precision the system requires for effective operation. The greater these number of internal relations overall, the more difficult it is to acquire enough knowledge continually to sustain high levels of precision and, when deviance ripples through connections, to know how to respond to disturbances. Hence increases in complexity are inextricably linked to increases in surprise, unless accommodated, and effectiveness and complexity are equally inextricably linked.26 The following sections draw out these relations more clearly. 1. “Knowledge burden”—indicator of surprise potential. Knowledge is essential for a system; without it, component parts would not know how to interact. For most systems associated with humans, operating successfully means knowing that outcomes are relatively predictable. This “knowledge burden” is the right amount, nature, and modality of information needed to ensure that outcomes of the system are not surprises.27 The more structurally intricate a system is, the more there is that needs to be known in order for it to function according to some desired pattern. The more complex the system, and the more precision necessary for its operations, the larger the knowledge requirements both initially and over time.28 Knowing all the possible outcomes of a dynamic system is theoretical-

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ly impossible, and thus there remains a final subset of unknowns that are simply unknowable. Irrespective of how much research is performed, some subset of outcomes will remain mysteries because a system cannot evaluate itself.29 Every system has some “unknowable unknowns.”30 The greater the number of essential relations among a large number of components, the greater the likelihood of improbable events—“deviant amplitudes”—rippling through the system and producing an unpredictable outcome (or “dynamic instability”).31 Knowledge and surprise are directly related. Surprise emerges as our models of reality—our knowledge inventory and structures—diverge from our experience of reality itself.32 Surprise is therefore greatest in complex systems because the proportion of the unknown outcomes is higher than in more simple systems. All things being equal, knowledge becomes more difficult to acquire, especially while the system is in motion. If, in a large array of relationships, a disturbance can travel along any of a number of paths and branch at each component it encounters, then many outcomes are possible for any given disturbance, including multiple source failures that are very difficult to diagnose. If many types of disturbances are also possible, then the prediction problems multiply exponentially and rapidly. 2. “Rogue outcomes” and “tight coupling”—surprise enhancers. Undesirable, unexpected outcomes are “rogue outcomes,” a label intended to convey the sense of shock, often felt as betrayal, when a nasty surprise occurs. A complex system is more likely to experience undesirable unknown outcomes. In any system, each node can tolerate a certain level of variation in inputs. In order to pass many nodes without taking a wrong path or becoming seriously distorted, communications and input/output relations in the more complex system have to be commensurately more exact. Having an array of these relations, the complex system is likely to be numerous, differentiated, and interdependent; it is less able to rearrange those relationships quickly or accurately when a disturbance occurs.33 It is thereby “tightly coupled.”34 Complex systems, therefore, are prone to having small disturbances multiply quickly into large surprises that are more likely to be nasty.35 The larger number of potential rogue outcomes makes complex systems knowledge intensive to reliably operate. This is particularly true of machine systems where precision in inputs and operation are essential for the speed and efficiency in resource use, and increasingly true of human systems connected by machines. 3. “Accommodation” of unknown outcomes—surprise compensation. Rogue outcomes are generally unpopular. In human systems, the more socially significant the organization, the less tolerant the population is toward the unexpected, especially if it is deleterious. A wide array of government agencies exists in order to make outcomes more predictable and

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undesirable outcomes less likely. For example, the Securities and Exchange Commission exists to monitor the stock market and keep the system from collapsing as it did in the 1920s. Militaries exist to monitor external threats and keep the surrounding system from threatening national survival. Only greater knowledge lessens the effects of rogue outcomes, either by revealing the form or frequency of some previously unknown outcome or by guiding a system’s responses accurately within acceptable time limits. Whether an uncertainty concerns the specific form or the actual frequency of an occurrence will have an effect on the nature of the accommodation required. For example, if the undesirable outcome is destruction of grain in a warehouse, if the rogue outcome is either marauding rats or deer that will only come at foreseeable intervals, then obstacles or deterrents that work at least once against each and that can be replaced easily are necessary. If, however, it is certainly rats but they could arrive unexpectedly, then the obstacles or deterrents will have to be tailored to rats and reinforced for multiple, unforeseeable attacks. It is, of course, most difficult to accommodate undesirable outcomes when both form and frequency are unknown. If the form is known, then “redundancy” in the inventory of knowledge relevant to those outcomes is preferred. If only the frequency of disruptions is likely, then “slack”—which entails loosening the coupling among elements and may include redundancy—is preferred as an initial accommodation mechanism. Both slack and redundancy, however, are expensive. Constrained by operational, resource, and theoretical limits, an organization in a turbulent environment is likely to be unable to acquire all the knowledge it needs to maintain complex machine systems at peak operating order or synchronization. As a response, managers will increase the internal controls in compensation. Those efforts plus spontaneous informal adaptations will produce a more complex organizational network. The increase in organizational complexity means the organization itself now has a larger set of possible rogue outcomes. Especially damaged is the speed with which it can accurately respond to unpredictable crises in a highly uncertain environment. 4. “Robustness”—an indicator of “systems fit.” In complex systems especially, “robustness” is a broad summary measure of the appropriateness of the accommodations of surprise that exist in the system. Accordingly, measures of robustness rest, even if indirectly, on embedded measures of redundancy and slack. For heuristic purposes, an intuitively appealing measure of robustness is the parametric multiplication of redundancy by slack.36 Intuitively appealing, the term rises or falls as the combination of redundancy and slack rises and falls. If system A has high slack and low redundancy and system B has low slack and high redundancy, then it is clear that both could have the same level of robustness. The processes

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resulting in robustness vary considerably, and more needs to be known about both systems and the slack or redundancy at their critical nodes. This measure is rough but useful for presenting the relationships between complexity and robustness via redundancy and slack. 5. “Patterns in the chaos”—trial and error as surprise’s warning lights. Both complexity theory and chaos theory explore the limits of forecasting the knowledge needed in advance of the dynamic operation of highly precise complex systems. The limitations of this work allow only a few words on the overlapping lessons of these two fields of study. While orthogonal in the method of their pursuit,37 chaos and complexity theories both indirectly argue for trial-and-error learning in large systems, however expensive this form of accommodating surprise. Chaos theory suggests that to reach the patterns presented only at the edge of chaos and relate them to an equation, the system has to run a great deal iteratively. Complexity theory’s experience suggests that it requires operating a system for a while in order to see what trends—not precise outcomes—the initiating rules produce over time. Hence both imply that time and knowledge in complex systems cannot be decoupled easily. Since only trends will actually be available for guidance, it takes considerable additional knowledge to flesh out the concrete expressions of these trends in terms of predicting system states.38 In short, time occupied with trial-and-error learning is essential for developing the knowledge needed to mitigate rogue outcomes.39 Networks, technology, and large-scale technical systems as socially significant sociotechnical networks. A network is a system characterized by a set of nodes linked by a set of relationships of a specified type.40 A network so defined, however, is not like an organization in that it does not need to have a discernible boundary, defined rules for membership, or some expression of purpose to exist.41 What is missing here is a theory stating the rules by which a network emerges and continues to exist.42 It is possible that the basic form of an organization is neither a market nor a hierarchy as suggested by Oliver Williamson nor any other bifurcated typology.43 Rather, Michael Priore argues that markets may be at one end of a continuum with hierarchies at the other and the continuum may be composed of various kinds of networks.44 Hence, seeing organizations as networks requires more explanation about why those relations should persist. However defined, networks of loci of human-oriented activity provide the substrata of all complex sociotechnical systems. Hence the literature on networks has bearing on an understanding of how the imposition of new information technologies on military organizations will evolve and how surprise will play a role in that evolution. This work is specifically interested in how the image of, and the actual experience of, the introduction of networked technologies into military

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functions will affect their effectiveness when operating as intended. A technology’s “material aspects” have an immediate effect on the “nonrelational” work of an organization and, over time, the roles and social networks of the organization mediate these effects.45 Over time, these mediated effects alter the structure of the organization as shared daily practices become taken for granted and eventually formalized.46 In civilian organizations, network research on technology suggests close attention to the initial conditions when introducing technologies, especially the social relations physically and cognitively experienced in the transition.47 For most of the history of the development of technology, it was presumed to be a net benefit for the using organization, and if not, the march of history would be forcing the technology onto the society anyway. In recent years, however, large interdependent social systems tied increasingly by technical artifacts have been emerging. They emerge when formerly independent technologies are combined to form an even larger technological system with relatively high levels of interdependence, differentiation, and components, and often relatively high requirements for precision in system interactions. Usually there is a central controlling entity, but its reach may or may not be equally strong throughout the increasingly networked system. The components do not have to be in a formal hierarchical relation with each other, but only must have a functional need for each other that spills over into ever more tightly coupled relations. For lack of a better term, these have come to be known as large-scale technical systems, and their widespread emergence has led to the development of a field of study devoted to understanding their implications. Recognizing that such large systems can manifest “artifactual success combined with system failure,”48 scholars in this new field focus on the conditions under which these systems impose risks on unwitting organizations and their societies. Of particular interest in this field are the organizational control mechanisms and social risks associated with complex technical systems, as well as the loci of control and the effects of machine requirements for formal rationality.49 As scholars have noted over time, the LTS is more organic than mechanistic in its development. That is to say, the LTS seems to acquire lifelike attributes, seems to grow, change its environment directly or indirectly, and occasionally die. The larger the system, the more it appears to be self-organizing, as would any complex system, and often self-developing.50 As complex systems, their structural connectivity assures rogue outcomes and surprise aperiodically. The more critical their full functioning to the wider system, the more likely undampened deviations or rogue outcomes can unpredictably cascade into major disasters. Under these circumstances, accommodating such events needs to be a major focus of initial organizational design.

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Systems Fit and Definition of Effectiveness

This approach is largely cognitivist in that the distribution of technological knowledge is considered the most important starting point in evaluation of fit.51 Surprise is encouraged in a system where the orchestration of elements form a whole that has a knowledge burden that the organization does not or cannot accommodate. 52 More precisely, effectiveness (E) of an organization is defined as the level of systems fit between the precision requirements built into the system and the surprise potential inherent in the level of unknowable or knowable unknowns and in the design of coordination of activities through knowledge exchange and the validity of the information exchanged for the situation at hand.53 The chapter appendix presents a more precise rendition of this approach. High levels of effectiveness reflect a good fit, that is, few negative surprises and achievable levels of precision in inputs. This outcome generally requires either less complexity (fewer intricate and necessary timeconstrained relations) or greater knowledge in advance (predictability) and better accommodation on the spot (high knowledge inventory on location— usually redundancy, or lowered need for knowledge on the spot—slack). Large sociotechnical systems, whether military or not, that impose high levels of precision requirements without accommodation of surprise have a poor systems fit with their task environment.

Surprise-Prone Elements of the Globally Diffusing Model of a “Modern” Military As the international system regroups following the demise of the Cold War, potential enemies have become less well defined. Wars are becoming fewer, albeit more lethal, and the tempo of competition in the international system is globally less urgent.54 Despite the relative reduction in imminent threats, military leaders around the globe have declared their intention to modernize their organizations using information technologies and precision weapons in smaller, more professional force structures—forces that are, as U.S. doctrine states, “rapidly tailorable, rapidly expansible, strategically deployable and effectively employable . . . in all operational environments.”55 Unprecedented Global Diffusion of the U.S.-Defined Modernization Model

A 1996 Government Accounting Office report asserted that over 100 nations were planning modernization of their militaries.56 In September

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1996, using more stringent coding than GAO, I identified 50 modernizing states. Six months later in April 1997, this number had increased by 18 percent to 68 nations.57 While militaries have always copied each other, it is extraordinary for so many distinctly different defense leaders to espouse such similar visions of what a future “modern” military would entail.58 This vision is based on the highly electronic, precision-guided military under construction by the United States in its modernization program. This process has accelerated among the world’s militaries especially over the past five years, redefining the taken-for-granted minimum in military capabilities to mean intensive use of information technologies and precision munitions. In short, the modernization vision of the United States is driving the images of what “modern” means across the global military community and its attendant cultural correlates. Military leaders are not seeking these capabilities to meet objective or potential security threats, but rather because they view such an ITintensive, small, professional military to be the norm for the twenty-first century. Barring another measure of preparedness for all eventualities, the level of modernization becomes the major measure of potential effectiveness against possible foes and prestige among key referent groups. Over time, militaries will inevitably become more similar, creating a new international military community largely characterized by these new electronic attributes or by the outcome of their efforts to create these attributes. Given this trend, it is doubly important to distill what is actually being promoted by the United States and what that model implies. Key Definitions: RMA and IW

The dominant model for a “modern” military is emerging through the U.S. military’s “revolution in military affairs” (RMA), continuing debate and enactment in the U.S. force structure.59 The “revolution” is ill defined, but is emerging as a rough social consensus on what constitutes a modern military.60 The U.S. defense department’s Office of Net Assessments defines RMA as “a major change in the nature of warfare brought about by the innovative application of technologies which, combined with dramatic changes in military doctrine and operational concepts, fundamentally alters the character and conduct of operations.”61 In 1996 and in 1997 the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff published two documents capturing their consensual image of RMA’s chief product—“information warfare”—and what kind of organizational functions will be available with the move to this new kind of warfare: Joint Vision 2010 and Concept for Future Joint Operations.62,63 Published statements of expected outcomes by senior leaders, given sufficient emphasis through a large organization, are powerful influences on the social constructions of reality emerging in the rest of the organization.64

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Together these capture the imagery of the future structure, capabilities, operations, and potentials for success that the senior leaders want to guide the evolution of the current force into an information-era military. For the U.S. RMA and its emergent notions of IW, and across the varying statements of modernizing leaders, there are three general issues particularly concerning IT-enabled militaries that are profoundly socially misconstrued. These are (1) the physically and cognitively complex interactions in a dynamic large-scale system; (2) the varying time requirements of pattern discernment and reconstruction in the successful military use of these systems; and (3) the differences between data, information, knowledge, and wisdom in accommodating surprise. The emergent consensus and social construction of a “modern” military generally conflates promised capabilities in the system’s parts with increased reliability of the system overall. The powerful coordinating notion that modern information technologies permit the widespread substitution of information for mass (military force structure) may be significantly misrepresented in the seniorlevel expectations of future operations, while the roles of redundancy, knowledge, and surprise in complex systems may be seriously underestimated. Over the years since the 1991 Gulf War, this RMA has increasingly become more defined in its attributes. The U.S. military’s stated goal is to modernize into rapidly deployable forces using advanced IT, becoming smaller, more highly skilled, faster, more flexible, and putatively much more lethal. A major assumption underlying the U.S. pursuit of information warfare technology is the following: once the ability to acquire, move around, and store information in great volumes and speed exists, then a military will at all levels be able to effectively sift that information and convert it to knowledge in real time.65 RMA militaries in principle collect, manipulate, and use digitized information so effectively that they are able to conduct IW66 or, more recently, “information operations” (IO).67 “The RMA transforms time and space. . . . Such forces can scan the battlespace looking for targets, sift through large amounts of data looking for high priority battlespace knowledge and strike whichever enemy poses the most urgent threats.”68 Second, it is further presumed that the necessary knowledge will be available, given the right choice of sensor technology, and with fast communications it can be expected to arrive in advance of its need and therefore enable the military to act equally rapidly. A corollary to the first two assumptions is that unnecessary functions, forces, supplies, and activities can be identified and efficiently purged from the operations and perhaps the entire force, cutting “waste” and becoming “lean and mean.” These advantages are further predicated on enhanced control over resources, and the accurate, rapid way in which these resources can then be managed. This

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ability to command more quickly and accurately and to control more precisely will, it is presumed, automatically provide dominant advantages over any foe.69 This image is consistent through several years of iteration.70 In 1994, then U.S. Army chief of staff General Gordon Sullivan stated that digitalization of the battlefield—the electronic linking of every weapon system in the Battlespace—will allow the commander to synchronize all the elements of combat power [to] simultaneously prepare, execute and recover from operations very, very quickly [and instead of] huge stockpiles, . . . to anticipate and respond just in time to sustainment requirements. . . . Battle command will be based on . . . a near-perfect appreciation of the real situation.71,72

The Joint Vision 2010 document reinforces this widespread and enduring presumption of near-perfect level of knowledge acquisition and use across all military elements, stating that the desired level of “command and control, [will be] based on fused, all-source, real-time intelligence [which] will reduce the need to assemble maneuver formations days and hours in advance of attacks.”73 These notions are echoed across U.S. military services. The air force document Global Engagement portrays the information transformation as a movement to activities that are advanced in information technologies and, importantly, strongly space-oriented.74 In its initial document, Forward from the Sea (1992), and its follow-up document, Navy Operational Concept (1996), the navy develops a concept of “networkcentric warfare.”75 This focus on extremely fast command and control due to new technologies is echoed in the marine corps’ vision as described in the document Operational Maneuver from the Sea (1995).76 The army in its Vision 2010 (1996) also mirrors the key theme of dominance through the advantages of information technologies.77 The senior leaders have labeled the overarching goal as “full spectrum dominance.” It is “the key characteristic we seek for our Armed Forces . . . the ability to conduct dominant operations across the full range of possible missions.”78 Across the various documents and time, then, is the enduring presumption that information technologies will provide real-time organization-wide distribution of accurate and appropriate knowledge. These presumptions about information technologies have changed the battlefield to “battlespace” in the symbolic language of modernizing military organizations as well. Whatever else IT may or may not do, that constitutes a fundamental element of this new military: the rapid, accurate, widespread dispersion of knowledge then used in information operations to ensure the distress of an opponent and to avoid similar disruptions on friendly operations.79 The globally integrated automatic networks bouncing off satellites and moving vast volumes of data are often heralded as a great compensator for the traditional unknowns of military operations.

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“Modern” Military Concepts and Lessons from Complexity Studies

Some central hypotheses underlie these RMA expectations about the rapidity and near instantaneous character of deployment actions, the lack of need for force structure called “mass,” and pinpoint accuracy of information, targeting, and delivery of lethal power.80 The new military is expected to present a seamless scale of operations, a smooth movement between the peace and war in all sizes and locations of operations. Information technologies are perceived as making all these outcomes possible because the speed, accuracy, reliability, flexibility, and robustness imputed to information technologies will be directly translated into organizational outcomes as IT is implemented. In the Joint Vision 2010 document, this presumption is segmented into four new operational concepts: “new technology will transform the traditional functions of maneuver, strike, protection, and logistics. These transformations will be so powerful that they become, in effect, new operational concepts: dominant maneuver; precision engagement; full dimensional protection; and focused logistics.”81 These four concepts offer the central set of shared hypotheses guiding the actions of the various services in the implementation of this information warfare vision. It is therefore reasonable to analyze these hypotheses given lessons of complexity in large-scale systems. H1—Dominant maneuver and speed: If information technologies are implemented in the most critical functions of the military forces, then, ceteris paribus, dominant maneuver will succeed in assuring unprecedented rapidity of action on the part of our military organizations. 82 A heavy reliance on speed conflicts with a need for levels of precision inputs across multiple nodes in machine as well as human systems if use conditions or inputs are expected to alter in unexpected ways. If the software-hardware interface is designed for speed, variations in use and product that reduce such rapidity have to be constrained. It often requires considerable human knowledge and skill to overcome protocols or boundary conditions embedded in the hardware or software, whose purpose was curtail user deviations in order to speed up the processing. Often the data provided is in response to questions the designers assumed that the local commander would ask, not the ones he or she needs to ask at that moment. Similarly, highly complex fast machines often demonstrate transient errors in processing that are particularly disrupting and frustrating because they are so difficult to diagnose.83 At a minimum, the user needs to constantly check output against other known indicators to verify accuracy. Unfortunately, there is little evidence of this kind of understanding in this vision where more attention has been paid to the channels of these enormous data flows than to the appropriateness of the contents.

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H2—Precision engagement and accuracy: If information technologies are implemented as the most critical functions of the military forces, then, ceteris paribus, precision engagement will succeed by giving our forces pinpoint accuracy at all times.84 As a key tenet of the “modern” military, “precision engagement” is fundamentally based on an expectation about the pinpoint accuracy of current and prospective knowledge in all operations that information technologies promise.85 However, increased internal information flows must be met or exceeded by rising abilities to process the information into knowledge.86 Note that knowledge is more than mere provision of data or the thousands of linked data sets composing information flows; for any given surprise or uncertainty, knowledge is the right bit at the right time, place and mode—whether it is relevant analysis concerning enemy approaches, imagery of intervisibility obstructions not on maps, or a critically needed spare part.87 The mere provision of information does not mean knowledge for the recipients. Knowing where the missing component is in the pipeline does not provide the component on the spot to the needy user. Furthermore, in a complex system some outcomes are unknowable in advance in either form or frequency in any case. Assuring the channels of information does not mean the right information is obtained, uncorrupted in transmission, or appropriately used. One of the difficulties encountered during actual hostilities during the 1991 Gulf War was the inability by operational staff to process the volume of messages being pumped forward; the problem was the rapidity of transmission equipment. If the information flow is too rapid, too fragmented, too corrupted, too tangential to the operations at hand, then knowledge is not provided. If compensation for information overload is not designed into the organization, usually with slack resources, the organization’s processes will slow down commensurate with the need of local nodes to individually figure out how to screen information for their local needs.88 Recent exercise experiences have shown that a commander can have 100 percent situational awareness but still suffer “intelligence failure” because he is unable to use that real-time data effectively. As individual nodes make their own decisions about what is important, mistakes and confusion can ripple through the rest of the highly integrated, precision-based organization.89 H3—Full-dimensional protection: If information technologies are implemented as the most critical functions of the military forces, then, ceteris paribus, “full-dimensional protection” will succeed by giving our forces uniform and universal control of the entire battlespace at all times.90 This operational concept, “full-dimensional protection,” is an expression of how information technologies are expected to provide an extraordinary level of control of multiple and complex overlain systems such that they are a “seamless joint architecture” ensuring protection. In all the docu-

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ments, there is an implicit promotion of centralized control, especially in discussions of full spectrum protection.91 However, the more centralized the desired managerial control, the more stable and homogeneous must be the environment and organization itself in order for adequate inventories of knowledge to be developed and to provide reliably consistent outcomes. That knowledge is inherently limited by the complexity of the system and the commensurate amount of unknowable unknowns. Effectiveness with such control is not theoretically possible in normal military environmental conditions without either stability or homogeneity. The control conundrum is not obvious in the RMA. Unfortunately, information technologies have a dual face: they offer the image of decentralization by dispersing activities but still enhance tight central control. A discouraging development in the corporate world is that central headquarters are now beginning to recentralize functions precisely because of the increasing speed of communications. These developments suggest that the lure of comprehensive control is nearly irresistible for senior leaders who are held responsible for all actions up and down the organizational line.92 H4—Focused logistics and flexibility: If information technologies are implemented as the most critical functions of the military forces, then, ceteris paribus, “focused logistics” will succeed by giving our force unprecedented reliability and flexibility at all times.93 Traditionally in military science and history, supply to a deployed force is a fundamental element of effectiveness, in which assured supply of whatever resources at the point needed allows for considerable latitude in timing and locations, not to mention operational success.94 In Joint Vision 2010, there is a common theme that these information-enabled advanced logistical systems will be on call rather than in hand, rapid to deliver, and cheaper than the current systems. This “just-in-time” logistics theme is echoed among the subordinate services, with the air force the most explicit in stating an intent to leverage business practices (such as privatization and outsourcing) with information technology such as just-in-time inventory to make the “footprint”—the on-site inventories of redundant knowledge—“of future forces smaller.”95 However, the greater the uncertainty or the less predictable the environment or the system implementing operations, the more slack must be built into the system’s processes and the more redundancy built into functions to accommodate surprises at the points of critical use. It appears that the understanding of complex systems and the need for locally available slack is universally neglected in these vision statements. Apart from post offices with state monopolies and auto manufacturers with standard models, few other organizations have done as well with such an arrangement. Even auto manufacturers have suffered when surprises disrupt an otherwise robust just-in-time setup. The 1995 earthquake in Kobe, Japan, disrupted

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and shut down manufacturers miles to the south because suppliers key to the just-in-time strategy became nonoperational. Robustness/Complexity and Demonstrated Understanding in Vision Statements—Poor Fit

The crucial test of fitness is the extent to which these imputed hypotheses, given the characteristics identified in the elaborating definitions of complex systems, are likely to satisfy the conditions for effective operations. The envisioned logistics system appears to be the superstructure of a new kind of military organization with attributes never before achieved: close control of a complex large-scale organization, avoidance of error in just-in-time deliveries, and extraordinary requirements for highly trained personnel. The digitization of logistics has engendered an underlying vision of the entire organization as one large synchronized machine, a massive largescale technical system. Senior leaders appear to be focused on the artifacts’ potential rather than on the human behavior channeled by and responding to the artifact’s reliability and appropriateness for the situation at hand, with all of its unavoidable uncertainties. This desire on the part of senior leaders is understandable in an era of declining budgets, but it is far from what studies of organization employing complex technologies would suggest. A just-in-time (JIT) war is predicated on having minimal (hence cheaper) on-site knowledge inventories despite little slack in other processes, and relies on the raw speed of communication. This JIT warfare neglects considerations such as the content of transmissions, the coordination requirements of responses, the distortion potentials of differing priorities and local needs along widely spread nodes, and finally the surprises inherent in such operations. However, as recapped in the chapter appendix, the larger the organization (the more complex it is) and the more stringent the demands on its operations (the more precision required), the more every increase in complexity makes surprises inevitable and routine, and the whole system less predictable. Military organizations may be shrinking in comparison with their sizes during the era of the superpower competition, but they are still large organizations. Regardless of their technological sophistication, they are therefore subject to the surprises of complexity. The addition of sophisticated machines, whose needs, uses, and channeling of human behavior increase the complexity of any military organization, magnifies the potential disruption of surprise. The assessment here is that, taken overall, the visions do not understand complexity, especially the propensity for surprise. Authors of the vision statements seem to endorse the following statement: “I can know everything and, when I do, then I can automatically and cheaply prevail.”

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But in a complex system, even if “I know everything it is possible to know in advance”—a very expensive proposition indeed—the unknowable unknowns may ensure that “I” do not win. A complexifying system intended to operate in turbulent conditions cannot plan on success without considerable redundancy and slack precisely at the critical points of surprise. These are essentially design rules for surprise, not for precision. Without them, the system cannot logically or realistically fail to fail. The fit between the diffusing model and the necessary relations of a complexifying system appears poor indeed.

Preliminary Midrange Theory of Modern Networked Militaries Theory exists to explain patterns of relations. Definitions, data patterns, new concepts, or interesting observations in qualitative or quantitative results are prerequisites, but it remains for strong theory to tie together systemic elements with the whys of their existence.96 In keeping with the requirements for midrange theory, this section attempts to use a rendition of the nascent theory of surprise to explain why, for the purposes of effective operations, the introduction of information technologies must be approached differently from historical predilection, from the current RMA plans, and from civilian firms. This nascent theory also attempts to explain what elements have the greatest potential for constructing strong theory after further research. First, this section recaps what has changed to make elements of a new theory necessary—in organizations, in military task environments globally and locally, and in expectations of success. 97 Second, these changes are combined into a set of elements essential for the construction of new midrange theory of modern networked military organizations. 98 The section concludes with a summary expression of a new midrange theory of networked military organizations based on notions of control, precision, and surprise. In the process, some testable hypotheses are offered to stimulate future theorizing and advancements. Some caveats are necessary. Not only is this discussion intended to present elements of a stronger theory yet to be developed, but also this task is doubly difficult because it is intended deliberately to alter future trends in path-dependent evolutions. That is to say, the theorizing here is intended to have policy effects that alter the starting point of evolution in order to avoid, at a minimum, the worst possible outcomes. Kenneth Waltz has quite wisely cautioned against using theory to predict outcomes, but in acknowledging path-dependency, this work offers a midrange theory to help understand likely future trends.99 One might argue that Waltz’s work went at least that far implicitly and this work has a similar stretch as its longer-term goal.

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Not Your Father’s Approach to War

Theories on the origins and conduct of war abound; historically, however, strong theories of militaries qua organizations abstracted from the specific technologies are few. Even fewer are strong theories about how the use of a peculiarly integrated kind of technology—information technology—influences the conditions for change and for military deployment and use. A reader well versed in military history can perform the following thought experiment to understand the difficulty of older approaches to the newer context. Imagine structuring a military force at any time without knowing what armament you will have. Try to compose tank battalions without knowing what they can really do. Information technologies are exactly that challenging in organizational terms. They are at once eminently flexible in terms of what they can do—and with whom. Yet once in place in their necessarily interdependent arrangements, their design and format eliminate much of the flexibility while introducing systemwide rippling uncertainties that broken tanks, low avgas, and stormy seas can only approximate. Explaining the role of IT in militaries requires the conceptual movement to an abstract level that is, nonetheless, translatable into concrete organizational attributes. In contrast, the “modern” historical predilection on the part of defense actors and scholars is to focus on individually identified stimuli such as key events or weapons or key leaders. Yet if militaries are to be truly “modern” and use information technologies, it is necessary to address the implications of complex systems and the new task environment. Especially important is to link notions of precision, surprise, redundancy, slack, and knowledge in networked sociotechnical systems to changes in military task environments domestically and globally. Consistent with the requirements for new theory, this approach reorients the focus to understanding surprise and complexity. It redirects organizational design to center on the adjustment of the likelihood of outcomes— the management of path-dependent trends using knowledge management. Here the elements identified and the relationships promoted are those most likely to constrain organizational outcomes to a preferred set of future trends. It is not your father’s approach to the study of warfare or the organizations involved. RMA-Designed Military or Camouflaged Civilian Supercompetitor: Wrong Perception, Flawed Response

Human organizations emerge from the subjective and context-dependent selections of purpose, time frame for accomplishment, and resources (aside from time) to apply. Everything else is commentary or variation on this theme. The social constructions of information technologies held by stakeholders in and around any given organization are central to these adapta-

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tions. The introduction of networked information technologies has influenced cause-effect beliefs affecting all of these elements: the selection process (bound by culture, experience, and desire), the purposes entertained, the timing expected, and resources perceived to be available. In recent years, images of organizations fully integrated with computermediated networks have been socially constructed to be beneficial no matter the purposes. Highly competitive civilian organizations have widely promoted this perception. The benefits rely heavily on the presumably automatically positive effects on the speed of operations and the negative effects on the human deviance portion of operational costs. The first wave of popular U.S. literature in the 1980s promised a brave new virtual world, built in a cyberspace where networks of computers would break down stagnant organizational hierarchies, eliminate lack of innovation due to internal and external transactions costs, foster openness in government, and restore democratic ideals.100 Recently, more pessimistic authors have focused on security, privacy, and discretion in self-serving actions, suggesting that widespread transnational computer networks may further fragment rather than renew society.101 Although the empirical evidence on future distributions of social and economic benefits and risks from these network technologies or “cyberspace” is not so clear, nonetheless the dominant construction is extremely positive.102 As this social construction has diffused across Western cultures, military managers have also turned to the machines that increase speed and seem to reduce costs in operations, and have begun to view the new global military task environment in those terms. The new visions of a military are primarily about these benefits and the machines that provide them. Since the historically driving contingency has been not knowing enough about the enemy during hostilities, increasing the speed of information collection and transfer appeals directly to this major concern. Under these sociotechnical presumptions, major organizational decisions about information technologies become transformed into more mundane choices about machine speed/storage rates and network or sensor costs.103 Furthermore, this direct transfer of civilian cause-effect beliefs appears to be more appropriate than ever in a superficial interpretation of international events. As the international system regroups following the lingering demise of the Cold War, potential enemies have become less well defined. Wars are becoming fewer, albeit more lethal, and the tempo of competition in the international system is globally less urgent. Peace appears to be breaking out all over in the arenas of military competition between states.104 Complicating the situation is the much heralded breakdown of the sovereignty of the state. Not that states will disappear, à la Marx, but rather that the ranges of processes and resources that national governments can easily control are narrowing due to the globalization of human group inter-

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actions.105 In this perspective the future is not likely to be cleanly divided between peace and war between states, but rather a smoother transition between warm (cordial) peace, cold (tense) peace, crises threshold periods, cold (active standoff) war, warm (warning hostilities) war, and hot (fullscale) hostilities. 106 Preparedness for military action then appears to increasingly approximate the twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week schedule of civilian business competitions in which the best situation is derived from the least-cost just-in-time responses to business opportunities or crises.107 The reality, of course, is that civilian firms always operate in their most challenging environment, while militaries do so only infrequently, making the direct transfer of civilian ideas problematical from the outset. Even information warfare, the chief identifiable product of the RMA vision, has been defined in business competitive terms and never gained any distinctive attributes. There are so many definitions of this emergent type of national security competition that IW has become a spigot variable that is turned on whenever and wherever computers are involved.108 Hence the modern would-be designers of effective military organizations can use neither the historical approaches, nor the RMA visions, nor civilian firms as bases for articulating how organizations, information, and war interact with each other globally. Propositions of a Midrange Theory of IT-Enabled Military Organizations and IT-Oriented Warfare

Given these presumptions, then, warfare with information technologies is redefined in this work to focus on organizational responses. Organizations have always fought wars, but here theorizing must include them as the primary actors, not the secondary agents of the state. Thus information warfare is more properly the operations that enable the organization to wage electronically mediated disabling or destructive operations on another organization directly. It depends on the right information in the right modality with the right amount of time to apply the correct electronic or other response and is critically based on the organization of the people around the artifacts more than the quality of the artifacts themselves.109 Such warfare is not, however, the waging of tough competition on the product of a competitor or just getting across long distances in real time with explosive firepower. It is more likely to be the waging of knowledge sets against knowledge sets, with each side also dealing with the pathdependent surprises of prior organizational control decisions. For the purposes of this work, then, the following assertions about IT-enabled organizations and the new military task environments are accepted as valid. They are offered as testable propositions on which future work can build strong

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theory. It is important to note as one arrives at the final proposition that this kind of warfare does not necessarily require the declaration of war. • Proposition 1: Information technologies do not reduce the basic managerial inclination to control for perceived contingencies and constraints. As familiarity with networked technologies increases, unless other social constructions and organizational designs deliberately inhibit this tendency, managers will use the networks as new modalities of control more often than new means of decentralizing operations.110 • Proposition 2: Information technologies are holographic in that a single machine cannot produce the maximum benefits; rather they are intrinsically distributed, networked systems that tend to be complex due to internal differentiation. Hence to the extent that they experience surprises in their essential systems, managers will act preemptively if possible to forestall deviations in operation to increase precision in processes. • Proposition 3: The objective complexity (and surprises) of any integrated system is mitigated or increased by the control decisions of managers in response to their beliefs about contingencies and constraints. If the managerial control decisions increase the precision requirements and decrease the redundancy or slack (increasing the chance of unaccommodated surprise), then effectiveness measured in terms of the predictability of the system’s outcomes affected by the technologies will decline. That decline will engender more efforts to control as failures are encountered. • Proposition 4: Given the difficulty of controlling complex networks from outside the involved organizations, state controls over networks will be reformulated to be more distant, parametric, and less directly focused on individual organizational actors. As networks become more robust across and within state boundaries, the spectrum of future military operations will be widened and deepened increasingly by the cumulative weight of organizational perceptions and subsequent decisions, not purely in the negotiation of reality state-level actors. • Proposition 5: The extent to which explicit risks to the lives of employees are recognized and monitored by organizational stakeholders is a burden in the contingencies and constraints ledger weighted more heavily by military managers than by civilian managers. The greater the organization’s sociotechnical familiarity with computer networks in key decisionmaking and operating nodes, the greater the chance of strong disapproval by key stakeholder groups at the prospect of organizational casualties in operations;111 and the greater the prospect of complex or surprising operations, the more military managers are likely to seek and use network capabilities to preemptively buffer, insulate, absorb, or destroy sources of uncertainty that increase the risk of such casualties.112

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• Proposition 6: Given the rising multiplicity of electronically enabled organizational actors across the globe, the practical expression of the national security dilemma changes such that hostilities will be more properly measured by the exchange of disruptive or destructive effects among opposing organizations than between conflicting states per se. Protective electronic preemption is more likely to occur across a range of nontransparent mechanisms as familiarity with the operations of the technical systems increases within key decisionmaking elements of the networked military organization. • Proposition 7: The greater the perceived need for protective preemption results in managerial decisions to increase coupling, control, automaticity, and centralization while reducing efforts to ensure widespread knowledge-centric redundancy and slack, the more likely the electronic military will be ineffective when direct hostilities involving deployed soldiers and explosive exchanges are engaged. These propositions are offered as elements of a midrange theory offering a new approach and a new compilation of existing observations. They require further exploration in order to progress to a strong theory of surprise and networked militaries. Given these notions, the following section summarizes how such militaries might structure themselves to operate effectively. Organization-Oriented Operations: Designed for Surprise and Knowledge

In this formulation, militaries equipped with information technologies and responding to newer conditions of state contraction globally will be more counterorganization actors than ever previously envisioned. For success, they will not attempt to be more precise, targeted, and lethal in real time— as envisioned in the U.S. RMA language. Rather, IT-enabled militaries will be effective to the extent that they are managers of likely future trends by using knowledge redundancy and slack to manipulate sources of surprise both within their organizations and, when necessary, within the opposing organizations. This formulation implicitly argues that managers have to maximize redundancy and slack for each contingent context. For the former, the organizational structure needs to ensure a high level of knowledge inventories at all conceivable critical points of surprise. For the latter, the structure needs considerable slack in process times such that precision needs are not encouraging unknowable unknowns. Concretely, this means that knowledge in diagnosis skills, in communications, in on-hand spare resources,

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and in time to conduct trial and error need to be designed into the structure and practiced extensively under likely operational conditions before “hostilities.” In general then, this organization based on expectations of surprise requires loose time requirements rather than highly precise integrated processes, large in-situ and clearly redundant sources of additional knowledge, and high levels of effort to identify knowable unknowns in advance. The latter in particular is driven by the critical role played by surprise in complex systems. Managing trends involves identifying the likely indicators of future conditions well in advance. This knowledge development requires both high human ability to construct accurate patterns from fragments and extensive trial and error.113 The concrete difficulty, however, is that militaries cannot simply become large networks connected to fast data flows with small surgical strike units only infrequently operating, if at all. The paradox under conditions of complexity is that knowledge in an organization without trial and error in its use simply encourages highly deleterious rogue outcomes. Using the image of the coercive power of an organization deploying en masse is strategically useful in conflicts at any level, but literally holding this force in reserve with nearly no trial and error in order to save on expenditures is equivalent to fostering crippling surprises in its operations. A surprise-oriented organization constantly rotates units in and out of highfidelity trial-and-error situations to develop inside each unit the necessary knowledge sets. Intelligence, wide-ranging and not cost-effectively targeted, will be essential to having knowledge on hand when surprise inevitably emerges. Key to operations will be the ability to put together fragments of information to predict trends quickly enough to act and then to act quickly enough to manipulate the trend now perceived. Furthermore, these units are stable institutionally and are themselves designed with less precision in operations, engaging the surprise-reducing potential of slack in processes and greater knowledge inventories in the human actors as well as the technological storage bins. These notions and recommendations are fundamentally challenging to the current social construction of information technologies in organizations and, especially, in the conduct of future war. In particular, in a world where peace is seen to be on the rise, such necessary intelligence development is normatively problematical for democracies. This kind of deliberate surprise accommodation implies extremely wide-angle collection of potential knowledge prior to even a cold peace. Such efforts can be socially constructed to be viewed as sneaky or latently aggressive. However, since the knowledge collection is on organizations, not individuals, nor is it actually attacking whole nations, such knowledge can be used to cooperate as well as to disrupt.114 However, if information technology plans are to succeed,

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future war becomes clearly dependent on knowledge gathering and processing in practice and well in advance. This work’s exposition of a midrange theory of networked militaries suggests that success emerges to the extent that the systemic potential for surprise drives the structure of future militaries to make organization–oriented operations. In particular, organizational design, structure, and use must focus on ensuring appropriately accurate and timely knowledge inventories at the key points of surprise—and these inventories entail lessened differentiation and multiple copies of knowledge on hand—and also on a lack of precision in operations, that is, time and calibration slack. Designed and operated with minimized precision demands and potential for surprise, IT-enabled organizations will, if successful, become knowledgehungry, constantly systemically testing social institutions with wide-ranging appetites. Such organizations regard the computer network less as an automatically accurate and rapid control mechanism and more as a colleague with a particularly wide-ranging set of skills that require interactive support to achieve their benefits. Several possible initial formulations of such organizations are emerging now such as the hypertext organization or a variation called the atrium.115 These and other knowledge-centric organizations merit further research and elaboration before the RMA model is widely accepted by the global military community. Finally, this midrange theory rests on the expectation that the more complex, especially coupled, the system is, the inherent surprise and the more likely outcomes will be deleterious. Since the surprise is inherent in the complexity of these envisioned organizations, it will in any case be present to some extent as the military acts and, in so emerging, surprise will define future national security outcomes and historical paths. The practical question is whether these modernizing militaries will use an expectation of surprise to develop their IT-enabled organizations. Or, by following the RMA model that is diffusing, current and future national leaders will simply and optimistically allow rogue outcomes to emerge with limited preemptive accommodation. This work suggests the latter choice will produce a future global security path laden with misperceived threats, unexpected contingencies that are quickly socially constructed into crises, and resulting operational failures.

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Appendix: Basic Model of Complexification and System Fit Complexity (C) C = f (N, D, I)t0 in operation at time zero Where N = number of components D = differentiation among components I = interdependence among components t0 (subscript) = initiating time period zero Network (Nw) Nw = f (N, I ) {basic substrata of complex systems without differentiation} Knowledge (Kn) required at point of surprise Kn = – f (UU, KU) at some level of C Where UU = unknowable unknowns KU = knowable unknowns U = set (UU, KU) Precision (P) requirements {orchestration and crisis attribute extant due to design, operations, and adaptation decisions by managers} P = f (–Tt , D) Mt0..Mt2 Where –Tt = established tolerances in time for knowledge delivery at the point of surprise D = established differentiation in knowledge {also “interchangeability,” obverse of substitutability} Mt0 (subscript) = Managerial control presumptions at initiating time period zero Mt2 (subscript) = Managerial control presumptions between time period zero and time 2 Surprise (S) S = f [OT2 =/= expected OT2] = f (OKU+UU) Where O KU+UU = unexpected operational events affected by unknowns Operation (O) at time 2 OT2 = f [(CT2, CT1, CT0), ((UU, KU)T2 .. T0), (PMt0..Mt2 ) ] Rogue Outcome (ROGUE) at time 2 = deleterious Surprises ROGUEKU+UU = f [(expected OT2– ((UU, KU)T2..T0) ] {due to both KU and UU}

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ROGUE KU = ROGUE {due to KU only} ROGUE UU = ROGUE {due to UU only} Redundancy (R) R = f (–D) at the point of surprise Slack (Sk) Sk = f (–P) = slack in coupling so less knowledge inventory needed precisely at established times Accommodation (A) {applies to knowable unknowns generally} A = f [(Rx Sk) > (ROGUE)KU ] Where R = redundancy of knowledge at the point of surprise Robustness (Rb) {accommodated knowable unknowns and unknowable unknowns indirectly accommodated} Rb = f [(A) + (compensating unintentional residuals) > (ROGUEKU+UU) ] System Fit (F) F = f [effective O, minimal SROGUE, high Rb given high A or low P ] In general across systems, system fit indicates the overall congruence between these attributes and the outcomes desired by stakeholders in viewing organizational operations. Effectiveness (E) Effectiveness is the colloquial term for accurate system fit based on smooth, relatively surprise-free organizational operations. By correlating system fit to effectiveness, we can link standard organizational transaction terms to the model described above. Effectiveness potential can be parametrically defined by the systemic specificity of transactions or their precision (P) across necessarily related nodes,116 and systemic complexity or potential for surprise (S). Precision and surprise across the system is a function of managerial control decisions in design, operations, and recovery, as expressed in redundancy and slack in knowledge. It is important to note that unknowable unknowns will always be present, but managerial decisions can recognize that inevitability and respond in ways that make the unknowable unknowns less likely to be deleterious. Therefore: E = f (min (P, S)) In this general case, transaction price can include ease of access, availability of sophistication when needed, and other uses or benefits that are forgone by pursuing the current choice. Similarly, accuracy can include the appropriateness of timeliness, modality (e.g., manual or part or person

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needed at the time), and extent of knowledge available at the point needed. For highly networked organizations, transaction prices can be measured by the amount of time needed to acquire information about another activity and to subsequently respond so as to get the knowledge needed for the operation at hand. Accuracy can be measured by timeliness (frequency of update) of information and extent of verifying cross-checks (interactivity of databases) that ensure the validity of the information obtained by the searching unit. In general, the highest effectiveness is achieved with the lowest transaction’s precision price and highest accuracy, or lowest unknowns in the inventory of knowledge. Effectiveness declines to the extent that organizational, situational, or systemic mechanisms exist to impede or distort the speed and accuracy of relevant knowledge flows, especially in response to surprises. Hence, highest effectiveness is achieved when the knowledge meets the exact needs at the point of surprise in a complex system. For military organizations, this notional relationship needs further elaboration. For the purposes of correlating concepts and language across disciplines, defining effectiveness generically in terms of transactions price and opportunity costs must be related to traditional military notions of fit that include flexibility (X), robustness (Rb), reliability (Ry), speed (Sp), and knowledge(Kn). In particular, robustness in the face of surprise is a key attribute of survival as well as success. Furthermore, actual deployment fitness in modern militaries is dependent for success on predeployment decisions more than on last-minute adaptations in situ. Modern militaries and conflicts are more complex than premodern equivalents. In complex systems, outcomes are highly dependent on initial conditions, assuming no further external input. The shape of preparations is considered so extensive in cost and coordination, the lag in organizational adaptations so pronounced, and the consequences of failure so drastic that fitness measures must include the fitness potential of the previous time slice as well as the current evaluation period. This is often labeled “readiness” in defense circles. The following is a generic and notional effectiveness equation for military sociotechnical systems. E = f(P,S) tL,Z,D = f(E' t , E' t–1) L,Z,D where E' = (“E prime”) = systems fit (F) of the organization to the specific operational conditions; t = current time t–1 = previous time L = the Location of operations Z = the hostile force in situ D = deploying friendly force E' = f [(Rb tL , RbtL)D > (Rb tL , RbtL)Z]

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where Rb = the apparent robustness of the military organization’s operations at the outset of operations; Rb tLD = f [ (X tL + Kn tL) + (Ry tL + Ad tL) ] tLD {extended to military situation in particular} where X = organization’s flexibility—its ability to change quickly and still operate as intended; Kn = organization’s Knowledge appropriately fitted to the operation at hand, where knowledge is having the right cognitive and physical response in mode, quantity, timing, and location as required; Ry = Reliability of the technical artifacts critical to the operation, Ad = Accommodation embedded in the artifacts’ design and matched precisely to the operation at hand. S tLD = f (UU, KU) over both D and Z = f [(UU,KU) tLD + (UU,KU) tLZ] S L, t↔t–1 S L, t↔t–1= surprises at the current time and lagging from the previous time slice’s interactions. E tLZ = the enemy’s fitness using much the same fit analysis for the opposition organization(s) By linking these equations, one can develop a general model of surprise in military operations. System fit and therefore effectiveness depend on managers’ making control decisions that minimize precision requirements (P) and potential for surprise (S). Therefore, in surprise terms, for militaries, at time t, with operations begun at time t–1: E = F = f (managerial control decisions about P and about S) = f(E' t , E' t–1) L,Z,D = f [min(P,S) t , min(P,S) t–1] L,D < [min(P,S) t , min(P,S) t–1] L,Z = f ([effective O, minimal SROGUE, high Rb given high A ] t , [effective O, minimal SROGUE, high Rb given high A ] t–1) L,Z,D ED = f [min (P,S) L,D + max (P,S) L,Z]

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Table 11.1

Country

Countries by Weighted Modernization Score Summed Modernization Score (descending order)

Australia Belgium Brazil Canada Denmark France Germany Israel Luxembourg Netherlands Singapore United Kingdom United States Argentina Azerbaijan Bahrain Chile Czech Republic Hungary Italy Malaysia New Zealand Norway Oman Russia Saudi Arabia Sweden Taiwan Thailand United Arab Emirates Austria Finland Japan Spain Turkey Bulgaria Estonia Georgia Ireland Philippines Poland Romania Ukraine Bangladesh Botswana China

9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 5 5 5 5 5 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 3 2 2 2

Declared Intent (weighted score 4) 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4

Purchase System (weighted score 2) 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2

Purchase C2 Components (weighted score 3) 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3

3 3 3 3 3

4 4 4 4 4 4 4 3 2 2 2 (continues)

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Country Croatia Cyprus Egypt Ethiopia Federal Republic of Yugoslavia India Indonesia Iran Jordan Kuwait Micronesia Monaco Myanmar Pakistan Peru Qatar Slovakia Slovenia South Korea Sri Lanka Vietnam

Summed Modernization Score (descending order)

Declared Intent (weighted score 4)

Purchase System (weighted score 2)

2 2 2 2

2 2 2 2

2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2

2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2

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Purchase C2 Components (weighted score 3)

Source: Adapted from Chris C. Demchak, “Creating the Enemy: Worldwide Diffusion of an Electronic Military,” in Emily O. Goldman and Leslie C. Eliason (eds.), The Diffusion of Military Knowledge from the Napoleonic Era to the Information Age (Stanford: Stanford University Press, forthcoming 2002); data collected from published statements and contracts 1993–1997.

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Figure 11.1

Poorer Nations and Militaries Are Modernizing

Note: This figure demonstrates the defense department’s command of national resources in terms of defense budget in U.S.$ billions versus defense budget as a percentage of government expenditures. No clear pattern is evident in relative defense command of national-level resources.

Notes 1. Grateful thanks are extended to the MacArthur Foundation, the Fulbright Commission, the Army Research Institute, the National Science Foundation, and the Udall Center for Public Policy, University of Arizona, for the financial support necessary to do the basic field research behind this analysis. 2. See Urs Gattiker, Technology Management in Organizations (London: Sage, 1990). 3. See James Adams, Engines of War: Merchants of Death and the New Arms Race (New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1990); Frank Barnaby and Marlies Ter Borg, Emerging Technologies and Military Doctrine (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986); Seymour Deitchman, Military Power and the Advance of Technology (Boulder: Westview Press, 1983); David C. Mower and Nathan Rosenberg, Technology and the Pursuit of Economic Growth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989); Robert L. O’Connell, Of Arms and Men: A History of War, Weapons, and Aggression (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989); Maurice Pearton, Diplomacy, War, and Technology Since 1830 (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1984); and Martin van Creveld, Technology in War (New York: Free Press, 1989). 4. For a discussion of how the choice of technologies affects the readiness to act, see Franklin C. Spinney, Defense Facts of Life: The Plans/Reality Mismatch (Boulder: Westview Press, 1985); Martin Binkin, Military Technology and Defense Manpower (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1986); Chris C. Demchak,

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Military Organizations, Complex Machines: Modernization in the U.S. Armed Services (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991); International Institute for Strategic Studies (IISS), The Military Balance, 1992–1997 (London: Brassey’s, 1992); Paul Beaver, “The Czech and Slovak Air Force (CSAF) Plans to Completely Modernize Its Aircraft and Air Defence Systems,” Jane’s Defence Weekly 16, no. 19 (May 1992): 864; and Peter Anson and Dennis Cummings, “The First Space War: The Contribution of Satellites to the Gulf War,” The RUSI Journal 136, no. 4 (winter 1991): 45–50. 5. See Chris C. Demchak, “Operations Without Organizations: Information Technology–Driven Military Organizations and International Security,” paper presented at U.S. Political Science Association Annual Conference, Chicago, September 1997. 6. Midrange theory is a theoretical explanation on which, as relationships among variables in particular settings are explained and as results in other settings accumulate, elements of a more general theory can be developed. See Kathleen Eisenhardt and L. J. Bourgeois III, “Politics of Strategic Decision Making in High Velocity Environments: Toward MidRange Theory,” Academy of Management Journal 31, no. 4 (1988): 737–770. 7. See Chris C. Demchak, “High Reliability Organizational Dilemmas in the Information Age: ‘Tailored Precision Armies’ in Fully Networked ‘Battlespace,’” Journal of Contingency and Crisis Management 4, no. 2 (June 1996): 93–103. 8. See Renate Mayntz and Thomas Hughes (eds.), The Development of Large Technical Systems (Frankfurt-am-Main: Campus Verlag, 1988); and Demchak, “High Reliability Organizational Dilemmas.” 9. See James D. Thompson, Organizations in Action (New York: McGrawHill, 1967). 10. For a more extensive discussion of this method with application to the U.S. Army, see Demchak, Military Organizations, Complex Machines. For an empirical demonstration of why unknowable outcomes are higher in complex systems, see especially Joseph G. Wohl, Diagnostic Behavior, Systems Complexity, and Repair Time: A Predictive Theory, MITRE Note no. M80-0008 (Bedford, Mass.: MITRE, 1980). 11. For a well-rounded introduction to what are considered basic notions of standard structural contingency organization theory in the United States, see Jay M. Shafritz and J. Stephen Ott (eds.), Classics of Organization Theory, 4th ed. (Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1996). For discussion of the organization literature and key concepts, see Todd R. La Porte (ed.), Organized Social Complexity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975); Michael Harrison, Diagnosing Organizations: Methods, Models, and Processes (London: Sage, 1987); and Gareth Jones, Organizational Theory: Text and Cases (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1995). 12. See Demchak, Military Organizations, Complex Machines; C.F. Larry Heiman, “Understanding the Challenger Disaster: Organizational Structure and the Design of Reliable Systems,” U.S. Political Science Review 87, no. 2 (June 1993): 421–435; and Emery Roe, Taking Complexity Seriously: Policy Analysis, Triangulation, and Sustainable Development (Boston: Kluwer Academic, 1998). 13. John Casti, Complexification: Explaining a Paradoxical World Through the Science of Surprise (London: Abacus, 1994). 14. See M. Mitchell Waldrop, Complexity: The Emerging Science at the Edge of Order and Chaos (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992); John Horgan, “From Complexity to Perplexity,” Scientific American 272, no. 6 (June 1995): 104–109;

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and Ralph Gomory, “The Known, the Unknown, and the Unknowable,” Scientific American 272, no. 6 (June 1995): 120ff. 15. See James Gleick, Chaos: Making a New Science (London: Viking, 1987); L. Douglas Kiel, Managing Chaos and Complexity in Government (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1994); and Margaret J. Wheatley, Leadership and the New Science (San Francisco: Berrett-Koehler, 1992). 16. Chaos theory takes simple equations and runs millions of iterations. Eventually the “edge of chaos” is reached, where figures or patterns called “fractals” appear with no apparent connection to the preceding scattered outcome. Their existence suggests deep underlying patterns in the chaos that are not evident until the equation is iterated millions of times with those particular initial inputs. See Gleick, Chaos. 17. See Michael J. Priore, “Fragments of a Cognitive Theory of Technological Change and Organizational Structure,” in Nitin Nohria and Robert G. Eccles (eds.), Networks and Organizations: Structure, Form, and Action (Cambridge: Harvard Business School Press, 1992). 18. See Gerald R. Salancik, “Wanted: A Good Network Theory of Organization,” Administrative Science Quarterly 40, no. 2 (June 1995): 345–354. 19. See Jane Summerton (ed.), Changing Large Technical Systems (Boulder: Westview Press, 1994). 20. See Mayntz and Hughes, Development of Large Technical Systems. 21. See Casti, Complexification; La Porte, Organized Social Complexity; Demchak, Military Organizations, Complex Machines. 22. There is considerable disagreement about how one measures complexity. The chapter appendix indicates how it is measured in this work. For a successful application of this measure, see Demchak, Military Organizations, Complex Machines. For other variations, see Casti, Complexification; and Waldrop, Complexity. 23. See Karl E. Weick, The Social Psychology of Organizing, 2d ed. (New York: Addison-Wesley, 1979). 24. See Alfred E. Kahn, “The Tyranny of Small Decisions: Market Failures, Imperfections, and the Limits of Econometrics,” in Bruce M. Russett (ed.), Economic Theories of International Politics (Chicago: Markham, 1968), p. 52; and Douglas R. Hofstadter, Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid (New York: Vintage Books, 1980). 25. See Waldrop, Complexity. 26. See Casti, Complexification, p. 267. 27. See Jay R. Galbraith, Organizational Design (Reading, Mass.: AddisonWesley, 1977); La Porte, Organized Social Complexity. 28. The literature on complexity is incomplete. Examples of conceptual difficulties with complexity and surprise in their various guises exist even in some of the better works. One well-known author observes that size and wealth decrease internal and external uncertainty for militaries without much explanation as to how this intuitively problematical outcome can be true. See Barry R. Posen, “Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power,” International Security 18, no. 2 (fall 1993): 80–124, especially p. 49. A second author suggests that a war without chaos can exist if it is solely between machines—no surprises or uncertainty. See Zvi Lanir, Baruch Fischoff, and Stephen Johnson, “Military Risk-Taking: C3I and the Cognitive Functions of Boldness in War,” Journal of Strategic Studies 11, no. 2 (March 1988): 100. Even Perrow, in an otherwise excellent book, seems to muddle the concept of complexity by linking it to loose coupling and, indirectly, to both greater and lesser redundancy. See Charles Perrow, Normal Accidents (New York:

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Basic Books, 1984), p. 280. The operational difficulties are obvious. Complex systems produce the unexpected with annoying regularity but the fragmented set of approaches has often produced inconclusive research and little broadly applicable guidance. For example, redundancy is either a cure for, or a cause of, complexity, depending on the author chosen. See Martin Landau, “Redundancy, Rationality, and the Problem of Duplication and Overlap,” Public Administration Review 27 (July–August 1969): 346–358; and Lanir, Fischoff, and Johnson, “Military RiskTaking,” p. 100. The situation is exacerbated by the tendency of complexity to vary in its significance across systems. For recent works specifically on the development of a science of complexity, see Waldrop, Complexity; and Casti, Complexification. 29. See Hofstadter, Godel, Escher, Bach, Eternal Golden Braid; and Ernest Nagel and James R. Newman, Godel’s Proof (New York: New York University Press, 1958), p. 94. 30. See Perrow, Normal Accidents. 31. See Lee Sproul and Sara Kiesler, Connections: News Ways of Working in the Networked Organization (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1991); Casti, Complexification. 32. See Casti, Complexification, p. 268. 33. See Todd R. La Porte and R. Keller, “Assuring Institutional Constancy: Requisite for Managing Long-Lived Hazard,” Public Administration Review 56, no. 6 (November–December 1996): 335–344. 34. See Weick, Social Psychology of Organizing. 35. See Casti, Complexification, p. 267. 36. There is a vast literature on sensitivity analysis. See Gleick, Chaos. 37. Chaos theorists start with an equation and watch the outcomes to discern the rule changes over time. In contrast, complexity theorists set up the rules for change in a system and then watch the outcomes to see if any general unifying relation or equation is at work. See Gleick, Chaos; and Gomory, “The Known, the Unknown, and the Unknowable,” p. 120. 38. See Gomory, “The Known, the Unknown, and the Unknowable,” p. 120; Horgan, “From Complexity to Perplexity,” pp. 104–109. 39. For two particularly good discussions of this research implication, see Gene I. Rochlin, Trapped in the Net: The Unanticipated Consequences of Computerization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); and Roe, Taking Complexity Seriously. 40. See Nitin Nohria, “Is a Network Perspective a Useful Way of Studying Organizations?” in Nohria and Eccles, Networks and Organizations, pp. 1–22, especially p. 4. 41. See Theodore Caplow, Principles of Organization (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1964). 42. See Salancik, “Wanted: A Good Network Theory of Organization.” 43. See Oliver Williamson, Markets and Hierarchies: Analysis and Anti-Trust Implications (New York: Free Press, 1975). 44. See Priore, “Fragments of a Cognitive Theory of Technological Change and Organizational Structure.” 45. See Stephen R. Barley, “The Alignment of Technology and Structure Through Roles and Networks,” Administrative Science Quarterly 35, no. 1 (March 1990): 61–103; and Marlene E. Burkhardt and Daniel J. Brass, “Changing Patterns or Patterns of Change: The Effects of a Change in Technology on Social Network Structure and Power,” Administrative Science Quarterly 35, no. 1 (1990): 104–127. 46. See Philip Selznick, TVA and the Grassroots: A Study in the Sociology of Formal Organizations (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1949); and

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Johannes M. Pennings and Arend Buitendam (eds.), New Technology as Organizational Innovation: The Development and Diffusion of Microelectronics (Cambridge: Ballinger, 1987). 47. See Shoshana Zuboff, In the Age of the Smart Machine (New York: Basic Books, 1984). 48. For a discussion of this kind of outcome in the nuclear power industries of Europe, see Gene I. Rochlin, “Broken Plowshare: System Failure and the Nuclear Power Industry,” in Jane Summerton (ed.), Changing Large Technical Systems (Boulder: Westview Press, 1994), pp. 231–261. 49. For an introduction to the field and to further references, see Sheila Jasanoff, Gerald E. Markle, James C. Peterson, and Trevor Pinch, Handbook of Science and Technology Studies (London: Sage, 1995); Carl Mitcham, Thinking Through Technology: The Path Between Engineering and Philosophy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); and Summerton, Changing Large Technical Systems. For discussions of technology in organizations, see Gattiker, Technology Management in Organizations; Luis R. Gomez-Mejia and Michael W. Lawless (eds.), Organizational Issues in High Technology Management (Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press, 1990); and Jon Clark, Ian McLoughlin, Howard Rose, and Robert King, Technological Change: New Technology and Social Choice in the Workplace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 50. See Summerton, Changing Large Technical Systems; and Mayntz and Hughes, The Development of Large Technical Systems. 51. See Wiebe E. Bijker, Thomas P. Hughes, and Trevor J. Pinch (eds.), The Social Construction of Technological Systems: New Directions in the Sociology and History of Technology (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987). 52. See Weick, Social Psychology of Organizing; Demchak, Military Organizations, Complex Machines; and Galbraith, Organizational Design. 53. For a practical discussion of “systems fit” and effectiveness, see Harrison, Diagnosing Organizations. For a discussion by a panel of organization scholars that placed effectiveness as one of the key components of productivity, see Douglas H. Harris (ed.), Organizational Linkages: Understanding the Productivity Paradox (Washington, D.C.: National Academy Press, 1994), p. 8. The definition of effectiveness is always under debate among both practitioners and scholars. See chapter appendix for the detailed presentation of the elements of this definition. 54. See John Mueller, Retreat from Doomsday: The Obsolescence of Major War (New York: Basic Books, 1989); John Lewis Gaddis, “International Relations Theory and the End of the Cold War,” International Security 17, no. 1 (1992): 3, 5–58; and Lynn White Jr., Medieval Technology and Social Change (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978). 55. See TRADOC, Force XXI Operations: A Concept for the Evolution of Full-Dimensional Operations for the Strategic Army of the Early Twenty-First Century (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, 1994), p. 3-1. 56. See Rick Maze, “The War That Will Never Be Won,” Army Times 5, no. 8 (August 1996), p. 26. 57. The full version of this work is under revision for publication. For a complete discussion of the method of coding, analysis, and results, see Chris C. Demchak, “Creating the Enemy: Worldwide Diffusion of an Electronic Military,” in Emily O. Goldman and Leslie C. Eliason (eds.), The Diffusion of Military Knowledge from the Napoleonic Era to the Information Age (Stanford: Stanford University Press, forthcoming 2002).

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58. See O’Connell, Of Arms and Men; and van Creveld, Technology in War. 59. There is a continuing debate on whether this is a revolution. See Earl H. Tilford, “The Revolution in Military Affairs: Prospects and Cautions,” U.S. Army War College Published Papers (May 1995): 1; Andrew R. Krepinevich, “Cavalry to Computer: The Pattern of Military Revolutions,” The National Interest no. 37 (fall 1994): 30–42; and Robert L. Pfaltzgraff Jr. and Richard H. Schultz Jr. (eds.), War in the Information Age: New Challenges for U.S. Security Policy (London: Brassey’s, 1997). Others argue that it is merely the next step in incremental technological changes. See Stephen Biddle, “Assessing Theories of Future War,” paper presented at the U.S. Political Science Association Annual Conference, Chicago, September 1997. The debate is not relevant to this discussion. 60. Another frequently used term is the “military technology revolution.” See James R. Fitzsimmonds and Jan M. van Tol, “Revolutions in Military Affairs,” Joint Force Quarterly no. 4 (spring 1994): 24–31; Dan Goure, “Is There a Military Technical Revolution in America’s Future?” The Washington Quarterly 16, no. 4 (1993): 175–192; and Kenneth F. McKenzie Jr., “Beyond Luddites and Magicians: Examining the MTR,” Parameters no. 25 (summer 1995): 15–21. The label “RMA” has dominated the discussion, however, and come to imply a military that successfully employs networked computerized innovations in military technologies and operations. Other terms such as the label “revolution in security affairs” (RSA) are too specialized for a general publication but are hereby noted. See Eliot A. Cohen, Michael J. Eisentstadt, and Andrew J. Bacevich, Knives, Tanks, and Missiles: Israel’s Security Revolution (Washington, D.C.: Washington Institute for Near East Policy, 1998). Information warfare is widely used, although at this time there is no real consensus on what exactly is involved other than offensive-defensive use of computer networks by someone. For an introduction to IW, see Jane’s Defense Weekly, “Jane’s Special Report—Information Warfare 1997,” Jane’s Defense Weekly Online (October 1997), www.jdw.janes.com; John Arquilla and David Ronfeldt (eds.), In Athena’s Camp: Preparing for Conflict in the Information Age (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1997); and Chris C. Demchak, “Numbers or Networks: Organizational and Modernization Dilemmas in the Israeli Defense Forces,” Armed Forces and Society 23, no. 2 (1996): 179–208. See also three good review pieces by the same author: Martin C. Libicki, Defending Cyberspace and Other Metaphors (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1995), The Mesh and the Net (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1995), and What Is Information Warfare? (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1995). Another term gaining in usage among military analysts is “network centric warfare,” but this has yet to be widely employed for IW. See David S. Alberts, John J. Garstka, and Frederick P. Stein, Network Centric Warfare: Developing and Leveraging Information Superiority (Washington, D.C.: Department of Defense, C4ISR Cooperative Research Program, DoDCCRP, 1999). Finally, information operations (IO) is increasingly used as a generic term for all activities using the information associated with computerization, whether or not these operations are ever directly employed in battle. This term is so easily integrated into the common military lexicon that I could find no seminal article defining the term, while there are many using the term without any definition. For a practical critique of this linguistic morass, see James F. Dunnigan, Digital Soldiers (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996). 61. See Tilford, “Revolution in Military Affairs,” p. 1; and Krepinevich, “Cavalry to Computer.” 62. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Department of

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Defense (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1997). 63. See CFJO, Concept for Future Joint Operations, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Department of Defense (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1997). 64. See Anne L. Schneider and Helen Ingram, “How the Social Construction of Target Populations Contributes to Problems in Policy Design,” Policy Currents 3, no. 1 (February 1993): 1, 6–9. 65. It is important to note that “information war” can be attempted by any organization. It is more properly the full range of applications of information across all spectra of operations. The RMA organization is optimized in principle to use information operations most effectively. See Defense Science Board, Report of Defense Science Board Task Force on Information Warfare—Defense (IW-D), Department of Defense (November 1996), http://cryptome.org/iwd.htm. 66. In the promotional literature, IW is presented broadly as armies of military personnel using computers, linking to an extraordinarily powerful computerized network, performing real-time data transfers, perhaps breaking into another computer system with the aim of disrupting files or operations, and protecting against unauthorized users in their own systems, as well as collecting information from vastly different sources and applying the results to real-time, extremely lethal, accurately targeted destructive sorties. See Winn Schwartau, Information Warfare (New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1994), p. 47. 67. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010. 68. See David C. Gompert, Richard L. Kugler, and Martin C. Libicki, Mind the Gap: Promoting a Transatlantic Revolution in Military Affairs (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1999), pp. 33–34. 69. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010. 70. See Pfaltzgraff and Shultz, War in the Information Age. 71. See Gordon Sullivan, “America’s Army—Focusing on the Future,” in Association of the United States Army Greenbook (Washington, D.C.: AUSA Press, 1994), pp. 19–29, quote at p. 20. 72. Early in the 1990s, the army’s doctrine developers in TRADOC had defined the so-called Force XXI by five characteristics: “doctrinal flexibility, strategic mobility, tailorability and modularity, joint and multinational connectivity, and the versatility to function in War and OOTW (Operations Other Than War)” (emphasis added). See TRADOC, Force XXI Operations, p. 3-1; TRADOC, The Airland Battle and Corps, Operational Concepts series (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, 1995); and NRC, Star 21: Strategic Technologies for the Army of the Twenty-First Century, National Research Council (Washington, D.C.: National Academic Press, 1992). Later joint documents demonstrate the influence of these early expressions of what future militaries will contain by the use of language such as connectivity, modularity, and real-time and synchronized operations. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, and the subordinate service documents for this commonality. For an analysis of this evolution in symbolic terms and images, see also Demchak, “Creating the Enemy.” 73. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, p. 17. 74. See USAFGE, Global Engagement, Department of the Air Force (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1996), p. 16. 75. See USNFFS, Forward from the Sea, Department of the Navy (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1994) (paraphrased through U.S. Department of Defense, Quadrennial Defense Review [1997], p. 42). 76. See USMCOMFTS, Operational Maneuver from the Sea (OMFTS),

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Marine Corps, Department of the Navy (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1995), p. 6. 77. See USAV2010, Army Vision 2010, Department of the Army (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1996). 78. See CFJO, Concept for Future Joint Operations, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Department of Defense (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1997), p. 2 (original emphasis). 79. An early U.S. Army planning document stated bluntly, “the future battle enabled by IW innovations will be multidimensional, simultaneous, non-linear, distributed, precise, and integrated, and will be undertaken by fighting organizations variously described as small, task-force oriented, and highly networked for maximum speed and efficiency.” See TRADOC, Force XXI Operations, p. 3-1. 80. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, p. 17. 81. See JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, p. 19. 82. Relevant quote: “dominant maneuver will be the multidimensional application of information, engagement, and mobility capabilities [and] is a prescription for more agile, faster moving joint operations.” JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, pp. 20–21 (original emphasis). 83. A transient error is an error that only occurs during actual operation, often intermittently. If the machine is turned off, nothing appears to be wrong with the system. For a discussion of transient errors in the Challenger I tank, see Chris C. Demchak, “Colonies or Computers: Modernization and Organizational Challenges to the Future British Army,” Defence Analysis 1, no. 1 (April 1994): 3–32. 84. Relevant quote: “Precision engagement will consist of a system of systems that enables . . . us to shape the battlespace. . . . Information operations will tie together high fidelity target acquisition, prioritized requirements, and command and control of joint forces within the battlespace.” JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, pp. 20–21 (original emphasis). 85. See O’Connell, Of Arms and Men; William Seymour, Decisive Factors in Twenty Great Battles of the World (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1988); and van Creveld, Technology in War. 86. See Thompson, Organizations in Action; Galbraith, Organizational Design; and Jones, Organizational Theory. 87. Toffler et al. argue that “knowledge” is such an important distinction of information technology systems that senior leaders will need an explicit “knowledge strategy” to enable the organization to succeed. See Alvin Toffler and Heidi Toffler, War and Anti-War (Boston: Little, Brown, 1993). See also Demchak, Military Organizations, Complex Machines; and William G. Pagonis, Moving Mountains: Lessons in Leadership (Cambridge: Harvard Business School Press, 1992), p. 210. 88. See Galbraith, Organizational Design, and Thompson, Organizations in Action, two seminal authors on this point. 89. An important development in social constructions of this technology is that it has become defined as a way of conducting war while minimizing physical risks to soldiers. See Michael Mazarr, Don M. Snider, and James A. Blackwell, Desert Storm: The Gulf War and What We Learned (Boulder: Westview Press, 1993), p. 166; and Pagonis, Moving Mountains. 90. Relevant quote: “The primary prerequisite for full-dimensional protection will be control of the battlespace . . . built upon information superiority which will provide multidimensional awareness and assessment, as well as identification of all forces in the battlespace. . . . Active measures will include battlespace control oper-

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ations to guarantee the air, sea, space, and information superiority . . . to provide a more seamless joint architecture for force protection.” JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, pp. 22–24 (original emphasis). 91. The U.S. Army has labeled this fortuitous outcome “synchronization.” 92. See Pennings and Buitendam, New Technology as Organizational Innovation. 93. Relevant quote: “Focused logistics will be the fusion of information, logistics, and transportation technologies to provide rapid crisis response, to track and shift assets even while enroute, . . . providing support in hours or days versus weeks. . . . Logistic functions will incorporate information technologies to transition from the rigid vertical organizations of the past.” JV2010, Joint Vision 2010, pp. 24–25 (original emphasis). 94. See Kenneth Macksey, For Want of a Nail: The Impact on War of Logistics and Communications (London: Brassey’s, 1989); Julian Thompson, The Lifeblood of War: Logistics in Armed Conflict (London: Brassey’s, 1991); Kenneth Macksey, Military Errors of World War II (London: Brassey’s, 1987); and Seymour, Decisive Factors in Twenty Great Battles. 95. Because the air force is the deployment transportation force of preference, its vision of immediate deliveries due to information technology is doubly important to this new military. The efficiency and flexibility of Agile Combat Support will substitute responsiveness for massive deployed inventories.” See USAFGE, Global Engagement, p. 18. 96. See Robert I. Sutton and Barry M. Staw, “What Theory Is Not,” Administrative Science Quarterly 40, no. 3 (September 1995): 371–384. 97. Space limitations do not allow the discussion of organizational issues extremely relevant in this discussion but that often receive extremely short shrift. These are preparing for surprise in transitioning, the challenges of path dependence, and the large costs of trial and error in large-scale complex systems. 98. See Sutton and Staw, “What Theory Is Not.” 99. See Kenneth N. Waltz, Theory of International Politics (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979). 100. For an argument that a “virtual community” is possible, see Howard Rheingold, The Virtual Community (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1993). For discussions of far-reaching social changes and the “high-tech fever” of the mid1980s for several countries, see Nicholas Negroponte, Being Digital (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995); and Tom Forester, High Tech Society: The Story of the Information Technology Revolution (London: Basil Blackwell, 1987). For a more normative piece arguing that “collective restoration” and “peace” are possible through cyberspace, see Nicole Stenger, “Mind Is a Leaking Rainbow,” in Michael Benedikt (ed.), Cyberspace: First Steps, 2d ed. (Boston: MIT Press, 1992), p. 58. On the “enabling” role of computer-mediated operations CMOs, see Michael Hammer and James Champy, Reengineering the Corporation: A Manifesto for Business Revolution (London: N. Brealey, 1993), pp. 83–101. 101. See Neil Postman, Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology (New York: Vintage Press, 1993), pp. 9–11; Peter G. Neumann, Computer-Related Risks (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1995); and Albert H. Teich (ed.), Technology and the Future (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993). For a direct refutation of the democracy-enhancing aspects of computer networks, see Cary Nederman and Brad Jones, “Lost in Cyberspace: Some Critical Issues of Access, Information, and Democratic Theory,” paper presented at U.S. Political Science Association Annual Conference, Washington, D.C., 30 August–1 September, 1995.

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For a text less scholarly but rich in contemporary statistics culled from news media on the shortcomings in computer use in the wider society, see Michael SullivanTrainor, Detour: The Truth About the Information Superhighway (San Mateo, Calif.: IDG Books Worldwide, 1994). Finally, for a more negative analysis of the implementation of computer-mediated operations based on case study research in both public and private organizations, see Barbara Garson, The Electronic Sweatshop (New York: Penguin, 1989). 102. Gibson coined the enduring if ill-defined term “cyberspace” in his dark vision of a future electronic world. See William Gibson, Neuromancer (London: Grafton Books, 1986). For a collective effort to define and operationalize the term more rigorously, see Michael Benedikt (ed.), Cyberspace: First Steps, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1992). In simplest terms, it is the large-scale social system emerging when humans and interconnected communications technologies become interdependent. Specific technologies and the systems they enable are usually given more targeted names such as the “Net” for the “Internet” system derived from the U.S. military’s early network, the MilNet, and the “Web” for the “World Wide Web” system originally devised by European researchers to rapidly exchange data including graphics among distantly located research institutions. For historical details, see Brian Kahin, “Information Technology and Information Infrastructure,” in Lewis M. Branscomb (ed.), Empowering Technology (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1993), pp. 141–142; and Brian Kahin and Ernest Wilson (eds.), National Information Infrastructure Initiatives (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1997). 103. See Demchak, “High Reliability Organizational Dilemmas,” pp. 93–103. 104. See Mueller, Retreat from Doomsday; Gaddis, “International Relations Theory,” pp. 3, 5–58; and White, Medieval Technology and Social Change. 105. This argument is a logical corollary of the “information age.” See Martin Albrow, The Global Age (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997). 106. This spectrum is derived from a number of academic and defense discussions about the change in likely war due to networked communications. For variations on the theme of stateless war, see van Creveld, Technology in War; Mueller, Retreat from Doomsday; Gaddis, “International Relations Theory,” pp. 3, 5–58; and White, Medieval Technology and Social Change. 107. For a discussion of competition among organizations, see Michael T. Hannan and Glenn R. Carroll, “An Introduction to Organizational Ecology,” in Glenn R. Carroll and Michael T. Hannan (eds.), Organizations in Industry: Strategy, Structure, and Selection (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), pp. 17–32. For the consequences in the IT environment, see Efraim Turban, Ephraim McLean, and James Wetherbe, Information Technology for Management: Making Strategic Connections for Strategic Advantage, 2nd ed. (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1999). 108. It exists if extremely fast data transfers and protection are enacted against hackers. See Manuel de Landa, War in the Age of Intelligent Machines (New York: Zone Books, 1991). It is present merely if anyone in the military uses a computer or is linked to an e-mail network. See Toffler and Toffler, War and Anti-War. Or it can be observed in the civilian world by the act of hacking into another computer system to disrupt files. See Schwartau, Information Warfare. 109. See James Q. Wilson, Bureaucracy: What Government Agencies Do and Why They Do It (New York: Basic Books, 1989); and Peter F. Drucker, Technology Management and Society (London: Heinemann, 1970). 110. An important and often overlooked distinction must be made here. Decentralization is about the delegation of authority, not about the physical disper-

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sion of organizational elements. A highly centralized organization can nonetheless have widely dispersed elements. See Jones, Organizational Theory. 111. For a good discussion of stakeholders’ influence on essentially internal military decisions, see Martin Edmonds, The Defense Equation: British Military Systems Policy, Planning, and Performance (London: Brassey’s, 1986); and Thomas L. McNaugher, New Weapons, Old Politics: America’s Military Procurement Muddle (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1989). 112. See Thompson, Organizations in Action. 113. See Todd R. La Porte and Paula Consolini, “Working in Practice but Not in Theory: ‘High Reliability’ Organizations,” Journal of Public Administration Research and Theory 1, no. 2 (January 1991): 19–48; Rochlin, Trapped in the Net; and Gene I. Rochlin and Chris C. Demchak, “Gulf War: Technological and Organizational Implications,” Survival 33, no. 33 (1991): 260–273. 114. I am grateful to Lieutenant Colonel Dennis A. Lowrey (ret.) for pointing out the following. In many respects, successful small armies have always acted as if knowledge collection was the key to survival, since any major surprise could be death. Although unlabeled as such, getting inside the U.S. OODA loop—John Boyd’s term for operational processing time frame—was the goal of the Vietcong. See Spinney, Defense Facts of Life. The early Israeli preemptive strategies were explicitly counterorganization, although the army was not structured accordingly. As Lowrey has also noted, if future war focuses on knowledge-development, then intelligence activities will dominate along the spectrum up through hot wars. This prospect does not appeal to combat arms officers so it is not emphasized in promotional literature, and it will be very difficult to explain to external audiences. The political symbology necessary to make this acceptable will be, to put it mildly, quite tricky. 115. For the hypertext organization description, see Ikujiro Nonaka and Hirotaka Takeuchi, “A New Organizational Structure,” in Laurence Prusak (ed.), Knowledge in Organizations (Boston: Butterworth-Heinemann, 1997), pp. 99–133. For the “atrium” model that is a refinement of the hypertext form applied to the Israeli Defense Force, see Chris C. Demchak, “Technology’s Knowledge Burden, the RMA, and the IDF: Organizing the ‘Atrium’ Hypertext Organization for Future ‘Wars of Disruption,’” Journal of Strategic Studies 24, no. 2 (2000): 44–77. 116. See Oliver Williamson, Markets and Hierarchies: Analysis and Antitrust Implictions (New York: Free Press, 1983).

PA R T 5

Conclusion

CHAPTER 12

Military Change in the New Millennium Terry Terriff & Theo Farrell

A

very common observation is that military organizations tend to resist change. Though debatable, this observation is not entirely misplaced, for military organizations, like all large organizations, are reluctant to move away from that which is familiar and seen to work. But it is equally true that military organizations can and do change. The historical record of the evolution of military organizations makes this latter claim self-evident. Much less self-evident, given that military organizations tend to resist change, is why military organizations do change, the purposes that they seek to achieve in undertaking change, and the processes by which the change occurs. These questions have a particular salience at the beginning of the twenty-first century. With strategic and political change accompanying the end of the Cold War, and the maturing information age, military organizations are having to reexamine how they go about their business; a 1996 U.S. Government Accounting Office report claimed that some 100 military organizations were undergoing “modernization.”1 In the years to come this modernization may not result in significant change in many military organizations, but in many others it may result in major change in their goals, their strategies, and/or their structures. An important task for analysts (and practitioners) is to develop the means to understand change in military organizations, to be able to account for why it does or does not occur, and to account for variations as well as similarities across (and indeed within) military organizations. Another important task must be to learn lessons so as to become more effective managers of change. In Barry Posen’s The Sources of Military Doctrine (1984), it was argued that realism, as in balance-of-power theory, provided a somewhat better explanation of change in three interwar military organi265

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zations than did organization theory. Posen’s early work provided a foundation for the development of a growing body of literature that focuses on military change. Much of this literature has examined how strategic, political, and technological developments have produced strategic or political conditions that served as sources of change in military organizations, while more recent contributions to this literature have examined how social conditions, that is, norms of identity and behavior, can structure military change.2 This volume contributes to the understanding of change in military organizations in that the various contributions build on and extend this literature. Moreover, the various contributions furnish a number of insights of a more practical nature. Thus the specific analyses presented in the volume, as well as the broad themes developed across these analyses, have both policy and theoretical implications.

Policy Implications The analyses in this volume provide a number of insights that are of a practical nature when considering the undertaking of change in a military organization. These insights relate to three general categories: reasons for military change, impediments to military change, and facilitators to military change. First, states must be clear about what is the primary purpose in undertaking to innovate or adapt their military. The primary function of a military organization, broadly, is to provide the best means for securing the state and state interests, and this in turn means that military change should be geared to improving the military’s capability to do this. As Theo Farrell and Emily Goldman have demonstrated, however, states may undertake military change for reasons of identity and legitimacy rather than to improve military effectiveness. In the case of Meiji Japan, it was the state itself that was attempting to construct a societal sense of identity that would improve its standing in the wider international community, so that it would be treated as an equal. In this particular case, military change contributed to a national aim. However, states that undertake military change for reasons of identity and prestige run the risk of creating a military organization that is not appropriate to the military strategic environment in which they operate, with repercussions for national security. Meiji Japan was not confronted with any such adverse repercussions, even though the military change did not conform to its particular strategic situation, but this does not mean that the risk of such happening is not real. Such risk was evident in the case of the Irish military in the 1920s and 1930s. The newly formed Irish Army sought to construct itself along the lines of the military organization with which it was most familiar. In part,

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Irish military officers sought to emulate the British military because they perceived it as the best model for establishing the legitimacy of the Irish Army as a professional military organization. As Farrell has shown, however, the model adopted was not well suited to providing the best means for protecting poorly resourced Ireland from the external threats it faced. This suggests that political leaders and civilian policymakers need to be wary of emulative military change. Sometimes, as Goldman has shown, military emulation can serve broader state interests (in legitimating the state itself) without sacrificing military effectiveness. Of course, military emulation may improve military effectiveness, as Terry Terriff has shown in the case of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). U.S. ideas about military organization served NATO’s new goal of flexible military intervention. But militaries can emulate for the wrong reasons and with deleterious effects. The Irish Army is not the only such case examined in this volume. Chris Demchak has pointed to worldwide emulation of the U.S. military model by militaries seeking greater legitimacy and more resources, with the effect of producing military dependence on unreliable information technologies and the potential for organizational failure in war. Second, states and military organizations must recognize that there are various constraints that may impede necessary military change. One such constraint, external to the state, may be the strategic environment. This is a counterintuitive argument: the strategic environment is more often thought of as an engine of military change.3 John Stone has shown that after World War II the strategic environment of the Cold War served to constrain doctrinal innovation by the British Army. In order to take full advantage of the tank, military leaders ought to have developed doctrine and organizational structures suitable for maneuver warfare. The British failed to do this because of alliance requirements for it to defend every inch of German territory, combined with strategic expectations that invading Soviet forces would be repulsed by the application of U.S. nuclear power.4 This gave the British Army little leeway and little need to make the best military use of their tanks by maneuvering around Germany. Thus strategic factors can be constraints as well as triggers of military change. Another constraint may be technology itself. The analyses relating to the role of technology in this volume suggest that military organizations, which normally are seen as being reluctant to adopt new technology, may at times be very enthusiastic about new technology. This is especially true where new technology is seen as creating opportunities to enhance military effectiveness. But as Stone has argued in his examination of the British Army and the tank, the limitations of the new technology, particularly in its less mature form, hindered the development of doctrines that would maximize the opportunities that were later available when the technology was more mature. Stone’s observations about the limitations of new technology

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highlight the possibility that the putative opportunities and enhancements foreseen from the application of new technology may exceed what that technology can actually deliver. This prospect is what concerns Demchak in her analysis. She has argued that the aspiration the U.S. military has for the transformational, and hence revolutionary, capacity of information technology for warfare may not be achievable. Demchak is not simply concerned with the limitations of information technology. We all know that information technology can fail us, and dependent as we are on information technology, we all fear the disruption this can cause to our lives. The potential problems caused by information technology failure on the battlefield are particularly worrisome (not least for soldiers in the field). Militaries have more reason to fear this than they realize, according to Demchak, because they have grossly inflated expectations for information technology–networked militaries in terms of operational reliability and capability. She warns that information technology will make war more uncertain, not less so, for the U.S. Army. This unexpected scenario is one the U.S. Army has not prepared for. Hence, just as technological reluctance to adopt new technology can hold back militaries from realizing significant advantages, so technological enthusiasm can result in change that does not confer the level of military benefit expected. A final constraint that emerges from the analyses in this volume is that of culture, or self-identity. The impact of identity can operate either at the level of domestic political culture or at the level of military organizational culture. Goldman has argued that Ottoman Turkey recognized at least on one level that it had to alter its traditional military practices if it were to confront its enemies successfully. Yet concern that the emulation of foreign military practices would have serious and adverse repercussions for its domestic political culture led the Ottomans to engage in only superficial change to its traditional military practices that did little to redress real deficiencies. The case of Ottoman Turkey may be seen as extreme given the dilemma it faced: military reform threatened its national political culture but was necessary to secure the state from external threats. As Farrell has shown in the Irish case, domestic political culture can provide fertile ground for military change. A shift toward a pro-British political culture in Ireland facilitated the importation of British military ideas and practices by the Irish Army. But the point is that political culture can block military change, particularly emulative change. Military organizational culture may also serve as a barrier to military change. Jennifer Mathers, in her analysis of the failure of the Russian military to undertake change, has underscored the degree to which military culture can constrain change. The Russian military has a tradition of acquiescence to civilian leadership and initiative, and this cultural attribute has made it unwilling to instigate change on its own. This deferential attitude is

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so inculcated into the thinking of the Russian military leadership that it has failed to undertake significant change even though the ostensible policy of Russia—indeed, even though the public rhetoric emanating from the civilian leadership—is that reform must occur if the military is to adjust to the new strategic and economic circumstances. Absent a forceful leadership truly willing to expend the political capital necessary to drive change, the Russian military’s culture of strict obedience has reasserted itself. As a consequence, the reluctance of officers to undertake radical change has meant that the Russian military has suffered a slow but steady deterioration in capability and manpower, to the point where its functional capability of meeting Russia’s current defense needs is an open question. Deborah Avant and James Lebovic, in their analysis of the U.S. military, have observed that there is a linkage between officers’ perceptions of new missions and their perceptions of how consistent these are with their operational roles and prospects for advancement. The more that new missions diverge from their perceived roles, the more reticent officers are to accept them, both because such new missions will alter their roles, and hence their particular identity, and because of concern that new missions will result in a shift of priorities that adversely affect their prospects for advancement. Admiral William Owens, in his contribution, has pointed to another facet of this problem—service parochialism. The general theme developed by Owens is that the U.S. military has not been able to harness the full potential of the application of information technology, because its historically service-centric nature has meant that the individual services have tended to approach the issue according to their own standard procedures, practices, and perceived needs, rather than proceeding cooperatively. The result is that each service will see some benefit from this new technology, but the potential advantages that may be realized by working together to create a “system of systems” for enhancing joint warfare, the so-called revolution in military affairs, are lost due to the fragmented, almost piecemeal nature by which information technology is being developed and applied. Thus military organizational culture may act as a barrier to effective military change, both in reinforcing military reluctance to change its ways and in perverting the process of change. Third, in light of the constraints examined above, consideration should be given to how military change may be facilitated. Posen’s account is somewhat unsatisfactory in this regard, as for him military change is driven by civilians intervening in military affairs in the interest of national security. As Mathers has argued, civilian intervention is clearly what is needed to spur change in the Russian military. Nonetheless, this view has been challenged in several subsequent studies of military-led change. These studies paint a more complex picture that accords particular importance to visionary military leadership, the legitimacy of civilian reformers in military

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eyes, and the mechanism for building military support for reformist ideas.5 These themes have been explored by Avant and Lebovic. Their analysis indicates that appropriate civilian leadership can foster a political climate that can weaken or overcome military reticence. Avant and Lebovic have shown that military personnel do listen and respond to their civilian leaders and, moreover, that they are sensitive to the concerns and attitudes of the civilian public more widely conceived. What this suggests is that civilian leadership, if it desires change, should consistently articulate publicly the particular goals and the need to develop the appropriate new means to achieve these goals, in order to establish a pattern of political commitment that appears more convincing to military organizations. Further, such a pattern of articulation shapes public opinion, and in particular the public perception of what constitutes legitimate and necessary military behavior. Together, the demonstrated political commitment of the civilian (and military) leadership, coupled with supportive public opinion, confers political legitimacy to new goals or new missions, and thereby confers an overall political environment that is conducive to military change. The civilian and military leadership can also take a more direct role than simply creating an environmental milieu that is conducive to military change. Avant and Lebovic have noted that a concern of military officers in acceding to new missions is the impact this will have on advancement. Both civilian and military leaders need to recognize that asking military personnel to accept new aims, roles, and missions affects both traditional notions of identity and traditional perceptions of the criteria for promotion. No serving officer will be enthusiastic about undertaking something new that contravenes both their self- or corporate identity and their understanding of their promotional prospects. The civilian and military leadership, if they are to overcome traditional cultural identities resistant to change, cannot simply play a passive role. Rather, they need to engage actively to support those who embrace the desired change, through such measures as creating new promotional pathways related to the new tasks. Military organizations can and do change. The analyses in this volume, however, point to a number of different policy considerations that military and civilian officials should reflect on when change is desired or occurs. A critical issue is whether the proposed change is necessary and appropriate, particularly if it is an emulation of another military organization. What is appropriate for one military to do in support of its government’s objectives may not necessarily be appropriate to achieving the objectives of a different state with somewhat different objectives. Military change must be tailored to ensure that a state’s interests can be effectively secured, rather than to fulfill potentially self-serving military organizational interests (though these can be congruent). States and military organizations contemplating

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military reform must also be aware of the many different constraints that may impede or skew change. The state of military technology can set limits on the degree of change possible, while the nature of the strategic environment can reduce or remove the need, and hence incentive, to consider change. Military culture, for its part, can prove to be an obstacle to innovation when change is desired and desirable. This observation is not to suggest that military culture is always a barrier, only that it can be an impediment to change. Finally, as the existence of constraints indicates, military change will not necessarily happen just because it is desired or desirable. In instances where states intent on effecting military reform run into resistance, there are measures that the civilian and military leadership can introduce that will enhance the prospect of change being successful. Thus if President Vladimir Putin is sincere in his desire to effect change in the Russian military, he needs to demonstrate publicly and persistently his commitment to military change, as well as to support actively those officers willing to work for change by furnishing appropriate professional awards.

Theoretical Considerations The analyses in this volume provide a challenge to the dominant theoretical approach to security studies, neorealism. In neorealism, the logic of anarchy drives state practice in military affairs. The competitive nature of the international system generates imperatives for state action, forcing states to balance power externally through alliance formation and internally through mobilization and military organization.6 Neorealism predicts that the need to survive in the competitive international environment will force states to organize for war as efficiently as possible.7 Military change is a rational response to changing strategic circumstances; states adopt new military practices, and emulate best military practice, in order to keep up with the competition.8 In The Sources of Military Doctrine, Posen explicitly sought to test the explanatory power of neorealism against that of organization theory. In contrast to neorealism, organization theory presents state practice as the product of incessant bureaucratic warfare. Here it is the competitive nature of the domestic political system that generates the imperatives for organizational action. Military organizations, like other bureaucratic players, will seek to adopt structures and strategies that promise to confer prestige, increased resources, and secure autonomy.9 Posen concluded that neorealism provided a “slightly more powerful tool” for the study of doctrine.10 Organization theory told Posen that militaries prefer offensive strategies because they require more resources and military autonomy than defensive strategies, and they improve organizational control and reduce uncertainty over operations in war. Accordingly,

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the presence of defensive doctrines is explained by Posen as deviance from a military preference caused by civilian intervention, and motivated by civilian perception of the balance of power; worried about the prospect of defeat, civilian leaders intervene to compel the military to adapt doctrine to meet alliance, deterrence, or defensive purposes. Mathers’s discussion of Gorbachev’s efforts to institute reform in Soviet military thinking mirrors Posen’s early argument. The subservient nature of the Soviet (and then Russian) military’s relationship to the civilian leadership rendered it constitutionally incapable of initiating change without direct intervention. At the same time, however, the closed nature of the Soviet defense system meant that only the military had the degree of information needed to assess its limitations and produce viable alternatives. Gorbachev undertook two main initiatives to enforce change in the Soviet military. First, he opened up the secretive defense system to permit civilian analysts access to information to which they hitherto had not been privy, information they needed if they were to formulate alternative, more defensive approaches to Soviet defense. And second, Gorbachev brought these civilian analysts into the Soviet government as advisers to facilitate reorienting Soviet military thought and practice. Mathers has shown that Gorbachev was successful in introducing change because he was willing to focus on and press the issue, whereas change faltered and died when Yeltsin determined for domestic reasons not to intervene in military matters. Mathers’s analysis points to the fundamental problem with a very rigid civil-military relationship, such as existed in the former Soviet Union (and now Russia), in which information is closely sequestered and only the military provide advice on defense issues. In such a circumstance, a military organization has no incentive to introduce change, particularly when it is relatively well resourced, as was the case for the Soviet military. Absent civilian intervention, the military may well succumb to organizational inertia and simply continue to proceed much as it had in the past. Mathers’s argument also suggests that, when forceful civilian leadership is absent, as occurred during Yeltsin’s tenure, such a military may well fall back on the old way of doing things even in the event of a loss of resources or a significant military defeat (as occurred in Chechnya). Thus the case of the efforts to effect change in the former Soviet/now Russian military points up the significant role of civilian intervention in instigating change in a military organization. Despite this support for Posen’s argument, this volume addresses two limitations of neorealist approaches to military change. First, neorealism ignores the role of ideas in shaping military change. Posen’s position was that military doctrine is shaped by state and organizational interests. For neorealists, militaries are primarily instruments of statecraft, rationally organized for the purpose of winning wars. Yet as Jeremy Black has cau-

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tioned in this volume, this neorealist assumption is not self-evident in history. As he observed, “Such a proposition is flawed, both because it fails to note the multiple goals of military organizations, and because, even if the prime emphasis is on war-winning, it is necessary to explain the processes by which such an emphasis affects the operation and development of such organizations.”11 It is through the consideration of ideas, or culture, that one is able at least to begin to address these failings. Farrell and Goldman, in their contributions, have directly examined with respect to emulative change the limitations of neorealist accounts and the strengths of culturalist accounts. Culturalists treat interests as problematic, whereas neorealists take interests as given. Thus culturalists maintain that before asking how interests shape behavior, the question of how actors define their interests must first be addressed. Moreover, neorealism assumes that the possibilities for action are determined by external material forces, such that actors can do what they have the power to do; culturalism contends that the possibilities of action are also shaped by social factors, that actors do what they believe is possible. Farrell and Goldman, using the culturalist approach, both critique the neorealist assumption that selfinterest leads states to emulate best military practice as indicated by victory in war. Rather, they find that identity shapes military emulation by determining who and what are to be imitated; militaries will emulate those with which they most closely identify, and military practice is chosen for emulation on the basis of the appropriateness for that identity. The culturalist approach reveals that states adopt military practices not only for the purpose of defeating enemies but also to reproduce identities of themselves as, for example, modern and Western. Moreover, as Goldman has argued with respect to Ottoman Turkey, states may eschew the adoption of culturally illsuited military practices that would address directly serious strategic military problems posed by an enemy, when neorealism suggests that they should and would emulate military practices that would enhance their prospects of victory. Culturalism provides an alternative explanation to that furnished by neorealism, an alternative that can explicate instances of military change, or failure to change, that neorealism cannot. Terriff’s contribution furnishes a different perspective of the debate over neorealism versus culturalism. His analysis suggests that these two approaches need not necessarily be alternate explanations, but rather that they can be complementary explanations of military change. NATO undertook to adjust its aims to conform with changes in the strategic environment that accompanied the end of the Cold War, an action that is consistent with the tenets of neorealism. However, the culturalist approach provides a useful analytical tool to elucidate how and why NATO emulated the particular military practice that it did. Here neorealism provides the trigger for NATO change, while culturalism explains the character of NATO change,

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that is, changes shaped by the legitimacy of U.S. military ideas. Thus culturalism combined with neorealism can provide a richer account of military change than either could achieve in and of itself. Simply put, this volume suggests that the culturalist approach, in accounting for the role of ideas, can provide an alternative explanation of military change to that offered by neorealism, one that explains cases that neorealism cannot, and may also furnish a complementary account that goes beyond what neorealism claims to explain. A second limitation to neorealism is that it pays insufficient attention to the role of domestic politics in shaping strategy. In his examination of change in doctrine, Posen does look inside the state in a limited fashion, in that he assumes that when it comes to strategy, military chiefs tend to be primarily driven by organizational interests, while civilian leaders tend to be solely concerned with national interests. Posen’s carefully worded conclusion that neorealism furnishes a “slightly more powerful tool” than organization theory can be read as a tacit nod to the fact that domestic influences do have a role.12 Indeed, as Mathers in her chapter has made clear, domestic reasons can drive military change. Gorbachev’s primary aim in pushing military reform was to reduce the burden of Soviet defense spending on the domestic economy. He sought to do this by unilaterally reducing the size (and thereby cost) of the Soviet military and, in so doing, leading NATO to reciprocate in kind. In other words, strategic calculations operated to reinforce a domestic political agenda.13 Both Avant and Lebovic’s and Craig Cameron’s contributions also explore the dimensions and extent of the impact of domestic politics. Avant and Lebovic’s analysis indicates that an alteration in the international threat is not a sufficient condition for the military to undertake change. Military culture tends to militate against change, for military personnel will tend to be attached to traditional military identity and hence reluctant to embrace change. Their findings suggest, however, that military officers will be more open to change, and more willing to engage in change, if they are convinced that civilians will support this effort. Avant and Lebovic’s contention is not that neorealist insights do not apply, but rather that neorealism, in and of itself, falls short of providing a sufficient explanation. Avant and Lebovic have concluded that to understand the mechanisms by which military change does or does not occur, it is necessary to examine how international threat, civilian leadership, and military culture all interact. Cameron has similarly explored the impact of domestic influences on military change in his account of why the U.S. military proved slow to innovate new military practices after it lost the Vietnam War. Cameron has argued that to understand the shifting policies and institutional behaviors of the U.S. military from the height of the Vietnam War to the 1980s, it is necessary to examine the interplay of personalities, military culture, political

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intervention, and social climate. From one perspective, his argument supports Avant and Lebovic’s point about the importance of domestic influences in gaining a full understanding of why militaries do or do not change. More challengingly, however, Cameron has argued that the U.S. military, rather than accepting a commonly understood external reality, shaped and interpreted events according to a range of personal and institutional attitudes and ideas. In other words, Cameron has made clear that military organizations influence and shape their environment. In contrast, neorealism holds that environmental forces influence and shape state (and institutional) behavior, not the other way around. What the analyses in this volume collectively show is that the relationship between military organizations and their environments is complex. Not only is their behavior influenced and shaped by environments with strategic, cultural, political, and technological dimensions, dimensions that may interact with each other as well as with the military, but also they may shape the development of strategic, cultural, political, and technological dimensions of their environments in turn. The complexity of this interactive relationship poses a major challenge to neorealism, demonstrating the circumscribed nature of its particular explanation of military change. But to capture the complexity of the relationship between military organizations and their environments poses an equally serious challenge for theory development. Goldman has urged that an effort should be made to explore the possibility of synthesizing the culturalist and neorealist perspectives to furnish a better theoretical framework for understanding military change. Such an endeavor would be valuable, for it would contribute significantly to theory development per se as well to our understanding of military change. The pursuit of such a synthesis, however, must be leavened with caution, lest the result not be a true theoretical synthesis but a kludge created by the “adding on” or subordination of one perspective to the other, in a manner that blurs rather than elucidates the particular insights that can be derived from each.14 Such a compromise of either the culturalist or the neorealist approach would be more a theoretical step backward than a step forward. Even if such a synthesis is achieved, there still remains the question of accounting for the role of domestic influences. Can the insights relating to the role of domestic influences be incorporated into any resulting synthesis of neorealism and culturalism? There are grounds for hope. Culturalist work in security studies does look inside the state, in focusing on the behavioral impact of norms peculiar to organizations and states. And much of this work does examine how domestic culture operates through domestic politics in shaping military strategy and state use (and nonuse) of force.15 To develop a theoretical model that combines the insights of neorealism, culturalism, and domestic politics is certainly a challenge. The promise of richer accounts of military change suggests that this is a challenge worth

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taking up. In the meantime we are best advised to acknowledge that these different theories of state action explain different aspects of the inherently complex process of military change, and to be watchful for fruitful synergies between different theories.16

Notes 1. See Rick Maze, “The War That Will Never Be Won,” Army Times, 5, no. 8 (August 1996), p. 26. 2. For reviews of this literature, see Theo Farrell, “Figuring Out Fighting Organizations: The New Organizational Analysis in Strategic Studies,” Journal of Strategic Studies 19, no. 1 (1996): 122–135; and Theo Farrell, “Culture and Military Power,” Review of International Studies 24, no. 3 (1998): 407–416. 3. See, for example, Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955–1991 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993). 4. See also Paul Cornish, British Military Planning for the Defence of Germany, 1945–50 (Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1996). 5. Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the Modern Military (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991); Zisk, Engaging the Enemy; and Deborah D. Avant, Political Institutions and Military Change: Lessons from Peripheral Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994). 6. On external balancing, see Stephen M. Walt, The Origins of Alliances (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987). On internal balancing, see Thomas J. Christensen, Useful Allies: Grand Strategy, Domestic Mobilization, and the SinoAmerican Conflict, 1947–1958 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). 7. Kenneth N. Waltz, Theory of International Relations (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1979), p. 127. 8. Barry R. Posen, “Nationalism, the Mass Army, and Military Power,” International Security 18, no. 2 (fall 1993): 82. 9. Graham T. Allison, Essence of Decision (Boston: Little, Brown, 1971); Morton H. Halperin, Bureaucratic Politics and Foreign Policy (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1974). 10. Barry R. Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine: France, Britain, and Germany Between the World Wars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), p. 239. 11. See Chapter 2, p. 23, in this volume. 12. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine, p. 239 (emphasis added). 13. Terriff, for example, has argued that the shift in the strategic nuclear balance in the early 1970s was the originating source of change in U.S. nuclear doctrine, a finding consistent with what neorealism would predict. However, he further contends that domestic constraints—primarily declining military budgets and the U.S. public’s wariness of overseas engagements—effectively forced the Nixon administration to pursue a nuclear solution when it favored building up conventional forces. See Terry Terriff, The Nixon Administration and the Making of U.S. Nuclear Strategy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995). 14. Patrick M. Morgan argues strongly against theoretical “add ons,” with respect to neorealism and constructivism, because of his concern about the loss of theoretical clarity. See Morgan, “Liberalist and Realist Security Studies at 2000,” in

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Stuart Croft and Terry Terriff (eds.), Critical Reflections on Security and Change (London: Frank Cass, 2000), p. 65. 15. Peter J. Katzenstein, Cultural Norms and National Security: Police and Military in Postwar Japan (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996); Elizabeth Kier, Imagining War: French and British Military Doctrine Between the Wars (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); John S. Duffield, World Power Forsaken: Political Culture, International Institutions, and German Security Policy After Unification (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998); Michael J. Hogan, Cross of Iron: Harry S. Truman and the Origins of the National Security State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 16. The benefits of competitive theory testing are well illustrated in Kimberly Marten Zisk, Weapons, Culture, and Self-Interest: Soviet Defense Managers in the New Russia (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997). The advantages of a more ecumenical approach to security studies are equally well illustrated in Peter Trubowitz, Emily O. Goldman, and Edward Rhodes (eds.), The Politics of Strategic Adjustment: Ideas, Institutions, and Interests (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999).

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THE CONTRIBUTORS

Deborah D. Avant is associate professor of political science at George Washington University. She is author of Political Institutions and Military Change: Lessons from Peripheral Wars (Cornell University Press, 1994). Jeremy Black is professor of history at the University of Exeter. His twenty-six books include War and the World: Military Power and the Fate of Continents, 1450–2000 (Yale University Press, 1998). Craig M. Cameron is associate professor of history at Old Dominion University. He is author of American Samurai: Myth, Imagination, and the Conduct of Battle in the First Marine Division, 1941–1951 (Cambridge University Press, 1994). Chris C. Demchak is associate professor of public policy at the University of Arizona. She is author of Military Organizations, Complex Machines: Modernization in the U.S. Armed Services (Cornell University Press, 1991). Theo Farrell is college lecturer in international relations at University College, Dublin. He is associate editor of the Review of International Studies and author of Weapons Without a Cause: The Politics of Weapons Acquisition in the United States (Macmillan and St. Martin’s Press, 1996). Emily O. Goldman is associate professor of political science and director of the international relations program at the University of California, Davis. She is author of Sunken Treaties: Naval Arms Control Between the Wars 287

288

THE CONTRIBUTORS

(Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994) and coeditor of The Politics of Strategic Adjustment: Ideas, Institutions, and Interests (Columbia University Press, 1999). James H. Lebovic is associate professor of political science at George Washington University. He has published extensively on U.S. defense policy. Jennifer G. Mathers is a lecturer in international politics at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth. She is the author of The Russian Nuclear Shield from Stalin to Yeltsin: The Cold War and Beyond (Macmillan, 2000) and has published on several aspects of the Russian armed forces, including strategic thought and Chechnya. William A. Owens, U.S. Navy Admiral (ret.), was formerly vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (1994–1996), from which position he acted as one of the primary architects of the current U.S. revolution in military affairs. His publications include (with Joseph Nye) “America’s Information Edge,” Foreign Affairs 75, no. 2 (1996). John Stone is lecturer in war studies at King’s College, London. He is author of The Tank Debate: Armour and the Anglo-American Military Tradition (Harwood, 2000). Terry Terriff is senior lecturer in international security at the University of Birmingham. He is the co–executive editor of the journal Contemporary Security Policy and the author of The Nixon Administration and the Making of U.S. Nuclear Strategy (Cornell University Press, 1995), coauthor of Security Studies Today (Polity Press, 1999), and coeditor of Critical Reflections on Security and Change (Cass, 2000).

INDEX

Accomodation, in complex systems, 223, 226, 227, 229, 247 ACLANT. See Allied Command, Atlantic Action readiness forces: in Russia, 174 Adaptation, 6, 91 Adaptive force packages, 104, 108, 109, 110–111, 112 Afrika Korps, 194 Air mobile units, 121 Akhromeyev, Sergei, 167 Alam Halfa (1942), 194 Alliance armies. See Composite military forces Allied Command, Atlantic (ACLANT), 101 Allied Command Europe Rapid Reaction Corps (ARRC), 102 Amiens, battle at (1918), 192 Amphibious warfare, 5 Anarchy, 92, 271 Antimilitarist culture, 8–9 Antitank guided missile (ATGM), 198 Antiterrorism, 11; civilian support for, 149tab, 150tab, 151; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144, 146, 153tab, 154 An t-Óglách (Ireland), 82 Arab-Israeli War (1973), 198, 201n6 Arbatov, Alexei, 165, 171 Arbatov, Georgii, 208

Arc Light strikes (Vietnam), 126 Argentina, 35 Armored forces. See Tanks Arms control negotiations, 165 Arms race, 13 “Army concept,” 124 ARRC. See Allied Command Europe Rapid Reaction Corps Aspin, Les, 103 ATGM. See Antitank guided missile Atrium (hypertext organization), 245 Attrition, strategy of: in tank operations, 190, 192, 193, 199, 202n16; in Vietnam, 122, 123, 124 Austria, and Ottoman Turkey, 50, 52, 64n37 Avant, Deborah, 10–11, 83 Bagnall, Sir Nigel, 199 Balance of perceived threat, 9, 91, 92–93; and NATO, 99, 100, 111, 115n76 Balance of power, 91, 92–93, 265, 272; and NATO, 92–93, 100, 111, 115n76 Ballistic missile submarines, 127 Barrel Roll (interdiction campaign), 125 Battlefield mechanization, 4, 14. See also Tanks Battle formations, European imperial, 29, 30, 31

289

290

INDEX

Battleship-based strategy, 5, 9, 18n20, 57, 58 Battlespace, 233, 257n79 Berlin Wall, 97 Bolsheviks, 162 Bornu, 26 Borodino, battle of (1812), 31 Bosnia, 104 Bradley, Omar, 195 Brass lambs, 124 Brehm, John, 141 Brezhnev, Leonid, 166 Brussels summit (1994, NATO), 103, 106 Bureaucracy. See Civilian bureaucracy Burma, 24, 34–35 Buzzanco, Robert, 129 Cambodia, 125 Cambrai, battle of (1917), 192 Cameron, Craig, 8 Canada, 32 Career potential and rewards, 140, 152, 154, 155, 156, 157n1, 269, 270 Casualties, 242, 258n89 Cavalry, 25, 29, 47, 190 Central and East European Warsaw Pact (C&EE) members, 97 CFE. See Conventional Forces in Europe Treaty Chaos theory, 15, 224, 228, 252n16, 253n28, 253n37 Charles I (King of England), 26 Chechen conflict, 173, 176, 177, 178 China, 11, 25; and Meiji Japan, 59, 66n89 Churchill, Winston, 77 CIDGs. See Civilian Irregular Defense Groups CINCPAC. See Commander in Chief, Pacific Civilian bureaucracy, 4, 271; in U.S. defense policy and planning, 216–218 Civilian intervention, 10–11, 12, 83, 89n77, 276n13; and control of military, 23–24, 26, 33–35; and Soviet military, 162–163, 169, 171–172, 175, 179, 180, 269–270, 271; and support for U.S. mission change, 139–140, 142, 147, 148–149tab,

150, 151, 155, 156–157, 157n5, 158n8, 158n9, 160n38, 270; and Vietnam War, 119, 120, 124, 125, 126–134, 274–275. See also Civilian bureaucracy; Domestic security; Public opinion Civilian Irregular Defense Groups (CIDGs), 123 Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support (CORDS), 123 Clauss, Dieter, 106, 109 Clinton, Bill, 212 Clodfelter, Mark, 132, 137n35 Coalition forces, 25, 93, 189, 196. See also Composite military forces Coercive isomorphism, 94–95, 111 Cold War, 3, 11, 205–207, 267. See also North Atlantic Treaty Organization; Post–Cold War Combined Joint Task Force (CJTF), 10, 92, 93, 96, 101–107, 109, 110, 111–112, 114n33, 115n65; defined, 101; emulation as variable in, 108, 112; Joint Capabilities Planning Cell of, 101 Commander in Chief, Pacific (CINCPAC), 125, 126 Committees of Soldiers’ Mothers (Russia), 176 Communications systems. See Information technology Competition, 13, 41, 42, 43, 45, 61, 62n3, 69, 92, 271 Competitive isomorphism, 43, 73, 85, 94 Complexity/complex systems, 221, 222, 223, 224–225, 226, 227, 228, 235, 238, 239, 242, 252n22; accomodation in, 223, 226, 227, 229, 247; and operational hypotheses, 234–237. See also Networked systems; Surprise Complexity theory, 15, 224, 228 Composite military forces, 24–26, 29, 34. See also Coalition forces; Interservice cooperation; Multinational task force concept; North Atlantic Treaty Organization Concentration of force, 194 Conference on Security and

INDEX

Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), 104, 109 Congress (U.S.): and mission support, 147, 148–149tab, 150, 151, 155, 160n38 Conscientious objectors, in Soviet Union, 169 Conscription, 7–8, 22, 24, 32, 65n64, 72; abandonment of, 32–33; in Meiji Japan, 55, 59–60; and nationalism, 31, 32; in Russia, 168, 174, 176–177. See also Recruitment Conservatism, 4, 13, 14, 189, 190, 193, 201. See also Service parochialism Constitutive norms, 73–74 Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty (1990), 98 Copenhagen statement, 100 CORDS. See Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support Cossacks, 25 Counterinsurgency: civilian support for, 148tab, 150tab; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144, 146, 153tab, 159n20; in Vietnam, 122, 135n8 Counterstroke concept, 199 CSCE. See Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe Culturalism, 273–274, 275 Cultural norms, 7–10, 18n20, 73, 268. See also Culturalism; Emulation Cyberspace, 240, 259n102 Davison, Roderic, 51 Dedovshchina, 168 Defense budgets, and modernization, 250fig Defense literature, 75 Defense, U.S. Department of, 216– 218 Defensive doctrine, 7; in Soviet Union, 167–168, 169, 170 Defensive/offensive strategies, 7, 271–272 Desert Storm, 210, 219n5 De Valera, Eamon, 77, 78, 83 Developing states, 9, 250fig Diffusing model, of military, 230–231, 238 Diffusion, of innovation, 41–43, 44tab, 61, 69, 93–94, 250fig

291

DiMaggio, Paul, 43, 93–94, 95, 107, 110 Discipline, 29, 30 Dixon, Norman, 4, 188 Dobrynin, Anatoli, 165 Domestic politics, 274–275, 276n13. See also Civilian intervention Domestic security, 23, 35, 50 Dominant maneuver and speed, in networked militaries, 234, 257n82 “Draft Concepts of Military Reform” (Soviet Union), 168 Drill, 72, 74, 81 Drug interdiction, 11; civilian support for, 149tab, 150tab; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144, 146, 147, 153tab, 154, 155, 159n22 Drug trafficking, as threat, 145tab, 146 Dutch Republic, military reform in, 72–73, 74, 85 Easter Rising of 1916 (Ireland), 84 Effectiveness, in networked militaries, 15, 223, 230, 236, 242, 247–249 Eide, Vigleik, 99 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 189, 195, 200 Elite forces, 8, 133. See also Specialized forces Elite interests, 8, 13, 27; in Ottoman Turkey, 51, 52, 53; in Soviet Union, 163, 180 Emergent powers, as threat, 145tab, 146 Emulation, 6, 9, 10, 16, 31, 270, 273; cultural accounts of, 273; in neoinstitutionalist theory, 43–44, 45, 61; in neorealist theory, 42, 44, 45, 61, 271; normative motivations for, 61–62; variables in, 45, 46fig. See also Combined Joint Task Force; Innovation; Irish Free State Army; Isomorphism; Legitimacy; Meiji Japan; Ottoman Turkey Environmentalism, 25, 223 ESDI. See European Security and Defense Identity European military development, 21, 23–24, 26–27, 28, 29–30. See also Western military model European Security and Defense Identity (ESDI), 96, 101, 104, 106

292

INDEX

Evans, David, 58 Eyre, Dana, 75 Falkland Islands (1982), 108 Farrell, Theo, 5 Felgengauer, Pavel, 172 Field Service Regulations (Great Britain), 191, 193 Finnemore, Martha, 70 Fisk, Robert, 77 Fit. See Systems fit Flaming Dart missions, 125 Fleet Marine Force Pacific (FMFPAC), 122 Flexible response, 98, 99, 197, 198 FMFPAC. See Fleet Marine Force Pacific Focused logistics and flexibility, in networked militaries, 236–237, 258n93 Force packages. See Adaptive force packages Forward defence, 98, 104, 189, 197, 198, 199, 200 Forward from the Sea (U.S. Navy), 233 France, 7–8, 11, 23, 24, 28, 30, 64n37, 65n64, 84, 90n86; as military model in Meiji Japan, 54–55, 56, 59, 60; and NATO, 106, 112, 197 Frederick the Great (king of Prussia), 35 Full-dimensional protection, in networked militaries, 235–236, 258n90 Fuller, J. F. C., 192, 193 GAO. See Government Accounting Office Gareyev, M. A., 167 Gates, Scott, 141 Gavin, James, 123 GCCS. See Global Command and Control System GCSS. See Global Communications Support Systems General systems literature, 224 General war, 143tab, 144, 146, 148tab, 150tab, 153, 154, 160n38 Germany, 8, 14, 64n37; and Ireland, 77, 78, 79–80; and NATO, 106, 197. See also Prussia Glasnost, 164, 168, 180

Global Command and Control System (GCCS), 213 Global Communications Support Systems (GCSS), 213 Global Engagement (U.S. Air Force), 233 Globalization, 240–241 Goldwater-Nichols Act (1986), 134, 215, 219n6 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 12, 97, 162–164, 175, 180, 208, 272, 274 Government Accounting Office (GAO, U.S.), 230, 231, 265 Grachev, Pavel, 174, 175 Grant, Ulysses S., 196 Gray, Al, 133 Great Britain, 18n20, 24, 25, 26, 28, 30, 32, 33, 116n77, 267; and Ireland, 76–81, 82, 84; as military model for Ireland, 71, 76, 84, 85–86; as military model for Meiji Japan, 54, 56, 60; and NATO, 112, 196–197, 198, 200, 267; and quiet revolution, 202n18. See also Tanks Great Offensive (1918), 191 Green Berets, 123 Grey, Charles, 24 Guerrilla warfare: and Irish Army, 80–81, 82, 83; and Russia, 173; and Vietnam, 122, 123 Gulf War (1990–1991), 34, 107, 108, 132, 134, 173, 210, 219n5, 235 Gunpowder weaponry, 27 Hackett, Roger, 54 Haig, Douglas, 191, 192, 193 Harkins, Paul, 121 “Harnessing the Revolution in South Vietnam” (Vann), 123 High-intensity war, officer attitudes on, 144, 145tab, 147, 150, 159n20, 159n27 Honduras, 130 Horses, 25. See also Cavalry Howze Board (U.S. Army Tactical Mobility Requirements Board), 120, 121 Howze, Hamilton H., 120 Humanitarian assistance, 11, 114n47; civilian support for, 149tab, 150tab; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144,

INDEX

146, 153tab, 154, 155, 159n20, 159n21 Hypertext organization, 245 Identity. See Cultural norms Imperialism: European, 25, 27–28, 29, 75; Japanese, 46, 58–59, 60, 63n14, 67n95 IMS. See International Military Staff Industrialization of war, 27 Infantry, 5, 25, 29, 30, 47, 190 Information screening, 235, 258n89 Information operations (IO), 232, 256n60 Information technology (IT), 3, 15–16, 17n1, 205, 207, 228, 231, 233, 234, 267; and operational capability, 268; and operational hypotheses, 234–237; and service parochialism, 269; social constructions of, 239–240; and systems integration, 209–211, 212–215, 219n5. See also Complexity/complex systems; Midrange theory; Technological development Information warfare (IW), 222, 231, 232–233, 234, 241, 257n72, 257n79, 260n108; and operational capability, 268. See also Midrange theory; Network-centric warfare Innovation, 5, 6, 10, 11, 18n14, 91; analogous time periods of, 208; diffusion of, 41–43, 44tab, 61, 69, 93–94, 250fig; and systems integration, 209–211. See also Emulation; Technological development Institutional isomorphism, 43, 63n9, 63n12, 70, 73–74, 75, 94, 111; in Irish Army, 82–83, 85–86. See also Coercive isomorphism; Mimetic isomorphism; Normative isomorphism Institutional legitimacy. See Legitimacy Institutional theory, 113n8, 124 Integrated services. See Joint task forces Intelligence systems, 207, 244, 260n114 Interdependence, 166, 229 Interdiction campaigns, in Vietnam, 125 Interests, 273. See also Elite interests International Military Staff (IMS), 103

293

Interservice cooperation, 15, 101, 108. See also Composite military forces; Joint doctrine; Joint task forces; Service parochialism Iran, 11, 133 Iran-Contra affair, 133, 134 Iraq, 24. See also Gulf War IRA. See Irish Republican Army IRB. See Irish Republican Brotherhood Ireland, 84; and Germany, 77, 78, 79–80; and Great Britain, 76–81, 82, 84 Irish Civil War (1921–1922), 9, 76, 83–84 Irish Free State Army, 9, 71, 76; defense plans of, 78, 79, 80, 81; emulation as variable in, 76, 82–83, 266–267, 268; and guerrilla warfare, 80–81, 82, 83; professionalization of, 8, 81–82, 83, 84, 85–86 Irish Republican Army (IRA), 9, 71, 76, 81–82, 83–84 Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB), 84 Irish War of Independence (1919–1921), 9, 71, 76, 81, 84 Iriye, Akira, 58, 59 Islamism, 130; in Ottoman Turkey, 49, 50, 51, 53, 64n37 Isomorphism, 43, 63n12, 70, 74; defined, 94; and NATO, 111–112. See also Competitive isomorphism; Institutional isomorphism IT. See Information technology Ivanov, Sergei, 177, 178, 180 IW. See Information warfare Janissaries, 47, 48, 49, 65n49 Japan, 8, 9, 34. See also Meiji Japan Jefferson, Thomas, 29 Jenkinson, Charles, 32–33 Jeune Ecole, 56 Johnson, Harold K., 124 Johnson, Lyndon B., 120, 126, 127, 128 Joint doctrine, 15, 215, 219n6. See also Interservice cooperation Joint Doctrine Center (U.S.), 215 Joint task forces, 15, 101, 108, 116n77 Joint Vision 2010 (U.S.), 231, 233, 234, 236 Just-in-time logistics, 236, 237 Just-in-time war, 237

294

INDEX

Karpov, Viktor, 165 Kazaks, 25 Khmer Rouge, 130 Kier, Elizabeth, 7 Killing zones, 198–199 Knowledge burden, 223, 225, 230 Knowledge, in networked militaries, 15, 225–226, 227, 228, 233, 236, 258n89; in midrange theory, 241, 243, 244, 245, 260n114 Kokoshin, Andrei, 165 Kosovo, 178 Kozyrev, Andrei, 165 Krepinevich, Andrew F., Jr., 132 Krulak, Victor, 122–123, 135n8 Kvashnin, Viktor, 177 Lane, Frederick, 35 Laos, 125 Large-scale technical systems (LTS), in networked militaries, 15, 223, 224, 229 Latin America, 22, 35 Legitimacy, 43, 44, 45, 63n8, 94, 270; and Dutch military model, 73; and Meiji Japan, 60, 61, 266; in NATO programs, 112; and Ottoman Turkey, 51, 53, 61. See also Emulation Legro, Jeffrey, 9 Levy, Avigdor, 49 Liberia, 35 Liddell Hart, B. H., 193, 196 Linebacker operations (Vietnam War), 132 Local conflict, Russian policy on, 173, 174, 179 Logistics. See Focused logistics and flexibility; Just-in-time logistics London Declaration (1990), 98–99, 102 Low-intensity missions, 144, 145tab, 146, 147, 150, 151, 155, 157n1, 158n11, 159n20, 159n27 LTS. See Large-scale technical systems Lugar, Richard, 104 Luttwak, Edward, 190 Lynn, John, 42 Lyubov, Kudelina, 178 McConnell, John P., 128 McFarland, John, 133

McGovern, George, 129 McKenna, Dan, 77–78, 80 McNamara, Robert S., 121, 125, 126, 127, 134 MACV. See Military Assistance Command Vietnam Mahanian principles, 57, 58, 66n84 Mahmud II (sultan of Ottoman Turkey), 48, 49 Main line of resistance (MLR), 79 Manchus, 25, 26 Maneuver warfare, 191, 195, 199, 267. See also Dominant maneuver and speed Mansure army (Turkey), 48 Marshall, Andrew, 208–209 Martel, Giffard, 196 Mayaguez incident, 130 Mechanised and Armoured Formations (Great Britain), 193 Mechanization, 4, 14. See also Tanks Meckel, Jakob, 55 Meiji Japan, 10, 31, 53–61, 54, 65n61, 66n80; and China, 59, 66n89; conscription in, 55, 59–60; emulation as variable in, 45, 46figs, 57, 59, 61–62; imperialism in, 46, 57–59, 60, 63n14, 66n80, 67n95; and Russia, 45–46, 59, 66n90; and treaty revision, 54, 56, 57, 60, 61 Menu bombing, 125 Mercenaries, 34, 72, 75 Midrange theory, 222, 238–245, 251n6; propositions of, 241–243 Military advancement. See Career potential and rewards Military Assistance Command Vietnam (MACV), 121, 122, 123, 126 Military change, 3, 4–7, 16–17, 140, 141, 265–276; and adaptation, 6, 91; cultural norms in, 7–10; and doctrinal change, 4–5, 15, 16, 17n8; politics and strategy in, 10–12; and synthesis of theories, 275–276, 276n14; and technological development, 12–16. See also Innovation; Military organization; Mission change; Neoinstitutionalism; Neorealism; Threat Military education, 74, 75, 191. See also Military training

INDEX

Military occupational specialization (MOS), 152, 154 Military organization, 23, 33–34, 70, 271; capital/labor-intensive, 69– 70, 71, 72, 75, 85; and developing states, 69–70, 71; historical development of, 2, 21–23, 24–33; nonWestern, 16–17, 24, 25, 26, 29–30, 34–35, 69–70, 75; and offensive/defensive strategy, 7, 271–272; operational concepts of, 234–237. See also Civilian intervention; Military change; Professionalization; Western military model Military personnel profile, 188, 216. See also Professionalization Military regimes, 33, 85 Military technical revolution (MTR), 208, 209, 255n60 Military Thought (Soviet Union), 167, 168 Military training: subcontracting of, 34; universal, 32. See also Military education Miller, Paul D., 103, 105, 109 Mimetic isomorphism, 94, 95; and NATO, 108–110, 112 Mission change, 11–12, 269, 270, 274–275; civilian support for, 142, 147, 148–149tab, 150–151, 156, 158n8, 158n9, 159n31, 159n32; and combat status, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156; external influences on, 139–140, 141–142, 144–151, 158n18; and high/low affiliation, 152, 153, 154; and intensity of conflict, 144, 145tab, 146, 147, 150, 151, 155, 157n1, 158n11, 159n20, 159n27; internal influences on, 140, 151–155, 156–157, 160n37; serviceaffiliated views of, 142, 143tab, 144, 145tab, 146, 148–149tab, 158n11, 159n21, 159n24 Mithon (French Intendant de la Marine), 28 MLR. See Main line of resistance Mobilization. See Recruitment Modern Formations (Great Britain), 193 Modernity/modernization, 22, 221–222,

295

230–232; and defense budgets, 250fig Moguls, 26 Moltke, Helmuth von, 48 Momyer, William W., 128 Mongols, 25 Montgomery, B. L. (Viscount), 189, 194, 195, 196, 199, 200, 203n32 Morale, 30 Morocco, 26 MOS. See Military occupational specialization MTR. See Military techical revolution Mulcahy, Richard, 83 Multinational Division (NATO), 102, 104 Multinational task-force concept, 101–102 Munitions, Ministry of (Great Britain), 32 Muslims. See Islamism Mutual advantage, 25 Mutual security, 166 Napoleon I, Napoleonic-style battle, 33, 191, 192 Nassau, Count John of, 74 Nassau, Counts Maurice and William Louis of, 72–73 Nationalism, 32, 33 Nation, R. Craig, 167–168 NATO. See North Atlantic Treaty Organization Naval supply and maintenance, 28 Navy Operational Concept (U.S.), 233 Negative surprise, 15 Neoinstitutionalism, 41, 43–44; and Dutch military model, 73–74; and Irish Army, 82, 85–86; and isomorphism, 70–71, 74, 75, 93–95; and Meiji Japan, 45, 60; and Ottoman Turkey, 45, 46fig, 51, 52 Neorealism, 10, 12, 13, 16, 41, 42–43, 44tab, 61, 69, 73, 265–266, 271–273, 274, 275; and Meiji Japan, 45, 56, 60–61, 66n80; and mission change, 140, 15n8; and NATO, 92, 115n76; and Ottoman Turkey, 45, 46, 47, 52; and theoretical synthesis, 275–276, 276n14; and threat, 140, 141, 158n14

296

INDEX

Net Assessments, Office of (U.S.), 231 Netherlands. See Dutch Republic Network-centric warfare, 233, 256n60. See also Information warfare Networked military organization, 15, 221, 222, 223, 228–229. See also Midrange theory Networked systems, 223, 224, 246. See also Chaos theory; Complexity/ complex systems; Surprise Networked technologies, 228–229. See also Information technology Network literature, 15, 224 Networks, defined, 228 Network theory, 222 Neutron bomb, 13 Newcastle, Duke of, 28 New Order Army (Nizam-I Jedid, Turkey), 48 New Political Thinking concept (Soviet Union), 166–168, 170 New Strategic Concept (NATO), 96, 98, 99–101, 102, 109, 114n38 Nicaragua, 130, 133 Nigeria, 34 1934 War Plan (Irish Army), 80–81, 83 Nixon, Richard, 129–130, 276n13 Nonconventional missions, 139, 157n1 Normandy invasion (1944), 195, 200 Normative isomorphism, 94, 95; and NATO, 107–108, 111 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 10, 91–92, 96–98, 112n1, 113n8, 113n9, 113n18, 113n23; Article 5 operations of, 100; and conventional defense, 196, 197, 198–199, 200; crisis management in, 96, 100, 102, 104, 110; non–Article 5 operations of, 102, 114n38; and nuclear defense, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200; and out-of-area operations, 96, 103, 104, 106, 109, 110; post–Cold War military adaptation of, 101–107, 108–109, 110, 267, 273–274; post–Cold War political strategy of, 97–101, 109; and post-Soviet Russia, 173, 174, 178; resources for, 105, 109–110, 111; theoretical analysis of, 92–96, 107–112, 115n76; and UN, 104, 107, 109; and unpredictability, 99, 100, 104, 109, 110.

See also Combined Joint Task Force; New Strategic Concept North, Oliver, 133 Nuclear weapons, 5, 13, 14, 17n8, 145tab, 166, 173, 276n13; and European defense, 98, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200 Offensive/defensive strategies, 7, 271–272 Officers Assembly (Soviet Union), 164 Officership, 27, 34. See also Mission change; Professionalization Officers Union (Soviet Union), 164 Ogarkov, Nikolai, 207–208, 209 Oil, 57–58 On Imperial Defense (Tetsutaro), 57 Operational concepts. See Military organization Operational doctrine. See Tanks Operational level of war, 194 Operational Maneuver from the Sea (U.S. Navy), 233 Operation Overlord (1944), 101 Opinion. See Public opinion Organizational change, 4, 5, 6, 7, 14–15, 18n20, 152; and homogenization, 43–44, 63n12. See also Emulation; Service parochialism Organizational complexity, 223, 227, 237, 239–240 Organizational control, 236, 237, 242, 260n110; and decentralization, 242, 260n110 Organizational isomorphism. See Institutional isomorphism Organizations: as networks, 228; and technology, 229, 240–242, 259n100 Organization on Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), 104 Organization theory, 16, 62n2, 73–74, 75, 92, 93–96, 160n39, 271–272, 274, 275 OSCE. See Organization on Security and Cooperation in Europe Ottomanism, 51 Ottoman Turkey, 10, 25, 26, 29, 45, 46, 47–53, 61–62, 65n49, 65n50, 268, 273; emulation as variable in, 45, 46figs, 49, 52, 61, 268; recruitment

INDEX

in, 49, 50–51, 64n37, 64n38; and Russia, 46, 50, 52, 64n41 Out-of-area operations, and NATO, 96, 103, 104, 106, 109, 110 PACAF. See Pacific Air Force PACFLT. See Pacific Fleet Pacific Air Force (PACAF), 126 Pacification, in Vietnam, 122, 123, 125 Pacific Fleet (PACFLT), 126 Pakistan, 24 Panzers, 194, 196 Paris accords (1973), 129, 130, 132 Parochialism. See Service parochialism; Technological parochialism Partnership for Peace (PfP), 96, 106 Pasha, Huseyin Avni, 50 Passchendaele, battle of (1917), 191, 193 Patriotic orthodoxy, 129, 137n26 Patton, George, 195 Peace, degrees of, 241 Peace enforcement, 11, 106; civilian support for, 148tab, 150tab; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144, 146, 153, 154, 155, 159n20, 159n21 Peacekeeping, 5, 11, 104; civilian support for, 148tab, 150tab; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144, 146, 147, 153, 154, 155, 159n22 Peace operations and support, 106, 109 Peace policy, 167–168, 172–173 Peacetime missions. See Mission change Pearl Harbor attack (1941), 9 Peattie, Mark, 58 Pentomic divisional structure, of U.S. Army, 5 Perestroika, 164, 165, 170, 180 Perry, Matthew Calbraith, 56 Perry, William, 210, 219n5 Persian Gulf (1991). See Gulf War Plan 1919 (Great Britain), 192 Plan W (Great Britain), 77 Plassey, battle of (1757), 29 Platforms, 213 Plevna, battle of (1877), 50 Poindexter, John, 133 Police support. See Domestic security Political change, 10–12, 16. See also Civilian intervention

297

Posen, Barry, 3, 10, 11, 12, 16, 265, 269, 271–272, 274 Post–Cold War, 10, 11, 12, 208; international system in, 240–241; and Russian security, 96, 97, 99, 173, 174, 178–179; threats in, 144, 145tab, 146–147, 155–156, 159n25. See also Mission change Powell, Colin, 134, 212 Powell, Walter, 43, 93–94, 95, 107, 110 Precision, 223, 225, 226, 229, 234, 246 Precision-dependent systems, 223, 224, 231, 242 Precision engagement and accuracy, 234, 235, 257n84 Precision-guided weapons, 207, 213, 231 Presidency (U.S.), and mission support, 147, 148–149tab, 150–151, 155, 160n38 Presseisen, Ernst, 59–60 Prestige, 41–42, 44, 45, 63n8, 96; in Meiji Japan, 60, 61; in Ottoman Turkey, 51 Principal-agent theory, 11–12, 140, 141, 147, 151, 159n34 Priore, Michael, 228 Privatization, 33–34 Professionalization, 9, 26–27, 32, 34, 59, 75, 230; of Irish Army, 81–82, 83, 84, 85–86; in Soviet Union, 168; in Western military model, 70–71, 74, 75–76, 85 Professional networks, 95–96, 107; and NATO, 107–108, 111 Promotions. See Career potential and rewards Protection costs, 34, 35 Protection, full-dimensional, 235–236, 243, 258n91 Prussia, 29, 65n64, 202n11; as military model in Meiji Japan, 55, 59, 60; as military model in Ottoman Turkey, 48–49, 50 Pruth, battle of (1711), 29 Public opinion: and U.S. mission support, 12, 139, 151, 156, 270; and Vietnam War, 11, 129–130, 131, 276n14 Putin, Vladimir, 162, 177–179, 180 Pyramids, battle of (1789), 29

298

INDEX

Rapid Deployment Force (RDF), 30 Rational actors, unitary, 10, 92, 111 Rational shopper, 43, 44, 60 Rational state responses, 16. See also Neorealism RDF. See Rapid Deployment Force Reagan, Ronald, 11, 131, 133, 134 Realism. See Neorealism Reconnaissance systems, 207 Recruitment, 29, 34, 64n37, 130; in Ottoman Turkey, 49, 50–51, 64n37, 64n38. See also Conscription Redundancy, in networked military, 15, 227, 228, 230, 236, 238, 242, 243, 244, 247 Regional conflict, Russian policy on, 173, 174, 179 Regional war: civilian support for, 148tab, 150tab; officer attitudes on, 143tab, 144, 153, 154, 157n20, 160n38; as threat, 145tab, 146 Regulatory norms, 73–74 Reid, Brian Holden, 190 Rescript of the Rose Chamber (1839, Ottoman Turkey), 51 Research and development, and information integration, 213–215 Reserve forces, 55, 59 Revolutionary regimes, 11 Revolution in military affairs (RMA), 15, 209, 231, 232, 236, 241, 245, 255n59, 255n60, 269; hypotheses of, 234–237 Rhodes, Edward, 8 Richmond, third Duke of, 24 Ridgeway, Matthew, 123 River-line defense, 196, 197 RMA. See Revolution in military affairs Robustness, in networked militaries, 227–228, 237–238, 242, 247 Rodionov, Igor, 174, 175 Rogue outcomes, in networked militaries, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 244, 245, 246–247 Rogue set, 223 Rolling Thunder campaign (Vietnam), 125, 126, 127 Romans, 25, 33 Rome summit (1991), 99

Rommel, Erwin, 194 Rosen, Stephen, 4, 5, 8, 10, 11, 83, 140, 156 Russia, 11, 12, 29, 31, 64n37, 193; and Meiji Japan, 45–46, 59, 66n90; and Ottoman Turkey, 46, 50, 52, 64n41; and post–Cold War security, 96, 97, 99, 166–167, 173, 174, 178–179; and threat of resurgence, 145tab, 146. See also Soviet Union Russian military reform, 161–162; and civil-military relations, 12, 162–163, 169–170, 175, 180, 268–269, 272; personnel and resources in, 168–169, 172, 173, 175–176, 177, 178; under Gorbachev, 12, 164–170, 180; under Putin, 12, 177–179, 180–181; under Yeltsin, 12, 170–177, 180 Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905), 45–46, 59, 66n90 SACEUR. See Supreme Allied Commander, Europe SACLANT. See Supreme Allied Commander, Atlantic Safawids, 26 St. Cyr military academy, 55 Samurai, 53, 55 Sanctions enforcement, 11; civilian support for, 149tab, 150tab; officer attitudes toward, 143tab, 144, 146, 153tab Santa Fe Institute, 224 Satsuma Rebellion (1877), 54 Saudi Arabia, 34 Second Alamein (1942), 194 Secrecy, 188 Self-interest. See Interests Selim III (sultan of Ottoman Turkey), 48 Sergeyev, Igor, 174, 175, 177 Service parochialism, 15, 211–212, 217, 269 Shalikashvili, John, 103 SHAPE. See Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe Sharp, U. S. Grant, 125, 126, 127 Shively, Donald, 54 Shock tactics, 30 Sierra Leone, 35 Slack, in networked militaries, 15, 227,

INDEX

228, 230, 236, 238, 242, 243, 244, 245, 247 Smart weapons, 173 Socialization, 43, 44, 45, 62 Sociotechnical ensemble theory, 223 Somme, battle of (1916), 191, 192, 193 Sources of Military Doctrine, The (Posen), 3, 62n2, 265–266, 271 Soviet Union, military development in, 205–208, 218n1, 218n2. See also Russian military reform, under Gorbachev Spahi (Ottoman cavalry), 47 Spain, 28 Specialized forces, 24, 123. See also Elite forces Standing forces, 26, 72 State-centric military organization and practice, 16–17, 21–22, 24, 34, 75 States, and globalization, 240–241 Steel Tiger (interdiction campaign), 125 Strachey, John, 197 Strategic Air Command (U.S.), 126 Strategic change, 5, 6, 10, 11, 12, 16, 45, 46fig Submarines, 18n20, 127 Subsidies, 29, 34 Suchman, Mark, 75 Sullivan, Gordon, 233 Supply. See Focused logistics and flexibility; Just-in-time logistics Supreme Allied Commander, Atlantic (SACLANT), 94, 102, 103, 107, 113n18 Supreme Allied Commander, Europe (SACEUR), 94, 102, 103, 107, 113n18 Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE), 103 Surprise, in networked militaries, 15, 221, 222, 223, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 237–238, 246, 253n28; in midrange theory, 238, 239, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 258n97, 260n114; point of, 225. See also Complexity/ complex systems Surprise theory, 224 Surveillance systems, 207 Sweden, and Dutch military model, 73, 74

299

Swinton, Ernest, 192 System complexity. See Complexity/ complex systems Systems fit, in networked militaries, 221, 222, 223, 227, 230, 237–238, 247; and complexity, 239, 246–249; and effectiveness, 230, 247–249 Systems integration, in information technology, 209–211, 212–215, 219n5 “System of systems” technology, 15, 211, 212, 269 Tactics, 29–30 Tanks, 4, 14, 189–190; capabilities of, 189, 192, 193–194, 267–268; and coalition warfare, 189, 196; development and wartime utilization of, 189–196, 199–200, 203n32; in NATO defense, 197, 198–199, 200–201; and operational doctrine, 190–191, 192, 193, 194, 199, 200, 202n16, 202n18, 204n45, 267. See also Antitank guided missile Tanzimat (Renovation Era, Turkey), 49 Tatars, 25 Taylor, Maxwell, 123 Technological determinism, 12–13, 14 Technological development, 12–16, 187–189, 201; and institutional secrecy, 188, 201n8; in military structure, 69–70, 71, 72, 75, 85; and operational capability, 14, 20n46, 267–268; and organizations, 229, 240–242, 259n100; and predictability, 188, 201n6. See also Information technology; Military technical revolution; Networked military organization; Networked systems; Revolution in military affairs; Systems integration; Tanks Technological parochialism, 212–215 Terrorism, as threat, 145tab, 146. See also Antiterrorism Tetsutaro, Sato, 57 Threat, 44, 140, 141, 158n8, 158n14; post–Cold War, 99, 144, 145tab, 146–147, 155–156, 159n25, 274. See also Balance of perceived threat Tight coupling, 226 Tilford, Earl H., Jr., 132

300

INDEX

Tilly, Charles, 75 Tokugawa Shogunate, 56 Torpedo boats, 56 Toyama school (Meiji Japan), 55 Transient errors, 234, 257n83 Trial-and-error learning, 228, 244 Turkey. See Ottoman Turkey Turnberry statement (1990), 99 Ukraine, 96 Uncertainty, 188. See also Surprise Unitary rational actors, 10, 92, 111 United Nations (UN), and NATO, 104, 107, 109 United Nations Protection Force (UNPROFOR), 104, 109 United States, 5, 8, 11–12, 28–29, 32, 33, 34; civil-military relations on policy in, 216–218; interservice relations on policy in, 209–216; and Meiji Japan, 57; and NATO, 94–95, 107–108, 109–111, 112; nuclear policy of, 276n13; and post-Vietnam military reform, 119, 132–134; and Soviet military development, 205–208, 218n1, 218n2; and technological revolution, 14–16, 205, 207, 208–209, 230–234, 236, 258n95, 267; in World War II, 195–196. See also Mission change; Vietnam War United States Army Tactical Mobility Requirements Board (Howze Board), 120, 121 Universal military training, 32 Unpredictablity, 188; and NATO, 99, 100, 104, 109, 110. See also Surprise UNPROFOR. See United Nations Protection Force Vann, John Paul, 123 Victory, theory of, 7 Vietnam, strategy of coercion in, 125 Vietnam War (1954–1975), 11; aftermath of, 120, 129–134, 274; air power in, 120, 121–122, 125–126, 127, 130, 132; conduct of, 119, 120, 121, 122–128, 136n21, 157n1; theoretical analysis of, 124, 136n13; and U.S. civilian involvement, 120, 124, 125–128, 129, 130, 131, 134 Vietnam War veterans, 129, 131–132

Volunteer military forces, 33, 34, 130; in Great Britain, 33; in Ireland, 71; in Soviet Union/Russia, 168, 174, 176–177, 178; in United States, 33, 130, 216 Waltz, Kenneth, 42, 62n3, 238 War, 32, 33; degrees of, 241; U.S. civilian support for, 148tab, 150tab; U.S. officer attitudes toward, 143–144, 145tab, 146, 159n22. See also General war; Regional war War, operational level of, 194 Warden, John, 132 War prevention, as Soviet doctrine, 167 Warsaw Treaty Organization, 97, 167 Warships, 28 Washington summit (1999), 101 Webb, James, 133 Weiker, Walter, 47 Wellington, Duke of, 30 Western European Union (WEU), 104, 106 Western military model, 69–70, 72–76, 85–86, 189; and Irish Army, 76–78. See also European military development Westmoreland, William C., 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127–128 Westney, D. Eleanor, 54, 60 WEU. See Western European Union Wheeler, Earle G., 124 Williamson, Oliver, 228 Woerner, Manfred, 104 Women in military, in Russia, 177 World culture, 70–71. See also Isomorphism World War I, 14, 32, 191, 192–193, 200 World War II, 8, 9, 14, 18n20, 32, 77–81, 194–196 Yapp, M. E., 50, 51 Yazov, Dmitri, 168 Yeltsin, Boris, 12, 161–162, 170–177, 180, 272 Yugoslavia, 104 Zaire, 108 Zisk, Kimberly, 10, 11, 83, 166 Zuckerman, Solly, 13

ABOUT THE BOOK

I

n varying circumstances, military organizations around the world are undergoing major restructuring. This book explores why, and how, militaries change. The authors focus on a complex of three influencing factors—cultural norms, politics, and new technology—offering a historical perspective of more than a century. Their analyses range from developing states to Russia, Britain, the United States, and NATO. Throughout, they reveal the manifold interactions between state and military, and also within both, as primary driving forces of change.

Theo Farrell is college lecturer in international relations at University College, Dublin. His publications include Weapons Without a Cause: The Politics of Weapons Acquisition in the United States. Terry Terriff is senior lecturer in international security at the University of Birmingham. He is author of The Nixon Administration and the Making of U.S. Nuclear Strategy and coauthor of Security Studies Today; he also is coeditor of the journal Contemporary Security Policy.

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