Moral Victories: The Ethics of Winning Wars 0198801823, 9780198801825

Table of contents :
Cover
Moral Victories: The Ethics of Winning Wars
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Contents
List of Figure and Tables
List of Contributors
1: Introduction: Moral Victories-The Ethics of Winning Wars
Introduction
Victory Abounds
Trophies and Triumphs
Degrade and Destroy
Moral Victories
Traditions and Challenges
Conclusion
References
Part I: Traditions: The Changing Character of Victory
2: `Let God Rise Up!´ The Bible and Notions of Victory in War
Introduction
The Divine Warrior
God as Commander and Judge
The Divine Redeemer
New Directions
Concluding Remarks
References
3: Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories
Introduction
Military victories
The `most beautiful of wars´
Moral victories
Conclusions
References
4: Defeat as Moral Victory: The Historical Experience
Reactions to Defeat
Theme I: Death as Sacrifice
Theme II: The Fallen as Martyrs
Theme III: Betrayal
Theme IV: Revenge
Theme V: Decadence and Sin, Contrition and Redemption Through Suffering
Conclusion
References
5: Victory Though the Heavens Fall? Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon
Judging the Moral Status of Unlimited War: Does Victory Matter Over All Else?
Letting Slip the Dogs of War: Unlimited War as Historical Phenomenon and Ideal
Avoidance of War, Restrained War, and Unlimited War: How Are They Related?
The Classic Statement of Just War: Victory as the Vindication of Justice
May Unlimited Means of War Sometimes Be Justified? The Thinking of Paul Ramsey and Michael Walzer
Removing Limits on War in Cosmopolitan Thinking About War
Fighting Justly, Winning, and Exceeding the Limits: Some General Conclusions
References
6: Revisionist Just War Theory and the Impossibility of a Moral Victory
Introduction
The Constable and The Soldier
Warrior Cops and Cop Warriors
Revisionist Just War Theory
Revisionist vs Conventional Just War Theory
Critiquing Revisionist Just War Theory: The Impossibility of a Moral Victory
Conclusion
References
Part II: Challenges: The Problem of Victory in Contemporary Warfare
7: Victory and the Ending of Conflicts
Introduction
Defining Victory in War
The Scandal of Winning
War Aims, Jus Ad Bellum, and Victory
Victory Matters Prudentially and Morally
Conclusion
References
8: The Ethics of Unwinnable War
Introduction
Just War Theory
Unwinnable War
The Just Way to Lose
Redefine War Aims
The Problem of Negotiating
The Problem of Barbarism
Conclusion
References
9: The Scars of Victory: The Implied `Finality´ of Success in War
Introduction
The Probability of Success in Just War Theory
Affective Familiarization
The Past as Present; the Past as Future
The Scars of (Moral) Victory?
The Appomattox Myth and the permanent endurance of war
Conclusions
References
10: Winning Humanitarian Interventions? Problematizing Victory and jus post bellum in International Action to Stop Mass Atrocities
Introduction
Problematizing war and victory when protecting civilians
Responsibilities After Humanitarian Interventions
Problematizing Victory and jus post bellum
Conclusion
References
11: Neither Victors nor Victims: Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil-Military Relations in the Twenty-First Century
Introduction
History and Background
How it Came About
Growing Media and National Awareness
Politics and Remembrance
The Town Recognized
Implications for the Civil-Military Relationship
Conclusions
References
12: Cui Bono: Moral Victory in Privatized War
Introduction
Victory and Just Peace in the Just War Tradition
PMCs and the Market for Force
Privatized War and Just Peace
PMCs and a Just Peace
Conclusion
References
13: Justice after the Use of Limited Force: Victory and the Moral Dilemmas of jus post vim
Introduction
Differentiating Jus Post Vim from Jus Post Bellum
The Principles Of Jus Post Vim
Conclusion: Limited Force and the Question of Peace
References
14: Conclusion: The Normative, Political, and Temporal Dimensions of Moral Victories
Introduction
Three dimensions of victory
Normative
Political
Temporal
Reconstructing victory and the just war tradition
Conclusion
References
Index

Citation preview

M O R A L VI C T O R I E S

Moral Victories The Ethics of Winning Wars

Edited by ANDREW R. HOM, CIAN O’DRISCOLL, AND KURT MILLS

1

3

Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Oxford University Press 2017 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted First Edition published in 2017 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2017942097 ISBN 978–0–19–880182–5 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

Acknowledgements The editors wish to thank the ESRC for its generous funding of the project, Moral Victories: Ethics, Exit Strategies, and the Endings of War, from which this book derives (ES/L013363/1). The Glasgow Global Security Network, Policy Scotland, and the Glasgow Human Rights Network also supported our work, and we offer our thanks to all of them. We would also like to record our gratitude to Oxford University Press, with whom it has been a true pleasure to work. Dominic Byatt and the editorial team at OUP, along with their anonymous reviewers, have made a rich contribution to the text before you by sharpening its focus and enhancing its coherence. We are grateful to the contributors for joining the project and supplying plenty of excellent material with which to work. In terms of that material, all three editors shared the load evenly with regard to individual chapters. Additionally, Hom and O’Driscoll wrote the introduction, while all three editors worked on the conclusion and Mills contributed his own chapter to the volume. Phillips Payson O’Brien, David Whetham, and Martin Cook added wisdom, wayfinding, and occasionally emotional ballast along the way. Ammon Cheskin, Ian Clark, Rory Cox, Toni Erskine, Peter Jackson, Tony Lang, Gavin Stewart, Hew Strachan, and Matthew Strickland offered incisive comments on the project at various stages, chaired panels, and lent moral support. Our intrepid and peripatetic postgraduate intern, Andee Wallace, almost singlehandedly dragged the work and gatherings on which this book is based into the twenty-first century and managed to make us look better along the way. Louis Bujnoch, a PhD student at Glasgow, chipped in on several of our adventures, while Gavin Stewart, also a PhD at Glasgow, did the hard yards for us in terms of preparing the manuscript for publication. We are grateful to all of them for their hard work. Andrew Hom would like to thank Cian O’Driscoll for the ‘big idea’ from which our grant and this volume grew. As a colleague, Cian’s foresight, flexibility, and garrulous enthusiasm made it a pleasure to come to work each day. As a friend, his wisdom and generous spirit helped advance my research and career in too many ways to tabulate, for which I will always be grateful. Finally, Cian gracefully deferred on restaurants, titles, and other matters of the heart, a true mensch. Special thanks also to my other coeditor, Kurt Mills, whose experience and supportiveness toward junior colleagues were boons throughout the process. Phil O’Brien always knew when to give good advice about research and publishing and, almost as importantly, when to take it about ice hockey. Peter Jackson has been a steadfast advocate and friend throughout this and many other endeavours. I also benefited from

vi

Acknowledgements

wonderful colleagues, first in Politics at Glasgow University and latterly in Politics and International Relations at the University of Edinburgh, and I am grateful for their support and interest in this project. Finally, my family, Halle, Hank, and Atticus, are a constant source of inspiration. Indeed, in the spirit of this book, they are my true triumphs, providing a clear sense of success, moral grounding, and the occasional humbling word in my ear. Cian O’Driscoll would like to thank his co-editors, Andy Hom and Kurt Mills. Andy and Kurt were generous and cheerful colleagues, and it was both a pleasure and a privilege to work alongside them. A superb colleague, and an even better friend, a special word must go to Andy for his work in organizing the conference from which this book sprung, and the management role he played within our team, not to mention his winning way with a title. Thanks also to David Whetham and Martin Cook for making the whole enterprise possible. David was a generous host to us when we visited Shrivenham on 23 June 2016, a date I would otherwise wish to forget, while Martin was a very convivial guest in Glasgow the previous summer. Phil O’Brien has played a vital role in this book right from the off, and his friendship is treasured. As ever, I owe more than I can mention to the friendly and supportive environment created by colleagues in Politics at the University of Glasgow. A number of colleagues (especially those in the IR and Political Theory clusters) have had to hear more about victory and just war than any person should ever have to bear, but they have suffered it with good grace. Last but not least, I would like to thank my family, and in particular my parents, whose reliable good cheer is the best support anyone could hope for. Kurt Mills would like to thank his co-editors, Cian O’Driscoll and Andy Hom, for making the construction of this volume a painless experience. Cian provided the initial conceptualization for the project and brought together an excellent group of people. Andy did tireless work to organize the workshops, and has done a fine job envisioning and bringing together all the various contributors and bits of the volume into a coherent whole. David Whetham and Martin Cook provided insight on the finer points of victory from the academic–practitioner interface. And the participants at the workshop in Glasgow provided constructive comments on the initial draft of my chapter in this volume.

Contents List of Figure and Tables List of Contributors

1. Introduction: Moral Victories—The Ethics of Winning Wars Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

ix xi 1

PART I. TRADITIONS: THE CHANGING CHARACTER OF VICTORY 2. ‘Let God Rise Up!’ The Bible and Notions of Victory in War John Kelsay

15

3. Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories Sibylle Scheipers

34

4. Defeat as Moral Victory: The Historical Experience Beatrice Heuser

52

5. Victory Though the Heavens Fall? Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon James Turner Johnson

69

6. Revisionist Just War Theory and the Impossibility of a Moral Victory Chris Brown

85

PART II. CHALLENGES: THE PROBLEM OF VICTORY IN CONTEMPORARY WARFARE 7. Victory and the Ending of Conflicts Eric Patterson

103

8. The Ethics of Unwinnable War Dominic Tierney

123

9. The Scars of Victory: The Implied ‘Finality’ of Success in War Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

140

10. Winning Humanitarian Interventions? Problematizing Victory and jus post bellum in International Action to Stop Mass Atrocities Kurt Mills

156

viii

Contents

11. Neither Victors nor Victims: Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations in the Twenty-First Century David Whetham 12. Cui Bono: Moral Victory in Privatized War Amy E. Eckert

175 198

13. Justice after the Use of Limited Force: Victory and the Moral Dilemmas of jus post vim Daniel R. Brunstetter

214

14. Conclusion: The Normative, Political, and Temporal Dimensions of Moral Victories Andrew R. Hom, Cian O’Driscoll, and Kurt Mills

231

Index

243

List of Figure and Tables Figure 11.1 Wootton Bassett High Street, October 2008. Photograph courtesy of the author

180

Table 12.1 PMC presence in Africa (1990–8)

205

Table 12.2 Survival model of the impact of PMCs on the duration of peace

206

Table 12.3 Panel data analysis of the impact of PMCs on indicators of positive peace

207

List of Contributors Chris Brown, Emeritus Professor of International Relations, London School of Economics and Political Science Daniel R. Brunstetter, Associate Professor of Political Science, University of California, Irvine Luke Campbell, Assistant Professor of Political Science, Northwest Missouri State University Amy E. Eckert, Associate Professor of Political Science, Metropolitan State University of Denver Beatrice Heuser, Professor of International Relations, University of Glasgow, and visiting Professor at the University of Paris I Sorbonne Andrew R. Hom, Lecturer, University of Edinburgh James Turner Johnson, Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Religious Ethics, Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey John Kelsay, Distinguished Research Professor and Richard L. Rubenstein Professor of Religion, Florida State University Kurt Mills, Professor of International Relations and Human Rights, University of Dundee Cian O’Driscoll, Senior Lecturer, University of Glasgow Eric Patterson, Professor and Dean of the Robertson School of Government, Regent University Sibylle Scheipers, Senior Lecturer, University of St Andrews Brent J. Steele, Professor and Wormuth Presidential Chair, University of Utah Dominic Tierney, Associate Professor of Political Science, Swarthmore College David Whetham, Reader in Military Ethics, King’s College London, based at the Joint Services Command and Staff College

1 Introduction Moral Victories—The Ethics of Winning Wars Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

I N T R O D U C TI O N There is a poem called ‘Smile, Smile, Smile’ by Wilfred Owen that captures in a most poignant way many of the key themes that this book addresses. The poem, set in World War I, depicts a number of scrappy, wounded soldiers huddling over a copy of the previous day’s newspaper that had belatedly made its way to the front. The headlines puff up Britain’s most recent victories, while glossing over the losses that were incurred in their achievement. Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday’s Mail; the casualties (typed small) And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul. (Owen 2015: 17)

The soldiers also read of the houses that will be built for them when the war is won, and of the aerodromes that must be built in the meantime—the promise of an easy life allayed until the fighting is through. There is further cold comfort for the soldiers in the newspaper’s declaration that the fighting will not be over any time soon. The sacrifices of their fallen comrades had to be vindicated, they read, and so the war would continue until victory was well and truly theirs: Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, The sons we offered might regret they died If we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must all be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy Victory which all bought.

As with the best of Owen’s poetry, biting irony prefigures the questions he would have his reader contemplate. What is victory in war? What is it truly

2

Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

worth to us? If one is fighting for a just cause, would it be a dereliction of duty to settle for anything less than victory? Can victory ever be worthy of the sacrifices rendered by young men and women in its pursuit? What is its relation to the peace that everyone hopes will come once the smoke has cleared on the battlefield? This book tackles these questions.

VICTORY ABOUNDS General Douglas MacArthur (1951) proclaimed that the very object of war is victory: ‘In war there is no substitute for victory.’ MacArthur was not the first to issue such a claim. The notion that war is, for better or worse, all about victory has a long and storied history. In the classical world, Aristotle (1996: 3) defined victory as the telos of military science, meaning that it is the animating purpose of all military activities. Cicero (1998: 83) endorsed a similar claim. Beyond the western world, Sun Tzu described victory as ‘the main object in war’ (quoted in McNeilly 2015: 16). In more modern times, Napoleon founded the French military academy at Saint-Cyr in the early nineteenth century to train the nation’s soldiers how to be victorious. Victory, it seems, is central to how war is understood and approached. Winning, to extend a popular sporting cliché, is not just the most important thing; it is the only thing (Sayre 1955). Nor is this perspective confined to the distant past. In May 1940 Prime Minister Winston Churchill put the case for the necessity of British involvement in World War II in terms of victory: ‘You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: victory—victory, victory at all costs, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival’ (quoted in Bond 1996: 142). In the 1980s, the so-called Powell–Weinberger doctrine (now more commonly known as the Powell doctrine) recast US military doctrine in terms of the strategic imperative of victory: ‘When we commit our troops to combat we must do so with the sole object of winning. Once it is clear that our troops are required, because our vital interests are at stake, then we must have the firm national resolve to commit every ounce of strength necessary to win the fight’ (Weinberger 1984). Toward the current era, President George W. Bush (2003) famously announced ‘Mission accomplished’ in the Iraq War in May 2003—a formulation reprised by Prime Minister David Cameron in Afghanistan in late 2013 (Mason 2013). More recently, the December 2015 parliamentary debate in the United Kingdom on the decision to intervene against the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) in Syrian territory turned on the issue of victory. Proponents of military action, including Cameron’s government, argued that the nature of the threat from ISIS was such that it simply had to be defeated;

Introduction

3

failure to procure victory against ISIS would, the Prime Minister submitted, be catastrophic for international peace and security. Challenging this view, Jeremy Corbyn, the leader of the opposition, claimed that in the absence of a clear conception of how victory over ISIS would be achieved, or even what it would comprise, it would be irresponsible to let slip the dogs of war. And most recently of all, Donald Trump rode a discourse of victory all the way to the American Presidency, promising often and loudly, ‘We’re going to win at every level . . . we’re going to win so much, you may even get tired of winning.’ Undeterred by the exhaustion of success, Trump further declared, ‘We have to keep winning, we have to win more, we’re going to win more!’1 The point to glean from this is the sheer ubiquity of victory talk. It redounds throughout human history, from antiquity to the age of Trump. Yet its prevalence masks a problem. Despite its common usage, the issue arises that it can be difficult to discern exactly what victory might mean or entail in a concrete situation. As Michael Walzer (2015: 110) has observed, even if it is ‘urgent to win, it is not always clear what winning is’. None less than General Tommy Franks (2006: 8) echoed this view when he emphasized the importance of asking what we actually mean when we refer to victory in war: ‘What constitutes victory? I think that is a fundamental question, and it is good for each of us . . . to ask ourselves that from time to time. When we try to decide whether or not we’ve been victorious, we have to think, for just a second, what the term “victory” means.’

T R O P H I E S AN D TRI U M P H S What does victory mean, then? And how would we know it if we saw it? The ancient Greeks had an answer to these questions. Their ideal of warfare involved two armies, comprising massed ranks of heavy infantry (or phalanxes), clashing in pitched battle on a level field. Much grappling, hacking, and slashing would ensue until one army succeeded in breaking through its enemy’s ranks and driving it from the field of battle. Putting the enemy to flight gave the dominant side command of the battlefield. It would then confirm this victory by returning to the point where enemy forces had first turned tail and fled (which was known as the trope, or turning point) and constructing there a rudimentary battlefield trophy (or tropaion). The erection of the trophy formally concluded the battle by affirming the victory of one side and the defeat of the other. The simple fact that the victor had sufficient command of the battlefield to erect a trophy unopposed was proof of its 1

See Hom and O’Driscoll (2017).

4

Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

success. By the same token, the vanquished army’s demonstrable inability to prevent the trophy’s construction confirmed its defeat. The trophy, then, functioned as a marker that both signalled the conclusion of a battle and locked in its result (van Wees 2004: 136–8). The Romans went one better by marking victories with a triumph procession. This was an occasion of great pageantry. The honoured general, or triumphator, was invited by the Senate to stage a dramatic, ritualized return to Rome (Beard 2007: 81–2). The victorious commander, having been granted permission by the Senate to celebrate a triumph, would enter Rome via a ceremonial gate, the Porta Triumphalis, and lead his troops along a symbolic route through the streets of the city to the Capitol, where he would lay a spray of laurel in the lap of the statue of Jupiter. Preceded by a chain gang of shackled enemy captives, and accompanied by trumpeters, flag-bearers, wagons freighted with booty, and treasure chests overflowing with seized bullion, the commander rode in a ceremonial chariot. Garbed in a purple tunic embroidered with stars, and with his face dyed red, he carried a sceptre. Flanking him in the chariot, a slave was commissioned to hold a golden crown above his head and whisper softly in his ear a warning that all glory is fleeting: ‘Remember you are just a man.’ The lavish pageant would culminate with the execution of the least fortunate captives and the dispatch of the rest to slavery, the performance of sacrifices, and a rowdy street party that would last long into the night. As well as permitting Rome an opportunity to rejoice in the glory of its imperial expansion, the triumph also came over time to be regarded as a marker or final proof of victory. It is for this reason that Cicero (2006: 55) referred to the triumphs celebrated by Publius Servilius as ‘the gratifying spectacle of captured enemies in chains’. These events were both popular and necessary, he explained, ‘because there is nothing sweeter than victory, and there is no more definite proof of victory than seeing the people you have many times been afraid of being led in chains to their execution’ (Cicero 2006: 55, emphasis added). What is notable about the Greek and Roman cases is that the practice of warfare was centred on a delimited battle and subject to a widely accepted means of determining who the winner was. Some scholars contend that these conditions endured more or less intact until the eighteenth or possibly even nineteenth century (Whitman 2012). The problem with modern warfare is that it does not conform to these strictures, but is instead a rather more amorphous proposition. Ever since success in battle ceased to function as the prime determinant and/or marker of victory in war, it has become harder to ascertain not only who the winners and losers are in any given conflict, but even whether the conflict in question is over. Phil Klay (2014: 77) captures the results of this in an excellent collection of short stories on the Iraq War, Redeployment: ‘Success was a matter of perspective. In Iraq it had to be. There was no Omaha Beach, no Vicksburg Campaign, not even an Alamo to signal a

Introduction

5

clear defeat. The closest we’d come were those toppled Saddam statues, but that was years ago.’2

DEGRADE AN D DESTROY The difficulties posed by defining victory and identifying it in practice come into sharp focus when we consider the so-called ‘War on Terror’: a war that lacks not only a conventional enemy, but also a conventional battlefield. What can victory mean in such a contest? Does it mean the root and branch eradication of Al Qaeda, or even the elimination of terrorism tout court? And how would one gauge progress toward these ends? As the Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, complained in 2003, ‘We lack a metrics to know if we are winning or losing the Global War on Terror’ (quoted in Mandel 2006: 135).3 Four years later, General David Petraeus echoed Rumsfeld’s consternation. It is hard to know if you are winning the fight against Al Qaeda, he remarked, because ‘this is not the sort of struggle where you take a hill, plant the flag, and go home with a victory parade’ (Tran 2008). Writing in 2010, Andrew Bacevich (2010: 10) noted that policymakers still ‘do not have the foggiest notion of what victory would look like, how it would be won, and what it might cost’. President Barack Obama signalled his awareness of these and related issues when he initiated a shift in the ‘War on Terror’ discourse away from ‘victory’ and towards less freighted terms, such as ‘success’ and ‘progress’ (Martel 2007: 17).4 As Obama explained, it was natural to feel some anxiety ‘about using the word “victory”, because, you know, it invokes this notion of Emperor Hirohito coming down and signing a surrender to MacArthur’ (quoted in Blum 2013: 421). While this may be a powerful image, it is neither true to life in the twenty-first century, nor an especially helpful artifice. The war against ISIS underscores these issues. As noted (see ‘Victory Abounds’), the main plank of the argument employed by opponents of UK military involvement against ISIS in Syria was that it would be lunacy to initiate hostilities without a clear conception of the kind of victory sought and how it would be accomplished.5 Their concerns were not allayed by the vague 2 This is redolent of President George H. W. Bush’s response to Allied victory in the 1991 Gulf War. On the night of victory, he wrote in his diary: ‘Still no feeling of euphoria. I think I know why it is. . . . It hasn’t been a clean end—there is no battleship Missouri surrender’ (quoted in Rose 2010: 226). 3 For more discussion on this, see Record (2003: 5–6). 4 The word ‘victory’ did not appear once in Obama’s December 2009 West Point speech on the war in Afghanistan. 5 This is redolent of the writings of Carl von Clausewitz: ‘No one starts a war—or rather, no one in his sense ought to do so—without first being clear in his mind what he intends to achieve

6

Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

and expansive (if pleasingly alliterative) war aims stated by the US and its allies: to ‘degrade and destroy’ ISIS. Critics carped that these objectives, designed for media consumption and not for the task at hand, were calibrated to neither the facts on the ground nor the West’s reliance on air power. Such a strategy, it was warned, would not vanquish ISIS, but would instead merely prompt it to switch its attention from domestic operations to terroristic enterprises abroad (Hom 2016; McIntosh 2014, 2016). This is not to gainsay the success that the anti-ISIS coalition has enjoyed; it has been significant, especially in the latter half of 2016. Rather, it is to highlight the difficulties that arise when talking about contemporary armed conflict in terms of winning. As Robert Mandel (2007: 18) notes, it is increasingly utopian to believe that wars end with a ‘clean, decisive victory for one side or the other’. Contemporary conflicts more often degenerate into a quagmire. Armies that have ostensibly been defeated melt away only later to re-emerge and carry on the fight by irregular means. Mandel’s emphasis on endings alerts us to the temporal issues permeating victory discourse. Victory is typically evoked to mark the close of what we commonly call ‘wartime’, a period of existential crisis during which exceptional powers and policies take hold and are justified by the idea that they are temporary (Dudziak 2012). As such, it not only demarcates the threshold between ‘war’ and ‘peace’, it also suggests the possibility of a decisive end to a discrete period of violence, and the promise of a better future. Such temporal visions do not comport with contemporary conflicts, which seldom conclude in any clear-cut fashion and instead threaten to segue into a form of ‘forever war’ (Filkins 2008). Viewed from such a temporal perspective, it is tempting to conclude that nobody wins wars anymore; at most, one side loses more slowly than the other.6

MORAL VICTORIES Irrespective of the problems that arise when one discusses modern war in the idiom of victory, it is nigh impossible to speak about it otherwise. Efforts to jettison the term ‘victory’ and substitute notions like ‘success’ in its place may be attractive at first glance. But upon further inspection they reveal themselves to be merely window dressing: a recoding of the problem rather than its by the war and how he intends to conduct it’ (Clausewitz 1976: 579). For more on Clausewitz, see Chapter 2 of this volume. 6 This is a paraphrase from a scene in the HBO television series, The Wire. It also calls to mind Kenneth Waltz’s observation that in modern war ‘there is no victory, only varying degrees of defeat’ (Waltz 2001: 1).

Introduction

7

resolution. Moreover, such efforts distract from the fundamental point that, no matter how vexatious it may be, the concept of victory is hardwired into how we think and talk about and practise warfare. It therefore behoves us not to shy away from analysing victory, but instead to embrace the opportunity it presents. This will involve asking how one can discern a just from an unjust victory, and how best to balance the obligation to wage wars justly against the imperative to win them. This returns us to the questions that Owen’s poem, which opened this discussion, introduces for consideration. To the degree that one is fighting for a just cause, would it be a dereliction of duty to settle for anything less than victory? Can victory ever be worthy of the sacrifices rendered by young men and women in its pursuit? And what is its relation to the peace that everyone hopes will emerge once the guns have fallen silent? How should one set about answering these questions? The literature on victory, which is largely the preserve of military historians and strategists, is not much help here. Although there is an expansive body of scholarship on victory, it does not engage in a sustained or substantive way with ethical issues.7 Instead it pursues four principal avenues of inquiry. The first comprises efforts to devise typologies of victory that would enable military planners to delineate tactical victories from operational and strategic victories (Martel 2007). The second traces the evolution of victory as a concept and the impact of successive revolutions in military affairs upon it (Bond 1996; Hobbs 1979). The third addresses the issue of how victory should be understood in respect of the particularities of contemporary armed conflict (Angstrom and Duyvesteyn 2007). The fourth sets out a case for why, despite its tarnished reputation, victory is still a vital concept through which to understand warfare today (Gray 1979; Luttwak 1982). These discussions either marginalize or ignore ethical concerns. The normative literature on war may be of greater assistance. This includes those strands of political realism that take its ethical implications seriously (Hom forthcoming). It also includes certain forms of pacifism. The challenge set forth by Erasmus of Rotterdam is most instructive in this regard: ‘Let him apply just a little reason to the problem by counting up the true cost of the war and deciding whether the object he seeks to achieve by it is worth that much, even if he were certain of victory, which does not always favour even the best of causes’ (quoted in Reichberg et al. 2006: 235). Yet it is arguably just war thinking that furnishes us with the most resources for making sense of the ethical questions that victory in war raises. This is true regardless of whether one prefers to treat just war thinking as a protean historical tradition or as a contemporary application of moral philosophical reasoning (O’Driscoll 2013). In either case it supplies a conceptual vocabulary that is tailored to teasing out 7

The chief exception is Mandel (2006). Martel (2007) also incorporates a normative dimension into his analysis, but it is not his focus.

8

Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

the moral dilemmas that wars (and indeed the challenge of winning them) precipitate. And yet, as we shall see, just war thinkers have generally been reticent to engage the idea of victory. This belies some deep tensions between the just war ethos, which emphasizes temperance and humility, and the baggage that victory brings with it: adversarialism, triumphalism, and vainglory. There is much to be explored here, and much fertile soil to plough.

TRADITIONS AND CHALLENGES This book is an attempt to set about this task. It derives from a workshop hosted in Glasgow in the summer of 2015. Its aim was to bring together scholars from different disciplines—International Relations, Strategic Studies, Religious Ethics, History, and Philosophy—to consider how we might better understand the concept of victory and in particular its ethical elements. This conference resulted in a series of further conversations and invitations and, ultimately, the collection of essays gathered here, which is divided into two main parts. The first examines the intellectual resources and traditions that may help us better understand and engage the concept of victory. In particular, it focuses on teasing out what one might call the ethical component of victory. How, in other words, should we understand victory today, and what might it mean to think of victory as an ethical category? The second extends those resources and traditions to treat a series of contemporary challenges relating to victory. The remit here is to examine how and to what degree the concept of victory is applicable to, and helps us gain critical purchase on, the ethical issues that arise in the context of the contemporary security environment. Part I, ‘Traditions’, explores the principal sources of western thinking about victory. Chapter 2 by John Kelsay kicks off proceedings with an analysis of how victory is posited in religious sources. Focusing on the Jewish and Christian traditions in particular, he contends that the different conceptions of victory presented in the Bible form the seedbed for later notions of victory in western discourses of war and peace. Chapter 3 by Sibylle Scheipers extends the conversation to the foundations of modern strategic thought, with a discussion of Carl von Clausewitz’s writings on war. Contrary to the standard view that Clausewitz articulated a purely instrumental conception of victory in war, Scheipers reveals that he also understood winning in moral terms. Chapter 4 by Beatrice Heuser looks at the role that commemorative practices play in how historical societies have thought about victory. It presents a probing analysis of ‘moral victories’, that is, military defeats that have been recast in the popular or national imagination as a source of pride and unity. Her study, which takes in a number of historical and contemporary cases, notes the potential for such ‘moral victories’ to thwart peacemaking and fuel

Introduction

9

further hostilities. Chapter 5 by James Turner Johnson turns to the treatment of victory in the just war tradition. Drawing on the works of, among others, Thomas Aquinas and Hugo Grotius, it examines the proposition that certain causes are sufficiently important to justify a win-at-all-costs disposition. Chapter 6 by Chris Brown wraps up Part I by carrying the focus on just war thinking through to the present day and examining how victory has changed in light of the recent revisionist turn in just war theory. He offers a stark warning that efforts to replace the Law of Armed Conflict with International Human Rights Law are misguided and to be resisted. Part II, ‘Challenges’, examines the continuing relevance of the ways of thinking about victory set out in Part I to contemporary international relations. Can these ways of thinking about victory illuminate the challenges international society confronts today, and how should they be revised in light of these challenges? Chapter 7 by Eric Patterson sets the ball rolling with a conceptual analysis of victory itself. He connects victory to the values of order, justice, and conciliation, and offers a stout defence of its continued utility as an ethical category. Chapter 8 by Dominic Tierney responds with a discussion of whether the concept of victory is applicable when wars are increasingly unwinnable. How, he asks, in an era in which decisive victory is no longer a plausible objective, should we think about the ethics and ends of warfare? Chapter 9 by Luke Campbell and Brent Steele develops this discussion by scrutinizing the notion of ‘finality’ that is part and parcel of how scholars and military practitioners think and talk about victory. By shifting the register from conclusive ends to contingent and ‘affective’ processes, Campbell and Steele suggest a different way of conceptualizing victory, one that takes openness rather than decisiveness as its locus. Chapters 10 through 13 interrogate these themes in light of the different forms contemporary warfare takes. In Chapter 10 Kurt Mills deliberates upon what victory can mean in the context of humanitarian interventions and actions taken under the umbrella of the Responsibility to Protect. He looks beyond the kinetics of conflict itself and towards post-conflict justice mechanisms for answers to this question. Chapter 11 by David Whetham treats the role of victory in civil–military relations. Drawing on a case study from the United Kingdom, he explores how affected populations respond to the loss of blood and treasure in wars where no victory is in sight. Chapter 12 by Amy Eckert extends the discussion of victory to the realm of private warfare. She asks how private military companies (PMCs) fulfil and impact the related tasks of winning wars and making peace. In Chapter 13, Daniel Brunstetter ponders how victory should be understood in respect of the use of military force short of war. This leads to a broader discussion of the limits of just war reasoning and the need for a jus ad vim framework that can provide resources for the ethical analysis of small-scale military operations, such as the use of drone strikes and commando raids. In the volume’s conclusion,

10

Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

we will recapitulate and tease out several key themes from these chapters, reflect on how victory changes our understanding of the ethics of war, and provide some suggestions for future research.

CONCLUSIO N The essays that comprise this book turn on one profoundly simple yet agonizingly difficult question: War, what is it good for? As one would expect, the contributors to this volume do not all agree with one another about what the correct answers to this question is, or even about what might be the right way to tackle it. They do all speak in unison, however, about the importance of grappling with it. Moreover, the essays presented here converge on the point of view that this question cannot be usefully addressed from a purely ethical, political, or strategic perspective. Rather, they argue, it must be engaged in a composite manner that brings together all three modes of reasoning. Viewed as a whole, then, this book offers a set of reflections on how this might be achieved. As such, it represents a tentative first step towards fostering a long-overdue dialogue between the apostles of Augustine on the one hand and the followers of Clausewitz on the other. Whether or not it is successful—or should we say ‘victorious’—in this endeavour will be for others to determine.

REFERENCES Angstrom, Jan and Isabelle Duyvesteyn (eds). 2007. Understanding Victory and Defeat in Contemporary War. Abingdon: Routledge. Aristotle. 1996. Nicomachean Ethics, trans. Harris Rackham. London: Wordsworth Classics. Bacevich, Andrew J. 2010. Washington Rules: America’s Path to Permanent War. New York: Henry Holt and Company. Beard, Mary. 2007. The Roman Triumph. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Blum, Gabriella. 2013. ‘The Fog of Victory’, The European Journal of International Law 24(1): 391–421. Bond, Brian. 1996. The Pursuit of Victory: From Napoleon to Saddam Hussein. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bush, George W. 2003. ‘Bush Makes Historic Speech Aboard Warship’, CNN.com, 1 May. Available at , accessed 12 November 2016. Cicero, Marcus Tullius. 1998. ‘The Republic’, in The Republic and The Laws, trans. Niall Rudd. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1–95.

Introduction

11

Cicero, Marcus Tullius. 2006. In Verrem, in Cicero: Political Speeches, trans. D. H. Berry. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 3–102. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1976. On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Dudziak, Mary. 2012. Wartime: An Idea, Its History, Its Consequences. New York: Oxford University Press. Filkins, Dexter. 2008. The Forever War. New York: Vintage. Franks, General Tommy. 2006. ‘The Meaning of Victory: A Conversation with Tommy Franks’, The National Interest 86 (November/December): 8. Gray, Colin S. 1979. ‘Nuclear Strategy: The Case for a Theory of Victory’, International Security 4(1): 54–87. Hobbs, Richard. 1979. The Myth of Victory: What is Victory in War? Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Hom, Andrew R. 2016. ‘Degrade and Destroy: Winning the War against Daesh’, The Moral Victories Project (website). Available online at , accessed 16 October 2016. Hom, Andrew R. Forthcoming. ‘Truth and Power, Uncertainty and Catastrophe: Ethics in IR Realism’, in Brent J. Steele and Eric Heinze (eds), The Routledge Handbook of Ethics in International Relations. Abingdon: Routledge. Hom, Andrew R. and Cian O’Driscoll. 2017. ‘Can’t Lose for Winning: Victory in the Trump Presidency’, The Disorder of Things (website). Available online at , accessed 8 March 2017. Klay, Phil. 2014. Redeployment. New York: Penguin. Luttwak, Edward N. 1982. ‘On the Meaning of Victory’, The Washington Quarterly 5(4): 17–24. MacArthur, General Douglas. 1951. ‘Farewell Address to Congress, 19 April 1951’, American Rhetoric (website). Available online at , accessed 12 November 2016. Mandel, Robert. 2006. The Meaning of Military Victory. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. Mandel, Robert. 2007. ‘Defining Postwar Victory’, in Jan Angstrom and Isabelle Duyvesteyn (eds), Understanding Victory and Defeat in Contemporary War. Abingdon: Routledge, 13–45. Martel, William C. 2007. Victory in War: Foundations of Modern Military Policy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mason, Rowena. 2013. ‘Mission Accomplished in Afghanistan, Declares David Cameron’, The Guardian, 16 December. Available online at , accessed 3 April 2014. McIntosh, Christopher. 2014. ‘Ending the War with Al Qaeda’, Orbis 58(1): 104–18. McIntosh, Christopher. 2016. ‘America in a Time of War: Interpreting Orlando’, The Moral Victories Project (website). Available online at , accessed 16 October 2016. McNeilly, Mark R. 2015. Sun Tzu and the Art of Modern Warfare. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

12

Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew R. Hom

O’Driscoll, Cian. 2013. ‘Divisions within the Ranks? The Just War Tradition and the Use and Abuse of History’, Ethics & International Affairs 27(1): 47–65. Owen, Wilfred. 2015. Anthem for Doomed Youth. London: Penguin. Record, Jeffrey. 2003. Bounding the Global War on Terrorism. Carlisle, PA: Strategic Studies Institute. Reichberg, Gregory M., Henrick Syse, and Endre Begby (eds). 2006. Ethics of War: Classic and Contemporary Readings. Oxford: Blackwell. Rose, Gideon. 2010. How Wars End: Why We Always Fight the Last Battle. New York: Simon & Schuster. Sayre, Joe. 1955. ‘He Flies On One Wing’, Sports Illustrated, 26 December. Tran, Mark. 2008. ‘General David Petraeus Warns of Long Struggle Ahead for US in Iraq’, The Guardian, 11 September. Available online at , accessed 31 January 2014. Waltz, Kenneth. 2001. Man, the State, and War: A Theoretical Analysis. New York: Columbia University Press. Walzer, Michael. 2015. Just and Unjust Wars: A Moral Argument with Historical Illustrations, 5th edition. New York: Basic Books. Wees, Hans van. 2004. Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities. London: Duckworth. Weinberger, Caspar. 1984. ‘The Uses of Military Power. Remarks Prepared for Delivery by the Hon. Caspar W. Weinberger, Secretary of Defense, to the National Press Club, Washington DC’, 28 November 1984, Frontline (website). Available online at , accessed 28 May 2015. Whitman, James Q. 2012. The Verdict of Battle: The Law of Victory and the Making of Modern War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Part I Traditions: The Changing Character of Victory

2 ‘Let God Rise Up!’ The Bible and Notions of Victory in War John Kelsay

I N T R O D U C TI O N The title of this chapter is from the first line of Psalm 68.1 One also finds these words in the book of Numbers, at 10:35–36, where we read: Whenever the ark set out, Moses would say ‘Arise, O Lord, let your enemies be scattered, and your foes flee before you.’ And whenever it came to rest, he would say ‘Return, O Lord of the ten thousand thousands of Israel.’2

In both passages, the appeal—that God ‘rise up’ against an enemy—is set in a ritual context. Indeed, the passage from Numbers suggests that war itself is a ritual act, with the ark of the covenant signifying God’s presence, leading the people to battle. The psalm has a somewhat different provenance. Along with many of the other hymns collected in the book of Psalms, it was probably intended for recitation in a liturgical setting (Smith 2014: 302, 307, 323, 558 n. 156).3 While the song expresses some other concerns, its focus on God as the source of victory in war is clear. As such, it provides an introduction to the way that notion is conceived in the Bible.

1 I would like to thank Cian O’Driscoll and Andrew Hom for their work in organizing the ‘Moral Victories’ workshop for which this paper was composed; thanks are also due to the workshop participants and to two referees who made comments on the essay. I also appreciate the very helpful suggestions of Professor Corrine Patton of the University of St. Thomas. Finally, I want to acknowledge Elizabeth Kelsay, who provided assistance with research for this paper. 2 All citations from the Bible are drawn from the New Revised Standard Translation. 3 A prominent view among earlier scholars placed Psalm 68 and others in the collection in the context of an annual covenant renewal ceremony; among others, see Weiser (1962).

16

John Kelsay

O God, when you went out before your people, when you marched through the wilderness, the earth quaked, the heavens poured down rain at the presence of God, the God of Israel . . . (Psalm 68:7–8) The Lord gives the command; great is the company of those who bore the tidings: ‘The kings of the armies, they flee, they flee!’ The women at home divide the spoil, though they stay among the sheepfolds— the wings of a dove covered with silver, its pinions with green gold. When the Almighty scattered kings there, snow fell on Zalmon. (Psalm 68:11–14) With mighty chariotry, twice ten thousand, thousands upon thousands, the Lord came from Sinai into the holy place. You ascended the high mount, leading captives in your train and receiving gifts from people, even from those who rebel against the Lord God’s abiding there . . . (Psalm 68:17–18)

The specifics of the victories to which these verses refer are not readily available to us. While the lines at 6–7 remind one of the celebration of victory over King Jabin of Canaan related in Judges 4–5—a text to which I will return—the other verses could deal with any number of occasions.4 The point of recalling them becomes clear in verses 21–23, where we have first a reminder of God’s promise to ‘shatter the heads of his enemies’ and to give victory to the people of Israel, followed by a petition that this promise be fulfilled: Summon your might, O God; show your strength, O God, as you have done for us before . . . Trample under foot those who lust after tribute, scatter the peoples who delight in war. (Psalm 68:28–31)

As the gathered people offer praises to the deity, the relationship between Israel and various foreign powers is in view. Israel’s victories are God’s victories. Victory in battle is thus not only a matter of military power. It is the work of the warrior God who chooses the nation Israel, binding the people to God’s self by means of a covenant. In this chapter, I examine this notion of victory. As I shall argue, the theme of the warrior God must be understood in relation to several other notions. God, the warrior who fights for the people of the covenant, is also a commander, setting rules that govern all sorts of behaviour, including resort to and conduct of war. In this sense, the promise of victory comes with a condition. Obedience correlates with success, while disobedience travels with defeat. With respect to the latter, God takes on the role of judge; ultimately, the divine warrior can turn against Israel, chastising and disciplining this people

4 Knohl (2012) suggests this, as do many others, as noted in Smith (2014: 234–8). As Smith portrays the scholarly discussion, one of the central divides has to do with those who suppose that the poem in Judges is based on Psalm 68, and those who argue that dependence runs in the opposite direction. For an example of the latter, see Coogan (1978: 143–66).

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

17

by giving victory to ‘the nations’. Such defeat is never total, however; it is rather a kind of purification, so that in the fullness of time, God turns again to redeem his people and place them once again in a position of dominance.5

THE DIVINE W ARRIOR Biblical conceptions of a warrior God are not unique. In the ancient Near East, the idea was ubiquitous. A deity binds him- or herself to a particular group, promising victory on the condition that they obey divine directives.6 Gods, like peoples or nations, thus compete with one another, as in the Song of the Sea in Exodus 15:11: Who is like you, O Lord, among the gods? Who is like you, majestic in holiness, awesome in splendor, doing wonders?

The Holy One of Israel is not the only god. The God of the covenant is, however, the best and most powerful, so that all the others ultimately come to naught: You stretched out your right hand, the earth swallowed them.

(Exodus 15:12)

Victory belongs to the deity, who shares it with the chosen people. In particular, this song celebrates the victory by which God delivers the people of Israel from slavery and leads them out of Egypt, in the direction of a ‘promised land’. On most scholarly accounts, the text is very ancient, and a later editor has made it part of the collection of traditions we know as the Pentateuch: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.7 As a unit, these books provide the opening chapters of a national history.8 Deuteronomy 26 provides a convenient summary of the story. As the people offer sacrifice to mark the harvest: ‘Death as Sacrifice” in Chapter 4 discusses four possible responses in western society to defeat. Of particular interest, Heuser’s latter two categories are: (3) a search for the causes of defeat in one’s own sins or in the displeasure one has caused the gods; and (4) redefining defeat as moral victory. 6 For example, the Moabite Stone records the sense of a ninth-century BCE king of Moab that the god Chemosh ordered him to make war on several neighbouring peoples, and that victory was due to the deity’s power. See Pritchard (1958: 209–10). More generally, see Kang (1989). More recently, Smith (2014) provides a rich analysis of Ugaritic materials in order to illumine biblical texts related to warriors and warrior culture. 7 On the sources and editing of the Pentateuch, see Coogan (2013) and Collins (2014). 8 The standard way of putting this would be to say that the books named contain material from a variety of oral and written sources, and that these have been edited by the same group of people responsible for the book of Judges, I and II Samuel, and I and II Kings. The overarching theological perspective of this group is expressed in the book of Deuteronomy, and thus the collection is known as the Deuteronomic History. See Coogan (2013) and also Collins (2014). There is controversy about these matters, of course, and both of these texts note this. 5

18

John Kelsay

. . . you shall make this response before the Lord your God: ‘A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.’ (Deut. 26:5–9)

The ‘wandering Aramean’ points to the tales of the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob related in the book of Genesis. The latter ends with the migration of Jacob’s large extended family to Egypt, where they prosper as a result of the ruler’s favour. As the book of Exodus begins, however, we read that ‘a new king arose over Egypt’, with a resultant change in policy. Subsequent administrations reduce the Israelites to servitude, thus setting the stage for the Lord to bring the people ‘out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm’. The narrative of the Exodus begins in earnest with Moses’ encounter with ‘the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’, who will now undertake to deliver his chosen people. Moses is to provide leadership. There are a number of important features of this narrative, not least the revelation of God’s name at 3:14, where the consonants YHWH suggest the translation ‘I am who I am’ or ‘I will be who I will be’. For our purposes, however, the decisive moment comes at 13:17–14:30. The unnamed ruler of Egypt first agrees to allow Israel to leave, then changes his mind. Egyptian forces pursue the fleeing people, who come to the sea, and are terrified that this will be the end. At God’s direction, Moses stretches his hand over the water, and ‘the Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land.’ All of Israel walks safely through. When Pharaoh’s charioteers follow, the waters close. In response, Moses and the people sing: The Lord is a warrior; the Lord is his name. Pharaoh’s chariots and his army he cast into the sea; his picked officers were sunk in the Red Sea. The floods covered them; they went down into the depths like a stone. Your right hand, O Lord, glorious in power—your right hand, O Lord, shattered the enemy. (Exodus 15:3–6)

GOD AS COMMANDER AND JUDG E The Song of the Sea ends with lines that indicate the hand of the later editor, so that all the nations with which Israel would eventually be engaged are seized by ‘terror and dread’, as God brings the people into the land of Canaan as

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

19

God’s ‘own possession’ (verses 16–17). This seems to provide a good segue to a discussion of the way images of God as commander and judge complement the theme of the Divine Warrior. We can begin with the Song of Deborah.9 Located in chapter 5 of the book of Judges, this text is, like the Song of the Sea, quite ancient. We do not know its original context. While the central concerns are relatively straightforward, the editor(s) clearly felt the need of some introductory material, and thus added the prose material in chapter 4. Among other things, this summary provides the reader with information regarding the principals named in the song: Deborah, ‘a prophetess, wife of Lappidoth . . . used to sit under the palm of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel . . . ’ (v. 4); ‘She sent and summoned Barak son of Abinoam . . . and said to him “The Lord, the God of Israel, commands you”’ to raise an army and make war against Sisera, the general of Jabin’s army (v. 6). Of King Jabin, we learn that he ‘had oppressed the Israelites cruelly for twenty years’ (v. 2). The editors continue the story, telling us that the Lord ‘threw Sisera into a panic before Barak’, so that King Jabin’s general fled on foot. And then we meet Jael, the heroine of the tale. Having invited Sisera into her tent, she waits for him to fall asleep, then drives a tent peg through his temple. Even in this succinct account, we are reminded that victory comes through the action of the Divine Warrior. In the song, the language is majestic: Lord, when you went out from Seir, when you marched from the region of Edom, the earth trembled, and the heavens poured, the clouds indeed poured water. The mountains quaked before the Lord, the One of Sinai, before the Lord, the God of Israel. (Judges 5:4–5)

The location is the land of Canaan: the land mentioned in verses 16 and 17 of the Song of Moses. In this instance, divine intervention takes the form of heavy rain, which creates a muddy terrain, rendering Sisera’s chariots useless. Importantly, however, this action of the Divine Warrior is complemented by the action of the people. This is not a tale in which God alone vanquishes the enemy. Rather, certain of the tribes of Israel respond to God’s call. Their role is celebrated in verses 13–15, while others who failed to participate come in for questioning. Obedience correlates with victory, while refusing or ignoring God’s order is problematic. As the song ends, Jael becomes the paradigm of faithful action. Most blessed of women be Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, of tent-dwelling women most blessed. (Judges 5:24)

9

For technical details and the controversy over the dating of the song, see Smith (2014: 211–66) and literature cited there.

20

John Kelsay

When we move past the song to the larger text in which it now sits, the centrality of obedience to the editor’s concerns becomes clear. The book of Judges is made up of a series of battle stories, each of which begins with the lines, ‘The Israelites did what was evil in the sight of the Lord . . . Therefore the anger of the Lord was kindled against Israel, and he sold them into the hand of . . . [various tyrants].’ The experience of oppression leads the people to ‘cry out’ to the Lord, who sends a deliverer, so that ‘the land had rest’, until Israel’s disobedience begins another episode. The Divine Warrior’s victories are decisive. They do not seem to be final, however. And that is because the obedience of the people God has chosen is inconsistent. In this sense, it is important to note that even as an editor incorporated the Song of Deborah into the larger book of Judges, another later set of hands placed it in the Deuteronomic History.10 Here, we find an account of the history of Israel once the people enter the land of Canaan. In Joshua, the people take control of the land by means of a lightning-quick series of battles in which the enemy population—and in some instances, all livestock and material goods—are ‘devoted to destruction’.11 Judges provides a somewhat more realistic account, in which the rise of Israel as a nation involves coalitions of various groups who eventually identify as a unit. The Deuteronomic editor joins the stories of various contests with Joshua’s conquest, however; in line with the connection between victory and obedience, the presence of Israel’s opponents is thus described as a function of a failure to carry out God’s order by eliminating the ‘inhabitants of the land’. I and II Samuel and I and II Kings relate the development of Israel from a tribal confederation to a monarchy, then report on the career of various kings. The editor draws on a variety of sources, but the whole is set as a prelude to the experience of defeat and exile reported in II Kings 17 (where the Assyrians take control of portions of the ‘northern kingdom’) and in II Kings 24–25 (where the Babylonians take control of the rest of the land, including the

10 As noted in the previous section. Again, see Coogan (2013) or Collins (2014) and work cited there for the state of the question. 11 I will resist the temptation to engage the large body of scholarship on this issue. Niditch (1993) presents a widely cited argument which (1) makes the point that the notion of ‘devotion to destruction’ seems to have been common in the Ancient Near East. The Moabite Stone, mentioned earlier in n. 6, provides important evidence in this regard; (2) suggests that the presentation in Joshua conceives the practice as a kind of sacrifice demanded by the deity, while the similar notion in Deuteronomy 20 (where the ban applies to ‘near’ enemies, but not to those ‘far off ’) suggests the matter has to do with the fear that foreign peoples may lead Israel astray. It also seems worth noting that scholars now believe there is almost no archaeological evidence to indicate that Joshua’s conquest actually took place. Coogan (2013) builds on the consensus that the final editors of the Deuteronomic History, as of the Pentateuch, were probably members of the priestly caste and thus had a special concern for purity. This would be consistent with the theological vision that runs throughout the work.

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

21

capital city, Jerusalem).12 In conjunction with the standard policy of these imperial states, the Israelites are taken away to serve in foreign lands. The history is thus a product of defeat, which the editor interprets in terms of the theological vision of the book of Deuteronomy. The cycles of obedience and disobedience related in Judges become in some sense a model for the entire career of the people in the land. When things go well, as for example in many of the campaigns associated with King David, a ‘man after God’s own heart’, the warrior God leads the people to victory. When things do not—as in the story of Ahab’s ill-fated attempt to engage the King of Syria—defeat is a matter of God’s judgement, in response to Israel’s disobedience (I Kings 22). In this, the history reflects the blessings and curses outlined in Deuteronomy 28:1, 7, 13: If you will only obey the Lord your God . . . The Lord will cause your enemies who rise against you to be defeated before you; they shall come out against you one way, and flee before you seven ways . . . The Lord will make you the head, and not the tail; you shall be at the top, and not the bottom . . .

By contrast, ‘if you will not obey the Lord your God . . . ’: The Lord will cause you to be defeated before your enemies; you shall go out before them one way and flee before them seven ways. You shall become an object of horror to all the kingdoms of the earth . . . (Deut. 28:25) The Lord will bring a nation from far away . . . to swoop down on you like an eagle . . . a grim-faced nation showing no respect to the old or favor to the young . . . (Deut. 28:49–50).

Israel is God’s chosen people, the object of God’s special care. Such election has a purpose, however. Israel is ‘holy’, set apart. Its reason for being is to provide a ‘light to the nations’. And this involves obedience to God’s law, according to the terms of the covenant: ‘I will be your God, and you will be my people.’ As noted, this set of ideas runs throughout the Deuteronomic History. It is also reflected in the preaching of those prophets whose careers correspond to the period of the monarchy. The book of Amos, for example, contains pronouncements associated with a critic of King Jeroboam II (786–46 BCE). Israel has: . . . rejected the law of the Lord . . . So I will send a fire on Judah, and it shall devour the strongholds of Jerusalem. (Amos 2:4–5)

12 The Assyrian conquest took place in 722–1 BCE. Having defeated the Assyrians in a series of campaigns that began in about 614 and ended in 605, the Babylonians took control of Israel (and most of the Near East) by 598.

22

John Kelsay

To be sure, Israel is not alone in disobedience. The book of Amos actually opens with a series of pronouncements regarding kingdoms that border Israel and Judah. Most of these are judged for what we might call crimes of war: not only crimes committed against God’s chosen people, but also against one another. Thus Moab ‘burned to lime the bones of the king of Edom’, while Gaza and Tyre sold ‘entire communities’ into slavery (Amos 2:1, 1:6–10). As the covenant partner of God, however, Israel is the particular focus of Amos’ preaching, and he predicts that: An adversary shall surround the land, and strip you of your defense; and your strongholds shall be plundered. (Amos 3:11)

Who was the adversary mentioned in Amos’ oracle? In the prophet’s lifetime, the Assyrians were on the move, though their advance from Mesopotamia still left them at some distance from Israel. In 733–2, however, Assyrian forces took Damascus. As previously noted, they assumed control of the northern portions of the land shortly thereafter, and sent the ruler and his people into exile. Of the territory governed by David and Solomon, this left only the southern kingdom of Judah. II Kings 18:33–19:37 relates the story of Assyria’s advance on Jerusalem, which took place in 701 BCE. With forces surrounding the city, the invaders demand unconditional surrender. In response, King Hezekiah seeks the counsel of the prophet Isaiah. Critical as he is of Judah’s failings, Isaiah advises against surrender, and predicts that the Assyrians will leave of their own accord. God ‘will put a spirit’ in the mind of the Assyrian king, ‘so that he shall hear a rumor and return to his own land . . . ’ (II Kings 19:7). The story ends with the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy, so that the Assyrians withdraw. The story seems a bit fanciful, though the kingdom of Judah did survive for a little more than a century, albeit in a weakened state. Successive administrations in Jerusalem paid tribute to the Assyrians or to the Egyptians; in 605, the Babylonians assumed control, and by 587 or 586 BCE, the last of the kings of Judah lived out his days in exile. The long career of Jeremiah (c.627–587 BCE) correlates with this declining political situation. Like Amos, the oracles associated with Jeremiah reflect the Deuteronomic theology. As the young prophet begins to preach, he predicts disaster ‘out of the north’ (Amos 1:14). This will be recompense for the disobedience of the people. [Thus says the Lord] I am going to bring upon you a nation from far away . . . It is an enduring nation, it is an ancient nation, a nation whose language you do not know . . . Their quiver is like an open tomb; all of them are mighty warriors . . . they shall destroy with the sword your fortified cities in which you trust. (Amos 5:15–17)

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

23

No one listens, however; and thus the Babylonians come to take the people into exile. This is not a matter of the power of a foreign army, however. It is the work of the Lord, the God of Israel. Upon all the bare heights in the desert spoilers have come; for the sword of the Lord devours from one end of the land to the other . . . all Judah is taken into exile. (Amos 12:12, 13:19)

As with Israel’s victories, so with its defeats; war is a means by which God fulfils God’s purpose. The Divine Warrior who delivers the nation from slavery in Egypt and gives victory to the people is also a commander, demanding obedience. When that is not forthcoming, the Warrior acts as a judge, bringing defeat and destruction.

THE DIVINE REDEEMER From a strictly historical point of view, the rise and fall of Israel was simply a function of political realities. The success of David and Solomon in particular correlates with a period in which the great powers of Egypt and Syria were in decline. In terms of population and other resources, the rulers of Israel and Judah were simply outclassed by the succession of imperial states coming out of Mesopotamia. That is not the way those who wrote and/or edited the texts of the Hebrew Bible saw it, however. For them, victory and defeat were always understood in terms of the activity of the Divine Warrior. Having chosen Israel out of all the peoples of the world, God established this relatively insignificant group as God’s covenant partner. The intention is for Israel to flourish. That is God’s promise, but it comes with a condition. The people must honour the terms of the covenant by adhering to divine directives. The national history is thus a story of God’s dealings with Israel, and the taking of the people into exile seems an indication that the story is at an end. That is not so, of course. In the midst of the long story of disobedience and decline, there are moments of looking forward, so that one finds a variety of texts suggesting that at the right time, God will redeem the people of the covenant and will re-establish them in their ancestral land. The vivid depiction of exile in Deuteronomy 29 is followed by lines suggesting that when ‘ . . . all these things have happened to you, the blessings and the curses . . . ’ the people may repent. When they do so, God will restore them, ‘gathering’ the people: Even if you are exiled to the ends of the world, from there the Lord your God will gather you, and from there he will bring you back. (Deut. 30:4)

24

John Kelsay

On this account, the judgement and punishment of the nation is a kind of discipline, designed to foster repentance. Having purified the people, the Divine Warrior will once again intervene to redeem them. In a sense, the texts point to a re-enactment or recapitulation of the story told in Exodus and celebrated in the song of Moses. The collection of poems in Isaiah 40–55 provides a good example.13 These reflect the rise of Cyrus and the subsequent expansion of Persian power. In contrast with the Assyrian and Babylonian rulers, Cyrus and his successors adopted a policy of repatriation, with a formal pronouncement issued in 538 BCE. When we read the opening lines of Isaiah 40, we are to think of Cyrus’ policy and the return of God’s people to the land promised to Abraham. Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins. (Isaiah 40:1–2)

The demise of the Assyrians and the Babylonians is a reminder of the fragility of human beings. ‘The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass’; by contrast, ‘the word of our God will stand forever’ (Isaiah 40:8–9). The prophet is called to proclaim good news: to say to the people ‘Here is your God!’. In Isaiah 40:10–11, the language evokes the image of the warrior who protects those too weak to defend themselves. See, the Lord God comes with might, and his arm rules for him; his reward is with him, and his recompense before him. He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.

Cyrus is specifically mentioned at Isaiah 45:1–7, where he is described as the ‘anointed’ of the Lord. Here, the notion that victory belongs to God leads to the proclamation that Cyrus’ success is actually a matter of the divine purpose: I will go before you and level the mountains, I will break in pieces the doors of bronze and cut through the bars of iron . . . I call you by your name, I surname you, though you do not know me.

God does these things for the sake of Israel, so that Cyrus is more or less an unwitting instrument in the divine plan. In this connection, the poet of Isaiah 40–55 makes a claim that stands in stark contrast to the song of Moses. Where that text celebrated the power of YHWH without denying the existence of other gods, verses 5–6 declare that ‘I am the Lord, and there is no other.’ 13 Collins (2014) indicates the way in which an older division of the book of Isaiah into three parts (chapters 1–39, 40–55, then 56–66) is probably not sustainable, in the sense that portions of the material in 1–39 seem to reflect ideas more typically associated with chapters 40–55, and so forth. The book, he writes, is the most complex text in the Hebrew Bible.

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

25

The description of Cyrus as YHWH’s ‘anointed’ points to the Persian ruler’s specific (and limited) role. The term is interesting in another connection, however. The Hebrew word is one from which Jewish and Christian traditions derive notions of the messiah: a ruler unlike others, whom God raises to power in order to establish justice and equity. Isaiah 11:1–10 provides a well-known example, suggesting that a future heir to the throne of David will be an ideal ruler, and that his policies will correlate with a peace that is expansive, to say the least, so that: The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them . . . They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

A similar idea appears in a number of other texts, the best known of which appears twice. In Isaiah 2:1–4, as in Micah 4:1–4, the prophets foresee a time when all peoples ‘shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks’. Clearly we are dealing with hopes that extend beyond the immediate challenges of a particular period, and it is in this regard that I turn back to the poems of Isaiah 40–55. Having seen the way that this author interprets the rise of Cyrus as God’s way of redeeming his people, it seems appropriate to ask whether he or she sees this as only a matter of return to the land, or as something more: as the beginnings of the messianic age. The answer seems to be yes. Interestingly, though, the prophet does not identify this with the re-emergence of David’s dynasty, or really of any monarch. For this author, the point is rather that God is doing something new, in the sense that human beings have never seen its like. In this, the human agent God employs is generally the people of Israel, or sometimes a singular person who is only identified as the ‘servant’ of the Lord. Thus, the people are exhorted: Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? (Isaiah 43:18–19)

As in other visions of the messianic age, part of the picture involves Israel’s dominance among the nations, as in Isaiah 49:22–26, 51:4–8, and 54:11–17. When we turn from the agency of Israel to that of the servant, something different appears, however. Thus in the first of the poems referring to the servant, God gives this individual God’s spirit, and ‘he will bring forth justice to the nations’ (Isaiah 42:1). The second of these texts begins with the servant’s sense of calling and the hand of God in preparing him for the task of encouraging Israel. But then the text takes a turn. God says: It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth. (Isaiah 49:5–6)

26

John Kelsay

While the third of these songs, at Isaiah 50:4–9, does not make the scope of the prophet’s mission clear, the fourth does. This great poem suggests that the prophet’s unmerited suffering has power to redeem Israel, and to ‘startle many nations’. By the ‘will of the Lord’, he becomes ‘like a lamb that is led to the slaughter’. The servant’s life becomes ‘an offering for sin’. The prophet is thus an agent of redemption, and deserves (or will deserve) great praise. The righteous one, my servant, shall make many righteous, and he shall bear their iniquities. Therefore I will allot him a portion with the great, and he shall divide the spoil with the strong; because he poured out himself to death, and was numbered among the transgressors; yet he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors. (Isaiah 52:13–53:12)

The moment of Cyrus’ rise and the imminent return of God’s people to the land thus points to something more momentous. These are, one might say, the birth pangs of a new age. In seeing the matter this way, the author of these poems was not alone. While the books of Ezra and Nehemiah present somewhat more realistic accounts of the difficulties faced by the nation once the children of exile began to return and to rebuild, prophets like Haggai and Zechariah placed matters in a grander scheme. For the former, God is ‘about to destroy the strength of the kingdoms of the nations’ and to make the governor of Judah ‘like a signet ring’ (Haggai 2:20–23). For the latter, the time is near when people will come from far distances to seek the Lord in Jerusalem and to establish good relations with Israel: ‘In those days ten men from nations of every language shall take hold of a Jew, grasping his garment and saying, “Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you”’ (Zechariah 8:23).

NEW DIRECTIONS Among other things, the fulfilment of such hopes implies a victory that is not only decisive, but also final. When the time comes, YHWH ‘makes wars to cease to the ends of the earth’ (Psalm 46:9). Human beings ‘beat their swords into plowshares’ (Isaiah 2:1–4; Micah 4:1–4). War becomes a distant memory, as competitors learn to cooperate under the guidance of God.14 As the subsequent history of Israel shows, however, hopes for such a turn were premature. The task of rebuilding took generations. And along the way, the resistance of other nations provided more than a few occasions for war.

14

Tierney in Chapter 8 of this volume develops an argument to the effect that the notion of ‘decisive victory’ described here has no relevance to contemporary warfare.

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

27

The book of Nehemiah provides a fine example.15 Presented as a kind of memoir, the text focuses on the efforts of a Jew who served two terms as governor of Judah, the first beginning in 445 BCE and lasting twelve years; the second following his return from a period of service at the Persian court. Nehemiah seems to have had some influence with the king (Artaxerxes I), so that portions of his memoir involve travel back and forth in order to ensure royal support for the rebuilding of Jerusalem. The date of these activities confirms the difficulties of Israel’s return from exile. Cyrus declared the policy by which exiled peoples would be restored to their lands in 538 BCE, and a group of Jews began work on a new temple shortly thereafter. More made the journey home during the reigns of Darius I (521–485) and Artaxerxes I (464–23), and Nehemiah brought still more during his second term as governor, which ended sometime in the late fifth century. One of the reasons the task proved so difficult had to do with the military threat posed by groups that moved into the land following the Assyrian and Babylonian conquests. Thus, Nehemiah reports that once these people saw the progress he and others made in shoring up the city walls, they laid plans for military action. In response, Nehemiah organized for war. Ultimately, he reports that half of the available manpower went to the army, while the other half worked on the walls. Since we do not have a report of a subsequent battle, one supposes that the presence of this armed force proved an effective deterrent. In the moment, however, Nehemiah saw danger enough. Surveying the construction each day, he was accompanied by a man with a trumpet. The leaders of sections had their instructions: The work is great and widely spread out, and we are separated far from one another on the wall. Rally to us wherever you hear the sound of the trumpet. Our God will fight for us. (Nehemiah 4:19–20)

The struggle with the nations leads Nehemiah to invoke the notion of the Divine Warrior. The other texts associated with the period of rebuilding make similar use of the old idea. I and II Chronicles retell the history of Israel in the light of Cyrus’ decree. The editors draw heavily on the Deuteronomic History, though their focus on the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple leads them to emphasize the importance and power of proper liturgical performance, so that victory in war is often the result of miracles in which Israel’s armies play only a minor role. Similarly, parts of Isaiah 56–66 probably date from the period following the people’s return. In Isaiah 63:1–6, we have a striking depiction of YHWH returning from doing battle with Israel’s opponents ‘in garments stained crimson’ with the blood of those the deity has ‘trodden’ in a manner

15

Or Ezra-Nehemiah. See Blenkinsopp (1988). For my purposes, the material of most interest appears in the memoir of Nehemiah.

28

John Kelsay

analogous to those who work a wine press. In this, God acted alone.16 No army of Israelites plays a role. The book of Joel takes a different tack, however. Probably reflecting developments in the late sixth or fifth century, much of the text provides a theological account of devastation brought about by locusts.17 Destroying the harvest and thus bringing famine to the struggling nation, these creatures are depicted as a ‘great and powerful army’ that can only be countered through prayer and repentance. In Joel 3:9–21, however, the prophet returns to the old theme of Israel’s contest with the nations. The setting is apocalyptic, so that the text does bear comparison with those discussed earlier, in which we find hopes for a victory that is both decisive and final. At the same time, the oracle suggests the need for continuing preparation for war. Egypt, Edom, and the other nations should know that ‘Judah shall be inhabited forever’. Having returned, the people of Israel are not about to leave. Faced with the threat of war, God’s covenant people know that the Lord is their refuge; he ‘roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem’. But God also says: Proclaim this among the nations: Prepare war, stir up the warriors. Let all the soldiers draw near, let them come up. Beat your plowshares into swords, and your pruning hooks into spears; let the weakling say, ‘I am a warrior.’

The contrast with Isaiah 2:1–4 and Micah 4:1–4 could not be more striking. For the restored people, war is not abolished. It becomes a regular feature of life. For those who continued the project of rebuilding, as for their descendants, the notion of war as a normal occurrence corresponded well with experience. Unlike the victory Joel envisioned, however, Jews living in their ancestral land seem largely to have been on the losing side. With Persian assistance, they accomplished the reconstruction of Jerusalem and of its temple. The restored people did not rise to any noteworthy degree of power, however. By 330 BCE, Alexander the Great’s armies effectively brought an end to Persia’s dominance in the region. When Alexander died in 323, the old rivalry between Egypt and Syria re-emerged. Caught between the two regional powers, the nation of Israel came under Seleucid (Syrian) rule following the defeat of Egypt by the armies of Antiochus III in 198. Over the next decades, he and his successors adopted policies designed to promote Greek culture. From the standpoint of those who saw themselves as beneficiaries of the work of Nehemiah and others, this posed a threat. In their hands, the notion of God as a warrior took on new life, albeit in two very different ways. For the first, our evidence is from traditions related to the Maccabean Revolt. I Maccabees in particular provides a narrative of the successes and 16

On this image and other, similarly bloody texts, see Carvalho (2010: 131–52). Some put Joel earlier than this, while others suggest sometime between 400 and 350. Crenshaw (1995) advocates for the late sixth to fifth century; I have followed him here. 17

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

29

failures of a military opposition to Seleucid policies. The book begins with a description of the desultory impact of these on Jewish life, and claims that any who remained faithful to the law of the covenant were put to death.18 What follows suggests something a bit different, however. The priest Mattathias and his family were certainly troubled by the Seleucid programme of Hellenization. What bothered them most, though, was the readiness of ostensible Jews to take part. Thus the editor of I Maccabees reports the origins of the revolt in the following way. Seleucid officials come to Modein, where Mattathias and his family had taken up residence. The priest is a person of influence, and thus of interest to the Seleucids. They extend a special invitation to Mattathias and his family to offer sacrifice in the manner ordered by the king. The invitation is refused. Just as Mattathias finishes his response, a Jew advances ‘in the sight of all’ and offers the Seleucid sacrifice: When Mattathias saw it, he burned with zeal and his heart was stirred. He gave vent to righteous anger; he ran and killed [the offender] on the altar. At the same time he killed the king’s officer who was forcing them to sacrifice, and he tore down the altar. Thus he burned with zeal for the law, just as Phineas did against Zimri son of Salu. (I Maccabees 2:24–26)

The stories that follow lay great stress on zeal for the law and the covenant. The conflict is as much between Jews as between Jews and Seleucids, however. The invocation of Phineas is suggestive in this regard. In the book of Numbers, we find a strange story in which the Israelites, during their journey from Egypt to the promised land, set camp at a place called Shittim, a little northeast of the Dead Sea. The proximity to the Moabites proves an occasion for temptation, so that some of the Israelite men begin to associate with women of a foreign people and to worship the Moabite gods. This provokes God’s anger, and a plague breaks out. Moses and others gather to beg for mercy, when they see one of the Israelites bringing his foreign lover into his tent. At this point, Phineas, himself a priest, leaves the congregation and picks up a spear. Opening the offending man’s tent, he sees the couple joined together and pierces the two of them ‘through the belly’. This ends the plague, though not before large numbers have died. Phineas receives praise from God himself. For his zeal on behalf of the law: I grant him my covenant of peace. It shall be for him and his descendants after him a covenant of perpetual priesthood, because he was zealous for his God, and made atonement for the Israelites. (Numbers 25:12–13)

Mattathias is thus akin to Phineas, and the Maccabean Revolt may be understood as a campaign aimed at ensuring the continued practice of proper Judaism. In the Wisdom of Sirach, we have another text that mentions Phineas, ranking him ‘third in glory’ among the heroes of Israel; that is, after Moses and 18

In general, see Cohen (2006).

30

John Kelsay

Aaron, and ahead of Joshua, Samuel, David, and others. Composed around 200 BCE, the reference suggests a widespread concern for purity that, once Seleucid policies attracted enough followers, gave rise to armed resistance. By most accounts, the Maccabean Revolt began in 166 and achieved some success, so that Seleucid forces withdrew by about 142. The establishment of the Hasmonean dynasty gave Israel some degree of independence beginning in 140. One should emphasize the limits of this, however. The final defeat of the Seleucids in 110 came with the help of the Romans, whose subsequent conquest of Jerusalem in 63 BCE only made official an already existing distribution of power. In any case, victory belongs to the Lord. The Maccabean emphasis on adherence to the law and the covenant follows the line of Deuteronomic theology. Victory comes with a condition, as we have seen. And as Mattathias’ more famous son Judas puts it in I Maccabees 3:58–60, the task of Jews is to defend the old ways. Showing a bit more reticence than some of the texts discussed thus far, this passage concludes ‘as his will in heaven may be, so shall he do’. Military action is necessary, or even a requirement of religion. But the Divine Warrior’s purposes are not always within human grasp. Such reticence points in the direction of a second way in which Jews of this period developed the old tradition. The book of Daniel relates stories of a heroic figure who remains faithful to God’s law despite great pressure from his Babylonian overlords. In that sense, the author’s concerns are set in the period of exile. Most scholarly opinion assigns the text a much later date, however. For our purposes, there is no reason to doubt the consensus, which is that Daniel belongs to the period of the Seleucid policy of Hellenization and of the Maccabean revolt. The tales of Daniel’s exemplary piety and of God’s care for him in chapters 1–6 indicate that the author shares the concern for purity characteristic of I Maccabees. Where Daniel differs from that text is in matters of war, and this becomes clear when we turn to the visions of chapters 7–12. As presented, the material in these texts has to do with predictions of a future in which a succession of empires present ever-greater examples of tyranny. Daniel is puzzled, and not a little frightened by the things he sees, until God sends help so that he may understand. As the explanations show, the visions depict the political realities of Israel’s life, from the Assyrians and Babylonians to the Seleucids. The series reaches its climax with Antiochus IV, whose policies gave rise to the Maccabean resistance. When the other empires and rulers have completed their time: . . . a king of bold countenance shall arise, skilled in intrigue. He shall grow strong in power, shall cause fearful destruction, and shall succeed in what he does. (Daniel 8:23–24)

The reality of the Seleucid challenge is every bit as frightful as I Maccabees suggests. By contrast with Mattathias and those inspired by the zeal of Phineas, however, the oracle of Daniel 8:25 concludes:

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

31

But he shall be broken, and not by human hands.

The author of Daniel looks for God to act alone. He does not advocate armed insurrection. In the end, the tyrant will lose, but only by the hand of God, who deems it necessary that some of ‘the wise’ should suffer until the time of repentance is fulfilled. Then God’s people will see the victory of their protector, as God raises them to everlasting life. At that point, those ‘who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky’ (Daniel 12:3).19

CONC LUDING REMARKS The example of the Maccabees inspired a number of groups devoted to armed resistance during the Roman period. Ultimately, these uprisings led to the disastrous defeats of 70 and 135 CE. In the first, imperial forces destroyed Jerusalem and made it against the law for Jews to live there. In the second, the failure of Simon bar Kochba’s messianic quest made for an even more restrictive Roman policy, reducing Jewish presence in their ancestral land to a bare minimum. These terrible events affected both Jewish and Christian appropriations of the Divine Warrior motif. The story is complicated, and I cannot do it justice here. Simply put, the experience of defeat pushed rabbinic authorities and the various contributors to the New Testament in the direction of the Book of Daniel.20 Without ruling out military force entirely, these interpreters pushed such activity away from the centre of their communities’ practice. For Jews, war to retake the land and bring an end to foreign domination became a prohibited activity, unless and until God sends the Messiah.21 For Christians, the realities of Roman power suggested that God willed non-resistance as the preferred mode of bearing witness until such time as the Christ returns in the mode depicted in the Apocalypse, or until political realities might change, so that the empire that text depicted as ‘Babylon the great’ turns from idolatry and fulfils the proper role of government in the maintenance of relative peace.22 19

Portier-Young (2011) makes the argument that Daniel, along with some other apocalyptic texts, should be considered a form of resistance, both in the sense that the writing and circulation of the text refuses to grant ultimate victory to the Seleucids, and also in the sense that readers will be encouraged to adopt a similar stance. In this sense, the book of Daniel is after the same thing as I Maccabees (and, in Portier-Young’s study, II Maccabees). This seems quite correct, though my point here is that the form of resistance advocated by Daniel may be usefully distinguished from that of Maccabees. 20 Here, one might make connections with the contributions of Beatrice Heuser (Chapter 4) and of Campbell and Steele (Chapter 9) in this volume, as the experience of defeat or the illusion of victory in war contributes to accounts of war. 21 For a recent treatment of these developments, see Firestone (2012); also Cohen (2006). 22 Martin (2014) argues that the historical Jesus was himself an advocate of armed revolt, in the sense that his followers brought weapons into Jerusalem with the expectation that their

32

John Kelsay

As this suggests, I am thinking now of Augustine and of the development of a Christian version of the Roman bellum iustum. A full consideration of the ways in which Augustine and other developers of the just war tradition drew upon the Divine Warrior motif, along with the accompanying notions of God as commander, judge, and redeemer, will have to wait for another day. One of the more obvious ways in which the older ideas discussed in this chapter relate to the just war tradition has to do with the notion that war is a rule-governed activity. Nevertheless, for many readers the differences between the rules set by YHWH and those associated with the just war tradition will no doubt be more striking. This will be so in particular with respect to the notion of the ban, and it is why so many Christian authors strive to distance their accounts of just war from the most obvious (or literal) interpretations of the fighting depicted in Joshua and other texts. While the relationship between just war and holy war is more complex than some make it, there are important differences, one of which has to do with the propensity of the latter to spill over into the more wholesale slaughter Roland Bainton (1979; see also Johnson’s ‘Avoidance of War, Restrained War, and Unlimited War: How Are They Related?’ in Chapter 5) associated with the term ‘crusade’. Despite such efforts, the idea of God as warrior, commander, judge, and redeemer remains fundamental for all those who claim the mantle of biblical tradition. And thus it is not strange to find groups of Jews and Christians as well as Muslims recurring to this old notion, as well as to the narratives in which they are embodied. In this regard, it seems appropriate to close by noting that when the ISIS spokesman known as al-Adnani announced the establishment of the group’s caliphate in June 2014, he spoke in the familiar terms of the Divine Warrior.23 God has promised those who have believed among you and done righteous deeds that He will surely grant them succession [to authority] upon the earth just as He granted it to those before them and that He will surely establish for them their religion which He has preferred for them and that He will substitute for them, after their fear, security, [for] they worship Me, not associating anything with Me.24

Victory belongs to God, who shares it with the people he has called, on the condition that they obey his commands and keep God’s covenant.

efforts would be supported by heavenly forces. If Martin is correct, this would mean the early Christian authors turned towards the book of Daniel in response to their own experience of defeat, perhaps compounded by what they saw in 70 and 135 CE. Fredricksen (2015) and Downing (2015) are not convinced. 23 As many readers will know, al-Adnani subsequently died in August 2016 as the result of a US air strike in the area of Aleppo in Syria. 24 Available at the Haverford College Global Terrorism Research Project, , accessed 30 November 2016.

The Bible and Notions of Victory in War

33

REFERENCES Al-Adnani, Abu Muhammad al-Shami. 2014. ‘This Is the Promise of Allah’. Available online at , accessed 16 June 2015. Bainton, Roland. 1979. Christian Attitudes toward War and Peace. Nashville: Abingdon. Blenkinsopp, Joseph. 1988. Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Carvalho, Corrine. 2010. ‘The Beauty of the Bloody God: The Divine Warrior in Prophetic Literature’, in Julia M. O’Brien and Chris Franke (eds), The Aesthetics of Violence in the Prophets. New York: T & T Clark, 131–52. Cohen, Shaya J. D. 2006. From the Maccabees to the Mishna. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Collins, John J. 2014. Introduction to the Hebrew Bible, 2nd edition. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Coogan, Michael D. 1978. ‘A Structural and Literary Analysis of the Song of Deborah’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 40(2): 143–66. Coogan, Michael D. 2013. The Old Testament: A Historical and Literary Introduction to the Hebrew Scriptures, 3rd edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Crenshaw, James L. 1995. Joel: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday. Downing, Gerald F. 2015. ‘Dale Martin’s Swords for Jesus: Shaky Evidence?’, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 37(3): 326–33. Firestone, Reuven. 2012. Holy War in Judaism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fredricksen, Paula. 2015. ‘Arms and the Man: A Response to Dale Martin’s “Jesus in Jerusalem: Armed and not Dangerous” ’, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 37(3): 312–25. Kang, Sa-Moon. 1989. Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East. Berlin: De Gruyter. Knohl, Israel. 2012. ‘Psalm 68: Structure, Composition and Geography’, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 12(5): 1–21. Martin, Dale. 2014. ‘Jesus in Jerusalem: Armed and not Dangerous’, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 37(1): 3–24. Niditch, Susan. 1993. War in the Hebrew Bible. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Portier-Young, Anatheia A. 2011. Apocalypse Against Empire: Theologies of Resistance in Early Judaism. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Pritchard, James B. (ed.). 1958. The Ancient Near East: Texts and Pictures. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Smith, Mark S. 2014. Poetic Heroes: Literary Commemorations of Warriors and Warrior Culture in the Early Biblical World. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Weiser, Artur. 1962. The Psalms: A Commentary, trans. Herbert Hartwell. Philadelphia: Westminster Press.

3 Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories Sibylle Scheipers

INTRODUCTION A close reading of Carl von Clausewitz’s writings reveals that he distinguished between two forms or levels of victory: military victory and moral victory.1 Clausewitz scholars have up to now devoted the focus of their attention to the dimension of military victory in his work, but as this chapter will show, the aspect of moral victory deserves just as much attention. Victory is a central theme of Clausewitz’s ‘combat-centric’ theory of war. His innovation in strategic thinking, his ‘revolution’ in Antulio Echevarria’s words, ‘attempted to move military theory away from what he saw as artificial or geometric devices, toward the core of war, combat’ (Echevarria 2007: 6). However, Clausewitz’s treatment of victory does not stop at the notion of military victory as a result of battle or combat. While he did argue that battle is central to victory, Clausewitz was also aware that victory at the purely military level is volatile and likely to be temporary: ‘In war the result is never final’, he warned his readers in the opening chapter of On War (Clausewitz 1976: 80). Even though Clausewitz compared war to an act of commerce, in which battle was the currency in which the opponents had to pay, he envisaged circumstances in which a state, a government, or a nation should not accept the final balance sheet of military defeat, but rather break the terms of trade (Clausewitz 1976: 149). In the same context, he also presented the possibility of an honourable defeat as a form of success and, by extension, a dishonourable defeat as the ultimate failure. Of course, these arguments stem from the broader debate over Prussia’s situation between 1806 and 1813. Moreover, the notion of a dishonourable defeat as the ultimate catastrophe was not a theme 1 I would like to thank Hew Strachan and Antulio J. Echevarria II for taking the time to discuss the tentative beginnings of this chapter. I am also grateful to Fred Beiser for his advice on the Prussian intellectual context around 1800.

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

35

that Clausewitz introduced; it was common currency in pre-1813 Prussia. However, Clausewitz’s use of these terms indicates that there is a politicomoral level above and beyond the rationalist analogy of war as an economic transaction with battle as its main currency, one that invests different forms of defeat—and victory, presumably—with different degrees of moral value and political significance. The endeavour to tease out indicators of a politico-moral perspective or position in Clausewitz’s work is not new. However, the argument advanced in this chapter breaks with existing interpretations. The prevailing wisdom, put forward by Clausewitz interpreters such as Peter Paret and Azar Gat, presents Clausewitz as a social conservative. Even though Clausewitz criticized the Prussian king Frederick William II for his weak and indecisive policies towards Napoleonic France, the argument goes, he remained firmly wedded to the ideal of the Prussian absolutist state. In contrast to this established view, this chapter reinterprets Clausewitz as a social revolutionary (at least in the years 1809 to 1812). In doing so, it reconstructs Clausewitz’s politico-moral standpoint in the context of the German aesthetic tradition, in particular Kantian aesthetics and their popularization and further development by Friedrich Schiller. It will arrive at the conclusion that in Clausewitz’s perspective moral victories, as opposed to military victories, are both more sustainable over time and have a transformative and emancipatory effect on illiberal polities. The argument proceeds in three steps: the next section discusses Clausewitz’s perspective on military victory and will largely agree with existing interpretations put forward by Echevarria and others. The second part moves on to a reconstruction of what Clausewitz referred to as the ‘most beautiful of wars’. It draws upon Kantian aesthetics and, in particular, Schiller’s aesthetic theory, which has experienced a renaissance, at least in the English-speaking academic context, over the past decade. The third and final section outlines the implications of the reinterpretation of Clausewitz that this chapter advances on his perspective on moral victories.

MILITA RY VICTORIES Clausewitz’s theory of war has been described as ‘combat-centric’ and his emphasis on battle, or at least fighting, as the ‘supreme law’ in war is the most important innovation that he brought to the tradition of strategic thought (Echevarria 2007: 133ff.). Equally, Clausewitz’s critics focused on the centrality of battle as one of their main charges. Basil Liddell Hart famously denounced Clausewitz as the ‘Mahdi of Mass’ and argued that his influence had caused the relentless attrition warfare on the western front during World War I (Bassford 1994: 131). Even though Liddell Hart’s depiction of Clausewitz has often been

36

Sibylle Scheipers

ridiculed as a caricature, there is some truth in it: in book 4, chapter 9 of On War, Clausewitz wrote that ‘battle must always be considered as the true center of gravity of the war’. He went on to explain that ‘battle is primarily an end in itself ’, meaning that it has a direct and unmediated relationship to victory. In other words, successful battle equals military victory. Clausewitz was at pains to emphasize that his interpretation of battle was not restricted to an ‘ideal’ or ‘pure’ notion of war, but equally applied to ‘real’ war: Our conviction that only great battle can produce a major decision is founded not on an abstract concept of war alone, but also on experience . . . We are not interested in generals who win victories without bloodshed. The fact that slaughter is a horrifying spectacle must make us take war more seriously, but not provide an excuse for gradually blunting our swords in the name of humanity. Sooner or later someone will come along with a sharp sword and hack off our arms. (Clausewitz 1976: 260)

Here, Clausewitz obviously mounted an attack against Enlightenment strategic theory. Even if commanders in the eighteenth century occasionally fought battles, he further elaborated, they did so with the aim to achieve a symbolic victory without too much bloodshed that could then be converted into a military victory: The very idea, the honor of victory, appeared to be the whole point so far as the commanders were concerned. Actual destruction of enemy forces was to them only one means of war—certainly not the main, even less the only one. (Clausewitz 1976: 265, emphasis in original)

However, what Clausewitz referred to as ‘modern battles’, meaning those that followed the French Revolution and the advent of mass warfare as a result of the nationalization of war, had changed their character compared with eighteenth-century warfare: It is a peculiarity of modern battle that all the mishaps and losses sustained in its course can be retrieved by fresh troops. The reason lies in the modern order of battle and the way in which troops are brought into action, permitting the use of reserves almost everywhere and in any situation. (Clausewitz 1976: 251)

In other words, the ritualistic and symbolic function of battle that had prevailed in the eighteenth century had given way to battle as a ‘fight to the finish’ (Clausewitz 1976: 254). ‘Modern’ battles and the resulting victories and defeats, Clausewitz observed, had a greater (meaning longer) lasting impact than battles fought in the eighteenth century. This was principally a result of the greater moral or psychological forces involved: The moral effect of victory in battle is even greater today than it was in the earlier wars of the modern period. If modern battle is, as we have depicted it, a fight to

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

37

the finish, the outcome is decided by more than the sum of all strengths, physical as well as moral, than by individual dispositions or mere chance. (Clausewitz 1976: 254)

Again, Clausewitz emphasized the importance of the nationalization of war in the wake of the French Revolution as a principal factor in this development. The defeated side would suffer greater losses in terms of their morale because military defeat had inevitable political and social knock-on effects: The effect of all this outside the army—on the people and on the government—is a sudden collapse of the most anxious expectations, and a complete crushing of self-confidence. This leaves a vacuum that is filled by a corrosively expanding fear which completes the paralysis. It is as if the electric charge of the main battle had sparked a shock to the whole nervous system of one of the contestants. (Clausewitz 1976: 255)

For a weak force that could not hope to prevail in battle, this logically meant that it had to avoid battle for as long as possible, until it had a chance to increase its material resources and manpower. In a memorandum entitled ‘The Operations in Silesia’, which Clausewitz submitted to his friend and colleague August Neidhardt von Gneisenau on 13 September 1811, he emphasized the importance of ‘prolonging the war’ by withdrawing troops to fortifications in order to avoid precisely the moral shock of defeat in a battle which would make further resistance impossible (Clausewitz 1966b: 664). And yet, this does not mean that Clausewitz placed his faith entirely in the psychological effects of defeat, thereby reverting to the eighteenth-century idea of battle as a symbolic, almost ritualistic, element of war. On the contrary, he was aware that an opponent who had been defeated in battle could recover quickly both in terms of material and moral resources if the victor did not make sure to destroy his main fighting force. Clausewitz highlighted that a defeated force on the retreat to the interior of its own territory was still a dangerous opponent: Such minor engagements, carefully prepared and carried out, in which the defeated army, being on the defensive, is able to reap the benefit of the terrain, are the very means of starting a recovery in the morale of the troops. (Clausewitz 1976: 269, emphasis in original)

This observation, of course, ties in with Clausewitz’s argument of the defence as a stronger form of fighting, albeit with a negative purpose (Clausewitz 1976: 366; see also Strachan 2007: 154ff.). If a defeated enemy could still be a dangerous opponent, Clausewitz’s advice to commanders was vigorous pursuit in order to turn the retreat of the defeated side into a rout: [T]he importance of the victory is chiefly determined by the vigor with which the immediate pursuit is carried out. In other words, pursuit makes up the second act

38

Sibylle Scheipers

of the victory and in many cases is more important than the first. Strategy at this point draws near to tactics in order to receive the completed assignment from it; and its first exercise of authority is to demand that the victory should really be complete. (Clausewitz 1976: 267)

In other words, pursuit consolidates the immediate effect of victory by depriving the opponent of the possibility to regroup. The Battle of Borodino served Clausewitz in this context as an example of the dangers involved in failing to achieve this consolidation; Borodino was for Napoleon a ‘partial victory’, not a ‘total victory’, because he could not mount sufficient forces to pursue and ultimately destroy the Russian army (Clausewitz 1976: 267; see also Echevarria 2007: 141). To sum up, Clausewitz’s perspective on military victory in the context of post-revolutionary Europe emphasized battle as the main means to achieve military victory, to be followed by vigorous pursuit in order to convert a momentary victory into a definitive one. Owing to its impact on the morale of the troops, and in fact on the entire political system behind the opposing forces, victory in battle already stretched beyond the tactical level to the strategic and political one, in that it induced shock, fear, and paralysis. In order to make that effect sustainable and not merely temporary (see ‘The Probability of Success in Just War Theory’ in Chapter 9), pursuit and the destruction of the opposing forces were necessary. Even though Clausewitz valued the destruction of psychological resources highly, he was clear about the fact that the only—initial—means of achieving a loss of morale in the opponent was through the destruction of his physical forces in battle. Once this destructive dynamic had been set into motion, the loss of physical forces and moral forces reinforced one another (Echevarria 2007: 147ff.). So far, so (almost) uncontroversial in the contemporary literature on Clausewitz. Yet, there are passages in Clausewitz’s writings which go largely against the grain of the account of military victory outlined here. They point to a level of political and moral analysis that goes beyond Clausewitz’s immediate theory of war. The closing paragraph of book 4, chapter 10, gives a taste of this. In chapter 10, Clausewitz underscored the impact of defeat on an opponent’s moral forces, not merely on those of the troops that had fought the losing battle, but also on the political and social community on whose behalf they had been fighting. However, he closed the chapter with the following remarks: It is another question whether defeat in a major battle may be instrumental in arousing forces that would otherwise have remained dormant. That is not impossible; it has actually occurred in many countries. But to evoke such an intensified reaction lies outside of the limits of the art of war; only when there is reason to expect it can the strategist take it into consideration. If there are cases, then, in which the consequences of victory may actually appear to be injurious because of the reaction aroused—cases that are very rare exceptions indeed—we must be the more ready to recognize the possibility of differences in the

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

39

consequences of a given victory—here dependent on the character of the people or state defeated. (Clausewitz 1976: 256–7, emphasis added)2

It is quite possible that Clausewitz intended to create the impression that he had no opinion on broader questions concerning the political and moral implications of war. As is well known, Clausewitz left the Prussian army in April 1812 in order to join the Russian forces fighting against Napoleon. Even though he was part of a larger group of Prussian officers who were doing the same, he alone was prosecuted for this act. Paret insinuated that it was Clausewitz’s unrelenting and ‘emotional’ position on Prussia’s external affairs between 1806 and 1812 that had rendered Clausewitz the Prussian king’s preferred target for revenge (Paret 2007: 220). As we shall see in the next sections, the argument advanced in this chapter is that Clausewitz’s position is better described as emancipatory rather than emotional. What is clear, however, is that Clausewitz continued to have a very difficult standing in Prussia even after 1812–13 and that this stifled his career and his ambitions at more than one point in his life.3 It is hence plausible to assume that Clausewitz intended to smooth over particular passages of On War in order to prevent his opus magnum from being marred by an association with an overtly emancipatory position. Yet, the next section will show that the younger Clausewitz, at least in his writings and correspondence during the years between 1809 and 1812, held just such an emancipatory politico-moral position.

THE ‘MOST BEAUTIFUL OF W ARS’ The most notable of the texts that Clausewitz wrote in the years 1809 to 1812 is his Bekenntnisdenkschrift [confession memorandum] of February 1812 (Clausewitz 1966a: 682ff.). This document was not intended for immediate publication; instead, Clausewitz only circulated it among some of his friends and fellow Prussian reformers. In the text, he presented battle in a different light. The mobilization and unification of all insurrectionary forces, he wrote, could turn the tide of victory against French occupation forces, thereby becoming more decisive than the ‘dubious fortune of battles’ (Clausewitz 1966a: 733). In his plans for the mobilization of Landwehr and Landsturm 2 Clausewitz used a similar rhetorical device in the opening paragraphs of book 6, chapter 26, ‘The People in Arms’, where he wrote: ‘Any nation that uses [people’s war] intelligently will, as a rule, gain some superiority over those who disdain its use. If this is so, the question only remains whether mankind at large will gain by this further expansion of the element of war; a question to which the answer should be the same as to the question of war itself. We shall leave both to the philosophers’ (Clausewitz 1976: 479, emphasis added). 3 For a discussion, see Paret (2007: 431ff.).

40

Sibylle Scheipers

forces, he made it clear that these forces were not intended as a mere reserve for the regular army. Rather, he explicitly argued that they should stay away from any major engagements. Their role was supposed to be modelled on the historical examples of the Tyrol, Spain, and the Vendée, meaning that they were intended to cut off the opponent from his supplies and prevent him from requisitioning resources from the local population. In such a role, Clausewitz argued, the Landsturm would be a ‘terrifying force’ and it would be ‘decisive’ (Clausewitz 1966a: 720ff.): ‘A general cause becomes prevalent and the skill, power and greatness of the individual man [Napoleon, presumably] is shattered like a small dinghy by the furious waves of the stormy sea’ (Clausewitz 1966a: 733). In this situation, the occupying power would find itself fighting ‘this most unfortunate [unglükseeligste] of wars’ (Clausewitz 1966a: 731). In his letter to the German philosopher Johann Gottlieb Fichte of 11 January 1809, Clausewitz had matched the notion of the ‘most unfortunate of wars’, viewed from the perspective of the occupying power, with the term of the ‘most beautiful of wars’, which described the perspective of the defending side in a people’s war (Clausewitz 1941b: 80). He explained that ‘the most beautiful of wars’ was a war ‘in which a people fights on its own territory for its freedom and independence’ (Clausewitz 1941b: 80). Clausewitz’s letter referred to an article that Fichte had published in 1807 entitled ‘Machiavelli’. Clausewitz criticized Machiavelli and, by extension, Fichte’s take on Machiavelli, for trying to revert back to classical forms of warfare, whereas Clausewitz himself argued that reviving the classical spirit was what was needed. He explained: The modern art of war, far from using men as simple machines, must vitalize their energies as far as the nature of its weapons permits. There are of course limits to this, as it is an indispensable requirement for mass armies that a sensible will can lead them without too much friction [Reibung]. But this should be the natural limit, and one should not, as was the tendency in the eighteenth century, try to form the whole into an artificial machine, in which the moral forces are subordinate to the mechanical forces, the effect of which is achieved through a simple mechanism, which are supposed to defeat the enemy through mere forms, and in which the individual is given the smallest task for the use of its intellectual forces. The history of all citizens’ wars [bürgerliche Kriege], and in particular the Swiss war of independence and the French Revolutionary War, demonstrate that one can achieve infinitely more by vitalizing individual energies than by relying on artificial forms. (Clausewitz 1941b: 80ff.)

In this context, victory is presented as the result of the moral and intellectual strengths of the individual. Clausewitz took issue with the argument Fichte put forward in his Machiavelli text: faced with the dilemma of how to free the individual from the shackles of an illiberal political system, Fichte’s position after 1800 vacillated between ‘conscious, collective, transformative action’ on the one hand and the ‘imposition of constraint in order to raise individuals to

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

41

the practice of virtue’ on the other. The latter was the gist of the Machiavelli text (Moggach 1993: 589). Fichte believed that the warrior ethos instilled by the modalities of ancient warfare was an important potential source of such virtue. Clausewitz disagreed: Surely in ancient times the value of the individual warrior was generated more by their civil constitution [bürgerliche Verfassung] than their way of fighting, which is even more undeniable given that those peoples who proved themselves in war differed from the defeated with respect to their civil constitution rather than their being accustomed to hand to hand combat. (Clausewitz 1941b: 81)

Against Fichte, Clausewitz emphasized the transformative potential of the individual. He acknowledged the potentially vicious circle consisting of a corrupted political system that suppressed the moral qualities of its individuals, hence making it difficult for individuals to unfold their full potential. However, the ‘most beautiful of wars’ appeared to be the way out of this conundrum. What did Clausewitz mean by the phrase ‘the most beautiful of wars’? In his writings, he never ceased to emphasize the cruelty of war, the violence, and the destruction; in fact, he repeatedly exhorted his readers to face up to the gruesome realities of mass warfare. So surely Clausewitz did not think that people’s war, which he saw as particularly atrocious, was an uplifting or aesthetically pleasing spectacle (Clausewitz 1966a: 733). The answer to this puzzle lies in Clausewitz’s reception of the aesthetic writings of his time. It is well known that Clausewitz was influenced by the German Enlightenment and in particular by Kantian philosophy (Strachan 2007: 90; Echevarria 2007: 22ff.; Paret 2007: 84, 150ff.). Clausewitz’s knowledge of Kantian philosophy is mostly attributed to his reception via Johann Gottfried Kiesewetter, a former Meisterschüler of Kant’s, who started lecturing on logic and mathematics at the Berlin Kriegsakademie in 1798. Kiesewetter was a popularizer of Kant’s philosophy, but his focus was clearly on the rationalism of the first two Critiques. To be sure, the dichotomy between noumenon and phenomenon that presented the core of Kant’s transcendental idealism was important for Clausewitz and played a vital role in his theory of war (Echevarria 2007: 23). However, to restrict Clausewitz’s engagement with Kant to the reception via Kiesewetter gives Clausewitz’s own intellectual position a strongly rationalist spin. In contrast, Paret argued that ‘in feeling and manner, he [Clausewitz] was far closer to the men who had passed through the anti-rationalist revolt of the Sturm und Drang to seek internal and external harmony’, hence positing that the young Clausewitz’s intellectual position neither squared up with the strictly rationalist Enlightenment tradition nor with the romanticist tradition (Paret 2007: 149; see also Strachan 2007: 93). The influence of the aesthetic theories of his age on Clausewitz in the later 1790s and early 1800s is readily acknowledged: Clausewitz was exposed to them via the social circles of his

42

Sibylle Scheipers

fiancée and later wife, Marie, and he even wrote three essays on aesthetic theory and art (Clausewitz 1941a 1941c, 1941d). The notion of military genius, which is central to Clausewitz’s theory of war, also has its roots in aesthetic theory. Echevarria explored this link at length, trying to navigate his interpretation of genius between Enlightenment rationalism and what he calls ‘the excessive irrationalism’ of the German romantic tradition (Echevarria 2007: 112). The pattern that emerges in these interpretations is one of equating rationalism with Kant and the Enlightenment and any non-rational elements with romanticism. However, this overlooks that Kant in his third Critique, the Critique of Judgment, took a step back from a purely rationalist perspective and attempted to integrate man’s non-rational faculties—imagination, pleasure, and passion—into his epistemology, as befits an attempt at creating a comprehensive philosophical system. In other words, in his third Critique, Kant tried to bridge the gap between reason and the senses/imagination/ emotions. The impact of aesthetic theory, which started in the context of the German Enlightenment not primarily as a theory of art, but as an integrative approach to epistemology and the human faculties, is often missed in the interpretation of Clausewitz’s concept of genius, in which the non-rational aspects are frequently overlooked.4 The notion of military genius and its interpretations do not need to concern us here any further. The important point is that the extent of the impact of German aesthetic theories around 1800 on Clausewitz’s writings has not been fully understood. The remainder of this section will attempt to reconstruct key concepts in Clausewitz’s writings on the Prussian question between 1809 and 1812—the concept of beauty, the notion of freedom, the idea of the individual and its link to a broader social and political collective, and the notions of the soul and virtue—in the context of Kantian aesthetics, but also, and probably even more importantly, their further development by the German poet philosopher Friedrich Schiller. Schiller is the figure that occurs most frequently in Clausewitz’s correspondence, and hence is an author we can be sure Clausewitz read (Paret 2007: 103ff.). Kant’s idea of beauty comprises a number of features: beauty is a concrete experience; it is sensual without being linked to immediate interests or desires (such as appetite); the experience of beauty is inherently social as the judgement of taste is universal without being rational; finally, the experience of beauty has a vitalizing effect on all human faculties, including those that are linked to understanding, as the experience of beauty is a neverending process

4 According to Echevarria, Kant’s—and by extension Clausewitz’s—notion of genius comprised different sorts of ‘knowledge’; however, the Kantian notion of the aesthetic experience emphasized that it never reached the level of conceptual knowledge (Echevarria 2007: 113).

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

43

in which the human mind attempts to ‘grasp’ beauty without ever arriving at a concept. Most importantly, however, for Kant, ‘The beautiful is the symbol of the morally good’ (Kant 1974: section 59). What does he mean? According to Kai Hammermeister, ‘the impossibility of subsuming the aesthetic idea under a concept symbolizes, or demonstrates experientally, the complementary shortcoming of the concept of morality, namely, its indemonstrability’ (Hammermeister 2002: 39). In other words, beauty offers us a—phenomenal— glimpse of the idea of morality, which itself inhabits only the realm of noumena. Against this background, Clausewitz’s notion of the ‘most beautiful of wars’ makes more sense: what it hints at is the moral value or character that a people’s war against French occupation had in Clausewitz’s eyes. Such an interpretation gains additional plausibility when we take into account Clausewitz’s closing statement in his letter to Fichte, where he wrote that he had the highest esteem for: . . . this kind of war, in which the whole army down to its smallest parts is animated by warrior virtue and the main effort of the art is to use this warrior virtue to the greatest effect, and that I believe that it will overcome any other art of war, however perfect a product of reason the latter may be, not to mention that it [people’s war] would according to its nature come closest to the most perfect form [ihrer Natur nach sich der vollkommensten Form am meisten nähern würde]. (Clausewitz 1941b: 73–4)

Clausewitz seems to echo in this context a thought that was central to the early Romantic movement. The poet Friedrich von Hardenberg, better known under his pseudonym Novalis, for instance, had argued that at the root of the political deterioration of Prussia was the egoism of its citizens, encouraged by the state itself: The principle of the old famous system is to tie everyone to the state through egoism. Wise politicians envisaged the ideal of a state in which the interest of the state, egoistic, is artificially tied to the interest of its subjects, so as to further each other mutually. Many an effort has been expended on this political attempt at squaring the circle: but raw egoism is boundless and anti-systematic. It was impossible to rein it in, even though this would have been the requirement for any kind of state institution. Meanwhile the formal embrace of common egoism, as a principle, has done much damage, and it is the root of the revolution of our days. (Novalis 1982: 374)

‘Freedom’ is the next central term that defines the ‘most beautiful of wars’. As we have seen above, such a war is defined as one being fought by a people ‘on its own territory for its freedom and independence’ (Clausewitz 1941b: 72, emphasis added). This is where Schiller’s aesthetics come into play. In his letters, Schiller wrote that ‘beauty is the only possible expression of freedom in appearance’ (Schiller 2004: letter 23, emphasis added). Schiller built on

44

Sibylle Scheipers

Kantian aesthetic theory, which had already emphasized the link between beauty and freedom. This link existed both in the sense that the experience of beauty liberated the individual from desire and in the sense that beauty was a symbol of the morally good, in the framework of which, in turn, freedom played a central role (Hammermeister 2002: 29). In the context of Schiller’s philosophy, beauty and art became the centrepiece of his emancipatory project. Schiller and Clausewitz, and Fichte for that matter, shared some core convictions: they deplored the decadence of the Prussian state and its elites and, by extension, its society, and they emphasized the need to overcome this corruption through education. Schiller’s diagnosis of the Prussian (and possibly broader European) political and social ills is twofold: the upper strata of society are ‘over-refined’ and, as a result, suffer from languor and permissiveness and a general lack of energy and vitality (Schiller 2004: letter 5; see also Hammermeister 2002: 48). This is a charge that Clausewitz too made in the Bekenntnisdenkschrift, where he argued that Prussia’s political elites masked their fears as rational decisions and became paralysed and incapable of action as a result: Reason alone is supposed to decide, everyone demands. As if fear weren’t an expression of the mind [Gemüth—more emotional than rational], as if it would allow for a free judgement of reason. All that can be granted is that both confessions of faith, that in favour of resistance and that in favour of subservience, emanate equally from the mind [Gemüth], but that the first is fuelled by courage, whereas the second is fuelled by fear. Fear paralyses reason, whereas courage energizes it. (Clausewitz 1966a: 707)

If Schiller, who wrote his aesthetic letters under the impression of the reign of terror in revolutionary France, did not appreciate the decadence of the ruling classes, he did not have much trust in the moral resources of the people either. Whereas the elites were given to decadence, he argued, the ‘numerous classes’, if let loose, displayed ‘barbarity’ (Schiller 2004: letter 5). The central question for Schiller, then, was how to break out of the vicious circle of the corruption of the state and its elites on the one hand and the lack of education of society, which stifled the attainment of freedom by the individual, on the other. In order to solve this dilemma, Schiller introduced the utopian, but at the same time regulative ideal of the ‘aesthetic state’. The aesthetic state is an imagined polity in which social and political bonds are established on the basis of neither egoism nor moral obligation. Rather, the sociability of the individual emerges on the basis of ‘inclination’ and ‘love’ (Beiser 2004: 163). It was Fichte who pointed out the essential weakness of Schiller’s ideas, in an article entitled ‘Ueber Geist und Buchstab in der Philosophie’ (‘On the Spirit and the Letter in Philosophy’) that Fichte submitted in 1794 to the journal that Schiller edited, entitled Die Horen: if freedom required educational emancipation and vice versa, the vicious circle of illiberalism and decadence had

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

45

not been overcome. Clausewitz was not convinced by Schiller’s aesthetic escapism either: A nation cannot break free from the slavery of foreign domination through the arts and sciences. It has to throw itself into the ferocious element of fighting [ins wilde Element des Kampfes]; to gamble a thousand lives for the thousand-fold gain of life. Only thus can it rise from the sickbed to which foreign bonds had shackled it. (Clausewitz 1941e: 9)

In other words, for Clausewitz, fighting was the way out of the vicious circle of the corruption of state and society on the one hand and the lack of individual moral qualities on the other. In this context, Clausewitz, then, remained true to his combat-centric perspective on war, but he harnessed his belief in the centrality of combat to his views on the possibility of political emancipation. It would be difficult to overemphasize the implications of this: Clausewitz’s ideas on political emancipation between 1809 and 1812 were almost Fanonian in nature.5 This is not to say that Clausewitz did not realize the chicken and egg problem that Fichte and Schiller were grappling with. In the Bekenntnisdenkschrift, in which he often weighed his arguments against possible counterarguments, he considered that the government may have to give the first impetus to a general insurrection, should the people not take up arms on their own account: ‘There is a form of coercion, and even a terrible coercion, which is not tyranny.’ And yet, his trust in the emancipatory spirit of the people reasserted itself just a few lines below: ‘Nothing is as true as that extraordinary adversity, once man decides to confront it with extraordinary means and to focus all his forces against it, conduce him to rise above himself and excite the forces of the mind [Gemüth] and reason, of which he himself was not aware’ (Clausewitz 1966a: 739). The free play of passion and reason, which was at the heart of Schiller’s idea of freedom, enabled Clausewitz’s individual to rise above all internal and external constraints. In contrast to both Fichte and Schiller, however, Clausewitz evidently did not fear that a sudden empowerment of the people could unleash forces that would inevitably turn against the emancipatory project. Such concern was common in German literary and philosophical circles around 1800. It found probably its most famous expression in Goethe’s exclamation near the end of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice: ‘from the spirits that I called/Sir, deliver me!’ (Rösner 2012). Clausewitz, on the contrary, anticipated a general insurrection to be met with particularly cruel and ferocious measures by the French (he had studied the war in the Vendée and the Peninsular War, after all), and exhorted 5 According to Frantz Fanon, one of the intellectual figureheads of the wars of decolonization, violence was necessary in order to transform the colonial mindset. It led, in other words, to political catharsis (Fanon 2001).

46

Sibylle Scheipers

his fellow Prussian to outbid the cruelty of Napoleon’s forces: ‘Let us take our chances at paying back atrocity with atrocity, at reciprocating cruelty for cruelty! It will be easy for us to outbid the enemy and to lead him back into the boundaries of restraint and humanity’ (Clausewitz 1966a: 734). Traces of Clausewitz’s emancipatory project can still be found in On War, even though, as mentioned in the previous section, the overall tone of this major work avoids statements of a politico-moral character. In book 6, chapter 26, the chapter on ‘People’s War’, Clausewitz wrote: No matter how small and weak a state may be in comparison with its enemy, it must not forego these last efforts [popular insurrection], or one would conclude that its soul is dead . . . A government that after having lost a major battle, is only interested in letting its people go back to sleep in peace as soon as possible, and, overwhelmed by feelings of failure and disappointment, lacks the courage and desire to put forth a final effort, is, because of its weakness, involved in a major inconsistency in any case. It shows that it did not deserve to win, and, possibly for that very reason was unable to. (Clausewitz 1976: 483)

Absolutism was the heyday of body metaphors and body politics, as the seminal studies of Kantorowicz, Elias, and Foucault have shown. The state was imagined as a body, personified in the absolutist ruler, who was also often depicted as its soul, mind, or spirit that animated his or her subjects (Merrick 1998: 13). Clausewitz attributed this animating function, the image of the soul, to the people. But the notion of the soul also played a role in the framework of German aesthetic theory. One of the first attempts to push beyond the Cartesian dualism of the body and the soul was made by Julien Offray de la Mettrie in his 1747 essay entitled L’homme machine. In this essay, la Mettrie imagined the human body as some kind of mechanical clockwork and the soul as its equally mechanic extension. In his 1793 essay Anmut und Würde (Grace and Dignity) Schiller aimed to de-mechanize the soul while at the same time retaining its synthetic connection with the body: grace is physical beauty in motion, animated by the soul (Curran 2003: 419). There are clearly echoes of this anti-mechanistic impetus in Clausewitz’s letter to Fichte, where he repeatedly pitched the moral forces of the individual against the mechanical, over-rationalized, machine-like tendencies of eighteenth-century military organization (Clausewitz 1941b: 80ff.). However, since Schiller’s aesthetic theory is inherently a theory of morality, the significance of the soul for Schiller goes further. In Anmut und Würde he introduced the notion of the ‘beautiful soul’. The term stemmed initially from the context of German Pietism, a tradition that Clausewitz was probably familiar with from his childhood years (Paret 2007: 16). For Schiller, ‘A beautiful soul is someone who does their duty from inclination, who acts on the moral law with joy. Schiller describes the beautiful soul as a person who acts with complete freedom, and therefore without the constraint of sensibility or the moral law’ (Beiser 2004: 82ff.).

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

47

The beautiful soul for Schiller possessed virtue in the sense of a natural disposition to act according to the moral principle. In this context, Schiller further developed Kantian ethics based on principle and law and introduced the notion of virtue in a bid to render the reconciliation of passion and reason, which according to Kant only occurred during the experience of beauty, more permanent. This idea resonates deeply with Clausewitz’s notion of passion and reason, in particular as he represented it in his letter to Fichte, where he continued to emphasize that passion and reason have to be integrated in order to enable both victory in the ‘most beautiful of wars’ and the emancipation of the individual. It is not surprising that he ended his letter with the speculation that warrior virtue could be partly instilled by good military leadership, but also had to rely on the primordial moral qualities of the individual in the first place (Clausewitz 1941b: 81).

MORAL VICTORIES Clausewitz never tired of emphasizing that an honourable defeat would be preferable for Prussia than foregoing armed resistance against French domination—a conviction that he shared with Fichte and his fellow Prussian reformers. In the Bekenntnisdenkschrift, he wrote: I believe and confess . . . That a people is insurmountable in the noble fight for its freedom. That even the demise of this freedom after a bloody and honourable fight will secure the rebirth of this people and will constitute the core of life from which once a new tree will grow secure roots. (Clausewitz 1966a: 688ff.)

If a people’s war is the ‘most beautiful of wars’ and has, as the last section has shown, inherent moral and emancipatory qualities, then this means that in a moral war, one can only win, either through a successful defence of one’s territory or through rebirth after an honourable defeat (see ‘Revenge’ in Chapter 4). In contrast to military victory, which is always temporary, moral victory is lasting and guaranteed owing to its inherent emancipatory qualities. What moral victories have in common with military victories, however, is the centrality of combat and violence: participating in combat is both the means of the emancipation of the individual and the expression of its moral qualities. Moreover, passion is an important part of moral wars and moral victories. Moral victories require the integration, the sublation, to use the Hegelian term, of the dichotomy between passion and reason—a thought that Clausewitz took from the German aesthetic discourse around 1800. Passion is not something that needs to be suppressed in order to enable military effectiveness and political freedom; on the contrary, passion is an integral part of both. Without

48

Sibylle Scheipers

passion, the soul is dead, and the rational capacities of men become formalistic and idle.6 The reconstruction of Clausewitz (at least in the years 1809 to 1812) as someone who believed in the liberation of the Prussian people—both from French domination and from the shackles of a decadent political system— through a popular insurrection has an immediate impact on the assessment of Clausewitz’s politico-moral standpoint. Clausewitz has so far been depicted as a social conservative and/or as an apologist of the Prussian state (Heuser 2002; Paret 2007: 129; Gat 1989: 98ff.). Ironically, not even Lenin’s attempt to harness Clausewitz to a social revolutionary project took note of the emancipatory ideas that the young Clausewitz put forward, which can be explained with regard to the fact that Lenin only read On War, but not Clausewitz’s earlier writings. Lenin’s interpretation of Clausewitz emphasized the famous dictum of war as the continuation of policy/politics by other means, in which Lenin transposed the locum of policy/politics from the raison d’état to the political interests of the proletariat (Rose 1995: 112ff.). However, in doing so, he highlighted the instrumental qualities of war while remaining oblivious to the existential and emancipatory features that the early Clausewitz had attributed to it. Mao Zedong was probably the only among Clausewitz’s readers with a political revolutionary agenda who came close to appreciating the inherently emancipatory qualities of war; however, unless more research is done on the sources and translations that Mao used, it remains difficult to assess both the specific content and the extent of Clausewitz’s influence on Mao (Heuser 2002: 138ff.).

CONCLUSIONS This chapter has argued that Clausewitz in his writings between 1809 and 1812 sketched out an emancipatory understanding of war in which people’s war, which he referred to as the ‘most beautiful of wars’, possessed inherently liberating qualities. Clausewitz exhorted his fellow Prussians to engage in people’s war not only in order to rid Prussia of the yoke of Napoleonic domination, but also to liberate its citizens from the decadence of the Prussian late-absolutist monarchy. The ‘most beautiful of wars’, understood as a moral war, hence unified and integrated the instrumental quality of war as a liberation from foreign domination on the one hand and the existential quality of war as an emancipation of the individual through the experience of combat 6 Aron (1972) comes closest to acknowledging the reciprocal relationship between passion and reason, but Zweckrationalität, instrumentality, trumps the equivalence between the two elements; see also Strachan (2007: 93ff.).

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

49

and the concomitant revelation of its inherent moral capacities. Whereas war in its instrumental role can lead to defeat, the existential quality of moral war cannot but succeed: regardless of the military outcome, the emancipatory success is guaranteed. The reconstruction of Clausewitz’s early emancipatory programme and his existential perspective on war as presented in this chapter contributes to a broader attempt at exploring the relevance of Clausewitz in the post-Cold War era (e.g. Strachan and Herberg-Rothe 2007).7 The Cold War scholarship on Clausewitz had focused almost entirely on the rationalist interpretation of war as the instrument of policy. In the context of that interpretation, victory was seemingly unproblematic: it occurred when war realized the aims of policy. This equation has become increasingly problematic in recent years, as western operations in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya have evidenced: what does victory mean in the context of alliance operations, in which each contributing partner defines policy aims in their own idiosyncratic fashion? How long does ‘victory’ have to last in order to qualify as such? What happens when policy aims change over the course of a war, or even the entire political system undergoes revolutionary transformations? A broader interpretation of Clausewitz can contribute to a debate about these problems. Arguably, Clausewitz’s existential interpretation of war is in many parts as utopian and romanticized as it is radical. But the question that he asks in his writings from the reform era is probably more relevant today than ever since the early nineteenth century: in the age of ‘liberal peace’ between states, is the emancipation and liberation of ‘the people’ not the most important aspect of victory?

REFERENCES Aron, Raymond. 1972. ‘Reason, Passion and Power in the Thought of Clausewitz’, Social Research 39(4): 599–621. Bassford, Christopher. 1994. Clausewitz in English: The Reception of Clausewitz in Britain and America, 1815–1945. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Beiser, Frederick. 2004. Schiller as Philosopher. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1941a. ‘Architektonische Rhapsodien’, in Kleine Schriften: Geist und Tat—Das Vermächtnis des Soldaten und Denkers, ed. Walther Malmsten Schering. Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 155–62. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1941b. ‘Ein ungenannter Militär an Fichte, als Verfasser des Aufsatzes über Machiavelli im ersten Band der “Vesta” ’, in Kleine Schriften: Geist und Tat—Das Vermächtnis des Soldaten und Denkers, ed. Walther Malmsten Schering. Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 68–74.

7

See, for instance, the contributions to Strachan and Herberg-Rothe (2007).

50

Sibylle Scheipers

Clausewitz, Carl von. 1941c. ‘Über den Begriff des körperlich Schönen’, in Kleine Schriften: Geist und Tat—Das Vermächtnis des Soldaten und Denkers, ed. Walther Malmsten Schering. Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 151–4. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1941d. ‘Über Kunst und Kunsttheorie’, in Kleine Schriften: Geist und Tat—Das Vermächtnis des Soldaten und Denkers, ed. Walther Malmsten Schering. Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 139–51. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1941e. ‘Vergleich zwischen den europäischen Staaten’, in Kleine Schriften: Geist und Tat—Das Vermächtnis des Soldaten und Denkers, ed. Walther Malmsten Schering. Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 7–10. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1966a. ‘Bekenntnisdenkschrift’, in Carl von Clausewitz, Schriften— Aufsätze—Studien—Briefe, ed. Werner Hahlweg, vol. I. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1966b. ‘Die Operationen in Schlesien’, in Carl von Clausewitz, Schriften—Aufsätze—Studien—Briefe, ed. Werner Hahlweg, vol. I. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 664. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1976. On War, ed and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Curran, Jane V. 2003. ‘Bodily Grace and Consciousness: From the Enlightenment to Romanticism’, in Marianne Henn and Holger A. Pausch (eds), Body Dialectics in the Age of Goethe. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 409–20. Echevarria, Antulio J. II. 2007. Clausewitz and Contemporary War. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fanon, Frantz. 2001. The Wretched of the Earth. London: Penguin. Gat, Azar. 1989. ‘Clausewitz’s Political and Ethical World View’, Political Studies 37(1): 95–106. Hammermeister, Kai. 2002. The German Aesthetic Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heuser, Beatrice. 2002. Reading Clausewitz. London: Pimlico. Kant, Immanuel. 1974. Kritik der Urteilskraft, Werkausgabe, vol. 10. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Merrick, Jeffrey. 1998. ‘The Body Politics of French Absolutism’, in Sara E. Melzer and Kathryn Norberg (eds), From the Royal to the Republican Body: Incorporating the Political in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century France. Berkeley: University of California Press, 11–31. Moggach, Douglas. 1993. ‘Fichte’s Engagement with Machiavelli’, History of Political Thought 14(4): 573–90. Novalis. 1982. Schriften, vol II: Das philosophische Werk I, ed. Richard Samuel, Hans Joachim Mähl, and Gerhard Schulz. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Paret, Peter. 2007. Clausewitz and the State: The Man, his Theories and his Times. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rose, Olaf. 1995. Carl von Clausewitz: Wirkungsgeschichte seines Werkes in Rußland und der Sowjetunion 1836–1991. München: Oldenbourg. Rösner, Sandra. 2012. ‘German Poetry (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe): Der Zauberlehrling—The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’, German Language Blog, 19 August. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016.

Carl von Clausewitz and Moral Victories

51

Schiller, Friedrich. 2004. On the Aesthetic Education of Man, trans. Reginald Snell. Mineola: Dover. Strachan, Hew. 2007. Carl von Clausewitz’s ‘On War’: A Biography. New York: Atlantic Books. Strachan, Hew and Andreas Herberg-Rothe (eds). 2007. Clausewitz in the Twenty-First Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

4 Defeat as Moral Victory The Historical Experience Beatrice Heuser

‘In sacrificio triumphans.’ Inscription on the Casa del Sacrificio,1 Via dei Mutilati, Verona, Italy (1931)

R E A CT I O N S T O D E FE AT Western civilizations react to defeat with four types of responses, not mutually exclusive: first, the most reasonable but probably psychologically the least acceptable: resignation and pure mourning (lamentation).2 Secondly, anger and the determination to get one’s revenge (often coupled with the claim that one has been betrayed). Thirdly, a search for the causes of defeat in one’s own sins and the notion that one has been defeated because one has displeased one or several deities—this is a theme that resonates especially in the Hebrew Bible. Fourthly, denial, by redefining defeat as a moral victory. This chapter will focus particularly on this fourth response, although, as we shall see, the second and third are at times mixed into it. If we review European and more generally western history, at least five—partly overlapping—themes emerge that will be illustrated by historical examples. We find examples for these themes throughout all or most of Europe, and it is probably only the author’s limited knowledge that does not produce even more examples to thicken the clusters of evidence. That we have evidence that such examples 1

Administration of veterans’ pensions. I am extremely grateful to Professor Christie Davies for comments on this chapter and for a series of cases he brought to my attention. 2

Defeat as Moral Victory

53

can also be found in Israel is not surprising in view of their shared roots in the Hebrew Bible. This suggests that with a shared cultural background, kindred societies are likely to develop certain similarities in their collective mentalities and culturally determined interpretations of the world, especially, of course, when they are consciously copying each other or a revered historical model. The results raise the question to what extent other cultures—in the Islamic world, or in the Confucian world—have produced similar patterns, a subject that must be left to scholars of those cultures to explore.

THEME I : DEATH AS SACRIFICE Through the redefinition of a military defeat as a moral victory, the fallen for that cause can assume the double role of martyred saints and of demons demanding new sacrifices. Through further sacrifices by later generations, the moral victory might thus be transformed into an actual victory at a later stage (in this, the fourth option comes close to the first). As sociologist Steven Mock has written, by being redefined as a moral victory, ‘[t]he defeat serves to demonstrate to future generations that the nation can withstand even the worst historical catastrophes, from which it logically follows that an eventual resurrection is inevitable so long as the spirit of sacrifice exemplified by the heroes is maintained’ (2012: 184). Mock explains the mechanism of this process, which works only on a ‘mytho-symbolical level’: Death serves as the ultimate form of atonement, legitimizing the acts of those who die. It is not a final defeat because it becomes a source of legitimation for those who identify with the fallen. The living succeed the dead and death, in turn, legitimizes the enterprise of living. . . . And the living generation, through identification with the heroes of the myth, are the ones entrusted with the solemn responsibility of turning defeat and death into victory and life. Thus the idea of inspirational sacrifice is not a tautology but a covenant, a contract with the past. Just as religious sacrifice mediates between man and God, national sacrifice mediates between the citizen and the nation, generating unity and continuity by means of the totemic ideal it creates, binding both the imagined national community over space and the historical cultural community over time to generate a single multidimensional collective. And this is a more ideologically satisfying conclusion to the defeat narratives than the ones that history alone generally provides. (192)

Multiple templates for such a moral victory in defeat, indeed even the triumph over defeat, echo throughout western civilizations, drawing on pre-existing metaphors and narratives. They are mostly related to individuals. Socrates’ and Seneca’s suicides, to ensure the political stability of their respective

54

Beatrice Heuser

polities, are among the oldest memes of European or western civilization. The most important, however, is that of the death of Jesus (following the pattern of sacrificial infanticide in the Hebrew Bible—carried out with the daughter of Jephtha, halted at the last moment with Isaac) and the persecution of his followers (when many of the main saints emerged from martyrdom) that would be interpreted later as moral victory in death and triumph in defeat. There would be a lasting pattern of turning the defendants of causes who had died in their pursuit into saints, whether or not the cause finally triumphed (so much the better if it did, but this was not a condition sine qua non). Thus the pattern is well established throughout Christianity that through violent death, Jesus and his martyred followers achieved the greatest glory, triumphing spiritually over evil in their own greatest abasement and humiliation, indeed their physical destruction.

THEME II: THE F ALLEN AS M ARTYRS This Army of Saints—note the term—coming to the support of those fighting for God’s just cause (generally, any war in defence of Christians against heathens, but in particular the Crusades, the ultimate just wars) was evoked often in medieval texts. In the medieval Roman Catholic Church, Christian kings who died in battles against pagans were almost automatically turned into martyrs: St Edwin, King of Northumbria (d.633) and St Sighebert of East Anglia (d.635) both owed their sainthood to King Penda of Mercia, who killed them in battle; St Edmund, King of East Anglia, was killed by the Danes in 869 (in or shortly after having been defeated in battle); St Constantine of Scotland, died in 874 fending off Viking invaders; and (the Viking) St Olaf (Olaf II Haraldson), King of Norway, was slain in the battle of Stiklestad in 1030 by a host led by pagan competitors.3 The Greek Orthodox Church by contrast never quite embraced holy war, and thus Emperor Nikephoros I, who died in battle against the (then still pagan) Bulgars, was not canonized. (The soldier-saints of the Eastern Church all gained sainthood through martyrdom when they refused to sacrifice to the emperor and not, as is often erroneously assumed, for their martial activities.) By contrast, pagan Anglo-Saxons (and other Germanic peoples) seem to have mourned their dead heroes even in defeat, as the famous Beowulf poem (written sometime between the eighth and eleventh centuries but still quite pagan in outlook) shows; this is also largely true for Y Gododdin, written down 3 A rare exception to this rule is that of the (Christian) Roman emperor Valens, who died in battle against the (pagan) Goths, but who was an Arian, and thus a heretic in the eyes of the Roman Church which would thus not treasure his memory. Consequently, he did not achieve sainthood.

Defeat as Moral Victory

55

perhaps a little earlier or around the same time, ascribed to the (sixth-century) Welsh bard Aneirin.4 In both, warriors are celebrated for their bravery in battle, slain in combat, and mourned as heroes. In Christianity, the step from celebrating the slain king as a saint and martyr to celebrating the entire defeat as a moral victory is thus a small one. An early example is the story of Charlemagne’s nephew Roland, whose forces were defeated and who died in a pagan ambush at Roncevaux in 778 (although the historical enemy were Basques, not Muslims as later alleged), and who in defeat and death became a hero of Western civilization through the Chanson de Roland/Rolandslied. This is a prime example of a moral victory in defeat, not just for Roland but also for his companions, as Charlemagne was later credited with having stemmed the tide of Muslim conquests and having reversed it. As St Roland he would become the patron saint of free imperial towns, and his statue, as of a medieval knight with sword and armour, can be found in central market squares from Metz to Riga.5 A later famous individual case of a canonized warrior who triumphed in death is that of Joan of Arc, even though her canonization came centuries later, and oddly, after she had acquired a second identity as heroine of nationalism on top of that of the saintly victim of power politics. Much like Jephthah’s daughter she ultimately consented to her death by recanting on her recantation of the holy visions she had seen. Hers was thus a willing sacrifice, and it fitted the mould of the sacrificed maiden, exemplified by Iphigenia and Polyxena, but also the early Christian virginal martyr-saints Catherine of Alexandria (one of the saints who appeared to Joan), Agnes, Emerentiana, Cecilia, and the medieval saint Ursula and her 11,000 virgin attendants. It went along with the Valois dynasty’s ultimate triumph in the Hundred Years’ War. Joan was instrumental to their success: indeed she was perhaps vital to it as she turned the tide of war against the Plantagenets with her victory at Orléans in 1429, and with her insistence that the Valois Dauphin have himself crowned King of France at Reims in the same year. (Even so, she has been claimed as patron saint even by the British!—Davies 1987.) A much more consequential example is that of the Battle of Kosovo Polje (the Field of Blackbirds) on St Vitus’ Day (28 June) in 1389, in which the Serbian Prince Lazar Hrebeljanović was defeated and slain by the forces of the Turkish Sultan Murad I (who himself died in this battle). These historical facts are undisputed, although whether the battle’s outcome was decisive is more open to debate, as Serbia was only integrated formally into the Ottoman 4 Although the Gododdin were nominally Christian at the time of the battle, experts have emphasized that the poem is written in the much older (pagan) bardic tradition; see Lambert (2010: ch. 3, nn. 81–3). 5 Significantly, with the connotations of a defensive—and thus acceptable—warrior, Roland’s name would be used in the twentieth century for a jointly developed Franco-German ground-toair missile.

56

Beatrice Heuser

Empire in the mid-fifteenth century. Nevertheless, it was this battle which would become the chief point of reference of Serbian nationalism. Curiously, in passing through the process of being recast as a great moral victory, a Serb folk poem constructed a narrative that turned Prince Lazar into a Jesus-like figure, betrayed by a Judas-like figure among his associates: Lazar is said to have chosen for himself and his army defeat, martyrdom, and ‘a heavenly kingdom’ over victory against the Turks and ‘an earthly kingdom’ (Mock 2012: 155–6). Hungarians have their own epic defeat and moral victory with the Battle of Mohács of 1526, in which the forces of their Jagellonian King Louis II (who died when fleeing from the battle) were destroyed by those of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent. Memory of this national trauma has lived on, even though it was never quite transformed into a call for revenge. In 1566 Nikola Šubić Zrinski, Ban of Croatia on behalf of the Habsburg monarchy, defended but lost Hungarian Szigetvár against the Ottomans. Like the Serb Prince Lazar, Šubić Zrinski lost his life, for which he is venerated by both Croats and Hungarians. Both thus fall into the pattern of Christian martyrs sacrificing their lives for their faith and standing in an exemplary way for their own people’s collective sacrifice, as Serbs and Hungarians came under Turkish rule. A similar story—albeit with a much more benign ending—is that of the supposed loss of Czech independence (although the population was not referred to as such at the time) in the Battle of the White Mountain near Prague on 8 November 1620, which pitted a Bohemian army against the imperial forces loyal to the Habsburg emperor. For the Bohemians, this marked the beginning of ‘three hundred years of darkness’ before they obtained their own independent state at the end of the First World War. Moreover, it spelled out reCatholization and thus another defeat for Protestantism in Bohemia, which had been an element of Bohemian identity since the beginnings of the Reformation with Jan Hus, its Bohemian martyr. On 21 June 1621, the Habsburg authorities had twenty-seven Bohemian leaders executed in Prague central square: three noblemen, seven knights, and seventeen burghers, who were like Jan Hus himself seen as martyrs for the Protestant cause. Meanwhile, the Catholic triumph was celebrated with the building of the Church of Our Lady of Victory in Prague, resplendent with artwork of the Counter-Reformation. Henceforth, Protestantism would be reduced to a small minority, but given the overall secularization of the area under communism, at least the subject is no longer one of potential intra-Czech conflict. Also within Protestantism, King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden is cast as something as close to a saintly martyr as Protestantism gets. Swedes remember the Battle of Lützen 1632 (a Protestant/Swedish victory against the Catholic Habsburg forces in the Thirty Years’ War, but bought at the cost of the death of Gustavus Adolphus) and the Battle of Poltava in 1709 (a Swedish defeat at the hands of the Russians who with this became major players in European

Defeat as Moral Victory

57

and later world politics). Gustavus Adolphus’ death on 6 November (in the old-style calendar) 1632 at Lützen is commemorated to this day as a national day (Gustav Adolfsdagen), one of seventeen days of the year when the Swedish flag is raised outside public buildings and mounted on public buses. While it is not a bank or school holiday, bakeries still sell Gustavus Adolphus buns on the day. Turning to the far west of Europe, the Irish and the Scots over the centuries developed a tendency to celebrate their defeats as great moral victories. This included for Ireland the massacre of Drogheda, the siege of Derry, and the Battle of the Boyne; for Scotland, the battle of Flodden, the massacre of Glencoe, and the Battle of Culloden. George Orwell (1941) argued that the proclivity to commemorate sacrifice rather than victory was also part of the English character: English literature, like other literatures, is full of battle-poems, but it is worth noticing that the ones that have won for themselves a kind of popularity are always a tale of disasters and retreats. There is no popular poem about Trafalgar or Waterloo, for instance. . . . The most stirring battle-poem in English is about a brigade of cavalry which charged in the wrong direction. And of the last war, the four names which have really engraved themselves on the popular memory are Mons, Ypres, Gallipoli and Passchendaele, every time a disaster.

Staying in the west of Europe, the Spanish commemorate the Dos de Mayo, the cruelly suppressed uprising in Madrid in 1808 that started the Spanish guerrilla uprising against French occupation, rather than any date marking the ultimate defeat of the French. The Spanish Civil War of the 1930s, won by the Fascists, constitutes another heroic defeat of a just cause, a cause that is seen to have triumphed decades later with the demise of fascism and the victory of the Spanish Socialist Workers Party (PSOE) in a general election in 1982. The same pattern can be found at the other end of Mediterranean Europe with regard to the Greek Civil War of 1946–9 which ended in the triumph of the royalists over the Greek communists. The electoral victory of the Greek Socialist Party (PASOK) in 1981 is seen by the inheritors of the Greek left as retribution for the sufferings of the late 1940s. The hero worship that is extended to the fallen commanders of these wars and uprisings, the executed leaders and other individuals, can also be given to whole groups, collectively. In the Persian Wars, Leonidas’ ‘300’ collectively have been granted such veneration. This is by no means just a phenomenon of antiquity: the ‘charge of the light brigade’ alluded to by Orwell in the passage quoted above—a particularly foolish use of cavalry by Lord Cardigan, a British commanding officer in the Crimean War in 1854, which was obeyed with Kadavergehorsam worthy of any Prussian unit—was redefined as glorious selfsacrifice by the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson in his eponymous poem. Europeans often allege that Britons did the same with the retreat from Dunkirk in 1940,

58

Beatrice Heuser

namely, turning what is in European eyes a defeat or even something of a betrayal of the French by the British into a celebrated occasion. Indeed, the UK Ministry of Information claimed in 1940, ‘Men of the undefeated British Expeditionary Force have been coming home from France. They have not come back in triumph, they have come back in glory.’ This curious but probably very British attitude resurfaced when Harold Wilson ‘launched a “Spirit of Dunkirk” campaign in 1964 to encourage his countrymen to show a stiff upper lip as the pound sterling was plummeting in relation to other world currencies’ (Miller 1995: 37). This phenomenon of celebrating epic defeats does not seem to be exclusively European, however: the Japanese likewise seem to celebrate the ‘nobility of [their] failure’ and defeat—not only, but above all, in the Second World War. Japan, it seems, has a great tradition of heroes who gave their lives in vain, without the ultimate triumph of their cause. Heroic martyrdom is exemplified in the twentieth century by the young suicide bombers, known in Japan as the ‘cherry blossoms’ or Ōka (and in the West as kamikaze fighters), who are commemorated as pure self-sacrificial victims who gave their lives for a lost cause (Morris 1980: 276–334). With faith in the historic inevitability of its triumph, and thus in all respects a child of Western European civilization, Communism has honoured its fallen heroes much like the martyr-saints of Christianity. Thus the 147 fighters of the Parisian ‘Commune’ uprising during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870/1, executed by French government authorities at the Mur des Fédérés (Wall of the Confederates) at Père Lachaise cemetery, are still celebrated as martyrs for the cause, with ample annual offerings of flowers at the end of May. Thereafter, other leading French socialists asked to be buried nearby. This cult of communist (or sometimes anarchist) martyrs resonates throughout the twentieth century. One example is that of Georges Moustaki’s ‘March of Sacco and Vanzetti’, written in 1971, which contains the refrain, ‘vous étiez tout seul dans la mort, mais par elle vous vaincrez’—to give only one example of a string of poems and pieces of music, etc., that were created to commemorate these two radicals. (Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti are thought to have been victims of judicial bias who were executed for a robbery and murder they probably did not commit.) Another figure regarded as a martyred hero by leftists worldwide is the Marxist revolutionary Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, who after a successful albeit short career in Cuba was captured and summarily executed in Bolivia in 1967. Half a century later, his flattering portrait photograph still adorns the walls of student digs and T-shirts (not to mention mugs and aprons) as a by now very conventional manifestation of anti-establishment pop art. A catastrophic end of a slightly different nature was that of the Jewish Sicarii (an extremist sect, also referred to as Zealots), who held out against the Romans on the desert rock of Masada from 73 to 74 CE, after the First Jewish War or insurgency had been quelled throughout the rest of Palestine. This

Defeat as Moral Victory

59

deserves to be mentioned here and not earlier, as their eventual collective suicide (with a death toll of around 950, including the women and children) as an alternative to capture by the Romans does not seem to have become an important inspiration for collective identity until the late 1940s, when it was elevated to a symbol of Jewish heroism by the young state of Israel with its, by then, part-European cultural heritage. Consciously cast as an anti-model to the relative lack of resistance by the millions of victims of the Holocaust, the self-sacrifice of the Jews of Masada was celebrated by the 1951 poem of Isaac Lamdan, and was for many years given a large ritual role in the life of Israelis as the place where generations of conscript soldiers were annually sworn in. Older Israelis still wax lyrical about this ceremony, usually held at dawn, after the conscripts had climbed up the breathtakingly steep ‘Snake Path’ to the top of the mountain.6 The excavations conducted on the rock in the early 1960s were themselves emblematic of the fusion of archaeology, a favourite Israeli discipline, with the political mission of nation building. The leader of the archaeological dig, Yigael Yadin, embodied the significance Masada took in the national mythology of the Jewish State: he was no less than the second Chief of Defence Staff of the Israeli Defence Forces, who (like a series of Israeli military officers after him) turned himself into an archaeologist, underscoring the intimate link in the Israeli mentality between the claim to the Holy Land based on the Bible and archaeology and its unconditional defence. Yadin (1966: 13) summed up: ‘Masada represents for all of us in Israel and for many elsewhere . . . a symbol of courage, a monument to our great national figures, heroes who chose death over a life of physical and moral serfdom.’ By and by, protests arose in Israel itself against this heroic but thoroughly defeatist myth. Unlike the self-sacrifice of the 300 at the Thermopylae, the selfsacrifice of the Sicarii did not lead to an ultimate triumph of their cause, unless that be defined as the founding of the State of Israel in 1948, but a real continuity is hard to demonstrate. It was the classical scholarship of European Jews through the reading of the sole source, written by the Jewish-Roman historian Josephus, rather than any Jewish tradition, that transmitted knowledge of this event. Eventually, the swearing-in ceremonies on the mountain were discontinued and moved to other sites, notably the space in front of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem which has been accessible to Israelis since the Six-Day War of 1967. But the Wailing Wall is of course itself another tragic symbol of death and destruction, as the last remains of the Temple destroyed by the Romans. But since 1967 it has become to a greater extent a symbol of hope and revival for the Israelis, emblematic of the Israeli conquest of Jerusalem. The Wailing Wall and Masada remain the two main historical in situ memorial sites in Israel (Mock 2012: 2, 5, 31–5, 90, 100–15, 180–92, 6

An event dramatized at the beginning of the American TV mini-series Masada (dir. Boris Sagal, ABC, 1981).

60

Beatrice Heuser

233–4, 238).7 (Masada is now easily accessible, with a car park and a lift built into the rock itself.) Whether commemorated within the framework of religion, secular nationalism, or communism, martyrs for the cause are cast as immortal heroes. As the Ukrainian protesters proclaimed in Kiev during the funerary procession for the victims of the Maidan massacre of February 2014, ‘heroes never die’ (Ukraine Maidan documentary 2015).8

T H E M E II I : B E T R A Y A L Just as Christian martyrs are equated to Jesus, the narrative surrounding them often includes a Judas. Claims that they have been betrayed help people to cope with defeat, and betrayal is a recurrent theme in narratives of lost battles. The Germanic epic poem Niebelungenlied has betrayal, revenge, and ensuing tragedy at its centre. Roland of the eponymous Chanson is betrayed to the infidel by Ganelon. The narrative surrounding Kosovo 1389, which is slightly more complicated than the Judas trope, tells of Prince Lazar’s wrongful accusation of Miloš Obilić, one of his brothers-in-arms, of betrayal, when in fact it was another, Vuk Branković, who betrayed the prince (Mock 2012: 2). In the case of the execution of Joan of Arc, it was the French bishop of Beauvais, Pierre Cauchon, who was retrospectively cast in the role of the traitor, siding with the English who brought about the Maid of Orleans’ downfall (Winock 1998). Betrayal also serves partly to explain why Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Young Pretender, failed to prevail in the final Jacobite uprising of 1745–6: the Macdonalds are said to have refused to support the Jacobite army, peeved because they had not been asked to take the lead, a hereditary honour that had been conferred on them by Robert the Bruce at the Battle of Bannockburn. As William McGonagall (1980: 50), Scotland’s worst Victorian poet, put it in his ‘Battle of Culloden’, with his characteristic disregard for verse meter: Prince Charles Stuart, of fame and renown, You might have worn Scotland’s crown, If the Macdonalds and Glengarry at Culloden had proved true; But, being too ambitious for honour, that they didn’t do, Which, I am sorry to say, proved most disastrous to you, Looking to the trials and struggles you passed through. 7

Yad Vashem and the Shrine of the Book in the Israel Museum are of course also crucial memorial sites, but neither stands in historical continuity with the location where it has been constructed. 8 For the Ukrainian military song ‘Heroes never die’, see also , accessed 18 May 2017.

Defeat as Moral Victory

61

Far more serious and extreme accusations of betrayal sprang up in post-First World War Germany with the legend of the ‘stab in the back’. It consisted of the claim by conservative elements and the leadership of the armed forces (and subsequently Hitler’s National Socialists) that the German naval units of the High Seas Fleet who had mutinied in November 1918, and also the diplomats who signed the armistice in the same month, had caused Germany’s defeat. The latter would later be denounced by the right as the ‘November criminals’, and the leading politicians among them would one by one be assassinated in the early 1920s. The rise of National Socialism was predicated largely on the claim that Germany had not really been defeated militarily; treasonable elements at home were blamed for betraying the German armed forces, who were celebrated as ‘undefeated in the field [of battle]’ (Petzold 1963). The power of this myth was only broken when the German archives were opened after another lost war, and this time the victorious Allies consciously ensured that no such myth could materialize by occupying the whole of Germany. For a final example of the phenomenon of the search for a traitor when faced with defeat, one might quote the comments of Movietown News on the withdrawal of British forces from Dunkirk in 1940, which describes a ‘story of that epic withdrawal’ in terms of ‘the gallant British and French troops betrayed [sic!] by the desertion of the Belgian king’.

THEME I V: REVENGE Many Serb uprisings against Ottoman overlordship would follow the Battle of Kosovo, and these at times included massacres perpetrated against villages of ‘Turks’, a term used indiscriminately to subsume also Slavs who had converted to Islam. One such seventeenth-century massacre was celebrated in ‘The Mountain Wreath’, a Montenegrin poem written at the end of the nineteenth century by Prince Bishop Petar Petrović-Njegoš, and it was cast in terms of a retribution for the defeat suffered by the Christians at the Battle of Kosovo Polje (Mock 2012: 223–30). Two hundred years later we find an analogous causality invoked: on 11 July 1995, when carrying out the massacres of Bosniak men who had been rounded up in Srebrenica, Radko Mladić told a cameraman that he was ‘giving the town to the Serbian nation’ in retribution for the repression of Serbian uprisings against the Turks (Mladić 1995). It was not by accident that roughly five centuries after the Battle of Kosovo Polje, in 1876, another St Vitus’ Day was chosen for the Serbian declaration of war against the Ottoman Empire which two years later resulted in Serbian independence. Kosovo continued under Ottoman rule until the Balkan War of 1912, when the Serbs had the express war aim of liberating Kosovo (‘the glorious and saddened mother of our Kingdom where lies the historical kernel

62

Beatrice Heuser

of the old Serbian state . . .’, as it said in the Serbian declaration of war). It was reported that Serb soldiers took off their shoes to walk on the battleground as they saw it as holy soil. One Serb soldier recorded: The single sound of that word—Kosovo—caused an indescribable excitement. This one word pointed to the black past—five centuries. In it exists the whole of our sad past—the tragedy of Prince Lazar and the entire Serbian people. Each of us created for himself a picture of Kosovo while we were still in the cradle. Our mother lulled us to sleep with the songs of Kosovo, and in our schools our teachers never ceased in their stories of Lazar . . . The spirits of Lazar . . . and all the Kosovo martyrs gaze on us. We feel strong and proud, for we are the generation which will realize the centuries-old dream of the whole nation: that we with the sword will regain the freedom that was lost with the sword. (Mock 2012: 129)

To punish the arrogant Yugoslav communists who were set on going their own way after the Second World War, Stalin in 1948 chose St Vitus’ Day to expel the Yugoslav Communist Party from the successor organization of the Communist International (the COMINFORM), in the hope that this would lead party members to overthrow their leader, Tito. (In fact, Tito managed to eliminate the Stalinist rebels and held on to power until his death in 1982.) In 1989 St Vitus’ Day was still being commemorated with great pomp, and it was on this occasion that the then Yugoslav president Slobodan Milošević proclaimed: Six centuries ago, Serbia heroically defended itself in the field of Kosovo, but it also defended Europe. Serbia was at that time the bastion that defended the European culture, religion, and European society in general. . . . The Kosovo heroism [of the Serbs] . . . has been feeding our pride and does not allow us to forget that at one time we were an army great, brave, and proud, one of the few that remained undefeated when losing [sic!]. (Milošević 1989)

With this, Milošević at the time sought to suppress yet another attempt by Kosovar Albanians to demand more autonomy within or even independence from Yugoslavia; while the speech can be interpreted as a commitment to peaceful coexistence, retrospectively it appears as a prologue to Serb repressions that in 1991 would lead to strong reactions among the various non-Serb populations of the Federation that culminated in its disintegration. The Kosovo Conflict with its violent phase from early 1998 can only be understood against this background (Malcolm 2002). On the whole, calls for revenge come earlier. It was a motivation for the French after the defeat of 1871 in seeking to bring back the lost territories of Alsace and Lorraine, dictating their offensive strategy of 1914. And in Germany, Hitler rose to power on the wings of a desire to avenge the defeat of 1918 and the supposed humiliation of the Versailles Peace Treaty; Germany’s lust for revenge would cost the lives of around fifty million people in the Second World War. Even thereafter, while having learnt to recognize the evil of Hitler and the Second World War, Germans would have difficulty

Defeat as Moral Victory

63

admitting that their leadership might not have been on the side of the just cause even in the First World War in which they had been so ‘unjustly’ defeated (Schivelbusch 2003: 103–88, 189–288). In any case, the perception of humiliation by a defeated party—where to the pain of loss and defeat is added the injury of abasement—seems to be a strong motivator for revenge. How with the best of will, given some cultural proclivities to see insults and evil plans everywhere, one can entirely prevent such perceptions from forming is another matter, but what is clear is that the quest to ‘regain’ honour is a recurrent motif put forward by those using violence politically—whether in terrorism or warfare (Bosi 2012; Giacaman et al. 2007). War, said Nietzsche, makes the victor stupid and the vanquished malicious (Nietzsche 1878).

THEME V: DECADENCE AND S IN, CONTRITION AND RED EM P TION THROUGH S UF F E RIN G While the above-listed defeats were recast as unjust and therefore as moral victories, other defeats have been interpreted as just and merited, but leading to catharsis and thus ultimately to the triumph of good over evil in the defeated people. Ever since the fall of the Western Roman Empire to the barbarians, the Occident has been haunted by the meme of a supremely sophisticated but ‘decadent’ civilization, inferior in terms of morale and defensive verve, being defeated by the onslaughts of more primitive but morally superior peoples. A slightly different take on this fear of collapse is to say that the superior civilization was perhaps defeated, but this was God’s punishment for sin—a trope found repeatedly in the Hebrew Bible and eagerly embraced by Salvian in his De gubernatione Dei (IV.20) and by other early Christian authors when they tried to come to terms with the catastrophic barbarian invasions and ultimately the fall of Roman civilization in the West. Defeat as divine punishment for sin (as a counterpart to victory due to divine grace, as when Henry V’s numerically inferior forces won at Agincourt) would be a theme encountered throughout the Middle Ages, when God’s hand was still thought to be visible in human affairs. Another slight variation on the theme can be found when, arguably, the step of contrition (or atonement) between punishment and redemption is skipped and the humbling experience of defeat can lead straight to moral superiority. Waterloo, without doubt, has been celebrated for two hundred years as a glorious defeat for France. Napoleon’s Old Guard is supposed to have proclaimed, in an epic manner, that it would die but not surrender, and its members were celebrated as national heroes throughout the following century,

64

Beatrice Heuser

with poems and songs (Forrest 2015: 148–52) (as well as the famous closet humour joke concerning their commander’s real reply to the British invitation to them to surrender). A look around the visitor centre at Waterloo would suggest that Napoleon was the hero of the day (Clarke 2015). Even the battle of Waterloo has been claimed as a moral victory for the French cause and not merely a glorious defeat. The French député (parliamentarian) Jacques Myard issued a press communiqué during the commemorations of the 200th anniversary of the battle, in which he proclaimed, ‘Non, Waterloo is not a defeat, it is a French victory’ (Myard 2015). The argument he put forward was that if it had not been for Napoleon’s presence on the battlefield, his adversaries would have been forgotten by History, whereas Napoleon was remembered as ‘the god of a generation that was bored’, as the poet Lamartine remarked. More seriously, as an editorial published in Le Monde in English (!) on 18 June 2015 to mark the occasion (and to warn against a Brexit!) put it, ‘Some may argue that, had Napoleon continued to rule, industrial development would have started earlier in France, reactionary regimes would not have crushed progressive movements, France might have been spared two revolutions, in 1830 and 1848. But the most noble ideas of the French Revolution had spread, opening the way to modernization of European societies and a golden age for European science, arts and literature.’ A moral victory is thus found where a cause is defeated that is later recognized to have been the moral one. Wolfgang Schivelbusch in his study of the reactions of the Southern states of America to their defeat in the American Civil War, the French to their defeat by Prussia in 1870–1, and the Germans to 1918 has discovered evidence of this pattern in all three groups. On the model of the defeat of the Cavaliers (‘wrong but wromantic’ as one famous satire puts it—Sellars and Yeatman 1930) by the Roundheads in the English Civil War, the American Civil War was interpreted as a defeat of the heroic Southern cavaliers by the mercantilist Yankees. After the French defeat at Sedan, Victor Hugo proclaimed that while the Germans would ‘always be the world’s best soldiers. . . . The glory belongs to France’, and the French saw themselves as having been defeated by the barbarie scientifique of the Germans. A war memorial erected in 1874 in the Square Montholon in Paris represents ‘Gloria victis’, the glory of the defeated: an angel bearing away a dead soldier. Schivelbusch notes that the first President of Germany after the defeat of 1918, Friedrich Ebert, said much the same in an address to returning German veterans (Schivelbusch 2003: 16–18). As we have seen, against the background of the stab-in-the-back legend, the German armed forces would claim to have been undefeated in battle (Petzold 1963). As Schivelbusch put it, ‘The one great consolation for the defeated is their faith in their cultural and moral superiority over the newly empowered who have ousted them.’ In his view, it was particularly the intellectuals who would then convince themselves ‘that victory threatens culture, whereas defeat might enhance it’. Indeed, he notes that ‘In the wake of every forced capitulation, . . . a new struggle begins,

Defeat as Moral Victory

65

a kind of ethnical and juridicial levée en masse in which the loser, casting himself as the personification of defiled purity, tries to score a “moral victory” against the winner’ (Schivelbusch 2003: 18–19, 21).

CO NCLUSION The cases we have cited illustrate a widespread proclivity especially, but not only, among Judaeo-Christian traditions that draw on the same resources in terms of metaphors and narratives to interpret past defeats as moral victories. All three cultures studied by Schivelbusch were deemed by him to have ‘aspired to the role of moral authority’ in international affairs after their defeat. ‘Only the losers, they argued, commanded such authority because only they had suffered through the Passion and emerged on the other side, beyond all considerations of earthly power’ (Schivelbusch 2003: 32). But the cost and sacrifice of war can make even the victor more humble and wise. In surveying the enormous amount of writing—both private and published—that emanated from the First World War, John Horne found that the war effort of the Allied powers was increasingly seen as a bitter sacrifice (Horne 1995). This conceptualization of the war effort as sacrifice was shared by all sides, both future victors and vanquished. Famously, in Britain and France in particular, the sense that the ‘Great War’ had been above all a great sacrifice, one of questionable necessity, outlived the triumph of the Entente powers, and has even grown over the years. Not only are there defeats that can be interpreted as moral victories, but also victories that can be remembered as pointless sacrifices, as a terrible waste, expressed not least in Wilfred Owen’s poem ‘Smile, Smile, Smile’ that introduced this volume. The tragedy of any war is that it is a conflict not settled by peaceful deliberations and exchanges. The tragedy affects both sides, both sides pay some price in terms of suffering: the grief and loss experienced by those left behind, and the physical and mental wounds which blighted the lives of survivors for their bleak remaining years. One condition of any lasting peace post-bellum must be respect for the suffering of the bereaved on all sides, and a little tolerance for their proclivity, which seems to be a general human tendency, to cast their loss in terms of a sacrifice, even if the cause was vile. The examples we have considered invite the following reflections. One is that the chances for lasting peace and reconciliation are lessened when one adds the insult of humiliation to the injury of defeat, however much the latter might have been merited. Another is that any bereaved individual or group has a psychological need to mourn the dead. Even if the dead have been fighting for a questionable or outright evil cause, one cannot deny their families and friends some

66

Beatrice Heuser

addressing of this primary need. It is probably unhealthy for the individual and the group as a whole to attempt to suppress it. One wise prescription in early modern war manuals is to allow the enemy to bury their dead with dignity, or even take charge of this oneself (for examples, see Heuser 2010). The ways in which mourning is channelled can strengthen or undermine the chances for peace in the future. It can be channelled into reflections on one’s own (or one’s group’s) sins and shortcomings, and particularly, as with Germany after the Second World War, on the profound wickedness of the cause. This can lead to healthy reforms and spiritual and ideological regeneration. Contrition, soul-searching, and introspection can do some good at all times, and humility is generally an asset in international relations. One does not have to go quite as far as the German historian Reinhart Kosselleck who wrote that history may in the short term favour ‘the victors, but historical wisdom is in the long run enriched more by the vanquished . . . Being defeated appears to be an inexhaustible wellspring of intellectual progress’ (quoted in Schivelbusch 2003: 4). Nietzsche’s saying that war made the victor stupid equates to the old military adage that it is the vanquished, not the victor, who learns from wars. If the cause of the defeated party is seen as ethically defensible even in retrospect, there is little harm in turning the fallen into martyrs of a good cause. Nor is there a problem in extolling the virtues of the dead and holding them up as models of altruism, if they were not clearly guilty of war crimes. Problems arise when the ‘sacrifice’ of a previous generation is used to call for violent revenge carried out against people arbitrarily defined as the descendants of previous enemies (for example, if Bosniaks or Kosovar Albanians are cast in the role of reincarnations of the Ottomans of yore). Bloodshed will bring forth more bloodshed, even perhaps centuries later, if the previous generations’ sacrifice is used as instigation for new generations to offer their own lives for the community, regardless of the ethics of the cause. To prevent this, it may be mutually beneficial to distinguish between justifiable mourning for private and collective losses and the moral legitimacy of the cause. This may be one important lesson for conflict resolution. An ethical victory should thus find a way to respect the mourning of those for whom it was a personal and national tragedy, lest suppressed, it should become toxic.

REFERENCES Bosi, Lorenzo. 2012. ‘Explaining Pathways to Armed Activism in the Provisional Irish Republican Army, 1969–1972’, Social Science History 36(3): 347–90. Clarke, Stephen. 2015. How the French Won Waterloo (or Think They Did). London: Century.

Defeat as Moral Victory

67

Clausewitz, Carl von. 1832. Vom Kriege, trans. and ed. Michael Howard and Peter Paret, On War. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976. Davies, Christie. 1987. ‘Jeanne d’Arc the Heroine of Anglophones’, Wall Street Journal, 17 August. Forrest, Alan. 2015. Waterloo. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Giacaman, Rita et al. 2007. ‘Humiliation: The Invisible Trauma of War for Palestinian Youth’, Public Health 121(8): 563–71. Heuser, Beatrice. 1998. Nuclear Mentalities? Strategies and Beliefs in Britain, France and the FRG. London: Macmillan and New York: St. Martin’s Press. Heuser, Beatrice. 2010. The Strategy Makers: Thoughts on War and Society from Machiavelli to Clausewitz. Santa Monica, CA: ABC Clio for Praeger. Horne, John. 1995. ‘Soldiers, Civilians and the Warfare of Attrition: Representations of Combat in France, 1914–1918’, in F. Coetzee and M. Shevin-Coetzee (eds), Authority, Identity and the Social History of the First World War. Providence, RI and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 223–49. Lambert, Malcolm. 2010. Christians and Pagans: The Conversion of Britain from Alban to Bede. New Haven: Yale University Press. Lamdan, Isaac. 1951. ‘Masada’. Available online at , accessed 20 November 2015. Le Monde. 2015. ‘Beware: “Brexit” Could Be Your Waterloo’, 18 June. Available online at , accessed 5 October 2015. Malcolm, Noel. 2002. Kosovo: A Short History. London: Pan. McGonagall, William. 1980. Further Poetic Gems. London: Duckworth. Miller, David. 1995. On Nationality. Oxford: Clarendon Press, repr. 2002. Milošević, Slobodan. 1989. Speech marking the 600th anniversary of the Battle of Kosovo. Available online at , accessed 3 October 2015. Mladić, Radko. 1995. Interview. Available online at , accessed 4 October 2015. Mock, Steven J. 2012. Symbols of Defeat in the Construction of National Identity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morris, Ivan. 1980. The Nobility of Failure: Tragic Heroes in the History of Japan. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Movietown News. 1940. Quoted in ‘Stories of the Battle of Britain 1940—Dunkirk Over: Triumph or Defeat?’ Available online at , accessed 23 November 2015. Myard, Jacques. 2015. Press communiqué, Assemblée nationale, France, 17 June. Nietzsche, Friedrich. 1878. Menschliches, Allzumenschliches: Ein Buch für freie Geister [Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits]. Chemnitz: E. Schmeitzner. Orwell, George. 1941. ‘England, Your England’, in The Lion and the Unicorn: Socialism and the English Genius. London: Secker and Warburg, section II. Petzold, Joachim. 1963. Die Dolchstosslegende: Eine Geschichtsfälschung im Dienst des deutschen Imperialismus und Militarismus. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag.

68

Beatrice Heuser

Schivelbusch, Wolfgang. 2003. The Culture of Defeat: On National Trauma, Mourning, and Recovery, trans. Jefferson Chase. London: Granta Books. Sellars, W. C. and R. J. Yeatman. 1930. 1066 and All That. London: Methuen. UK Ministry of Information. 1940. Quoted in ‘Stories of the Battle of Britain 1940— Dunkirk Over: Triumph or Defeat?’ Available online at , accessed 23 November 2015. Ukraine Maidan Documentary. 2015. , at 151 minutes, accessed 23 October 2015. Winock, Michel. 1998. ‘Joan of Arc’, in Pierre Nora and Lawrence Kritzmann (eds), Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past, vol. 3: Symbols, trans. Arthur Goldhammer. New York: Columbia University Press, 433–83. Yadin, Yigael. 1966. Masada: Herod’s Fortress and the Zealots’ Last Stand, trans. from the Hebrew by Moshe Pearlman. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson.

5 Victory Though the Heavens Fall? Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon James Turner Johnson

JUDGING THE MORAL S TATUS OF UNLIMITED WAR: DOES VICTORY MATTER OVER ALL ELSE? Unless one is a pacifist, regarding all uses of military force as immoral, the standard for judging the moral status of uses of such force is the idea of just war in some form. I say ‘in some form’ because, while there was a tradition on just war that coalesced during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and held as a consensus in western culture until well into the modern period, the idea of just war was effectively lost as a source for moral guidance for some three centuries beginning in the middle of the seventeenth century, though it continued to exist in other ways through the new idea of the law of nations and through what came to be known as ‘the laws and customs of war’. The idea of just war as a moral concept appeared again only after World War II, first in the work of Paul Ramsey in the 1960s (Ramsey 1961 and 1968), continuing with that of Michael Walzer in the 1970s (Walzer 1977), and achieving broad public attention in the 1980s as a result of the muchpublicized work of the United States Catholic bishops on their pastoral letter, The Challenge of Peace (National Conference of Catholic Bishops 1983). None of these used the earlier just war tradition, each rather reinventing a new version of the just war idea as a source of moral value. I began my own work on recovering the historical just war tradition and exploring its present-day implications in this same period, but the broad shape of just war thinking since then has largely been one of reinvention, not recovery, so that the overall pattern today is of a great variety of conceptions of just war. How victory is understood, implicitly or explicitly, in recent just war thinking is similarly varied, and the phenomenon of unlimited warfare has also been treated

70

James Turner Johnson

differently. This chapter explores several of these variations in just war thinking with special attention to the questions of the moral status of unlimited warfare and the caption of victory. While most recent moral discourse on war has focused on limits to the conduct of war, even at the expense of unclear or even unjust outcomes of armed conflicts, the idea of unlimited war has historically paralleled the idea of war fought according to specified limits, and the phenomenon of unlimited war has recurred in various historical contexts. Unlimited war has often been associated with war for religion: examples include the sixteenth-century Wars of Religion and their sequel, the Thirty Years’ War, and today the behaviour of ISIS forces in Syria, Iraq, and elsewhere. The rationale in such cases is appeal to a divinely ordained cause so overwhelming in its claims that enemies are defined as enemies of God and no limits can be tolerated in seeking to punish them and prevail over them (see Kelsay’s Chapter 2 in this volume). But national survival can serve a similar purpose to divine appeal, as in the bombing campaigns of World War II. The idea of unlimited warfare persists despite efforts to limit the conduct of war. Writers who have addressed the moral status of war have often done so without taking into account the question of victory as itself a moral value. For pacifists of various sorts war itself is the fundamental moral problem, so that avoiding it is the primary value. ‘Winning’ here means avoiding or ending any fighting, whatever this may mean for the aftermath. Some recent just war thinkers have insisted on strict limits on war, sometimes not addressing the matter of victory or defeat at all and at other times arguing that wars should be settled by negotiated outcomes in which the benefits of victory and the costs of defeat are distributed between or among the parties to the conflict. This way of thinking contrasts sharply with classic just war reasoning, where the justification for war lies in the vindication of justice, understood as protecting and maintaining the classic ends or goods of politics: a just and peaceful social and political order. This conception of just war did not explicitly employ the term ‘victory’, but the idea of victory was implied in the fundamental moral responsibility to serve justice: this responsibility was not fulfilled where justice was not vindicated. While the medieval thinkers who first defined the classic conception of just war were confident in a universal standard of justice defined by natural law and knowable by anyone through the use of right reason, this conception was never truly shared the world over, and it did not survive the rise of the modern era. A major question since then is whether some form of agreement on fundamental values can be found. Major contenders in the present debate include human rights, the content of positive international law ratified by the consent of states, and (notably for proponents of ISIS) the dominance of a particular religious teaching. More broadly, as Samuel Huntington (1996) has suggested, major civilizations differ importantly on the nature of justice and

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

71

other important values. Such differences may mean that in a cross-cultural conflict, victory entails the dominance of the victor’s understanding of justice, or whatever value the victor considers primary. There is a sense in which the persuasiveness of such thinking, rather than confidence in universal agreement as to values and their priorities, has propelled the argument for unlimited means of war. On its terms winning is everything, and the measure of what means should be used in war is whether they contribute to winning or not. The following discussion examines a variety of perspectives on how to think about this whole matter. As I suggest at the end of this chapter, I do believe morally useful conclusions can be reached, but this is far from saying that all will agree. The best way to think about these various perspectives, then, is as stimuli to reflection about whether and when resort to war is justified and what means are justified in the pursuit of victory, as well as the nature of victory itself.

LETTING SLIP THE DOGS OF WA R: UNLIMITED WAR AS HISTORICAL PHENOMENON AND I DEAL In the ‘Prolegomena’ to his De Jure Belli ac Pacis, Hugo Grotius notes the widespread opinion in his day that war knows no rules. He writes, ‘Almost everybody echoes the saying of Euphemus, quoted by Thucydides, that for a king or a sovereign state nothing is unjust which is expedient’ (Reichberg, Syse, and Begby 2006: 387). Another translation of this passage renders it more harshly: ‘for a king or a free city nothing is wrong that is to their advantage’ (Grotius 1949: 3). Grotius continues, ‘Of like implication is the statement that for those whom fortune favours might makes right’, an axiom that has often been understood to be derived from another passage from Thucydides, the Melian dialogues: ‘the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must’ (Reichberg, Syse, and Begby 2006: 13). Later, Grotius alludes to a further axiom, this one associated with Cicero’s oration Pro Milone: ‘In war the laws are silent’ (inter arma silent leges). It is certainly true that when Grotius wrote such passages as these, he was expressing a widespread view, for he was writing during the Thirty Years’ War, a war (or connected series of wars) marked by atrocities and scorched-earth devastation. His purpose in citing these passages was not to approve them, though, but to use them to illustrate the importance of the study of the laws of war and peace on which he was about to embark, a task required by ‘the welfare of humankind’ (Reichberg, Syse, and Begby 2006: 387). In this study he set the pattern for the subsequent development of international legal efforts to impose limits on the prosecution of war.

72

James Turner Johnson

Grotius took seriously the idea that war might be prosecuted without restraint. Much of book 3 of On the Laws of War and Peace is devoted to exploring what is allowed in war by the law of nature (explored through classical authors and historical examples), and the overall picture that emerges is of warfare without limits. Yet toward the end of this book (chapters 11 and 12) he shifts his discussion to the emergence of what he calls ‘moderation’, that is, restraint in what one does to the enemy. In both cases there is no explicit discussion of victory, but rather victory seems to be assumed. Chapter 11 develops the idea of moderation in terms of how different classes of persons among the enemy should be treated, noting that not all among the enemy are equally guilty, and that the extremes of punishment may be lessened even for the guilty. It proceeds by identifying various classes of persons among the enemy who are functionally innocent in war and thus should be spared in prosecuting the war: children, women, old men, persons whose occupations are solely religious or concerned with letters, farmers, merchants, prisoners of war, persons wishing to surrender or who have surrendered—all of whom are to be spared harm except for individuals from among these classes who by their own actions have incurred guilt (that is, acting as combatants). His argument for this has two stages: some moderation arises from close consideration of what justice warrants, but additionally, for Christians, moderation in the harm done to the enemy follows from Christian charity or love. In chapter 12 Grotius shifts his attention to the matter of devastation in war, making similar distinctions and offering similar arguments. Again, he does not address the matter of winning in these discussions, leaving one to wonder: is moderation only an option for a force confident that it has power enough to overwhelm the enemy even while moderating the means available? Or does Grotius mean to say that moderation should be the norm whatever the consequences for whoever prevails in the conflict?

AVOIDANCE OF WAR, RESTRAINED WAR, AND UNLIMITED W AR: H OW ARE THEY RELATED? For some people the only victory is to avoid war altogether. In 1960 Roland Bainton,1 then generally regarded as the leading church historian in the United States and one of the best in the world, published a book, Christian Attitudes toward War and Peace, that identified Christian thinking on war as falling into three categories—pacifism, just war, and crusade—placing them Bainton’s work is also discussed briefly by Kelsay in the ‘Concluding Remarks’ to Chapter 2. 1

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

73

along a spectrum from no violence to the most violence. For this book Bainton stepped aside from his field of specialization, the Protestant Reformation, where he had secured his reputation as a historian, though the book reflected another lifelong commitment: Bainton was a Quaker ‘associate’. It is no surprise, then, that his description and evaluation of these three basic Christian attitudes toward war privileged pacifism. Bainton wrote, ‘The age of persecution down to the time [of] Constantine was the age of pacifism to the degree that during this period no Christian author to our knowledge approved of Christian participation in battle’ (Bainton 1960: 66). The other two positions came later and ‘matured in chronological sequence, moving from pacifism to just war to the crusade’ (Bainton 1960: 66). Recent peace church history puts the same claim more unequivocally: the emergence of just war thought was a fall from the original Christian position, as ‘the church gave up its nonresistant position and became the religion of the imperial state . . . . No doubt the most important factor in bringing about this change . . . was the gradual growth of moral laxness during this period’ (Hershberger 1969: 70–1). The crusades were a further step away from the original and fundamental pacifist ideal. To move in this direction was a fundamental moral loss. Bainton’s description of the relation between pacifism, just war, and crusade as defining a spectrum according to the degree of violence entailed has continued to appear in subsequent moral discussion of just war, both Christian and secular: on its terms the idea of just war is fundamentally about restraining the violence of war, either limiting its prosecution (as appears in different ways in both Paul Ramsey and Michael Walzer and their successors) or limiting recourse to war (the US Catholic bishops and their successors) or both (the Catholic Bishops and their successors again; David Rodin’s and Jeff McMahan’s use of ideas from Walzer to restrict and, in practice, rule out recourse to war).2 On this view, war is itself evil, to be avoided if possible, and held in check by moral and legal restraints if it cannot be avoided altogether. On Bainton’s spectrum, the idea of crusade or holy war is at the farthest extreme from the pacifist ideal, entailing unlimited violence. In his words: The crusading idea [requires] that the cause shall be holy (and no cause is more holy than religion), that the war shall be fought under God and with his help, that the crusaders shall be godly and their enemies ungodly, and that the war shall be prosecuted unsparingly. (Bainton 1960: 148)

The transcendent reference point—the holiness of such warfare—removes any distinction of combatant from non-combatant among persons supporting the enemy cause and justifies any and all means to secure the godly cause. Bainton

Chris Brown in ‘Revisionist Just War Theory’ and ‘Revisionist vs Conventional Just War Theory’ in Chapter 6 in this volume addresses McMahan’s ideas in greater depth. 2

74

James Turner Johnson

does not simply say that such war may be prosecuted without limitation; it is obligatory to do so: ‘the war shall be prosecuted unsparingly.’ Despite its iconic status in some quarters, Bainton’s conception of these three positions on war and their relationship is deeply problematical (specifically on holy war, see Johnson 1975: 137–46 and Johnson 1997: 37–9). In fundamental ways he misread all three of the ‘Christian attitudes’ he treated. He understood early Christian pacifism as essentially like the Christian and secular pacifism of his own time, opposition to violence as such, ignoring that the early position expressed fundamentally different concerns: the desire to separate from the world to prepare for the new aeon, the lingering influence of the Jewish tradition by which shedding human blood makes one ritually impure, concern over the immoral lives many soldiers led, and the connection writers like Tertullian made between the military oath and idolatry (see further Johnson 1987: 3–67). By the latter half of the second century all these concerns had diminished, and Christian opposition to war and military service became increasingly a minority position. By the 170s there was a legion composed of Christians, and the presence of Christian soldiers in the Roman army continued to increase after that. Constantine’s honouring the sign of the cross in the clouds before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge (an action clearly aimed at securing victory) reflected the heavy Christian composition of his force; rather than (as Bainton and the Mennonite historians have it) the Church accommodating to the Empire, this was a case of the future Emperor acknowledging the strength and power of Christianity. As for the just war idea, Bainton’s conception of it as a fall from the early Christian ideal ignored the theological basis for just war as understood by Augustine and later Christians, in which just war was not about mitigation of violence but about the right use of political order to oppose and rectify injustice in the service of peace (see further Johnson 2014: 9–27). And finally, Bainton’s depiction of the crusade as epitomizing war fought by unlimited means is historically inaccurate and has seriously complicated moral analysis and understanding of unlimited warfare as a broader phenomenon. In the end, defining war as evil because of its violence means it is always a moral loss. This ignores the moral victories—the vindication of justice—at which the just war idea aimed. To this we now turn.

THE CLASSIC STATEMENT OF JUST WAR: VICTORY AS THE VINDICATION OF J USTICE The classic conception of just war, which came together in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and endured until well into the modern period, differs importantly from both Grotius’s and Bainton’s conceptions. Aquinas, following

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

75

more than a century of canonical reflection before him, defined just war as having three requisites: the authority of a prince, a just cause defined as a response to injustice, and a right intention involving both avoiding wrong motivations and aiming at the end of peace. Taken together, this defined just war in terms of the moral obligation of the sovereign temporal ruler to act so as to honour the natural law by rectifying and punishing injustice, and thus to secure the peace and overall well-being of the political community for which the ruler had ultimate responsibility. On this conception, the justice embodied in the natural law, able to be known by human reason and to be expressed in human moral judgement and action, had been put into nature in the first place by God the creator of nature, and it expressed the will of God for the natural sphere. It is the duty of temporal authorities to serve this justice. Just war, on this conception, was one of the tools of good government, a tool sometimes necessary to deal with human actions against justice. Victory here was to vindicate justice. Understood this way, the specific means actually employed by a sovereign ruler to protect justice and respond to injustice might or might not include the use of armed force; that was a matter of the ruler’s judgement as to what would best serve justice. If the ruler judged, in a given case, that the use of armed force was necessary for this end, then how that force was used was also subject to the measure of what justice required. Aquinas’s succinct benchmark summary account of what is necessary for a just war included nothing explicit on right conduct in just warfare (jus in bello). If one measures the justice of a war in terms of how far it exhibits restraint in the use of armed force (the Bainton standard), then a jus in bello must be found, for that is where one would look to find a statement of the restraints required. Though Aquinas’s focus was on resort to war, when he wrote, the canon law already included a substantive statement on non-combatant immunity and restrictions on certain weapons as inherently causing disproportionate and indiscriminate harm. This reinforced rules for knightly conduct found in the chivalric code, and later commentators drew the resultant jus in bello into their overall conception of just war. This did not mean Aquinas’s summary of the classic just war idea included no idea of limits. This conception emphasized the protection of justice and the rectification of injustice as a sovereign ruler’s moral obligation in exercising responsibility for the common good of his political community. But to do this requires consideration of limits, because doing justice is always a matter of balance: either too much or too little force in response to an injustice may itself constitute an injustice. A person in governing authority has to decide how best to deal with a particular injustice in the frame of a larger perspective of the overall justice of the society. This was not a new problem; Augustine had recognized it centuries earlier in his advice to the Consul Marcellinus, the Emperor’s viceroy in North Africa, on the punishment of Donatist extremists

76

James Turner Johnson

for crimes for which they had been found guilty (Letter 139; St Augustine 2009). A punishment of death was warranted in Roman law for these crimes, and it would have been usual and expected, yet Augustine counselled leniency because of the popular effect this would have, and especially because it would show the moral superiority of Catholic Christians (both he and Marcellinus were Catholics) over the Donatists. Justice would still be served, but a broader justice than that focused on the immediate crimes of the guilty men. Victory in the sense of prevailing by force over the Donatists had already been achieved, but Augustine sought a broader and more lasting victory through moderation of punishment. The jus in bello today is generally defined by limits on the use of force: observing non-combatant immunity and not using disproportionate means during a conflict. From the perspective of the requirement of serving justice, distinguishing non-combatants from combatants and seeking to spare the former from direct, intended harm in war is a way of avoiding injustice to persons who did not themselves take direct part in war. Banning the use of certain weapons as too indiscriminate and destructive also serves justice by avoiding the creation of injustice. That is, the imperative of serving justice imposes restraints on the prosecution of a just war. What this might mean for victory or defeat is generally not addressed explicitly. But still, the goal is to serve justice, and in some cases that may require less restraint and more extreme means. Winning, on the classic just war conception, has to do with whether justice is served, and that is the measure of the means employed: victory is the vindication of justice. Only thus is the end of peace achieved.

MA Y UNLIM ITED M E ANS OF WAR SOM ETI MES BE JUSTIFIED? THE THINKING OF P AUL RAMSEY A N D MI C H A E L WALZE R The question remains whether unlimited means may ever serve justice. The section title paraphrases that of chapter 8 in Paul Ramsey’s War and the Christian Conscience (Ramsey 1961: 171–91). Ramsey, a theologian, was the first major thinker in the recovery and redefinition of just war thinking that took place between the 1960s and the 1980s, and elements of his thinking continue to influence the just war thinking of others. In contrast to the conceptions examined already, Ramsey defined just war as deriving from the Christian moral obligation to love one’s neighbour. Such love, argued Ramsey, permits and even obliges the Christian to take up arms if necessary to defend the innocent neighbour from harm, but at the same time it imposes limits on what might be done to the enemy, who also is a neighbour to be loved (Ramsey

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

77

1961: 37–41; see also 65–6, 73–4, 160 n. 42, 276–7). Developing this reasoning, he introduced the two criteria that have subsequently become standard in just war thinking: discrimination and proportionality (developed at length in Ramsey 1968). He defined discrimination as avoidance of any direct, intended targeting of non-combatants in prosecuting a war. But, he also argued (Ramsey 1961: 40–8), the moral rule of double effect (which he took over from Aquinas and Catholic moral theology) permits indirect, unintended harm to non-combatants from any use of force intentionally directed at a combatant target. Only when discrimination, understood this way, is satisfied do considerations of proportionality apply. Ramsey employed this conception of just war in two ways: first, in opposition to the widespread Christian pacifism of his time (Ramsey 1961: xv–xxiv), and second, to enter the broad secular debate then underway over nuclear weapons, their possible use in war, and deterrence. When he asked whether unlimited means of war might ever be justified, it was in the context of this debate over the possible use of nuclear weapons, where a significant strand of reasoning argued for such use. His answer, in the end, was negative (Ramsey 1961: 171, 190–1). But Ramsey left the door open to a possible use of nuclear weapons in war, provided that use met the requirements of discrimination and proportionality. He developed this theme through the remaining chapters of this book and in another volume that appeared seven years later (Ramsey 1968), returning to it again in his last book (Ramsey 1988), published shortly before his death. For Ramsey the key moral consideration was maintaining discrimination, which he regarded as satisfied by observing the rule of double effect. This meant that counter-population targeting is never moral, though targeting a combatant site in a populated area may be allowed despite harm to noncombatants in the area, providing the harm to non-combatants is not intended and not disproportionate. He was among the civilian nuclear strategists who believed that deterrence and prevailing in a possible nuclear war could rest on counter-force targeting (aiming nuclear weapons at Soviet nuclear weapons sites), and indeed would, because of its increased credibility, be more effective in securing these aims than the alternative counter-population (or countervalue) strategy. The happy result of this line of argument was that victory and restraint were in alignment. When Ramsey asked whether unlimited means of war could ever be justified, what he meant was first whether war might ever violate the moral principle of discrimination. His answer to that question was no: discrimination must always be observed. Proportionality, the second moral requirement of a just war, was not for Ramsey (as it was for his anti-nuclear critics) a simple matter of the great destructiveness of a nuclear blast; rather for him it was a measure of the total good versus the total evil of any given strike, a calculation that depends on the weight of other values versus the threat to them: it does

78

James Turner Johnson

not reduce to the amount of violence done. The implication of these two moral requirements, discrimination and proportionality, for the question of victory is that means of fighting must be found that honour them while not interfering with victory over the unjust opponent. On Ramsey’s terms this always implies strategic and tactical planning, as well as weapons design, that would honour these various moral obligations. Sixteen years after Ramsey posed—and answered negatively—the question whether unlimited means of war might ever be justified, Michael Walzer raised the question again in a different way through his examination of the argument from ‘supreme emergency’ in the cases of the RAF’s counter-city bombing of Germany and the atomic bombing of Hiroshima by the United States during World War II (Walzer 1977: 251–68). His reasoning on these has often been read as utilitarian and reduced to a preference of the greater good over the greater evil. But Walzer’s argument was in fact more complicated. He did indeed, in discussing the case of Hiroshima, take note of such reasoning (without embracing it for himself) in rejecting the morality of the atomic attack: ‘The only possible defense of the Hiroshima attack is a utilitarian calculation . . . made . . . where there was no room for it’ (Walzer 1977: 266). For Walzer, instead of the evil of the attack being measured against the evil the Japanese would otherwise do, the utilitarian calculus here weighed something we might do versus something else we might do: the evil of the attack versus the evils of continued conventional bombing and taking Japan by an invasion (Walzer 1977: 267). In the end, the moral problem, Walzer argued, was the US insistence on unconditional surrender by the Japanese, a demand that raised the stakes to an immoral level (Walzer 1977: 267–8). The atomic bombing of Japan was immoral because of this. But Walzer’s thinking on the RAF bombing campaign against German cities was different. Utilitarian calculus played a role, to be sure, but here this meant an evaluation of ‘a determinate crime (the killing of innocent people [by the bombing]) against that immeasurable evil (a Nazi triumph)’ (Walzer 1977: 259). The possibility of such a triumph created a situation of ‘supreme emergency’, in which the very values embedded in British society were themselves at stake: a Nazi triumph would mean their entire overthrow and replacement by the evil values of Nazism, which were well apparent by this time. So for Walzer the morality of the RAF’s bombing campaign was by no means a matter of a simple utilitarian calculation: it was rather about protecting values honoured in Britain, but not by the Nazis, by temporarily violating them through bombing cities in which innocent people would be killed: this was judged essential to avoiding a far worse catastrophe, a Nazi victory, in which all the values maintained in British society stood to be lost not temporarily but permanently. Violating the moral limits was linked to victory in this reasoning, yet winning here meant more than preventing a Nazi triumph. In the end, British victory also required reasserting the values

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

79

violated by counter-city bombing. Both military and moral victory were necessary. As matters developed, the Nazi triumph was averted, and that the violation of the rules of war by the counter-city bombing campaign was temporary and provisional was signalled by the withholding of honours from the RAF officer directly responsible, Air Vice Marshal Sir Arthur Harris. There is a good deal more to be said about this whole matter than Walzer’s discussion of it provides, but nonetheless the moral issue he raised remains significant: whether, when one’s moral system itself is seriously endangered, it may be right to violate that system in a limited and temporary way to avoid losing the system itself. Taken all together, Walzer’s reasoning in this particular historical case provides criteria for when victory in a conflict may morally justify exceeding recognized moral limits in war conduct. Walzer’s is a rather different way of reasoning from Ramsey’s, for whom the requirement of discrimination is never to be violated, whatever the emergency. From the perspective of classic just war reasoning, though, where the defence of justice was central and means were to be measured by that, something like Walzer’s conclusion might be reached but by a different path, the weighing of justice and injustice against each other. What is to be learned from this is that the style of moral reasoning is an important factor in judging the morality of extreme means. Yet another perspective is the subject of the following section.

REMOVING LIMITS ON WAR IN COSMOPOLITAN THINKING ABOUT W AR Analytic philosophical thinking on war, which has adopted for itself the name ‘cosmopolitan’, reflecting its self-conception as universal rather than attached to any given historical or cultural tradition, has depended heavily on Walzer in conceiving the idea of just war, though it has used him selectively and often disagrees with him on particular matters.3 A recent book, Cosmopolitan War, by one such thinker, Cécile Fabre (2012), exemplifies this. Fabre criticizes and ultimately rejects two ideas linked to Walzer: supreme emergency, which Fabre opposes as contrary to the cosmopolitan conception of justice from which she works, and the idea of the moral equality of soldiers, which is inconsistent with her argument that soldiers fighting justly are not the moral equals of soldiers fighting unjustly. I will comment here only on the latter. The idea rendered as ‘the moral equality of soldiers’ is not original to Walzer, as Fabre’s treatment suggests, but reaches back to Vitoria and Grotius,

3

For a trenchant critique of this approach to just war thinking, see Brown’s Chapter 6 in this volume.

80

James Turner Johnson

who, recognizing that in actual wars both sides may claim justice and even the most impartial observer may not be able to sort out those claims, argued that in such cases of ‘simultaneous ostensible justice’ (my term for this position) soldiers on both sides should be scrupulous in exercising moderation in fighting the enemy (see further my discussion in Johnson 1975: 185–95; 231–2). That is, when this idea first emerged, it reflected the realization that in actual conflicts justice may be claimed by both belligerents at once, and it represented an effort to set limits on the prosecution of such wars. This thinking led to an emphasis on jus in bello limits by Vitoria and Grotius and in the development of international customary and positive law on war, where the equality of soldiers became a central concept. It remains so in present-day international humanitarian law and in just war thinking of varieties other than cosmopolitan. In discarding this concept, then, Fabre, along with other cosmopolitans, including her Oxford colleague Jeff McMahan, effectively removes a baseline restraint, recognized in both the law of war and just war thought, on how wars may be fought. Though there is some merit in the argument that soldiers fighting in a just cause have a different moral status from those fighting in an unjust cause, that merit depends on an analysis of justice in a rational frame removed from the reality of judgements in historical life, where contending parties may (and usually do) interpret the requirements of justice differently. In such a context, removing the requirement that soldiers regard their enemies as moral equals means that both may proceed to fight with utmost harshness against the other, regarding the other as entirely in the wrong. Denial of the moral equality of soldiers opens the door to unlimited war.

FIGHTING JUSTLY, WINNING, AND EXCEEDING THE L IMITS: SOME G EN ERAL CONCLUSIONS It is time to draw these different lines of reflection together toward a conclusion. As the discussion in the previous section shows, victory has different meanings in different moral contexts. I do not think it possible to resolve the tensions separating these varied ways of thinking, or in the difference between war fought according to restraints and unrestrained war. But it may be possible to take a stand on how to understand and balance this complexity, and that is my aim in these concluding remarks. First, the positive reasons for unlimited warfare should not be underestimated. War is a serious and deadly business, and even when restraints are honoured, large numbers of people suffer and die and ordinary life is disrupted not only during the war but for a long time afterwards. When the highest values are perceived to be at stake, this may rationalize using unlimited means.

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

81

Much has been made, often inaccurately, about the connection between religion and unlimited warfare, from the Crusades through the Thirty Years’ War to various contemporary wars up to and including the warfare of ISIS; yet appeal to religion is hardly the only rationale that has been used to justify unlimited warfare, as shown by arguments examined above. Further, the standard for what counts as restraint and what counts as war beyond limits has varied through history. Major wars like the American Civil War and World Wars I and II exemplify wars justified by reasons rooted in political and national values. All these wars were enormously destructive, cutting deeply into the lives of those involved and the following generations, inflicting lasting damage on their societies. At the same time, these wars were largely fought in ways that respected the conventions of restraint in war as these were then understood, and participants understood themselves as serving good in the best way possible to them. Commitment to fighting a war, whether as a leader of a political community, a military commander, a soldier, or indeed any other member of a society drawn into war, implies a commitment to protecting and maintaining the values for which it is being fought and victory in doing so. Judgement is of course required as to the nature of these values, as well as comparative judgement as to the values held by the enemy: not all values are equally valid, and not all valid values have equal priority. Classic just war thinking was clear that just cause for war consisted in damage or a threat to justice, and in some sense one can grant that this remains the norm in both international law and moral debate. Yet the meaning of justice is by no means distinct and universally agreed upon. Both parties to a conflict may easily believe they have justice on their side, and in at least some wars sorting out the claims of justice is impossible for even an impartial observer. Vitoria and Grotius used this observation to argue for restraint in fighting, with the result that for them, as in western moral and legal development more generally since, the focus shifted from consideration of the just causes for war to the just conduct of war, that is, to the matter of the jus in bello. Even so, this does not put to rest the question of justice in the cause for which a war is fought, and indeed the idea of jus in bello itself assumes the criterion of justice behind the prosecution of a war. Yet agreement as to justice remains elusive, and it may have the character of both– and, rather than either–or. Where, then, is justice to be found, and what does this imply for victory? To take only one case, that of World War II, it is far from clear that more restraint in the means used, or a negotiated settlement rather than insistence on unconditional surrender followed by compassion in the rebuilding of the vanquished societies, would have better served justice than the vanquishing of the Axis powers. One may reasonably extend this reflection to include present-day warfare against radical Islamist terrorism, including both al Qaeda and ISIS. These movements openly espouse values their followers believe divinely rooted. They

82

James Turner Johnson

understand their enemy in terms of religious adherence, specifically, failure to adhere to their own understanding of Islam. The means they employ, while extreme and unlimited from other perspectives, are from their own perspective allowed and perhaps even mandated by Islamic revelation and tradition. But sincerity in belief by itself does not prove rectitude, and there is an abundance of reasons why these movements should be energetically opposed. How far should this opposition go? The use of extreme means against these movements would follow the logic of classic just war thinking as well as the analogy of the ‘supreme emergency’ argument as described by Walzer, and doing so would also be in accord with the reciprocal action allowed in international customary law on war. But the other side of this matter is that fighting so as to violate the restraints embodied in the idea of just war and international humanitarian law may undermine the values these restraints seek to express, so that violation harms the values that are to be protected and preserved by the fighting in the first place. Moreover, it can be argued that some limits on war conduct may never be morally violated. The tensions among these moral perspectives are inescapable. This leads me to my second major point in these concluding observations. Restraint in war is historically a contingent phenomenon; it is not good in itself, and some restraints are more important than others. There is a moral obligation to develop and employ efficacious means that do not violate the most important restraints. Consider Ramsey’s ‘no’ answer to his own question whether unlimited means of war can ever be justified: on his reasoning it is never justifiable to violate the principle of discrimination. For him this principle is an exceptionless moral rule derived directly from the moral obligation of love of neighbour. But what this means was mitigated in at least some measure by Ramsey’s willingness to allow non-combatant harm done in accord with the rule of double effect, a procedural rule he used to interpret the meaning of the non-combatant immunity implied by the obligation of love of neighbour. The result appears in his reasoning about moral targeting of nuclear weapons: if they are directly and intentionally aimed at the citizens of Moscow, that is wrong; yet if they are aimed at the Kremlin, a legitimate military target, or at a military base in Moscow’s suburbs, that is morally allowed, though there should be an attempt to minimize the unintended, indirect harm to civilians. Yet a nuclear strike against a military target anywhere in or near Moscow would have much the same effect as the direct targeting of the city itself: the moral distinction Ramsey was making was one that was not measured by the fact of harm to non-combatants but by whether they are intentionally targeted or not. This is why, for him, counter-force targeting represents a moral option not present in counter-population targeting, regardless of the total amount of harm done.

Unlimited Warfare as Theme and Phenomenon

83

The logical next step in taking discrimination and proportionality morally seriously was the development of technologies not available when Ramsey was writing in the 1960s but which have since been brought into use. When Ramsey wrote, the degree of accuracy of weapons delivery systems (measured by ‘circular error probable’ (CEP), the size of a circle within which half the warheads could be expected to fall) was such that warheads needed to be extremely destructive to destroy the target nonetheless, and this necessarily meant heavy collateral damage. But the development, deployment, and use of weapons systems capable of hitting intended targets with great precision has changed this state of affairs, making possible the use of radically downsized warheads and primary reliance on conventional weapons for warfighting, while tactics of delivery (angle of attack, time of day, even the place of an attack) have contributed further to making discrimination and proportionality actually possible and not simply desirable but unattainable moral goals. When Ramsey was writing, his thinking had to do directly with the question of a retaliatory response to a first nuclear strike by the Soviet Union. Other voices in the debate in which Ramsey was engaged argued for a counter-city/counter-population response as justified to punish the first strike, and this would certainly have manifested use of unlimited means. Some voices then argued that any retaliatory use of nuclear weapons would be immoral: this became the position of the US Catholic bishops (National Conference of Catholic Bishops 1983) as well as secular nuclear pacifists. But for Ramsey avoidance of direct, intended harm to non-combatants, not avoidance of war, is the value of the highest importance. That seems to me to be a value well worth seeking to preserve even in a war involving unprecedented means of destruction, because of the honour it pays to human life in general. Nor is this debate of an earlier time irrelevant in the present context, since nuclear weapons and means of delivery are now possessed by several states that are potential enemies of western societies, and since not only nuclear weapons but other sorts of radiological weapons, as well as biological and chemical weapons of mass destruction, might be used in a terrorist attack. I too hold to the importance of observing the restraints of discrimination and proportionality, though I understand this within a conception of just war as use of force for the purpose of serving justice. Victory, on this conception, is morally necessary, but at the same time the service of justice implies that fundamental moral norms not be violated. There is clearly a tension here, and I suggest that it is one that always presents itself in times of conflict. It is the obligation of moral judgement to seek to resolve it in the best way possible in each new context. That, in the end, is how I understand the relationship among victory, restraint, and use of extreme means in war.

84

James Turner Johnson REFERENCES

Augustine, St. 2009. Letters. Available at , accessed 14 May 2015. Bainton, Roland. 1960. Christian Attitudes toward War and Peace. Nashville: Abingdon Press. Fabre, Cécile. 2012. Cosmopolitan War. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Grotius, Hugo. 1949. The Law of War and Peace. New York: Walter J. Black. Hershberger, Guy Franklin. 1969. War, Peace, and Nonresistance. Scottdale, PA and Kitchener, ON: Herald Press. Huntington, Samuel. 1996. The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order. New York: Simon & Schuster. Johnson, James Turner. 1975. Ideology, Reason, and the Limitation of War. Princeton and London: Princeton University Press. Johnson, James Turner. 1987. The Quest for Peace. Princeton and Guildford, Surrey: Princeton University Press. Johnson, James Turner. 1997. The Holy War Idea in Western and Islamic Tradition. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Johnson, James Turner. 2014. Sovereignty: Moral and Historical Perspectives. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. National Conference of Catholic Bishops. 1983. The Challenge of Peace: God’s Promise and Our Response. Washington, DC: United States Catholic Conference. Ramsey, Paul. 1961. War and the Christian Conscience: How Shall Modern War Be Conducted Justly? Durham: Duke University Press. Ramsey, Paul. 1968. The Just War: Force and Political Responsibility. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Ramsey, Paul. 1988. Speak Up for Just War or Pacifism. Pennsylvania and London: Pennsylvania State University Press. Reichberg, Gregory M., Henrik Syse, and Endre Begby (eds). 2006. The Ethics of War: Classic and Contemporary Readings. Malden, Oxford, and Carlton: Blackwell Publishers. Walzer, Michael. 1977. Just and Unjust Wars. New York: Basic Books.

6 Revisionist Just War Theory and the Impossibility of a Moral Victory Chris Brown

I N T R O D U C TI O N The just war tradition provides the predominant language through which the Christian and post-Christian West has framed the ethical aspects of war but this predominance is not uncontested. Critics argue that the notion of a just war encourages the demonization of enemies and actually works against attempts to limit conflict.1 These claims will be addressed further in this chapter, but for the time being it suffices to note that they miss the point of the tradition, partly perhaps because the term ‘just war’ is, in fact, rather misleading insofar as it implies that war might in certain circumstances be a Good Thing. What the originators of the tradition had in mind was justified war, the circumstances under which one would be justified in resorting to violence; such violence was never to be seen as other than an unfortunate necessity. The first premise of figures such as Augustine and Aquinas was that God intended that we should live in peace with justice, in a world without violence. Violence was only justified to right a wrong—that is, to bring us back to a world of peace-with-justice—and then only if it was undertaken in the right way, and with due regard to the conventional requirements of right intention, right authority (that is, as a public act rather than as a private enterprise), and with the provision that it be effective, proportionate to the offence, with a reasonable chance of success and with protection for the innocent (Johnson 1985; Finnis 1996). A justified war should be fought with victory in mind, but such a victory would be moral only if the cause is just and the aforementioned limits on the use of force are adhered to. 1 This charge has a long history: see Johnson, ‘Letting Slip the Dogs of War: Unlimited War as Historical Phenomenon and Ideal’ in Chapter 5 in this volume.

86

Chris Brown

This position was produced by theologians who were concerned with the saving of souls, but one of the most important originators of the tradition, Thomas Aquinas, was also an Aristotelian who believed that just war principles were based in reason, and this rather than the religious link as such is why the tradition has survived into the twenty-first century. Modern writers on the just war, such as James Turner Johnson, Paul Ramsey, and Michael Walzer, have adapted the tradition for modern conditions—quite radically in Walzer’s case—but the basic framework remains the same (Ramsey 1961; Walzer 2015; see also Johnson’s Chapter 5 in this volume, for a complementary discussion). Just war thinking stands between pacifism, the belief that force is always wrong, and realism, the belief that issues of right and wrong are irrelevant to such matters. Just war is about discrimination and the exercise of various kinds of judgement. In essence, just war thinking provides a set of questions that should be asked when violence is at issue and before victory in war can legitimately be sought. In short, the just war tradition can mount a solid defence against its enemies. But the aim of this chapter is to suggest that the tradition is actually under greater threat from those who think of themselves as its critical friends. Over the last twenty-odd years a new group of thinkers have emerged from out of analytical political philosophy: thinkers who have taken the language of the tradition and turned it into a theory, by which they mean a set of answers rather than a set of questions. Acknowledging that what they are doing is some way away from both Thomas Aquinas and Michael Walzer, they sometimes refer to themselves as revisionist just war theorists. In what follows the case will be made that far from, as they claim, making the tradition more relevant to modern conditions, they are actually weakening it, making it more vulnerable to those who are its declared enemies. In the main body of the chapter the arguments of the revisionists will be examined, along with their relationship to the tradition. The charge will be made that revisionist thinking loses contact with the realities of warfare, leaves the notion of a just war vulnerable to critics both conservative and radical, and makes the notion of a moral victory or indeed any kind of victory impossible of achievement. By way of a prologue, in order to introduce some important distinctions that revisionist just war theory blurs, the chapter will begin with an account of two ideal types, that of the soldier and the police constable.2 The way in which these two—in principle very distinct—ideal types have been conflated in recent years is a good way of illustrating what is at stake in the project of defending the just war tradition from its false friends.

2

As an aside, it is useful to note that Amy Eckert (Chapter 12 in this volume) treats a third category of warrior or combatant, the mercenary.

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

87

THE CONSTABLE A ND THE S OLDIER As will be apparent, actual police officers and soldiers are rarely adequately described by the idealizations employed here, but the latter serve a purpose nonetheless. English examples will be used; some other common law countries exhibit similar characteristics, but Continental systems less so. In France, for example, the Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité (CRS) are a paramilitary force that falls between the two ideal types set out here. Still, this parochialism allows important distinctions to be made. In England, all police officers are ‘constables’ irrespective of their rank in the police force; the Office of Constable is actually medieval in origin but in its modern form it was created by Sir Robert Peel’s Metropolitan Police Act of 1829. Constables are sworn officers; the wording of the oath is as follows: I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that I will well and truly serve the Queen in the office of constable, with fairness, integrity, diligence and impartiality, upholding fundamental human rights and according equal respect to all people; and that I will, to the best of my power, cause the peace to be kept and preserved and prevent all offences against people and property; and that while I continue to hold the said office I will to the best of my skill and knowledge discharge all the duties thereof faithfully according to law.

To quote a Police Federation pamphlet of 2015: The Office of Constable means a police officer has the additional legal powers of arrest and control of the public given to him or her directly by a sworn oath and warrant. These are not delegated powers simply because they have been employed as an officer and officers are not employees, they are not agents of the police force, police authority or government. Those who hold the Office of Constable are servants of the Crown. Each sworn constable is an independent legal official and each police officer has personal liability for their actions or inaction.

Personal responsibility and liability is central to the Office of Constable, and the terms under which violence may be used by the police follow from these principles. ‘Upholding fundamental human rights’ is central to the oath of office, and although the police have powers of arrest and control which if necessary they may exercise using minimum force, deadly force may be used only in self-defence or in defence of the public, and constables are personally liable for whatever action is taken. Contrast the Office of Constable with the role of the soldier, as set out in Queen’s Regulations for the Army (1975); first, the oath of allegiance is very different from that sworn by a constable, thus: I swear by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors and that I will as in duty

88

Chris Brown

bound honestly and faithfully defend her Majesty, her heirs and successors in person, crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of her Majesty, her heirs and successors and of the generals and officers set over me. (Chapter 3.15)

Allegiance is to the sovereign with no reference to principles such as human rights, and with respect to conduct the key term, indeed the only term, is obedience. Soldiers are not independent legal officials, they are members of a team who must obey the orders of those set over them. Whereas constables may use lethal force only in self-defence or the defence of others, chapter 3 of Queen’s Regulations states that: Soldiers are required to close with the enemy, possibly in the midst of innocent bystanders, and fight; and to continue operating in the face of mortal danger. This is a group activity, at all scales of effort and intensities. Soldiers are part of a team, and the effectiveness of that team depends on each individual playing his or her part to the full. (Chapter 3.5)

Discipline is central to army operations, and obedience to orders is central to the operation of the military, but this does not mean that any order must be carried out: ‘All soldiers are subject to the criminal law of England wherever they are serving . . . When deployed on operations soldiers are subject to international law, including the laws of armed conflict and the prescribed rules of engagement, and in some cases local civil law’ (chapter 3.18). In this conventional understanding of the role of the soldier, it is the Law of Armed Conflict (LOAC)—an umbrella term including the Hague and Geneva Conventions and the Protocols attached thereto—and the prescribed rules of engagement that regulate conduct. Only ‘in some cases’ is local civil law involved, although English criminal and civil law applies, which as we will see poses potential problems. In summary, a constable is an independent actor, personally responsible for his or her actions and subject to domestic law, including human rights law. A soldier is a team player, bound to follow lawful orders, lawful in this context being defined primarily by the LOAC. These differences are starkly illustrated when the issue of ‘victory’ is raised. Victory is the raison d’être of the soldier, whether this is achieved by actual fighting or by the threat of the use of force, whereas the raison d’être of the constable is the preservation of peace, tranquility, and the opportunity for all to enjoy their rights.

WARRIOR COPS AND COP WARRIORS Both of these idealizations have come into question recently, most obviously in the case of the role of the constable in the context of the policing of

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

89

demonstrations and the emergence of Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) teams and, in the UK, special firearms units, such as the Metropolitan Police’s SC&O19. The notion of individual responsibility is difficult to sustain when large numbers of police with shields, batons, and possibly water cannons are deployed, and SWAT teams are required to operate precisely as teams rather than as individuals. This development has become a source of concern to the police themselves and to observers. Consider, for example, an article that appeared in the Wall Street Journal (hardly a newspaper given to bleeding heart liberalism) on 7 August 2013, ‘The Rise of the Warrior Cop: Is It Time to Reconsider the Militarization of American Policing?’ (Balko 2013) and a similar article in the US edition of The Economist on 22 March 2014, ‘Cops or Soldiers? America’s Police Have Become Too Militarized’ (Anon 2014). These developments cause concern but it is worth noting that even harsh critics of the militarization of the police acknowledge that there are real-world problems that lie at the root of the changes. It is clear that the kind of unrest seen in Ferguson, Missouri in August 2014 or in the London riots of August 2011 cannot easily be policed by the kind of lone operators envisaged by the classical account of the role of the constable. Similarly, the rise of gun crime in major British cities means that some kind of SWAT force is needed. The question is, how much of the old notion of the role of the police constable can be preserved under these new conditions? Opinions differ on this, but few deny that there are new conditions. The situation is rather different for the other side of the medal, which, adapting the terms of the WSJ and the Economist, we might call ‘the rise of the cop warrior’ or ‘western armies have become too civilianized’. To a certain extent this may reflect the employment of troops in peacekeeping operations and in the kind of policing operations that follow humanitarian interventions (see Chapter 10 by Mills in this volume), but for the most part other factors are involved. Whereas police tactics have changed because of the nature of the problems the police have faced, changes in the way Western European militaries operate have been generated not in response to enemy tactics, but in response to domestic developments within the homeland and to the writings of political philosophers. These developments reflect a different conception of the ethics of war to that set out in the just war tradition and in such documents as the Queen’s Regulations. On this new conception, individual rights are paramount, and the LOAC is being required to give way to international human rights legislation. Ironically, just at the point where the rise of the warrior cop is undermining the individualism of the constable, the process is going in reverse for the soldier, with serious implications for the possibility of any kind of victory in war.

90

Chris Brown

REVISIONIST JUST WAR THEORY It would be a mistake to imagine that this shift has taken place simply in response to developments in political philosophy, and relevant other factors will be examined later, but nonetheless the work of the revisionist just war theorists is worth exploring. In simple terms, these theorists are a group of scholars who approach the subject from the perspective of liberal individualist analytical political theory. The core assumptions of this general approach to political theory are, first, that problems are there to be solved and can be solved if enough brainpower is devoted to the task, and second, that the rights of individuals are central to any such solution. Both assumptions are somewhat at right angles to classical just war tradition, hence the revisionist tag associated with this work. To return to a point made in the introduction, the just war tradition presents a series of questions concerning the use of force and violence which invite the exercise of judgement. Just war theory as espoused by the revisionists attempts to arrange these questions into a series of law-like propositions which will provide answers, that is, will tell us how we should behave (Brown 2013). Early statements of this approach include David Rodin’s War and Self-Defence (2002) which contests the notion that states have a right to defend themselves from attack, and Jeff McMahan’s The Ethics of Killing (2002) which took war as simply one element of a larger problem about killing, but perhaps the most substantial and influential work is McMahan’s Killing in War (2009) which contests the just war tradition on a number of points, most famously arguing against the view that combatants should be treated as moral equals. Other major writers include Cécile Fabre (2012), Henry Shue (2016), and Seth Lazar (2015).3 The central feature of the new thinking is a refusal to conceptualize war as a collective enterprise; instead, the revisionists argue, war has to be understood in terms of individual responsibility at all levels, from the high command down to the frontline soldier. As a general proposition, this stance involves replacing the idea that there is a specific body of laws associated with war—the LOAC or International Humanitarian Law—by an assertion of the universal scope and authority of International Human Rights Law. Such a substitution has dramatic consequences. In order to show how dramatic, it may be useful to set out some conventional positions which are supported by International Humanitarian Law and, for the most part, by arguments drawn from the just war tradition but opposed by the revisionists. Conventionally, both the just war tradition and the LOAC are concerned with, and distinguish between, what is usually called jus ad bellum (just resort to war) and jus in bello (just conduct of war). The division of just war thinking See Johnson’s ‘Avoidance of War, Restrained War, and Unlimited War: How Are They Related?’ in Chapter 5, for related discussions of revisionist just war theory. 3

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

91

into these two categories is relatively recent but quite well established nowadays. The clearest expression of the distinction between the two can be found in Michael Walzer’s highly influential Just and Unjust Wars (2015), where he identifies and distinguishes the ‘theory of aggression’ from the ‘war convention’. Walzer’s theory of aggression argues that members of international society are entitled to defend their political and physical integrity, and thus that attacks on the same, except in very limited legal and moral circumstances, constitute a crime and justify a war of self-defence. However, on his account, the ‘war convention’ states that the combatants in such a war, whether on the side of the aggressor or the defender, should be treated as morally equal with the same rights. As will be discussed later, Walzer’s position is somewhat at odds with the medieval just war tradition, but it is broadly supported by modern international law. The UN Charter outlaws the use of force (Article 2[4]) except in self-defence (Article 51) or as directed by the Security Council, and selfdefence is recognized by most conventional just war thinkers as the most obvious example of a just cause for war; indeed, so obvious that it is rarely discussed. As to the war convention, the LOAC extends protection to all combatants and non-combatants irrespective of the alleged justice of their cause; the same rules apply to all. The just war tradition is a little less committed to this principle (again, see later in this section) but there are good pragmatic and moral reasons for adhering to it. Pragmatically, it is clear that if either side in a conflict could waive the rules on the basis that their opponent was the wrongdoer, then in effect there would be no rules, to the detriment of troops on both sides. The moral case for following the war convention is equally strong: most combatants in a large-scale war are likely to be conscripts, not given a choice whether or not to fight. Such soldiers are responsible for their conduct in the war, but the conventional approach acquits them of responsibility for the actual war. Revisionist just war theory is critical of both the theory of aggression, the current version of jus ad bellum, and the moral equality of combatants, the current core principle of jus in bello, predictably criticizing the international legal status quo and the just war tradition from an anti-collectivist position which focuses on the rights and responsibilities of the individual. David Rodin’s War and Self-Defence presents the core argument with respect to jus ad bellum, later extended by other just war revisionists (Rodin 2002; Fabre and Lazar 2014). From the revisionist perspective states do not have an unqualified right of self-defence. Such a right is conditional; only just societies have the right to defend their political and territorial integrity. Only just communities are entitled to defend themselves, and even then, attacks on the sovereignty or territorial integrity of a state are not in themselves justifications for war; they are such if, and only if, individual rights are violated. So, for example, a bloodless invasion would not count as an act of aggression.

92

Chris Brown

Jeff McMahan’s Killing in War is the most important revisionist work on jus in bello, along with a collection on Just and Unjust Warriors edited by David Rodin and Henry Shue (McMahan 2008, 2009; Rodin and Shue 2008). Here the revisionist argument is that combatants (and non-combatants) are rightsholders, but that they hold different rights, depending on the justice of their cause; there is no moral equivalence between combatants fighting a just war and combatants in an unjust war. Combatants in an unjust cause are not entitled to act aggressively or to defend themselves and the fact that they were conscripted into the army and may not share the beliefs of their leaders is irrelevant in the context of their moral responsibility. However, they are still rights-bearers who possess the right to life, therefore they can only be killed in self-defence by just combatants who do have the right to defend themselves. The model here is very much that of domestic policing where the police have powers of arrest and may use necessary force if they are resisted; the criminal may not resist arrest but may not be subjected to violence in the event of nonresistance. This makes sense in a domestic context but produces somewhat surreal scenarios on the battlefield. In Afghanistan, for example, successive British governments were unwilling to describe the conflict as a war (and therefore subject to the Laws of Armed Conflict), instead regarding British soldiers as present in a police role, supporting the civil power; the result was that soldiers were obliged to act as live bait to provoke the enemy into attacking them and thus legitimating a violent response (Owen 2012). The notion that soldiers might be required to engage the enemy in a proactive way, and thereby contribute towards achieving a victory, went by the board. The revisionist positions are counter-intuitive, but, of course, that does not make them wrong. Still, there are compelling reasons to be concerned at the development of revisionist just war theory and, in particularly, its impact on western armies. But before elaborating the case against revisionist theory, it may be helpful to say a little more about the relationship between this version of just war theory and the tradition; this will raise one or two issues that will form the basis for the later critique.

REVISIONIST VS CONVENTIONAL JUST W AR THEORY As suggested above, revisionist just war theory is a product of liberal, postRawlsian analytical political philosophy, but it also has an interesting relationship with conventional just war thinking, in particular with the work of Michael Walzer. Walzer is the central opponent of the revisionists, the figure that they define themselves against. His liberal communitarianism stands against their liberal individualism, his account of the theory of aggression is, from their point of view, excessively statist, and his account of the moral

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

93

equality of combatants denies what they regard as the central significance of individuals and the choices they make. These are substantive issues, but it is also the case that Walzer’s style of reasoning is one that the revisionist just war theorists reject. Walzer himself has commented on this in the context of his interactions with friends and colleagues at Harvard in the 1970s. He remarks: ‘I couldn’t breathe easily at the high level of abstraction that philosophy seemed to require . . . And I quickly got impatient with the playful extension of hypothetical cases, moving farther and farther away from the world we all lived in’ (Imprints interview, 2003, reprinted in Walzer 2007). Playful is not the word that immediately comes to mind when looking at, say, Jeff McMahan’s hypothetical cases in Killing in War, but they certainly move a long way away from the world we live in. Predictably, if the revisionists are critical of Walzer, Walzer certainly returns the compliment. His most substantial critique of the revisionists appears in the Afterword to the fifth edition of Just and Unjust Wars, but the flavour of his response is nicely caught in a 2012 online interview with Nancy Rosenblum, where he remarks that for the revisionists, ‘the subject of just war theory is just war theory [whereas] I think the subject matter of just war theory is war’ (Rosenblum 2012)—a criticism that will be returned to later in this chapter. Still, arguably, Walzer opens himself up to the critique of the revisionists by basing his approach on individual rights which he argues are realized via political communities. The rights of these communities depend on their protection of individual rights, such that ‘[The] moral standing of any particular state depends on the reality of the common life it protects and the extent to which the sacrifices required by that protection are willingly accepted and thought worthwhile’ (Walzer 2015: 54). It is easy to see how this approach can be turned against him: he stands for the rights of political communities, but the theory of aggression he presents takes states as the referent object and it is by no means clear that the majority of states can actually be seen as protecting a common life in the way that his approach requires. The revisionists have a point when they say that by basing their account on the rights of the individual they avoid the implausible attribution of moral value to the state, even though their approach may well throw up other implausibilities. The revisionists are not much concerned with the medieval writers on just war. Walzer is a target much closer to home and with whom they share quite a lot; this is certainly not the case where Catholic theologians of the thirteenth century are concerned. Still, if they were to take an interest, they would find that in some respects their own work fits rather better with the thinking of Augustine and Aquinas than it does with that of Walzer or modern international lawyers. The medievals were also concerned with individuals and their motivations, they were not remotely statist or communitarian, they did not regard self-defence as the epitome of a just cause, and they did not accept

94

Chris Brown

the moral equality of combatants. On the face of it, they seem to be protorevisionists, closer to Rodin, McMahan, et al. than to Walzer. The points of contact here are obvious, but there are also major differences: the key point is that medieval just war thinking exists in, and cannot be divorced from, a theological framework. Aquinas and the scholastics were concerned about the fate of individual souls, which is why, for example, so much attention was paid to the principle of ‘right intention’; what individuals did was in some ways less important than why they did it. Walzer explicitly will have none of this; aggression is an international crime and we don’t worry about the motivations of those who respond to it unless those motivations undermine the response. Revisionists would, I think, have to agree. Still, medieval just war thinkers did not focus on self-defence in the way that non-revisionist modern writers tend to; they believed that a just cause involved righting a wrong. Self-defence might come into this category, but it was not the be-all or end-all of just cause. Indeed, Aquinas barely mentions self-defence, simply taking for granted that individuals are entitled to defend themselves, while focusing his attention on more contestable issues (Finnis 1996). Another point of contact with the revisionists is that medieval thinkers certainly believed it important to distinguish between those warriors who were fighting for a just cause and those who were not, and equally certainly they rejected the idea of the moral equivalence of combatants. We can use our Godgiven capacity to reason and exercise judgement in order to form a view as to where justice lies and this should guide our approach to the judgement of the responsibilities of combatants. The revisionists would agree, but for medieval thinkers this is ultimately a question for God and God alone to decide, either in the Last Judgement or on this earth. Here we see the all-important difference between the revisionists and the medievals. In effect, revisionist just war theorists substitute the judgement of political philosophers such as themselves for the judgement of God. They will decide where justice lies, and which soldiers should enjoy the advantage of being declared just combatants. This is, of course, problematic: unlike God, political philosophers have the advantage that no one doubts that they actually exist, but their claim to infallibility is rather less well-founded.

CRITIQUING REVISIONIST JUST WAR THEORY: THE I MPOSSIBILITY OF A MORAL V ICTORY This account of the revisionists has already contained implicit, and sometimes explicit, criticisms which now need to be pulled together. There are two points here which are basic and which address the underpinnings of revisionist just war theory. First, war is a collective enterprise that cannot be understood in

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

95

liberal individualist terms. The idea that all social behaviour can be understood in terms of the behaviour of individuals is something that revisionist just war theorists share with other analytical political theorists and mainstream economics, and is subject to the same critiques that those disciplines attract. Second, revisionist just war theory relies on implausible assumptions about the capacity of the theorist to make authoritative judgements as to the justice of particular causes or particular tactics. The revisionist just war theorist believes that with enough concentrated brainpower the justice of a cause can be accurately assessed, just as the Rawlsian believes that sufficient thought can tell us which arguments are reasonable and which can legitimately be excluded from an ‘overlapping consensus’ (Rawls 2005). This assumes too much; human beings do not possess the means to achieve that kind of certainty. The just war tradition, rooted in a Christian adaptation of Aristotelian phronesis, stresses the centrality of judgement but does not hold out the possibility of certainty. Once again, it is worth stressing that classical just war thinking provides questions, while revisionist just war theory purports to provide answers. These two, as it were, generic criticisms feed into the specific content of revisionist just war theory. It is indisputable that, as the Michael Walzer quote presented earlier indicates, this theory loses contact with the realities of war. One of the most difficult challenges faced by conventional just war thinking in the modern era is the need to find morally acceptable ways of fighting enemies who refuse to accept the notion of rules and conventions; those who will not reciprocate attempts to exercise restraint. The application of revisionist principles to western militaries would make a difficult task more or less impossible; the opposition to individual rights exhibited by the Taliban, Al Qaeda, or ISIS makes them impervious to the human rights culture prized by the revisionists, and the rules that the latter would like to extend to all military forces will actually only affect those of the West. There is, I think, a wider point here which relates directly to the possibility of a victory, let alone a moral victory under any circumstances and not just those of asymmetric warfare. It is quite evident that it would be next to impossible to fight and win a war that satisfied all the requirements of the revisionists (see also ‘The Scandal of Winning’ in Chapter 7). The first requirement of a moral victory is, surely, a just cause and it is difficult to discern what kind of cause would be regarded by the revisionists as fitting this bill. The revisionists may be right to think that self-defence is an inadequate proxy for a just cause, but they clearly would not wish to follow the more expansive account of just cause favoured by, for example, James Turner Johnson (2001, 2005). On the contrary, their aim in undermining the idea that self-defence automatically counts as a just cause is not to widen but to limit further the circumstances under which any cause could be considered just. Assuming that, by some quirk of fate, a just cause that would satisfy the revisionists could be found and therefore a war could be justly undertaken, the

96

Chris Brown

kind of in bello restrictions that they would impose would almost certainly rule out the possibility of victory. An army that is unable to take the initiative, that may not close with the enemy, that is obliged to recognize the right to life of its opponents, could hardly be expected to achieve victory. The best that could be hoped for, if both armies were fighting with the same revisionist restraints, would be a pointless stalemate. And this conclusion can be reached even before bringing in some of the other factors that restrict an army obliged to take onboard the full set of domestic and international human rights. Here, the aforementioned non-philosophical factors that promote the civilianization of western militaries come into play. The ‘health and safety’ culture of Western European armies already produces bizarre results; witness the way in which British coroners conduct inquests into the deaths of soldiers in Afghanistan and apply criteria that take no account of battlefield conditions. For just one example, a coroner in Salisbury investigating the deaths of three soldiers in a road accident in Afghanistan commented, ‘The speed of the Ridgeback was a contributory factor in terms of the collision as no evasive action could be taken. Another contributory factor was the inconspicuous presence of the unlit and darkly coloured ANP [Afghan National Police] patrol vehicle when set against the dark background’ (Taylor 2015). The notion that driving fast and as inconspicuously as possible might be dangerous on country roads in Wiltshire but wholly appropriate in Afghanistan seems not to have occurred to the coroner. The civilianization of the military is clearly not only the product of revisionist just war theory, albeit the latter provides the intellectual justification for the phenomenon. The fact that it would be virtually impossible to fight and win a just war under revisionist terms is a conclusion that the revisionists themselves would probably welcome. The argument would be that if a war could not be fought justly, as they define fighting justly, it ought not to be fought. Revisionist just war theory is, when the chips are down, essentially pacifist; this loses contact with the central aim of the just war tradition, which is to discriminate between cases. There is a perfectly good set of arguments in favour of pacifism, and therefore no need to approach this position from the direction of the just war tradition; better to preserve the latter for arguments in favour of discrimination. Of course, if everybody adopted revisionist ideas the problem of war would disappear, but it is clear that this is not likely to happen anytime soon. The replacement of the LOAC with Human Rights Law is taking place in Western Europe, but nowhere else; a situation that generates obvious dangers. Interestingly, at the end of Killing in War, McMahan more or less acknowledges the dangers here. In a book dedicated to undermining the moral equivalence of combatants and the immunity of non-combatants—the guiding principle of the LOAC—his concluding argument acknowledges that until something better is generally agreed, the LOAC should be adhered to. As he puts it in the final sentence of the

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

97

book, ‘while absolute civilian immunity is false as a moral doctrine, it remains a legal necessity’ (McMahan 2009: 235). A final substantial critique of revisionism relates back to a charge which is often directed at conventional just war thinking, but which actually fits revisionist just war theory rather better. This is that just war thinking encourages a Manichean view of the world. Carl Schmitt is the strongest voice here; his position, expressed most clearly in The ‘Nomos’ of the Earth, is that to describe a war as ‘just’ encourages a self-righteous fury which will demonize the enemy and stand in the way of establishing limits in warfare. Every war becomes a total war, because every war is a war between good and evil, and with evil there can be no compromise (Schmitt 2003; Brown 2007). This is strikingly similar to the argument put forward, in different terms, by some modern students of ‘critical security studies’ who write of just war theory as delegitimizing ‘the Other’, encouraging a Manichean worldview, and so on (Booth 2000). Just wars allegedly justify escalation, degrade opponents, encourage militarization and self-righteousness, stimulate delusion, and legitimize war. This represents a fundamental misreading of the tradition, but a reasonable critique of revisionist just war theory. The medieval just war thinkers were always clear that justice was ultimately a matter for God to decide, and that reason and adherence to the Golden Rule mandated proportionality and the protection of the innocent. Total war is not part of medieval just war thinking. Modern just war thinkers such as Michael Walzer endorse the LOAC which places limits on the conduct of combatants. Insofar as the Schmitt/Booth critique has any merit it is with respect to the revisionists whose insistence on distinguishing the just combatant from the unjust could precisely be said to encourage the demonization and degrading of opponents.

CO NCLUSION There is a widespread consensus—from the libertarian right to the liberal left—that the militarization of the police constitutes a problem, and there is general agreement that a return to something like the notion of community policing in which the police are part of the communities they patrol and rely on support from civil society rather than brute force would be desirable. Such is the role for the police envisaged by the Office of Constable and it is generally agreed that it would be good to get back to a world where such an approach to policing is possible. No such consensus surrounds the civilianization of the military although senior military figures in the UK are clearly seized of the issue; see, for example, the letter to The Times on 7 April 2015 from five former Chiefs of the Defence Staff which ends thus:

98

Chris Brown

We urge the government to recognise the primacy of the Geneva Conventions in war by derogating from the European Convention on Human Rights in time of war and redefining combat immunity through legislation to ensure that our serving personnel are able to operate in the field without fear of the laws designed for peacetime environments. The military is neither above nor exempt from the law, but war demands different norms and laws than the rest of human activity. (Guthrie et al. 2015)

But it is precisely this latter sentiment—that war demands different norms and laws than the rest of human activity—that is denied by the revisionists, that more general trends in western society make difficult to sustain, but that must be defended if the notion of victory in war is to have any meaning. It may be that there are roles for a military that are compatible with laws designed for a peacetime environment. Peacekeeping operations where there actually is a peace to keep, unlike the situation in Afghanistan, are an obvious example where a civilianized military, acting precisely like constables rather than soldiers, may be appropriate (see Chapter 10 by Mills). But not every conflict will be manageable in this way; sometimes war will be justified, and when it is, the defeat of an enemy will be necessary. The notion of a moral victory is not one that can be set aside, and it is not only the generals who should be worried about the operational implications of revisionist just war theory and the civilianization of Western European militaries.

REFERENCES Anon. 2014. ‘Cops or Soldiers? America’s Police Have Become Too Militarised’, The Economist, American edition, 22 March. Available online at , accessed 18 May 2015. Balko, Radley. 2013. ‘Rise of the Warrior Cop: Is It Time to Reconsider the Militarization of American Policing?’, Wall Street Journal, 7 August. Available online at , accessed 19 May 2015. Booth, Ken. 2000. ‘Ten Flaws of Just Wars’, The International Journal of Human Rights 4: 314–24. Brown, Chris. 2007. ‘From Humanised War to Humanitarian Intervention: Carl Schmitt’s Critique of the Just War Tradition’, in Louiza Odysseos and Fabio Petito (eds), The International Political Thought of Carl Schmitt: Terror, Liberal War and the Crisis of Global Order. London: Routledge, 56–9. Brown, Chris. 2013. ‘Just War and Political Judgment’, in Anthony F. Lang, Cian O’Driscoll, and John Williams (eds), Just War: Authority, Tradition, and Practice. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 25–48. Fabre, Cécile. 2012. Cosmopolitan War. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Revisionist Just War Theory and Moral Victory

99

Fabre, Cécile and Seth Lazar (eds). 2014. The Morality of Defensive War. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Finnis, John. 1996. ‘The Ethics of War and Peace in the Catholic Natural Law Tradition’, in Terry Nardin (ed.), The Ethics of War and Peace. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 15–39. Guthrie, Field Marshall Lord et al. 2015. ‘Combat Zones’, The Times Letters to the Editor, 7 April. Available online at , accessed 18 May 2015. Johnson, James Turner. 1985. Just War Tradition and the Restraint of War. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Johnson, James Turner. 2001. Morality and Contemporary Warfare. New Haven: Yale University Press. Johnson, James Turner. 2005. The War to Oust Saddam Hussein: Just War and the New Face of Conflict. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Lazar, Seth. 2015. Sparing Civilians. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McMahan, Jeff. 2002. The Ethics of Killing. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McMahan, Jeff. 2008. ‘The Morality of War and the Law of War’, in David Rodin and Henry Shue (eds), Just and Unjust Warriors: The Moral and Legal Status of Soldiers. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 19–43. McMahan, Jeff. 2009. Killing in War. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Metropolitan Police Act. 1829. Available at , accessed 18 May 2015. Owen, Jonathan. 2012. ‘British Soldiers Resort to “Baiting” Taliban to Beat Rules of Engagement’, The Independent, 27 August. Available online at , accessed 18 May 2015. Police Federation of England and Wales. 2015. The Office of Constable: The Bedrock of Modern Day British Policing. Available online at , accessed 14 May 2017. Queen’s Regulations for the Army. 1975. Available online at , accessed 18 May 2015. Ramsey, Paul. 1961. War and the Christian Conscience: How Shall Modern War Be Conducted Justly? Durham: Duke University Press. Rawls, John. 2005. Political Liberalism. Expanded edition. New York: Columbia University Press. Rodin, David. 2002. War and Self-Defence. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rodin, David and Henry Shue (eds). 2008. Just and Unjust Warriors: The Moral and Legal Status of Soldiers. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rosenblum, Nancy. 2012. ‘A Conversation with Michael Walzer’. Available online at , accessed 18 May 2015. Schmitt, Carl. 2003. The ‘Nomos’ of the Earth in the International Law of the ‘Jus Publicum Europaeum’. New York: Telos Press. Shue, Henry. 2016. Fighting Hurt: Rule and Exception in Torture and War. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

100

Chris Brown

Taylor, Joshua. 2015. ‘Mersey Soldiers Afghanistan Deaths Lead to Coroner Safety Call’, Liverpool Echo, 24 April. Available at , accessed 20 May 2015. Walzer, Michael. 2007. Thinking Politically. New Haven: Yale University Press. Walzer, Michael. 2015. Just and Unjust Wars, 5th edition. First published 1977. New York: Basic Books.

Part II Challenges: The Problem of Victory in Contemporary Warfare

7 Victory and the Ending of Conflicts Eric Patterson

I N T R O D U C TI O N ‘The American flag has not been planted on foreign soil to acquire more territory, but for humanity’s sake’ (Anon 1900).1 Thus read a campaign poster for the re-election of US President McKinley in 1900. The McKinley– Theodore Roosevelt campaign was arguing that the Spanish–American War was humanitarian in focus, liberating Cubans from Spanish reconcentrado (concentration) camps, despite the fact that it resulted in the US acquiring the territories of Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines. The campaign advertisement was buttressed by the well-known fact that President McKinley was sceptical about going to war until the destruction of the USS Maine in Havana Harbour in 1898. But, if it was to be war, there was never a question about whether or not it should be prosecuted all the way to complete victory on land and sea. Moreover, there was a clear sense that winning the war also meant the obligation of establishing an enduring post-war order. Teddy Roosevelt (1999: 46) wrote: The guns that thundered off Manila and Santiago left us echoes of glory, but they also left us a legacy of duty. If we drove out a medieval tyranny only to make room for savage anarchy we had better not have begun the task at all. It is worse than idle to say that we have no duty to perform, and can leave to their fates the islands we have conquered. Such a course would be the course of infamy. It would be followed at once by utter chaos in the wretched islands themselves. Some stronger manlier power would have to step in and do the work, and we would have shown ourselves weaklings, unable to carry out to successful completion the labors that great and high-spirited nations are eager to undertake. (Roosevelt 1899: 1)

No one can claim that Teddy Roosevelt and his allies could conceive of settling for something less than victory, but it is also clear that there was a sense of 1

My thanks to Jacob Stephens for research assistance on this chapter.

104

Eric Patterson

duty in winning as well as obligations in the event of success in the post-war environment. Peace was the fruit of victory and winning was nothing to be ashamed of. In contrast, today it seems that winning is either seen as too costly or as a form of political bullying, despite the fact that wars and post-war reconstruction and stabilization operations are often expensive yet inconclusive.2 One of the reasons for the turn away from winning is that there no longer seems to be consensus that victory is politically and morally viable. The surrender of victory as a political and ethical concept is a moral and strategic failure, both for classical just war thinking and for broader political and military ethics today.3 This chapter will define three notions of victory (defensive, offensive, and moral), consider why it has fallen out of vogue since World War II, discuss the linkage between war aims and winning, and argue that achieving victory can be a praiseworthy and necessary end.

DEFINING VICTORY I N W AR What is victory? Victory, in this context, is winning or success in war. Although there is a large literature and thousands of aphorisms, from Aristotle to Lombardi, about victory as mastery of self, this is not what is meant by victory in war. More specifically, victory in a specific contest can mean any one (or more) of three things: 1. Victory is not allowing an opponent to win. 2. Victory is defeating an opponent. 3. Victory is the vindication of values. The strategist Basil Liddell-Hart (quoted in Walzer 2000: 118) contrasts offensive and defensive types of victory: ‘The acquisitive state, inherently unsatisfied, needs to gain victory in order to gain its object . . . The conservative state can attain its object by foiling the other side’s bid for victory.’ Often, time and expense are the factors for a defensive victory. For instance, one key element, though not the only one, of George Washington’s long-term strategy was not to lose to the world’s greatest navy and second greatest army. Time was on the side of the Continentals if they could avoid major defeats. Historians typically call such a strategy ‘Fabian’ after the Roman general and dictator Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator. The title cunctator (lingerer) was added to his name first as an insult, but became a badge of honour due to his strategy 2 Chris Brown (Chapter 6 in this volume) explores the idea that winning is anathema to certain strands of contemporary just war thinking. 3 For an argument to the contrary, see ‘Problematizing Victory and jus post bellum’ in Chapter 10 in this volume.

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

105

opposing the Carthaginian military genius Hannibal in the Second Punic War. Rather than fight Hannibal openly and experience defeat like other Roman generals seeking decisive battlefield conquest and personal glory, Fabius employed a scorched-earth policy of retiring before Hannibal and at times harassing his supply lines, not allowing the Carthaginians to live off the land while on campaign. Similarly, the overextension of ambitious leaders’ armies, like those of Napoleon and Hitler in the vast Russian heartland, can result in defensive victory. As Leo Tolstoy (2010: 524), in War and Peace, described the disintegrating French Army of the Republic, ‘The strongest of all warriors are these two: Time and Patience.’ Fierce defenders, from the Viet Cong to the Afghan mujahedin, exemplify how time and patience can be decisive by blocking victory to one’s adversary. Not everyone agrees that defensive victory is satisfying or even possible.4 Field Marshall Haig, during World War I, observed how defensive stalemates can be costly for all involved: ‘The idea that a war can be won by standing on the defensive and waiting for the enemy to attack is a dangerous fallacy, which owes its inception to the desire to evade the price of victory’ (Haig 1919). His French ally, Field Marshall Foch, came to a similar conclusion: ‘No victory is possible without a vigorous command, greedy of responsibilities and ready for bold enterprises, possessing and inspiring in all the energy and resolution to go to the very end . . .’ (quoted in Whibley 1918: 264). Thus, the second, more conventional definition of victory is outright defeat of one’s opponent. This is the orthodox vision of victory: compelling one’s opponent to one’s will, generally through offensive military action. Underlying this definition of victory is a notion that war is not an activity isolated unto itself; rather, it is an expression of politics and political will. As Clausewitz (1984) famously wrote, ‘The political object is the goal, war is the means of reaching it, and the means can never be considered in isolation from their purposes . . .’, and ‘War is not merely a political act but a real political instrument, a continuation of political intercourse, a carrying out of the same by other means’ (see ‘Military Victories’ in Chapter 3). The Fabian strategy was ultimately not sufficient to defeat Hannibal, who occupied a large swathe of Italy for fifteen years. Scipio Africanus ultimately beat Carthage by first besting Carthaginian armies in Spain and then taking the fight to Hannibal’s homeland in North Africa, destroying Hannibal’s ability to fight. This created a peace that lasted fifty years. So too, Wellington beat Napoleon, Grant beat Lee, Montgomery beat Rommel, and we remember momentous battles not just for the bloodshed but for their long-term political consequences: Tours, Gaugamela, Blenheim, Waterloo, Puthukkudiyirippu. Battlefield victories are important, but it is the strategic, political context that is 4

Relatedly, Dominic Tierney (Chapter 8 in this volume) suggests that victory is no longer a plausible feature of modern warfare.

106

Eric Patterson

of greater importance when a group or government capitulates to the demands of its enemy. Defeat need not mean ‘unconditional’ surrender, but it does mean surrender and we often remember the political systems and leaders who won, such as Alexander, Lincoln, and Churchill. This foreshadows a third form of winning: victory that has a moral dimension because the contestants represent utterly different views on what the world should look like. World War II was clearly this sort of war. Western Europe simply could no longer tolerate both the diabolical Aryan supremacy of National Socialism and the Christian and Enlightenment values embodied by England and its allies. Although some, such as Michael Walzer (2000: ch. 7), see the Pacific theatre differently, the clash between Washington and Tokyo was not simply conventional, but contrasted western liberalism with the racial supremacy and associated barbarism of Japan. World War II was a vindication of a set of western liberal values, however imperfect, applied to the post-war environment. This became the basis for the Nuremberg and Tokyo trials, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and United Nations Charter, the Geneva Conventions of 1949, and similar standards such as the Genocide Convention and human rights laws, as well as a set of related institutions including the Marshall Plan and Bretton Woods system. Imagine, in contrast, how an Axis victory would have resulted in a different set of opportunities and institutionalized values. Had the Nazis won, it still would have been ‘moral’, but in a terrible, wicked sense. ‘Vindication’ is not a moral judgement in retrospect about which values are superior; it is the recognition that at the end of some wars ‘victory’ means more than going home with some material loss for the loser. ‘Vindication’ means that the values of the victor become the worldview framing a new status quo.5 Tours confirmed continental Europe as Christian, setting the foundations of the Carolingian Empire; Alexander’s victories brought Hellenism to the Near East; Napoleon’s victories and the ‘Continental System’ changed the role of church– state relations, legal codes, and many other elements of life across Europe; and the US Civil War abolished slavery once and for all and dramatically altered the course of the country. So, too, victors like Lenin, Mao, and the Khmer Rouge imposed a value system on their populaces and foes after winning. In each case, victory had far-reaching moral, social, and political consequences. In sum, history is replete with examples of defensive, offensive, and moral victories. Yet today the virtue of victory is tarnished; winning is out of vogue. Indeed, those who argue for victory these days are portrayed as the doddering elderly or unsophisticated bullies. How this happened and why it must be reversed demands our attention. 5 For a sceptical discussion of vindication, see ‘Problematizing War and Victory When Protecting Civilians’ in Chapter 10; see also ‘Reconstructing Victory and the Just War Tradition’ in Chapter 14 and ‘The Classic Statement of Just War: Victory as the Vindication of Justice’ in Chapter 5.

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

107

THE S CANDAL O F WINNING What happened to victory? Why do today’s western statesmen and military leaders avoid, at least in public, talk of ‘winning’? As John David Lewis (2013: 1) observes in his book Nothing Less than Victory, at the beginning of World War II, US military doctrine asserted, ‘Decisive defeat in battle breaks the enemy’s will to war and forces him to sue for peace which is the national aim’ (see ‘Military Victories’ in Chapter 3). But, as early as the 1950s, the US military backed away from the value of victory, demurring, ‘Victory alone as an aim of war cannot be justified, since in itself victory does not always assure the realization of national objectives’ (Lewis 2013: 1). Furthermore, despite the importance of the rule of law and the vindication of values in contemporary warfare, contemporary just war scholars have largely avoided the topic. With the exception of Michael Walzer’s classic chapter, ‘War’s End and the Importance of Winning’, overt discussion of ‘winning’ and ‘victory’ is almost entirely absent from major works on just war theory and military ethics by Paul Ramsey (2002), James Turner Johnson (1999), Eric Patterson (2007, 2012), Oliver O’Donovan (2003), Nigel Biggar (2003), J. Darryl Charles (2005a, 2005b), Timothy Demy (Charles and Demy 2010), and many others. What happened to victory? Victory is out of style for a variety of reasons, some compelling and others not. First, victory can be costly. By the 1950s, a lesson drawn from World War II seems to have been that the last country standing is going to be stuck with the costs of getting former enemies up and running again. The US first ‘invested’, to the tune of billions of dollars, its occupation forces in Germany and Japan to ensure that these defeated foes did not cause more war as well as to block the next enemy: energetic, expansionary Soviet communism. Victory resulted in the costly Marshall Plan, which began as a response to the bankrupt British government and instability in Greece and Turkey. More recently, some like Colin Powell have enunciated the so-called ‘Pottery Barn rule’ to post-conflict: ‘if you broke it, you own [or fix] it’ (Gilsinan 2015). Michael Walzer (2006: ch. 5) suggests that this is why China has been reluctant to support armed interventions of any kind abroad, because the intervening party takes on a set of costly obligations, whether it wants to or not.6 The recent ‘reconstruction and stabilization’ costs in Afghanistan and Iraq are cases in point. Despite the fact that many American and Coalition leaders eschewed the notion of victory, they invested trillions of dollars after flushing Al Qaeda and the Taliban out of their strongholds. The 1999 Kosovo intervention is a similar case in point: the West provided, to a tiny country of less than two million people, as many as 50,000 security

6

See also the final sub-chapter of Walzer (2006), entitled ‘Just and Unjust Occupations’.

108

Eric Patterson

personnel and on average over $1.5 billion per annum in the first seven years following the conflict (Patterson and Mason 2010). Second, victory can be Pyrrhic. Pyrrhus of Epirus, after defeating Roman armies at tremendous cost, said that ‘one other such victory would utterly undo me’ due to the loss of men, materiel, and commanders (Dryden and Clough 2001). More recently, in the aftermath of World War II, many pragmatic thinkers came to see the pursuit of victory in the atomic age as suicidal. Reinhold Niebuhr (1952: 4), in The Irony of American History, noted that vast expenditures devoted to making the victorious US safe resulted, ironically, in Americans feeling less safe: Meanwhile we are drawn into an historic situation in which the paradise of our domestic security is suspended in a hell of global insecurity; and the conviction of the perfect compatibility of virtue and prosperity which we have inherited from both our Calvinist and our Jeffersonian ancestors is challenged by the cruel facts of history. For our sense of responsibility to a world community beyond our own borders is a virtue, even though it is partly derived from the prudent understanding of our own interests. But this virtue does not guarantee our ease, comfort, or prosperity. We are the poorer for the global responsibilities which we bear. And the fulfillments of our desires are mixed with frustrations and vexations.

V-J and V-E days (victories over Japan and in Europe) ushered in global commitments and a worldwide competition with a deadly, nuclear-armed rival. In other words, victory had not only bankrupted the British and French empires but may also have set the Cold War world on the path of nuclear annihilation. Indeed, to speak of victory in the nuclear age seemed more Strangelovian than prudent. Likewise, over the past fifteen years many have wondered if the global War on Terrorism, with its many tactical successes over terrorists in Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen, and elsewhere, has been a Pyrrhic victory at the strategic level; many wonder if victory in this complex case is even possible. A third view, explicitly critical of victory, comes from revisionist scholars (see Chapter 6 in this volume and ‘Removing Limits on War in Cosmopolitan Thinking about War’ in Chapter 5). Since the 1950s, revisionist scholars like Gabriel Kolko (1988) have argued that America’s victories in World War II (and subsequent foreign adventures) were not crusades to liberate Europe and better mankind, but rather the reactionary expressions of capitalist greed. America won the war and immediately, according to Kolko, established a new world order based on cheap labour and access to natural resources, protected by US military bases and fuelling stations around the world. Such a view is rooted in charges of colonialism or neocolonialism; any real effort at victory by the US or other western powers is simply an effort to maintain a world system of exclusionary capitalism, keeping down developing societies in a situation of economic and political peonage. For the past forty years, this view

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

109

has been associated with world systems theory (Wallerstein 1974), dependency theory (Cardoso and Faletto 1979; O’Donnell 1982; James 1997), and other neoMarxist critiques. Underlying the revisionist argument is the view that the patriotism that motivates many citizens and soldiers is really an opiate for the masses, a heady smokescreen orchestrated by elites as a way to deceive the masses into fighting capitalism’s wars. Thus, victory benefits a global ‘core’ of elites; the common man—regardless of race or nationality—is always the loser, a victim on the ‘periphery’. The revisionist position often sounds conspiratorial: the US invaded Afghanistan and Iraq at the behest of faceless corporations to access oil wealth, global elites stoke the fires of war in the Congo to extract raw materials, etc. (Wallerstein 1974). The result of these neo-Marxist critiques, trumpeted by western media for a generation, is an almost complete erosion of any belief in the value of victory in war. Jean Bethke Elshtain (2003b), citing Nietzsche, has identified an underlying assumption in the anti-victory viewpoint as ressentiment or ‘self-loathing’. She explicates and criticizes the ‘liberal guilt’ felt by many in the West that somehow they are responsible for all the problems of daily life in impoverished, war-torn countries. This self-loathing results in the denigration of western values and codes of conduct, thus making the thought of a western victory, even to liberate an oppressed group, smack of bigotry, racism, and exclusivity. This self-loathing of western values and success plays into an interpersonal sense of injustice and unfairness: winners take advantage, winners are bullies, winning is something to be ashamed of. Fourth, victory has fallen out of vogue due to confusion over just war thinking and military ethics. Today’s quasi-pacifists, pretending to argue from a just or justified war perspective, claim that no war can really be accounted just until after it has been fought. The logic here is illogical: to decide whether or not the casus belli was just, one has to wait until after the war has been fought? This viewpoint disregards the fundamental just war criteria of legitimate political authority, just cause and right intention, typically elevating ‘last resort’ to preeminence and then saying that a war was unjust ex post facto based on the collateral damage and civilian casualties attendant to any war. This is really not a just war perspective because it erodes the privileged place of deontological criteria based on authority and morality into a cacophony of antimilitary and anti-government protesting about development dollars, secrecy, and the like (Patterson 2007). Unfortunately, the demise of winning at the strategic level has been connected with the erosion of sentiment about the nobility of public service, particularly with regard to law enforcement (at home) and military service (abroad). Historically, the just war tradition (as well as the liberal nationalist ideology of western countries since Napoleon) saw soldiering as a noble activity. One did not necessarily have ‘dirty hands’ if one defended the

110

Eric Patterson

homeland: protecting the weak, punishing wrongdoers, and righting past wrongs, per Augustine, were elements of a noble calling and a key responsibility of government officials (Charles and Demy 2010). This was also true for the citizen-soldier who had to fight after his country was attacked, such as American GIs in the two World Wars. Instead, as far back as the Spanish– American War but especially in recent decades, the profession of arms has been derided as, at best, a tragically dirty-hands profession, and at worst, immoral (‘baby-killers’) at all times and all places. This is a sad state of affairs when it comes to individuals facing harm on behalf of the commonweal. C. S. Lewis succinctly yet elegantly observed during World War II, ‘It . . . robs lots of young Christians in the Services of something they have a right to, something which is the natural accompaniment of courage’ (quoted in Charles and Demy 2010: 68). Those who are deeply sceptical of military power and repelled by notions of victory have worked very hard, along with other well-meaning but naive allies, to so shackle modern (usually western) militaries that the ‘rules of engagement’ make victory nearly impossible. This is also true for well-intentioned armed humanitarian interventions. Soldiers—like German military personnel in Afghanistan (Theil 2011)—who are not allowed to carry a gun or shoot, who are not allowed to police certain civilian areas (like US troops at times in Iraq and Afghanistan), who cannot hold a battlefield after dark but must retire behind distant fortifications (the International Security Assistance Force [ISAF] in Afghanistan), who cannot impose curfews or disarm unlawful combatants, are in a situation that is a self-fulfilling prophecy of violence and failure (Scarborough 2013; Donati and Totakhil 2016; Mora 2016). They are simply not allowed to win. Victory, at least in the West, has become financially and reputationally costly. Washington and its allies are gun-shy because they must constantly respond to charges of neocolonialism, prejudice, and bullying in a world that remains insecure and violent. Victory continues to matter, even if it must be restrained and limited in some cases.

WAR AIMS, JU S A D B ELLUM , AND VICTO RY If it is just to go to war in the first place (jus ad bellum), then is it not just to win? Our focus here is on legitimate war aims: if the casus belli and stated goals of a belligerent meet the jus ad bellum criteria, then winning can be a moral enterprise. This essay will focus primarily on the connection between just war principles (jus ad bellum) and stated war aims—even in an evolving situation—with little focus on battlefield operations and jus in bello criteria. The link between jus ad bellum and victory in jus post bellum seems obvious.

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

111

Strangely, however, there is not enough contemporary scholarship on this topic. Perhaps that is because it is taken for granted that just causes naturally should be consummated in victory. Augustine famously wrote that wars are just to punish wrongdoers, right past wrongs, and prevent future wrongs (Charles and Demy 2010). This elegant idea suggests at least four types of war aims that demand victory and are clearly moral: self-defence, punishment, national self-determination, and armed humanitarian intervention. The first legitimate war aim where victory is morally appropriate is self-defence. Even for those who believe that ‘turn the other cheek’ applies in international conflict, there is only one cheek to turn before statesmen must defend their populaces. Defending the lives, livelihoods, and way of life of one’s citizenry is the fundamental raison d’etre for the state: the essential social compact in domestic life is citizens subordinating themselves in some ways to government authority in return for a guarantee of security. Likewise, in international life the social compact in the society of states, and the cornerstone of international law, is the principle of sovereignty with its corollary of non-intervention. When this principle is violated, causing real harm to human life and property, it is the moral obligation of governments to defend themselves and their people. Thus, in cases of self-defence, the war aim should properly be victory. This helps explain Winston Churchill’s exhortation, after the fall of Poland, France, and much of Europe to Hitler’s legions, ‘Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival’ (Churchill 1940). When it came to fighting the Nazis, the alternative was most likely a notorious defeat, a future that included Aryan supremacy, slavery, and concentration camps. A similar argument was made by the American colonists six weeks after British troops attacked local citizens in 1775, a full year before the Declaration of Independence. In July 1775 the Continental Congress responded to armed attacks at Lexington and Concord with ‘A Declaration by the Representatives of the United Colonies of North-America, Now Met in Congress at Philadelphia, Setting Forth the Causes and Necessity of Their Taking Up Arms’. They denied any interest in independence, maintaining a preference for union with the mother country, stating: . . . we assure them that we mean not to dissolve that union which has so long and so happily subsisted between us, and which we sincerely wish to see restored.—Necessity has not yet driven us into that desperate measure, or induced us to excite any other nation to war against them.—We have not raised armies with ambitious designs of separating from Great-Britain, and establishing independent states. We fight not for glory or for conquest. We exhibit to mankind the remarkable spectacle of a people attacked by unprovoked enemies . . . (Continental Congress 1775)

112

Eric Patterson

The Congress articulated a self-defence argument: His [General Gage’s] troops have butchered our countrymen, have wantonly burnt Charlestown, besides a considerable number of houses in other places; our ships and vessels are seized; the necessary supplies of provisions are intercepted, and he is exerting his utmost power to spread destruction and devastation around him . . . the governor of Canada is instigating the people of that province and the Indians to fall upon us; and we have but too much reason to apprehend, that schemes have been formed to excite domestic enemies against us. In brief, a part of these colonies now feel, and all of them are sure of feeling, as far as the vengeance of administration can inflict them, the complicated calamities of fire, sword and famine. We are reduced to the alternative of chusing (sic) an unconditional submission to the tyranny of irritated ministers, or resistance by force . . . .The latter is our choice. (Continental Congress 1775)

Self-defence is a moral war aim, and its consummation in victory can be an ethical and noble end. It is the moral responsibility of the state to protect its people. We may consider specific cases of self-defence to be noble, or even heroic, such as the Finns fighting the Soviet colossus in 1941. At the time of this writing, Ukraine is trying to maintain its sovereignty and equilibrium in an undeclared war of aggression launched by neighbouring Russia. Beginning in 2014 with an illegal incursion into Crimea and subsequent annexation, Russian troops (in unmarked uniforms) have intervened in or invaded Ukrainian territory in Donbass, Donetsk, and Lugansk. The defence of its territory and people by Kiev—in other words, victory— is moral. A second case when the consummation of just war aims is a moral victory is punishment. We often think about the Nuremberg or Tokyo trials as just, but at the outset of World War II no one was thinking about punishment as a war aim. Usually, punishment is thought of as a secondary war aim, after a war has begun, or as a war aim targeting a multiple offender. This is an important point: from Augustine to today, the notion of punishment as a war aim has to do with punishing those leaders who routinely violate international peace. Thus, individuals like Napoleon and Serbia’s Slobodan Milošević become the targets of punishment for their repeated violations of international order. As I have written about elsewhere, upon Napoleon’s first defeat the Allied forces agreed to a return to the status quo. But, following his 100-day return to the battlefield and subsequent, final defeat at Waterloo, France was punished: Napoleon’s marshals were killed, France lost territory and was forced to pay indemnities of 700 million francs, and was saddled with the cost of supporting a 150,000-man army of occupation for up to five years (Schom 1998; Dwyer 2002; Cordingly 2003). In the case of Milošević, in the aftermath of the 1995 Dayton Accords he was more or less let off the hook. However, in the context of the Kosovo crisis—where he appeared once again to be responsible for war crimes—he was indicted on three counts by the UN International Criminal

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

113

Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY) (May 1999) and subsequently formally charged (November 2001) (Anon 2001).7 Clearly, the robust NATO intervention and remanding him to the ICTY were acts of punishment with a clear focus on Milošević and his regime’s top supporters. As Brian Orend (2000), Eric Patterson (2012), and others have written, the idea of punishment at war’s end is complex, involving both punitive (who and how to punish) and reparative (to whom is something restored or vindicated) elements of justice.8 Often the focus of punishment is on tactical-level violations of the laws of armed conflict (jus in bello), such as individual murder, rape, torture, or theft. But, at the strategic level, when one thinks about punishment as a casus belli, punition may be an important, expressly stated war aim to stop repeated violations of international order by someone like Saddam Hussein, Muammar Gaddafi, Charles Taylor, Osama bin Laden, and Joseph Kony. In these cases, punishment is best focused on the senior-most leadership responsible for violations of international security, rather than making civilian populations on the losing side ‘pay’, as happened to Germany after World War I. For instance, within the first six months of US entry into World War II there were already people suggesting punishment of senior Axis leaders. Furthermore, there are times when from the outset armed action is clearly a case of just punishment, such as the immediate response to 9/11. It is important to note that the US response following 9/11 was war, even if it was somewhat unconventional with al Qaeda being a non-state actor aligned with a rogue regime in Kabul. The initial US demand was to turn over the leadership of al Qaeda—Osama bin Laden—and the original war aim was not the reconstruction, or better construction, of a twenty-first-century Afghanistan but rather to bring to justice those responsible for the 9/11 attacks. This was the argument made by President George W. Bush on 20 September 2001: ‘Our grief has turned to anger and anger to resolution. Whether we bring our enemies to justice or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done’ (Bush 2001). Note, Bush could have said, ‘our grief has turned to anger and our anger to hatred. We will revenge ourselves on our enemies. We will rain down wrath until we have destroyed them, their families . . . ’. Yet he did not do so. Third, and related to the notion of self-defence, victory as self-determination by national groups fighting oppression in the pursuit of self-government may be moral. National self-determination has been a fixture of modern international life since at least the nineteenth century, with the rise of ethnonationalist claims to statehood across Europe and the consolidation, in at least two cases, of new, major ethno-national states (Italy and Germany). 7 Note that Milošević was ultimately arrested locally for election fraud and then turned over to the international community. 8 See also Othman (2005) and Adelman (2005).

114

Eric Patterson

A subcurrent of World War I was the desire for national self-determination, which was seething below the surface in the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman Empires. With their loss at the hands of the Allies, both empires broke up. This ‘natural’ process was accompanied by an ideology of self-determination in Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points and the Charter of the League of Nations. Wilson called for the ‘natural’ and ‘absolutely unmolested opportunity of autonomous development’ for people groups in the lands of these disintegrating empires (Wilson 1918). The politics surrounding the writing and ratification of the League of Nations Charter took a different turn, with pressure from colonial powers like Great Britain and France to occupy former Ottoman lands while at the same time not jeopardizing their own colonies elsewhere. The Charter’s language stated that it was a ‘sacred trust’ for governments to ‘advance’ colonial territories, under the mandate system, to political and economic development (League of Nations 1924). A new wave of post-colonial self-determination and independence movements ultimately helped cause the collapse of most European colonies in the decade following World War II. These were often justified under the language of the 1941 Atlantic Charter and especially the Charter of the United Nations (see Articles 55, 73, 77, etc.).9 Self-determination as a legal concept in the context of war has been recognized in various covenants, most notably the recognition of non-state combatants fighting for national liberation (i.e. freedom fighters) in the First Protocol to the Geneva Convention of 1949. Such groups have a clear chain of command, distinguish themselves by some form of uniform or explicit marking, have declared themselves to be at ‘war’ with an external governing power, and confine themselves to actions consonant with the law of armed conflict. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss all of the controversies regarding these issues and potential cases from the American War of Independence to Bangsamoro groups in the Philippines today, but it is useful to note that the law of armed conflict does recognize the use of armed force in pursuit of national liberation by legitimate, representative groups. Clearly, if the cause of national liberation were to be just, then winning victory would, in theory, be a morally good end. To be clear, national self-determination as a war aim does not justify terrorism against civilians or other jus in bello violations: it is simply false that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. But, in terms of authority, intention, and just cause, the objective of self-determination can be a moral end and victory may be vindication of this end. Fourth, armed humanitarian intervention clearly meets the notion that victory is an appropriate war aim (cf. ‘Problematizing War and Victory 9 In practice, self-determination was a major component of what Huntington identified as the first two ‘waves’ of democratization, with popular sovereignty (a domestic analogue of selfdetermination) driving the third and ostensible fourth waves. See Huntington (1993).

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

115

When Protecting Civilians’ in Chapter 10). There is an ever-growing literature on the morality of armed humanitarian intervention, but for the purpose of this chapter we will look at some of the most famous and enduring arguments that provide the foundation for much of the latest thinking on these issues. Hence, James Turner Johnson’s Morality and Contemporary Warfare provides a thoughtful explication on the presupposition and arguments justifying intervention made by Paul Ramsey, Michael Walzer, and the US Council of Catholic Bishops (Johnson 1999). All agree that, as a war aim, there are times when intervention is justified. Although the language is not one of victory, the rhetorical question is obvious: if intervention is justified, then surely winning is morally laudable? From a jus ad bellum perspective, Johnson records Ramsey’s argument that the right of intervention follows ‘not from the power, but from the responsibility, to intervene’: States possess the right only insofar as they experience this responsibility as an obligation to act in the service of justice in the international arena . . . With the overall context thus set for moral reasoning about intervention, Ramsey narrows his focus to define the allowable grounds for intervention, distinguishing two sorts: ‘ultimate,’ or ‘just war,’ grounds and ‘penultimate,’ or ‘secondary,’ ones. The former include ‘the requirements of justice, order . . . , the national and international common good, and domestic and international law.’ Ramsey also recognizes limits: ‘What needs morally to be done in the world always requires resources far greater than those available. The statesman . . . is not called to office to aim at all the humanitarian good that can be aimed at in the world. Instead he must determine what he ought to do from out of the total humanitarian ought to be.’ Good statecraft involves careful choices among the possibilities for moral action. A justified intervention, then, is not one that serves this ‘ought to be’ alone, any more than it would be one that served national interest alone. (Johnson 1999: 77–8)

When it comes to Michael Walzer’s exploration of intervention, Johnson cites a passage from Walzer’s Just and Unjust Wars. Specifically, Walzer argues there that the principle of sovereignty may not: . . . seem to serve the purpose for which it was intended: (1) intervention in civil wars involving states in which there are two or more political communities, when one community resorts to force for the purpose of secession or ‘national liberation’; (2) counter-intervention in a conflict to offset a prior intervention by another power; and (3) intervention to counter extreme violations of human rights by fighters in the course of an armed conflict or by a government against its people. It is this latter that has been the most consistent focus of inquiry since the end of the Cold War.10

10

Johnson is quoting directly from Walzer (1992: 90).

116

Eric Patterson

Johnson (1999: 91) also references the US Conference of Catholic Bishops, who have, on two occasions in the past generation, issued major letters on issues of war, peace, and peacemaking: The Challenge of Peace (1983) and The Harvest of Justice (1993). The former was largely written with nuclear annihilation in mind; the latter was written just as a new era of state disintegration and civil wars followed the collapse of the Soviet Union and its influence. As Johnson (1999: 92–3) reports, in 1993 the bishops did support armed humanitarian intervention: ‘The forceful, direct intervention by one or more states or international organizations in the internal affairs of other states for essentially humanitarian purposes’, including alleviating ‘internal chaos, repression and widespread loss of life’. The aim of such intervention is ‘to protect human life and basic human rights’ in such contexts (1999: 92–3). Such intervention, the statement continues, has been termed ‘obligatory’ by Pope John Paul II ‘where the survival of populations and entire ethnic groups is seriously compromised’. Under such circumstances, the Pope sees it as ‘a duty for nations and the international community’. The argument here, like Ramsey’s, is one of shared responsibility by governments to uphold human rights in international life. Johnson (1999: 95–6) cites the bishops’ letter: . . . nevertheless, [considering] populations who are succumbing to the attacks of an unjust aggressor, states no longer have a ‘right to indifference’. It seems clear that their duty is to disarm the aggressor if all other means have proved ineffective. The principles of sovereignty of states and of noninterference in their internal affairs cannot constitute a screen behind which torture and murder may be carried out.

Ramsey, Walzer, and the Catholic Bishops’ arguments have influenced succeeding scholars dealing with these issues, most notably the Responsibility to Protect (R2P) doctrine and reflections, as well as counterfactuals, considering Rwanda, Congo, Sudan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Kosovo, Bosnia, and Syria. Many of these cases are particularly tough because they move beyond the scope of armed [humanitarian] intervention to activities beyond the ‘normal’ activities of war-fighting units: stabilization operations, reconstruction and rebuilding projects, law enforcement and rule of law activities (e.g. peace maintenance, constabulary services, courts), infrastructure protection and construction, the re-establishment of normal political institutions and procedures, and the like. In other words, it is one thing to call it victory when what is achieved is halting the killing (and nothing more), as Vietnam did when it toppled Pol Pot in 1978. But it is another thing entirely to define victory in terms of long-term political stability, economic success, and even reconciliation. Victory needs to be thought of contextually in every case, which means that it should be defined as clearly as possible from the outset, both in terms of objectives and in terms of investment of resources. In short, few would argue—at least in principle— that there are not cases where armed humanitarian intervention is morally

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

117

justified. Many point to the genocide in Rwanda and elsewhere as cases in point. In such cases, the war aim is some clearly defined notion of victory.

VICTORY MA TTERS PRUDENTIALLY AND M ORALLY Victory matters. Like many other realms of human activity and relationships, inconclusive, doubtful, ambiguous pseudo-endings result in confusion and suffering. This is especially true with regard to war. There are at least four ways in which victory is important. The first is that victory breaks cycles of titfor-tat. Many wars, particularly in the developing world, are ‘low-intensity conflicts’, civil wars, or other long-enduring, slowly simmering conflicts. This unending cycle of distrust, destruction, and occasional mass violence makes the idea of peace ephemeral, in part because no one can remember a time before war. Victory changes everything. Victory stops dead the cycle of interminable action, reaction, and counter-reaction. This is an important point often missed by Americans because, with the exception of Vietnam, Americans typically experienced wars prior to 9/11 as tidy, short, and chronologically bounded: the War of 1812 (two and a half years), the Mexican–American War (twentytwo months), the Spanish–American War (eight months), the US Civil War (four years), World War I (nineteen months), World War II (three years, eight months), the Korean Conflict (three years), the first Persian Gulf War (seven months), and the 1999 Kosovo War (three months) (Grossman 2014). This is not how many people in the rest of the world have experienced wars. Thomas Hobbes (1994: ch. 13, para. 8), a native of rainy England, satirically observed: For war consisteth not in battle only, or the act of fighting, but in a tract of time, wherein the will to contend by battle is sufficiently known: and therefore the notion of time is to be considered in the nature of war, as it is in the nature of weather. For as the nature of foul weather lieth not in a shower or two of rain, but in an inclination thereto of many days together: so the nature of war consisteth not in actual fighting, but in the known disposition thereto, during all the time there is no assurance to the contrary. All other time is ‘peace’.

Individuals in today’s greater Middle East or the Philippines or Afghanistan or Sudan have much in common with Europeans of previous centuries or the Greeks, Romans, Persians, and Carthaginians of antiquity. In Sudan, modern warfare erupted a year before independence in 1958 and lasted for a quarter century, before a decade-long uncertain hiatus and then a second outbreak that burned an additional eighteen years, culminating in the Comprehensive Peace Agreement in 2005 (Metz 1992; Patterson and Lango 2010). Today’s greater Sudan remains volatile and violent. So, too, every Afghan child and

118

Eric Patterson

parent knows nothing but war; even most grandparents do not remember a time of peace. The same is true for many in the Great Lakes and western (Atlantic) stretches of Africa and in a myriad of other locales, from Jerusalem to Karachi, and from the jungles of the Philippines to the jungles of Colombia. These wars drain treasuries, denude the environment, destroy already weak infrastructure, and make the trust necessary for peace seem impossible. Decisive victory, such as that of government forces over the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka in 2009, can break the cycle and provide an opportunity for a more secure and enduring order. Second, victory can establish the basis for a new status quo, one that is more secure than the previous conditions of instability and/or injustice. We are reminded of Augustine’s argument that the end of war is a ‘better state of peace’ (Augustine 1984). This suggests that the environment before the outbreak of some hot wars was unstable and perhaps unjust. Just warriors and just political leaders should, assuming a moral casus belli and ethical restraint in how war is fought, fight to win and thereby establish a better peace. It is hard to imagine how defeat or long-term stalemate, again assuming just beginnings, will result in such a ‘better’ state. Certainly many victories that we venerate, such as those that established the Concert of Vienna or the post-World War II liberal order, are treasured not just for the sacrifice entailed but also for resolving security and moral paradoxes of the past, however imperfectly. Third, victory roots the present in the future. Indeed, winning is the first investment in the future. Victory lays the first stones in a new foundation of political order and may set societies on a path to justice and perhaps conciliation. Winning, and how winning is achieved, is not divorced from postconflict, but it is a critical step in establishing the post-war order. A just victory is often expensive, but victors should not immediately shy away from investing in peace. Rather, some of the investment of revenue and energy that went into war can be redirected to establishing the conditions and institution of an orderly peace and foundations of justice, perhaps even conciliation (Elshtain 2003a). Victory makes this possible. Victory allows for some remediation or reversal of the causes of the war as well as space for justice claims stemming from how the war was fought. Wars that do not end conclusively lack these opportunities. Unfortunately, winning works both ways: victory for an oppressive regime, like the Nazis in 1939 or the Soviets in 1945, can establish an unjust order. Fourth, victory may allow good to triumph over evil. I realize that we are speaking both in ideal and relative terms: ideal because few wars have the heinous evil of Nazism so clearly exposed, and relative because we live in a fallen world with limitations, errors, and wrongdoing on all sides that may have to be addressed. The Allies understood this and court-martialled some of their own for wrongdoing, such as theft and rape, at the end of World War II. Nonetheless, victory is important in beating aggressors, torturers,

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

119

despoilers, rapists, and enslavers, because it calls to account wrongdoers and publicly declares those activities as wrong. Victory provides the opportunity to vindicate values. It is one thing to claim that the Japanese concentration camps are wrong from the sidelines; it is a far different and morally important enterprise to defeat those governments, liberate the slaves, re-establish human rights, and promote national and international security.

CO NCLUSION Victory may take a variety of forms: a Fabian posture of defence, offensive war that overcomes a battlefield and political adversary, or the vindication of a political worldview. Until recently, the moral and prudential value of victory was assumed, but changes in the destructive power of humanity’s weapons as well as changing values in the West have made victory a concept under strain. Just war scholars, including this author, have either assumed too much or said too little about the ethical imperative of victory and its links to war aims, jus ad bellum criteria, and jus post bellum. Moreover, the disjuncture between citizens and academics seems even more pronounced, with the former investing their children and tax dollars in the national security enterprise only too often scolded by members of the intelligentsia who assert that national sacrifice is meaningless, wars cannot or should not be won, and that winners are bullies, colonizers, and warmongers. Yet, more work needs to be done. This essay has focused on an underappreciated issue in contemporary military and political ethics, the moral intersection of war aims and victory. An additional important step, but one which has received greater recent attention, is to consider how the way that war is fought is intertwined with realizing victory. The just war tradition has quite a bit to say about the boundaries of proportionality and discrimination when it comes to self-defence and survival (i.e. supreme emergency), but more is needed on how the evolution of combat realities on actual battlefields correspondingly changes notions of victory. For instance, US involvement in Vietnam in 1962 was not the same as its involvement with the Vietnamese in 1972; British involvement in Afghanistan in 2013 was not the same as British involvement a decade earlier. In short, notions of responsibility for what one has done change and this needs greater explanation in future research. The value of this volume is to carefully reconsider the intersection of morality and victory from historical, religious, and real-world policy perspectives, keeping in mind the western, Christian tradition of just war theory that undergirds so much of international law and practice. The next generation needs to proceed towards victory, when necessary, with these debates in mind so that they can act both with thoughtful restraint as well as appropriate boldness.

120

Eric Patterson REFERENCES

Adelman, Howard. 2005. ‘Rule-Based Reconciliation’, in Elin Skaar, Siri Gloppen, and Astri Suhrke (eds), Roads to Reconciliation. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 287–307. Anon. 1900. ‘The Administration’s Promises Have Been Kept’, US presidential election campaign poster. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Anon. 2001. ‘Milosevic Charged with Bosnian Genocide’, BBC News, 23 November. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Augustine. 1984. The City of God, ed. David Knowles. New York: Penguin Classics. Biggar, Nigel (ed.). 2003. Burying the Past: Making Peace and Doing Justice after Civil Conflict. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Bush, George W. 2001. ‘President Bush Addresses the Nation’, Washington Post, 20 September. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Cardoso, F. H. and E. Faletto. 1979. Dependency and Development in Latin America. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Charles, J. Darryl. 2005a. ‘Presumption against War or Presumption against Injustice? The Just War Tradition Reconsidered’, Journal of Church and State 47(2): 335–69. Charles, J. Darryl. 2005b. Between Pacifism and Jihad: Just War and Christian Tradition. Colorado Springs, CO: Intervarsity Press. Charles, J. Darryl and Timothy Demy. 2010. War, Peace, and Christianity: Questions and Answers from a Just War Perspective. New York: Crossway. Churchill, Winston. 1940. ‘Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat’. Speech delivered to the House of Commons. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1984. Clausewitz: On War, trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Continental Congress. 1775. ‘A Declaration by the Representatives of the United Colonies of North-America, Now Met in Congress at Philadelphia, Setting Forth the Causes and Necessity of Their Taking Up Arms’, The Avalon Project (website). Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Cordingly, David. 2003. The Billy Ruffian: The Bellerophon and the Downfall of Napoleon. New York: Bloomsbury. David Lewis, John. 2013. Nothing Less Than Victory: Decisive Wars and the Lessons of History. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Donati, Jessica and Habib Khan Totakhil. 2016. ‘U.S. Military Rules of Engagement in Afghanistan Questioned’, Wall Street Journal, 1 February. Available online at , accessed 5 September 2016.

Victory and the Ending of Conflicts

121

Dryden, John and Arthur Hugh Clough (trans.). 2001. Plutarch’s Lives. New York: Modern Library. Dwyer, Philip. 2002. The French Revolution and Napoleon: A Sourcebook. London: Routledge. Elshtain, Jean Bethke. 2003a. ‘Politics and Forgiveness’, in Nigel Biggar (ed.), Burying the Past: Making Peace and Doing Justice after Civil Conflict. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 45–64. Elshtain, Jean Bethke. 2003b. Just War Against Terror. New York: Basic Books. Gilsinan, Kathy. 2015. ‘The Pottery Barn Rule: Syria Edition’, The Atlantic, 30 September. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Grossman, Zoltan. 2014. ‘From Wounded Knee to Syria: A Century of U.S. Military Interventions’. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Haig, Field Marshal Douglas. 1919. ‘Final Dispatch’. Available online at , accessed 5 September 2016. Hobbes, Thomas. 1994. Leviathan, ed. Edwin Curley. Indianapolis: Hackett. Huntington, Samuel P. 1993. The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century. Oklahoma City: University of Oklahoma Press. James, Paul. 1997. ‘Post-Dependency: The Third World in an Era of Globalism and Late Capitalism’, Alternatives: Social Transformation and Human Governance 22(2): 205–26. Johnson, James Turner. 1999. Morality and Contemporary Warfare. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kolko, Gabriel. 1988. Confronting the Third World: United States Foreign Policy, 1945–1980. New York: Pantheon Books. League of Nations. 1924. ‘The Covenant of the League of Nations’, The Avalon Project (website). Available online at , accessed 8 September 2016. Metz, Helen Chapin. 1992. ‘Sudan: Country Study’, Area Handbook Series. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Mora, Edwin. 2016. ‘Top US Commander in Afghanistan: I Do Not Have the Authority to Attack Taliban Just Because They Are Taliban’, Breitbart, 2 February. Available online at , accessed 5 September 2016. Niebuhr, Reinhold. 1952. The Irony of American History. New York: Scribners. O’Donnell, Guillermo. 1982. El Estado Burocrático Autoritario: Triunfos, Derrotas y Crisis. Buenos Aires: Universidad de Belgrano. O’Donovan, Oliver. 2003. The Just War Revisited. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Orend, Brian. 2000. War and International Justice. Ontario: Wilfred Laurier University Press. Othman, Mohamed. 2005. ‘Justice and Reconciliation’, in Elin Skaar, Siri Gloppen, and Astri Suhrke (eds), Roads to Reconciliation. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 249–70.

122

Eric Patterson

Patterson, Eric. 2007. Just War Thinking: Pragmatism and Morality in the Struggle Against Contemporary Threat. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Patterson, Eric. 2012. Ending Wars Well: Order, Justice, and Conciliation in PostConflict. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Patterson, Eric and John Lango. 2010. ‘South Sudan Independence: International Contingency Planning and Just War Theory’, International Journal of Applied Philosophy 24(2): 117–34. Patterson, Eric and Roger C. Mason. 2010. ‘Why Kosovo Doesn’t Matter—And How It Should’, International Politics 47(1): 91–103. Ramsey, Paul. 2002. The Just War: Force and Political Responsibility, revised edition. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Roosevelt, Theodore. 1899. ‘The Strenuous Life’. A speech before the Hamilton Club, Chicago, Illinois, 10 April. Available online at , accessed 1 June 2017. Roosevelt, Theodore. 1999. The Rough Riders. New York: Modern Library. Scarborough, Rowan. 2013. ‘Rules of Engagement Limit the Actions of U.S. Troops and Drones in Afghanistan’, The Washington Times, 26 November. Available online at , accessed 5 September 2016. Schom, Alan. 1998. One Hundred Days: Napoleon’s Road to Waterloo. San Francisco: HarperCollins. Theil, Stefan. 2011. ‘German Soldiers in Afghanistan Can’t Shoot’, The Daily Beast, 26 June. Available online at , accessed 5 September 2016. Tolstoy, Leo. 2010. War and Peace. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wallerstein, Immanuel. 1974. The Modern World-System I: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century. New York: Academic Press. Walzer, Michael. 1992. Just and Unjust Wars, 2nd edition. New York: Basic Books. Walzer, Michael. 2000. Just and Unjust Wars, 3rd edition. New York: Basic Books. Walzer, Michael. 2006. Arguing About War. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Whibley, Charles. 1918. ‘The Philosophy of General Foch’, The Living Age 298 (3 August): 257–65. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Wilson, Woodrow. 1918. ‘President Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points’, The Avalon Project (website). Available online at , accessed 8 September 2016.

8 The Ethics of Unwinnable War Dominic Tierney

I N T R O D U C TI O N By 2004, the Iraq War had become unwinnable. Iraq had descended into sustained civil conflict, involving rival sectarian militias. Al Qaeda in Iraq targeted US and Iraqi security forces, Shiites, and the United Nations. In April 2004, the Abu Ghraib scandal revealed systematic American mistreatment of prisoners, eroding the legitimacy of the campaign. Given the worsening security conditions, there was no plausible path for Washington to create a stable Iraq at a sufficiently low cost to count as victory. The United States began a tortuous journey to extricate itself from a quagmire, involving the initial ‘leave-to-win’ policy that only worsened Iraq’s strife, the surge of US troops in 2007 that helped to create fragile stability, the exit of US soldiers in 2011, and the invasion of Iraq by ISIS in 2014, which triggered the reinsertion of thousands of American ground personnel. For the United States, the Iraq War was a traumatic experience, but unfortunately, not an unusual one. The campaign is part of a string of unwinnable wars since World War II, including Korea, Vietnam, and Afghanistan. When a military campaign deteriorates, officials face both profound strategic dilemmas and stark moral challenges. How can Washington resolve a failed war in an ethical manner? For example, the fall of South Vietnam to communism in 1975 produced a wave of repression and a mass evacuation of ‘boat people’ from the country. But to continue the war in Vietnam in an effort to save civilians would have risked further death and injury in a futile venture. Today, should the rights of Afghan women be sacrificed in a bid to reach a deal with the Taliban and end the fighting? One of the most useful frameworks for answering these questions is just war theory, which establishes constraints and regulations on the initiation, prosecution, and termination of war. Scholars in the just war tradition, however, usually consider scenarios where victory is still a plausible outcome and

124

Dominic Tierney

neglect the issue of unwinnable war.1 This chapter considers how just war theory can be adapted when a campaign turns into a quagmire. Building on arguments in my book The Right Way to Lose a War (Tierney 2015), we focus on the US experience of conflict since 1945. We find that the justness of war is not static but can evolve over time. An unjust war for regime change may gain a new—and just—cause to protect civilians against a terrorist enemy. To maximize justice when a campaign is in retreat, leaders should typically pursue a middle path between ‘cut and run’ and ‘stay the course’, by limiting the war aims, resisting pressure to resort to barbarism, embracing negotiations with the adversary, and seeking the best possible peace from the range of plausible alternatives.

JUST W AR THEORY War refers to an armed contest between political communities to decide who gets to govern and how. Just war theory (JWT) is a tradition of military ethics designed to mitigate the brutality of war, which stretches back to the Sanskrit epic The Mahabharata. JWT is central to Catholic teaching on the morality of war, is widely taught in US and other military schools, has profoundly shaped international law (including the UN Charter, the Hague Conventions, and the Geneva Conventions), and is often invoked to defend wars. For example, the Southern Baptist Convention (2003) claimed that ‘Operation Iraqi Freedom was a warranted action based upon historic principles of just war’ (see also Orend 2013; Farrell 2013; Crawford 2003: 6). JWT is usually divided into an ethical triptych.2 Jus ad bellum establishes principles for when to fight wars.3 First, there must be a just cause to protect people’s rights: for example, defending against aggression or safeguarding innocent life, as opposed to using force for narrow self-aggrandizement. Second, a competent authority should initiate the war, defined as a political system that allows for just behaviour, which would exclude a brutal dictatorship. Third, there should be a high probability of success to avoid expending lives in a futile endeavour (for further discussion, see ‘The Probability of Success in Just War Theory’ in Chapter 9). Fourth, war should be a last resort when other avenues such as diplomacy have been exhausted. Fifth, the overall benefits of the war must be proportionate to the evil imposed, which is known 1 For a very different take on the continuing relevance of the notion of victory in contemporary armed conflict, see Chapter 7 in this volume. 2 It should be noted, however, that Daniel Brunstetter (Chapter 13 in this volume) argues for an additional category of analysis, jus ad vim. 3 For a further discussion of how victory relates to jus ad bellum, see Patterson’s ‘War Aims, jus ad bellum, and Victory’ in Chapter 7.

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

125

as macro-proportionality (Walzer 2015: ch. 4; Farrell 2013: 15–18; Murphy 2014; Statman 2008). Jus in bello establishes principles for rightful conduct in war once hostilities have begun. First, non-combatants are immune and prisoners of war must be treated humanely. Second, when selecting targets, the anticipated collateral damage in civilian lives should be proportionate to the military benefit, and due care must be taken to limit the risks of non-combatant suffering. Third, cruel and unusual weapons of war such as mass rape are inherently unjust (Farrell 2013: 18–19). Jus post bellum refers to creating a just post-war world, including the settlement of post-conflict issues, the ethical treatment of the defeated side, and the minimization of suffering for civilians. First, the victorious side should promptly end the war when the threatened rights have been vindicated, or the aggressor is prepared to negotiate terms of surrender with appropriate compensation. Second, punishment must be employed in a discriminate fashion against guilty leaders rather than the mass population. Third, peace terms should be proportionate to the rights violated rather than being Carthaginian in scope. In other words, the aggressor state should be demilitarized and potentially rehabilitated, rather than destroyed. The fundamental goal is not to restore the pre-war status quo: a state of affairs which, after all, triggered the original conflict. Instead, the aim is a better peace than before (see ‘Victory and Just Peace in the Just War Tradition’ in Chapter 12), which enhances the security of rights, empowers local people, spreads democracy, and reduces the odds of future violence (Farrell 2013: 19; Orend 2013; Walzer 2004a: 166; Rigby 2005; Patterson 2012). JWT does not offer a precise checklist. After all, how would we know if war was truly a last resort and every alternative option had been tried? And what probability of success is required: some possibility (say, 10 per cent) or better than even odds (say, 60 per cent)? Rather, JWT can be considered as a set of overarching principles that forces actors to make the case for an ethical campaign.

UNWINNA BLE W AR As noted in the previous section, one of the key principle of jus ad bellum is that victory is possible. However, for the United States, clear-cut success has become a rarity in contemporary conflict, whereas quagmires have become all too frequent. How does JWT apply to an unwinnable war, or a military campaign where decisive victory is no longer a plausible outcome? Victory means achieving the state’s goals with a favourable cost/benefit analysis. If the enemy’s resistance proves stronger than anticipated, allies jump ship, or

126

Dominic Tierney

domestic divisions occur, it may no longer be possible to attain the core objectives at a sufficiently low cost to count as a clear success. Discussions of war sometimes fall into the trap of depicting the outcome of conflict in binary terms as a victory or defeat, like a sports match.4 But the outcome of war lies on a spectrum, and there is a wide range of possible results, including decisive success, partial success, a draw, partial failure, or decisive failure. As a result, there are many different kinds of unwinnable wars. In an extreme scenario, the only possible outcome is total defeat, for example, with the German war effort in 1945. But in other unwinnable wars there may be a wider range of potential results. Here we focus on one particular kind of unwinnable war, a campaign of limited interests that turns into a quagmire, which I term a fiasco. Fiascos are not wars of national survival like World War II. Instead, they are expeditionary missions involving restricted national interests. If unexpected battlefield loss occurs, achieving the main goals of the campaign may cost too much blood and treasure and reap too small a benefit. Since the war only involves limited stakes, leaders cannot keep fighting indefinitely. Although victory is not achievable, many different outcomes may still be possible, from a partial success through to a debacle. In other words, there is potentially a great deal still to play for, both strategically and morally. The difference between a draw and a debacle may equate to the lives of thousands of soldiers and civilians (for more on the fiasco concept, see Tierney 2015). Since 1945, Washington has fought five major wars (defined as campaigns where the United States deployed over 50,000 troops and there were at least 1000 battle deaths on all sides): Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Four of those wars—Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan— became fiascos. Only in the Gulf War did victory remain on the table. After World War II, the nature of war evolved from inter-state war to civil war and the US military struggled to adapt to the new environment of counterinsurgency (Tierney 2015: ch. 1). In June 1950, communist North Korea invaded non-communist South Korea, and the United States organized an international coalition to aid Seoul under the command of General Douglas MacArthur. US-led forces pushed the North Koreans out of the South, crossed the 38th parallel into North Korea, and advanced towards the Chinese border. In October 1950, China intervened, triggering a major US battlefield defeat and forcing American and allied troops south of the 38th parallel. By the end of 1950, the war was unwinnable. Decisive success, or the overthrow of the North Korean regime at a reasonable cost, was an implausible outcome. As MacArthur put it, ‘we face an entirely new war’ (Stueck 2002: 93). The biblical presentation of victory is indicative of this approach; see ‘New Directions’ in Chapter 2, this volume. 4

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

127

A decade later, the United States suffered another fiasco in Vietnam. By 1966, decisive victory, or the creation of a secure and independent South Vietnam, could not be achieved at a reasonable cost. The United States was unable to suppress the South Vietnamese insurgents (known as the Viet Cong or the National Liberation Front), or force North Vietnamese troops to leave the South. The Communists displayed extraordinary commitment, whereas America’s ally, South Vietnam, lacked legitimacy or a popular base of support (Boot 2013: 420; Berman 1989: 13–22). More recently, the US War on Terror triggered two fiascos. In 2001, the United States overthrew the Taliban regime in Afghanistan at remarkably low cost. But Washington demonstrated only a modest commitment to build a new Afghan state, and the Taliban recovered in southern Afghanistan as well as in sanctuaries in Pakistan. By 2006, the war in Afghanistan was unwinnable. There was no credible path to defeat the insurgents at a reasonable cost. By this point, the Taliban controlled significant territory in the south, and from 2005 to 2006, Taliban armed attacks tripled from 1500 to 4500 (Jones 2010; Tomsen 2011; Malkasian 2013). Meanwhile, the United States endured a further fiasco in Iraq. By 2004, the Iraq War was unwinnable as the prospect of stabilizing the country receded into the distance. The insurgency had metastasized with multiple Sunni and Shiite rebel groups. In 2003, there were 486 US military fatalities. In 2004, this figure almost doubled to 849.5 How can leaders fight an unwinnable war in a just manner? JWT has tended to neglect this question. Scholars often assume that decisive victory remains a viable option on the table. In other words, leaders are told to select a war they can win, achieve victory without resorting to barbarism, and then impose a just settlement on the defeated party. As Walzer (2015: 110) says, ‘A just war is one that is morally urgent to win.’ The inattention to unwinnable war is surprising given America’s recent history of quagmires, as well as the crucial role of the Vietnam War in triggering renewed interest in JWT (Walzer 2015: 335). This neglect may result from JWT’s lack of focus on jus post bellum (which is particularly relevant in unwinnable wars) compared to jus ad bellum and jus in bello, as well as the wider absence of scholarship in international relations on issues of unwinnable war and conflict termination (Walzer 2015; Orend 2001; Patterson 2012; Tierney 2015). The inattention to unwinnable war is problematic because theorists have focused on a scenario of winnable war that—for the United States at least—has recently been the exception rather than the rule. Furthermore, unwinnable wars raise significant ethical issues. Fighting a just war is problematic even when a military campaign is proceeding smoothly. But now the nation is reeling from battlefield loss and the war effort is unravelling. By definition, an

5

See ; .

128

Dominic Tierney

unwinnable campaign has already violated a key tenet of just war theory: a reasonable chance of success. Furthermore, although the original goals may once have represented a just cause, these aims cannot be fully achieved at an acceptable cost. The United States may be at fault for the deteriorating campaign, for example, due to overconfidence and poor planning, and therefore could accrue a particular moral responsibility to limit the damage to civilians. At the same time, the worsening campaign means that the United States has a reduced capacity to shape outcomes. In other words, Washington has more responsibility and less influence. How can officials end a failing war in a just manner? Which values must be sacrificed in a bid to end the war? Does Washington have an obligation to fix what it destroyed and save its friends? Or should officials be willing to abandon their allies in a bid to end a deteriorating venture?

THE JUST W AY TO LOSE If victory is an unrealistic goal, leaders must choose a viable exit strategy to cut the nation’s losses, safeguard its interests, and protect the rights of soldiers and civilians. A fiasco is not an excuse to abandon the pursuit of justice. The danger is not the kind of existential threat that might necessitate survival at any price. And a range of outcomes may still be attainable, with significant variation in the degree of justice. At the same time, the exit strategy will almost certainly involve some compromise or outright sacrifice of moral principle. Rory Stewart and Gerald Knaus (2011) draw a useful analogy between ethical goals in war and mountain rescue operations. There is a moral purpose to save a stranded climber. But this obligation must be balanced by responsibilities to the rescue party. What if the rescue mission risks further loss? An unwinnable war is like a mountain rescue mission in the midst of a mighty tempest. The rescuers need a cool-headed analysis of what can reasonably be achieved. After a war becomes unwinnable, several JWT principles may be moot. For example, by this point in time, the question of whether or not the initiation of hostilities was a first resort or a last resort is settled. But most JWT principles remain in play, including jus ad bellum notions of fighting for a just cause, choosing achievable goals, and ensuring that the overall benefits of the war outweigh the costs; jus in bellum notions of protecting the immunity of civilians and prisoners; and jus post bellum notions of creating an ethical settlement. The solution is to follow a multistep process: redefining war aims, negotiating an acceptable peace, and avoiding the embrace of barbarism.

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

129

REDEFINE WAR AIMS The key to extricating a country from an unwinnable conflict in a just manner is to redefine the goals of the war. Here, goals refer to political aims, or who rules a given territory and in what ways. According to Carl von Clausewitz (1989: 87), war is not about destruction as an end in itself, but is instead, a ‘political instrument, a continuation of political intercourse, carried on with other means’ (see Chapter 3 for a discussion of Clausewitz). A fiasco implies that the original objectives are unattainable at an acceptable price in blood and treasure and must be rethought. There will be no triumphant peace. There will be no surrender ceremony. There will be no war termination based on occupying and rehabilitating a prostrate adversary. The JWT principle that victory must be achievable might imply that an unwinnable war is inherently unjust and should be concluded immediately. But in a fiasco, cutting and running is rarely an ethical choice. There is a difference between a potential conflict and a war that has already begun. In peacetime, there is a moral presumption against initiating war, and the belligerent has the burden of demonstrating that just war conditions have been satisfied. But there is no moral presumption to quit an ongoing campaign. Precipitously ending a military operation may produce severe strategic and ethical costs, including the collapse of the war effort and a humanitarian crisis. Having caused (at least in part) negative consequences for other people, leaders incur a responsibility to mitigate the damage. Indeed, even if the war has thus far caused harm to civilians beyond what would have been considered proportionate at the start, it should not necessarily be terminated. Excessive past civilian deaths are to a large extent a sunk cost: the key is to assess probable future harm (McMahan 2015). Most recent US fiascos involve nation building and counter-insurgency in the midst of a civil war. Walzer (2015: ch. 6) is sceptical about the justice of intervention in a foreign internal conflict except to help a political community achieve liberation, balance intervention by another state, or prevent gross violations of human rights. Although it may often be unjust to wade into a civil war, it does not follow that once a country is engaged in a nation-building mission, and the operation begins to unravel, it should be abandoned. Even if the project of reshaping political and social institutions was originally unjust, aborting it in mid-stream could produce the worst of all worlds: societal collapse. Instead, there is a responsibility to pursue what Walzer (2004a: 166) calls a ‘just occupation’ involving selfsacrifice rather than profiteering, and an effort to protect individual rights. According to the so-called ‘Pottery Barn’ rule, ‘you break it, you own it’ (Walzer 2002: 940; see Chapter 10 in this volume for a discussion of victory in hybrid warfare).

130

Dominic Tierney

Although leaders should not abandon the campaign, they ought to select a narrower set of goals. A fiasco implies that the country lacks the military capability to achieve its original aims. Reducing the ambition of the objectives is strategically necessary to align the ends and means of war. Dialling down the war aims is also consistent with JWT. Since the futile pursuit of a cause is unjust, the war aims must be consistent with strategic possibility. In addition, the principle of macro-proportionality states that the overall benefits of the war must outweigh the evil imposed. Battlefield reversals suggest that this cost/ benefit analysis has altered. Only by selecting a revised set of goals can the costs and benefits be appropriately balanced.6 Walzer (2015) argued that just war involves limited goals since international order rests on norms of accommodation and restraint. Maximal goals of conquest and the political reconstruction of the adversary can be justified only in extreme scenarios like World War II. The case for limited goals is strengthened when a state endures battlefield loss and victory becomes implausible. If just wars are conservative, unwinnable just wars are very conservative. How should the war aims be re-evaluated? Leaders must carefully assess the strategic stakes, including the probable costs and benefits of pursuing each objective, the potential for allied support and public backing, possible negative contingencies, and the likely sustainability of gains over the longer term. What about the ethical dimension? When victory is still attainable, the goal of a just war is a better peace than the status quo ante bellum, or a greater protection of rights than before, and the removal of factors that originally caused the war. In an unwinnable war, however, a better peace than before may not be realistic. Instead, the aim is the best peace possible from the range of plausible alternatives. The ambition of the war aims will depend in part on the underlying justice of the mission. If the campaign began in accordance with just war principles— as a last resort, in self-defence, for a compelling moral purpose—then relatively more expansive goals can be justified even if a decisive victory is implausible. As the fundamentals of the war deviate from just war principles, appropriate war aims will tend to be more modest. It is notable that the justice of the war aims may evolve during a military operation. For example, a state may initiate a regime change mission without satisfying the just war conditions for jus ad bellum. If the enemy regime is toppled and the target country then destabilizes, however, the task of providing security and representative government to the population may be considered just. The overall war is not retrospectively rehabilitated. But the original murky ethics of the invasion do not invalidate the new moral purpose; indeed, they may imply additional responsibility for cleaning up the mess 6

This argument, which overlaps with that of Brunstetter (Chapter 13), runs contrary to that made by Patterson (‘The Scandal of Winning’ in Chapter 7), both in this volume.

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

131

(Walzer 2004b). Furthermore, there must also be a kind of moral triage. Given battlefield reversals, leaders will need to prioritize certain ethical goals over others: for example, the prevention of mass killing or genocide. Leaders must also ensure that moral gains are sustainable: saving lives in the immediate term should not risk chaos in the longer term. Here, we can briefly consider the justice of US war aims in Korea, Vietnam, and Iraq. These cases reveal that an exit strategy can be unjust for a variety of reasons, including because the belligerent tries to leave too slowly or too quickly. When the Korean War became unwinnable in late 1950, following Chinese intervention, Truman chose to reduce the war aims, which was both strategically and morally justifiable. MacArthur urged Washington to widen the objectives and take the war to China, which could have risked the outbreak of World War III. Instead, the United States and its key allies abandoned the goal of regime change in North Korea, and embraced the more modest objective of negotiating a return to essentially the pre-war status quo. This aim safeguarded the core moral basis for the war effort: defending South Korea from aggression. The reassessment of war aims was critical in ending the campaign without costly escalation or disastrous retreat (Stueck 1995: 136–7). By contrast, Washington failed to adjust its objectives in Vietnam, further eroding the justice of the war effort. Even as the costs of war grew dramatically after 1965, Johnson maintained the maximal goal of an independent and noncommunist South Vietnam (Vandiver 1997). This expansive aim was an exercise in futility, failed the test of macro-proportionality by incurring devastating costs with uncertain benefits, and, arguably, did not align with the wishes of the Vietnamese people. Were Richard Nixon’s war aims just? From 1969–73, Nixon steadily withdrew US troops and pursued negotiations with Hanoi to attain ‘peace with honor’ (Tierney 2015: ch. 2). In January 1973, the White House announced a deal to end US involvement in the war, which allowed the South Vietnamese regime of Nguyen Van Thieu to remain in office. But Nixon’s policy also failed the test of macro-proportionality. To pressure Hanoi, Nixon expanded the war by invading Laos and Cambodia, dramatically stepped up the bombing of North Vietnam, and mined the North Vietnamese port of Haiphong. In the end, an additional 20,000 Americans were killed during the Nixon presidency, together with around 500,000 North Vietnamese and Viet Cong troops, and hundreds of thousands of civilians. ‘Peace with honor’ was an illusion because Hanoi’s military victory was almost inevitable. If Saigon could not repress the insurgency or defeat North Vietnamese forces with the aid of 500,000 American troops, how could it expect to do so after US soldiers left? National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger sought a ‘decent interval’ between US troops leaving and the final collapse in the South (Hughes 2010: 501; Rose 2010: 191–3; Kimball 2001). A decent interval to mask defeat is an insufficient moral basis to continue a highly destructive war. Indeed, the terms that Washington

132

Dominic Tierney

gained in 1973 could have been achieved in 1968 or even 1965 (Kaiser 2000: 427; Logevall 2001: 2). In Iraq, the US war aims were also unjust, but for a different reason: too little commitment. Walzer wrote (2004a: 164): ‘having fought the war, we are now responsible for the well-being of the Iraqi people.’ But after Iraq became a fiasco in 2004, Washington pursued a policy of ‘leave-to-win’ based on withdrawing as soon as possible. The Bush administration was fiercely opposed to the idea of prolonged nation building in Iraq. Instead, the White House sought to hand over sovereignty to Iraqi exiles and other supporters, hastily train Iraqi security forces, let Baghdad take the lead in providing security, and reduce US troop levels from 130,000 to 100,000 by the end of 2006 (Dodge 2012: 246–50; Ricks 2009: 52). The predictable result was further chaos. For example, Baghdad could not provide security because government forces often doubled as death squads. In 2005–6, Iraqi civilian deaths increased from 20,000 to 35,000.7 In summary, Truman’s revised goals in Korea were just, whereas the objectives in Vietnam and Iraq were unjust. In part, this reflected the fact that Korea was the only war among these three campaigns that was originally fought for a just cause—the defence of South Korea from external aggression— which provided a moral anchor for the mission. Vietnam did not have a just cause because of the implausibility of success and the questionable correlation of US goals with the popular will of the local people. Meanwhile, the invasion of Iraq was also unjust because the campaign was far from a last resort, represented a preventive war against a distant threat, and faced uncertain odds of success. What distinguished Vietnam and Iraq? First of all, the cause in Vietnam was never just because of widespread popular support for the insurgents. In Iraq, however, there was greater local backing for a representative regime, and therefore, the goal of providing stability to the country can be considered just. The second difference is the battlefield reality. The strength of North Vietnam and the Viet Cong, and the weakness of Saigon, meant that the United States should have moved more quickly to negotiate a deal based on a unified and neutralized Vietnam. In Iraq, however, the insurgency lacked the capabilities or the legitimacy of the Viet Cong. Even if decisive victory was not attainable in Iraq, the goal of improving security through a greater commitment of capabilities was realistic. The invasion of Iraq may have been unjust but the solution of ‘leave-to-win’ simply compounded the moral error. Having established revised goals, the United States will typically need to surge its forces, or send temporary reinforcements as part of an ultimate exit strategy. Given the deteriorating strategic conditions, a surge may be necessary

7

See .

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

133

to avoid a sudden collapse of the war effort. Furthermore, battlefield failure implies a mismatch between the objectives of the campaign and US capabilities in the field. Dialling down the aims and strengthening capabilities can bring the ends and means into alignment. In 2007, for example, the United States ordered a surge of forces in Iraq, which contributed to a stark fall in violence (Ucko 2009: ch. 6). And there is also an ethical case for a surge. Murphy (2014: 152) wrote that there is a moral obligation ‘to take advantage of everything that would make victory more likely. It would not be morally acceptable to content oneself with a 75 percent chance of winning if one knew that certain strategies would raise that to a 95 percent chance and those strategies were to hand.’

THE PROBL EM OF NEGOTIATING An unwinnable war will likely require a shift to a negotiated compromise peace. Indeed, every US fiasco since 1945—Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan—involved extensive bargaining with the enemy. American culture is often sceptical about negotiating with evil adversaries, in part due to the moralism of US society. George W. Bush (2005) claimed that America’s enemies ‘will not be stopped by negotiation, or concessions, or appeals to reason. In this war, there is only one option—and that is victory.’ Wartime negotiations are inherently ethically challenging. There may be profound differences in moral values, for example, between US ideals of individual freedom and North Vietnamese communism or the Taliban’s vision of an Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan. The enemy may have committed serious human rights violations or abrogated the most basic diplomatic norms. In 2011, for example, the Taliban sent an envoy to meet the chair of the Afghan High Peace Council. The envoy embraced the chair, and thereupon detonated a bomb hidden in his turban, killing them both (Bew et al. 2013). In certain cases, where the adversary is truly extreme and intransigent, such as ISIS, there may be little potential for peace talks. But once a war becomes unwinnable, justice typically requires a negotiated end to the fighting. How else will the United States achieve long-term peace and the protection of national interests and human rights? There is a danger of snubbing negotiations on ethical grounds and then ultimately incurring even greater moral injury. In 2003, Paul Wolfowitz, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, received a memo proposing that the United States reach out to Sunni insurgents. Wolfowitz rejected the idea and scribbled three words in the margin: ‘They are Nazis!’ (Perry 2010: 10). As a result, Iraq spiralled downward into disorder and sectarian warfare.

134

Dominic Tierney

Diplomacy has proved effective in unwinnable wars. In 2006–7, the US negotiated an alliance with Sunni tribal leaders in Iraq, and signed up tens of thousands of Sunnis for the Awakening Councils and the ‘Sons of Iraq’ programme, which helped pull Iraq back from the brink (Biddle et al. 2012). The American diplomat Richard Holbrooke did not regret bargaining with immoral people. ‘If you can prevent the deaths of people still alive, you’re not doing a disservice to those already killed by trying to do so’ (Lee 2010). What about war crimes trials? Many just war theorists see trials or tribunals as morally indispensable. For example, Walzer wrote (2015: 287; see also Orend, 2013: 193–5) that people can ‘rightly demand an accounting’ from leaders, who may be ‘criminally responsible’ for aggression. But in an unwinnable war, there is less scope for war crimes trials. Battlefield loss means the adversary cannot be forced to appear before a tribunal. In Afghanistan today, for example, insisting on war crimes trials could make a peace deal with the Taliban impossible (Snyder and Vinjamuri 2003/4). However, there remains scope for targeting abuses on one’s own side: for example, Washington punished the American guards at Abu Ghraib with prison terms and hard labour.

THE P ROBLEM OF BARBARISM The principles of jus in bello are designed to restrain the barbarism of war, notably by drawing a distinction between combatants and innocent civilians. A central debate in JWT concerns the tension between the standards of jus in bello and the military requirements to achieve victory (Walzer 2015: 48). In the case of unwinnable war, there is a tension between the standards of jus in bello and the military requirements to achieve a lesser loss versus a greater loss. When exiting from a quagmire, can leaders embrace barbarism? If enemy resistance proves greater than expected, there is often pressure to remove restraints. For example, when a war is unwinnable, states may also seek to signal credibility and strength through destructive acts. In December 1972, Nixon launched the ‘Christmas bombing’ of Hanoi and Haiphong, causing widespread destruction of North Vietnamese infrastructure and, according to Hanoi, the deaths of 1600 civilians. The practical benefit of the bombing was minimal. In January 1973, the two sides signed an agreement that had been on the table since October. Instead, the bombing was mainly about optics: creating the impression of bombing the North into submission and demonstrating US credibility even as it withdrew. The Christmas bombing is indefensible by just war standards because it extracted a grave price in civilian deaths for a dubious symbolic benefit. Walzer (2015: 267) argued that restraints on war can be overridden in a ‘supreme emergency’ where there is an imminent risk of great evil such as

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

135

enslavement, and no obvious military alternatives—for example, with the British bombing of German cities in 1940. ‘Utilitarian calculation can force us to violate the rules of war only when we are face-to-face not merely with defeat but with a defeat likely to bring disaster to a political community.’ But fiascos rarely if ever represent a supreme emergency. When a US campaign in a country like Vietnam or Afghanistan unravels, the heavens are not about to fall on the American political community. Therefore, the core principle of proportionality should be protected. Most recent American fiascos have been counter-insurgency operations, which provide particular challenges in terms of jus in bello. For example, the insurgent enemy may hide among the people, complicating the distinction between combatant and non-combatant. Adversaries may deliberately seek to kill civilians in terrorist attacks. But even in asymmetric war, troops are expected to avoid targeting civilians. Indeed, there are powerful strategic reasons to reject barbarism in counter-insurgency campaigns. One of the basic principles of counter-insurgency or COIN is to outgovern the guerrillas and win ‘hearts and minds’ through the use of minimal force and the protection of the rule of law (US Army and Marine Corps 2007; Walzer 2015: xiv). One danger in an unwinnable war is that the attachment to a single moral principle can dominate a wider and more complex ethical calculus, blinding officials to the practical consequences of their actions. For example, a key notion of jus in bello is that prisoners of war acquire rights and should be considered immune from harm. Orend (2013: 192) wrote: ‘Obviously, a just peace settlement further requires that any and all prisoners-of-war . . . be returned safely to their home countries.’ In the Korean War, however, the protection of prisoner’s rights had perverse consequences. By early 1952, after six months of truce negotiations, the peace terms had mostly been resolved, including the borders between North and South Korea. The only major issue left was the status of the POWs. China and North Korea demanded the traditional ‘all for all’ swap of POWs, which was consistent with the Geneva Conventions. But President Truman decided that captured communist prisoners should be allowed to defect. The motivations for this decision were complex. US officials were aware of the propaganda benefit if thousands of enemy prisoners chose to stay in the ‘free world’. But the main intention was humanitarian. Some of the prisoners were South Koreans who had been forcibly impressed into the communist military, and wanted to return to their homes in the South. There was also lingering guilt in Washington about the compulsory return of liberated Soviet POWs to Stalin in 1945, many of whom died in the gulags. In his diary, Truman suggested a strategy for US negotiators. ‘Read Confucius on morals to them. Read Buddha’s code to them. Read the Declaration of Independence to them. Read the French declaration, Liberty & Fraternity. Read the Bill of Rights to

136

Dominic Tierney

them. Read the 5th, 6th, & 7th Chapters of St. Matthew to them’ (Rose 2010: 143; Stanley 2009; Foot 1990). Was the insistence on voluntary repatriation a just policy? Walzer (2015: 123) claimed that US negotiators were ‘probably right’ to uphold this principle in Korea—an example of appropriate ‘moral reasons for prolonging a war’. And in Walzer’s defence, 22,600 communist prisoners were able to defect. But Truman’s commitment to POW rights produced extraordinary costs. One problem lay in determining how many communist POWs actually wanted to defect. In the prison camps, anti-communist prisoners often ran the repatriation screenings and violently coerced POWs into defecting (Rose 2010: 147–8). As the number of supposed defectors swelled into the tens of thousands, the communist countries saw the issue in terms of national prestige and refused to back down. In turn, Truman framed the policy as one of high moral principle. ‘To agree to forced repatriation would be unthinkable’, he told the American people; ‘We will not buy an armistice by turning over human beings for slaughter or slavery’ (Stanley 2009: 158). The issue of POW rights prolonged the war for fifteen months, during which time 100,000 allied troops were killed (including 9000 Americans), 3600 American prisoners endured continued captivity, every major North Korean city was carpet-bombed, and hundreds of thousands of civilians died (Stueck 2002: ch. 6). Finally, in the spring of 1953, after Stalin’s death, the communists conceded the principle of voluntary repatriation, and a neutral commission was created to process the prisoners. The communists (and Stalin in particular) bore the greater share of moral responsibility both for the initiation of the war and its prolongation. Nevertheless, without thinking through the consequences, Truman fixated on a single principle of POW rights, with ultimate grave injury to soldiers and civilians. Less moralistic rhetoric and more prudent analysis of likely consequences might have delivered a compromise that saved hundreds of thousands of lives. The pursuit of justice does not end with a negotiated peace. Washington has a continued responsibility to diminish suffering. This means providing aid to refugees escaping from the warzone, and assistance for allies on the ground, like translators, who may risk death for helping the Americans. Adequate physical and mental health resources must be offered to veterans, who may have potentially served in a protracted counter-insurgency war with extended deployments and now lack the solace of victory. At the broader level, justice also requires a reckoning of the lessons of the military campaign. How can future debacles be averted? Americans must confront the tough lessons of war and take responsibility for failures, including war crimes. Fiascos are also an opportunity to adapt and reform. People and countries learn by failing, and the experience of loss can help cut through barriers to change. Over time, reconciliation with the adversary may also promote justice. Charles Kupchan

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

137

(2010) described how reconciliation often begins with a peace offering, followed by growing political, economic, and cultural contacts, and the creation of new and more positive narratives of the relationship. Indeed, many US allies were once adversaries, including Britain, Mexico, Spain, Italy, Germany, Japan, and possibly, in due course, Vietnam.

CO NCLUSION Extricating a country from a quagmire in a just manner may be the greatest challenge in politics. The stakes are high: a lesser loss versus a greater loss can represent life or death for thousands or millions. First of all, leaders should recognize that the outcome of war is not a binary, or victory versus defeat. Instead, officials facing an unwinnable conflict must traverse a grey zone between triumph and disaster, seeking a lesser loss versus a greater loss, or the best peace possible. This will often be ugly stability, or an imperfect order that protects core interests and values. Leaders should also note that the justice of a military campaign may be more fluid than is often thought. Wars that start with an unjust cause of regime change may later acquire a just cause to protect civilian rights from extremist groups. In response, leaders should typically reduce the ambition of the goals (without cutting and running), surge capabilities, negotiate with the adversary, limit the role of war crimes trials, maintain restraints on barbarism, and avoid fixating on a single ethical principle. Does the argument only apply to the United States? The extent of American interventionism during and after the Cold War means that the United States is particularly likely to end up in a fiasco, or an expeditionary campaign that becomes unwinnable. Certain challenges to a just exit strategy are also especially acute in Washington. For example, negotiating with immoral enemies in wartime tends to be more controversial in the United States than in other countries. But the basic framework also applies to other states. The French in Algeria and the Soviet Union in Afghanistan faced many of the same moral and strategic dilemmas as they sought to wind down failing wars. Quagmires may also present an opportunity to rethink and develop JWT. It is notable that tough wars like Vietnam often trigger renewed scholarship in JWT (Orend 2013: 24). Difficult campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan may therefore produce fresh analysis of the ethics of fighting in an age of counterinsurgency, terrorism, and drone strikes. The former CIA director John Brennan said that Barack Obama and himself shared similar views of just war theory. ‘The president requires near-certainty of no collateral damage. But if he believes it is necessary to act, he doesn’t hesitate’ (Goldberg 2016). By considering the justice of an unwinnable war, scholars can focus on a scenario, that, for the United States at least, appears to be the new normal.

138

Dominic Tierney REFERENCES

Berman, Larry. 1989. Lyndon Johnson’s War: The Road to Stalemate in Vietnam. New York: W. W. Norton & Co. Bew, John, Ryan Evans, Martyn Frampton, Peter Neumann, and Marisa Porges. 2013. ‘Talking to the Taliban: Hope over History?’, International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation and Political Violence. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Biddle, Stephen, Jeffrey A. Friedman, and Jacob N. Shapiro. 2012. ‘Testing the Surge: Why Did Violence Decline in Iraq in 2007?’, International Security 37: 7–40. Boot, Max. 2013. Invisible Armies: An Epic History of Guerrilla Warfare from Ancient Times to the Present. New York: Liveright. Bush, George W. 2005. ‘Commencement Address at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland’, 27 May. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1989. On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Crawford, Neta C. 2003. ‘Just War Theory and the U.S. Counterterror War’, Perspectives on Politics 1: 5–25. Dodge, Toby. 2012. ‘Iraq’, in Richard Caplan (ed.), Exit Strategies and State Building. New York: Oxford University Press. Farrell, Michael. 2013. Modern Just War Theory: A Guide to Research. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Foot, Rosemary. 1990. A Substitute for Victory: The Politics of Peacemaking at the Korean Armistice Talks. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Goldberg, Jeffrey. 2016. ‘The Obama Doctrine’, The Atlantic, April. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Hughes, Ken. 2010. ‘Fatal Politics: Nixon’s Political Timetable for Withdrawing from Vietnam’, Diplomatic History 34: 497–506. Jones, Seth G. 2010. In the Graveyard of Empires: America’s War in Afghanistan. New York: W. W. Norton & Co. Kaiser, David. 2000. American Tragedy: Kennedy, Johnson, and the Origins of the Vietnam War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kimball, Jeffrey. 2001. ‘The Case of the “Decent Interval”: Do We Now Have a Smoking Gun?’, SHAFR Newsletter 32: 35–9. Kupchan, Charles A. 2010. How Enemies Become Friends: The Sources of Stable Peace. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Lee, Matthew. 2010. ‘Veteran Diplomat Holbrooke Dies at Age 69’, The Washington Times, 13 December. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Logevall, Fredrik. 2001. The Origins of the Vietnam War. New York: Longman. Malkasian, Carter. 2013. War Comes to Garmser: Thirty Years of Conflict on the Afghan Frontier. New York: Oxford University Press. McMahan, Jeff. 2015. ‘Proportionality and Time’, Ethics 125: 1–24. Murphy, James G. 2014. War’s Ends: Human Rights, International Order, and the Ethics of Peace. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press.

The Ethics of Unwinnable War

139

Orend, Brian. 2001. Michael Walzer on War and Justice. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Orend, Brian. 2013. The Morality of War. Buffalo, NY: Broadview Press. Patterson, Eric D. 2012. Ending Wars Well: Order, Justice, and Conciliation in Contemporary Post-Conflict. New Haven: Yale University Press. Perry, Mark. 2010. Talking to Terrorists: Why America Must Engage with its Enemies. New York: Basic Books. Ricks, Thomas E. 2009. The Gamble: General David Petraeus and the American Military Adventure in Iraq, 2006–2008. New York: Penguin Press. Rigby, Andrew. 2005. ‘Forgiveness and Reconciliation in jus post bellum’, in Mark Evans (ed.), Just War Theory: A Reappraisal. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 177–202. Rose, Gideon. 2010. How Wars End: Why We Always Fight the Last Battle. A History of American Intervention from World War I to Afghanistan. New York: Simon and Schuster. Snyder, Jack and Leslie Vinjamuri. 2003/4. ‘Trials and Errors: Principle and Pragmatism in Strategies of International Justice’, International Security 28: 5–44. Southern Baptist Convention. 2003. ‘On the Liberation of Iraq’. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Stanley, Elizabeth A. 2009. Paths to Peace: Domestic Coalition Shifts, War Termination and the Korean War. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Statman, Daniel. 2008. ‘On the Success Condition for Legitimate Self-Defense’, Ethics 118: 659–86. Stewart, Rory and Gerald Knaus. 2011. Can Intervention Work? New York: W. W. Norton & Co. Stueck, William. 1995. The Korean War: An International History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Stueck, William. 2002. Rethinking the Korean War: A New Diplomatic and Strategic History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Tierney, Dominic. 2015. The Right Way to Lose a War: America in an Age of Unwinnable Conflicts. New York: Little, Brown and Co. Tomsen, Peter. 2011. The Wars of Afghanistan: Messianic Terrorism, Tribal Conflicts, and the Failure of Great Powers. New York: PublicAffairs. US Army and Marine Corps. 2007. The U.S. Army/Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ucko, David H. 2009. The New Counterinsurgency Era: Transforming the U.S. Military for Modern Wars. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Vandiver, Frank E. 1997. Shadows of Vietnam: Lyndon Johnson’s Wars. College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press. Walzer, Michael. 2002. ‘The Triumph of Just War Theory (and the Dangers of Success)’, Social Research 69: 925–44. Walzer, Michael. 2004a. Arguing About War. New Haven: Yale University Press. Walzer, Michael. 2004b. ‘Just and Unjust Occupations’, Dissent 51: 61–3. Walzer, Michael. 2015. Just and Unjust Wars: A Moral Argument with Historical Illustrations, 5th edition. New York: Basic Books.

9 The Scars of Victory The Implied ‘Finality’ of Success in War Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

INTRODUCTION One seemingly innocuous provision in just war theory (JWT) counsels that it is unjust and also simply unwise to engage in conflict without a reasonable expectation of success. That is, a just war must be winnable. Recent articulations of ‘prudential success’ in some circles of the just war literature focus exclusively on achievability (that wars which are otherwise just may not be ‘prudent’ specifically because the achievability is in question), such that success is connected to (and dependent upon) an a priori just end or assumed ‘final’ outcome, leaving the interpretation of ‘just’ (read: ‘achievable’) to the determinations of political actor. But what is ‘success’? What is ‘achievable’? And does success end with the war? Can there be a ‘successful’ end to war? This chapter challenges this focus on achievability by seeking to untangle the process from the assumed end of a just victory. We argue that some of the most powerful political processes do not have the ‘finality’ so actively sought after in ‘winning’ an international conflict. Furthermore, the pursuit of finality as an end in and of itself misses this point. Victory is often much more ambiguous, contingent, and even malleable and constructed than we might think (see Chapter 4 and ‘The “Most Beautiful of Wars”’ in Chapter 3, both in this volume). The active process of cultivating a finality through victory in war is often dependent upon the assumed moral outcome, a just (prudential) victory. As it often happens, the process by which victory is achieved, or at least politically justified, is filtered through the politically, historically, and affectively determinative presentations of the past, presented in the visual and metaphorical scars of victory and defeat.

The Scars of Victory

141

The temporality and spatiality of victory, in other words, gets confused through the soldiers and civilians who carry with them the effects of war as well as through the buildings and landscapes damaged and altered by violence. A core argument of this chapter is that the ambiguity of a ‘just’ or ‘final’ victory can be contested and disrupted by the scars of violence. These are both literal and metaphorical scars that prove to be visceral instances in which conflicts, regardless of outcome, are continually open to renegotiation and re-narration. Scars perpetuate interpretations and exist independently of attempts to achieve finality through their political use. They force a re-engagement with the assumed finality of not just particular wars, but of the notion of a ‘just’ victory more broadly. Scars help challenge and confuse the ‘clean’ readings of war’s endings, although they are not of course without their own limitations. After detailing an important structural element of the notion of ‘success’ in JWT, we briefly articulate ‘affective familiarization’ as an important ‘connection’ and turning point between the elements of assumed, ‘final’ victory and a normative reading of JWT more consistent with transitory elements of ‘success’, interpreted socially. We then briefly discuss the ending of one particular war that has been re-examined throughout the century and a half since its end—the US Civil War—and show how its seemingly ‘clean’ ending at Appomattox proves more problematic and illustrates broader challenges to the successful ends of war.

THE P ROBABILITY OF SUCCESS I N J U S T W A R TH EO R Y The probability of success, one of the specific criteria found within the JWT canon (Walzer 1977: ch. 7), is commonly assumed to be ‘prudential’, fixed, or of secondary hierarchical importance in the theory’s ‘usage’ as an ethical model for limiting the frequency and nature of conflict (Brown 2013: 35–48). Within JWT, the specific function of the probability of success, understood as one of practical guidance to be relied upon after the cause of war has been deemed just by a proper authority, belies a problematic assumption that the nature of success is objectively and ‘prudentially’ central to war aims by constraining the decision to wage war in the first place. Rather, success in war, particularly in the United States is essential or expected. There is, in other words, an assumed finality to it from the start. However, the assumption attached to this expectation of finality in a ‘successful’ war hides within it a process through which success is more often a contested narrative, one attached to specific emotional memories, metaphors, and cultural symbols; and centrally, not secondarily, attached to an assumed outcome or war aim. The normative treatment of the probability of success, as

142

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

hierarchically secondary within recent conceptualizations of just war, is fundamentally ill-suited to engage with the incredibly important role that success in war actually plays in conceiving and executing a stated model of success (Johnson 1999, 2005; McMahan 2005; Bellamy 2006; Harbour 2011)—a model which may rely upon a false assumption of achievability tied to ‘finality’ which we argue does not exist objectively or ‘outside’ of social attempts to capture its meaning in the form of present or absent scars of violence. The tensions or distinctions between success and winning are less a result of how those are measured, conceptualized, or operationalized as either independent or dependent variables, specifically in public opinion research (Mueller 2005; Gelpi, Feaver, and Reifler 2005, 2009). Rather, this tension is more a result of the political functions that each concept provides in how one views war: its commencement, its legitimacy, and its continuation. These elements, while tangentially related to the tactical and strategic focus of ‘winning’ a war, nevertheless become more holistically tied into what war commonly is: a fundamentally social endeavour. In fact, the explicitly social nature of war and conflict allows for the continuation of a permissive and justificatory appeal to the language of jus ad bellum (JAB), or more curiously, appeals to past wars that were steeped in JAB language. Further, because wars and their lessons are evolving historical events, certain conceptualizations of success can take on meaning that is connected to specific elements of the past continually interpreted, reinterpreted, and necessarily needing an account by their presence as metaphorical and physical scars. The process by which these meanings can achieve such powerful force metaphorically and emotionally is bound up in both a false sense of finality pursued and the socially affective meanings rendered by the pursuit itself. One particularly powerful example of this very problem we wish to expose and counsel against is the ‘myth’ associated with the end of the Civil War. The lessons here are supposed to evidence the possibility of ‘ending war well’, but largely characterize the idealization of a particular war’s end as a model for future wars, the sort of ‘clean’ rendering of the process we seek to problematize (Crocker 2012). As mentioned, JAB conditions are often ordered in a hierarchical manner, separating ‘primary’ from ‘secondary’ or ‘prudential’ criteria. The validation of secondary criteria is somehow tied to and a product of those in the primary position. In this way, certain criteria of JWT are privileged over others and subsequently seen as the lens through which to interpret all other criteria, perhaps discounting or otherwise ignoring them in the process. The inclusion of these secondary or prudential criteria into the JAB framework is supposed to signal to us that there are ‘other moral values at stake in the decision to go to war than simply the cause’ (Harbour 2011: 230). The underlying idea behind relegating this decision to a prudential calculation is that wars that are otherwise just may not be deemed wise or ‘prudent’—in other words, not

The Scars of Victory

143

ultimately ‘successful’ in achieving the stated just objective of winning the war. There is, however, an inherent normative element to the probability of success. In fact, this criterion is traditionally categorized in such a way that its objective or fixed standard of prudentiality should or ought to constrain the use of force. This is an important background from which to understand the ‘prudential’ and hierarchical nature of the success principle. As we will demonstrate, these permissive interpretations have become linked quite closely with the ‘moral authority’ responsible for determining a prudential course of action. This conflation in turn reproduces the permissive and problematic ‘must win’ view of success; in other words, moral agents engaged in a just cause must be (or need to be) successful. In effect, this almost certainly transcends the notion of ‘prudence’. Indeed an important part of the problem surrounding the position of prudence as secondarily attached to a moral agent is its very foundational assumption: that the condition of success in the war decision is actually a practical consideration separate from moral reasoning, as if launching a war with no probability of success is only a prudential problem. Without question, it seems that this would be highly imprudent and immoral (Eckert 2014: 62–75). While some scholarly and rational debates exist over what exactly that probability calculation actually involves or whether these considerations can be accurate, the focus of the debate regarding this principle seems to be on the notion of ‘success’ itself (Coppieters and Fotion 2002; Johnson 2005; McMahan 2005). However, what are assumed to be competing conceptions within this criterion—that of probability and success—are actually difficult to separate. The current interpretation, while situated within the ‘prudential’ assumption, consequently links these two parts of the definition together in an important way. The fact that a pure calculation of probability, as determined by competing means, cannot accurately be measured is not as much of a prudential hurdle when a ‘must win’ view of success renders the probability of succeeding quite high, regardless of any consideration of ‘cost’, however accurate. The ontological predisposition of this research assumes that JWT, and the probability of success more specifically, are connected to the changing and evolutionary nature of social narratives about war and its purposes. These social narratives can provide boundaries on understanding and particular spaces in which certain memories of war, provided through the continual engagement and meaning of the scars themselves, challenge the assumed finality inherent in a prudential notion of success in war. These metaphors garner and achieve social purchase through this process and in turn inscribe familiar meaning into certain images, moments, and words. We argue that these distinct, ‘mutable social narratives’ (Butler 2012: 18) can impart certain meanings, images, and ‘lessons’ that provide the fodder for sustained emotive and powerful social constructions of expected success derived from the past. This process is especially powerful in conflicts where

144

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

the meaning of ‘success’ is nebulous and uncertain. In this way, these social experiences and narratives can help to perpetuate a war effort beyond assumed prudential ends. As a result, the seemingly objective identifiers of ‘just’ and ‘prudential’ become socially constructed, creating their own boundaries on meaning and interpretation that can exist outside of the assumed ‘rationality’ of war aims. The focus, therefore, is to identify and analyse the understanding and meaning of ‘success’, not to evaluate the level of success achieved (or not) or whether the stated aims of success are prudent or just, except as a way to measure them against the assumed pursuit of finality.

AFFECTIVE F AMILIARIZATION The concept of affective familiarization has deep roots in sociological theory as well as connections to previous theoretical work in emotions in the field of International Relations (IR). Elements of ‘familiarity’ are connected to two diverse but related literatures: ‘habit’ as a type of action (or inaction) in IR and sociology; and collective memory as discussed in each (Hopf 2010; Ross 2014). Affect is conceptually derived from the social production of emotions and emotional states. Familiarity (or habit) and affect are very closely related in one key aspect: both are more automatic than reflective. This is a key element of extending and complicating the assumed notion of prudence expected to inform the use of force in line with the probability of success. To sum, affective familiarization is the socially felt and largely shared emotional connection to familiar and well-known events of the past, either shared or historically remembered. It is especially important to point out here that as far as JWT’s notion of success is viewed, affective familiarization is a way in which social action attains meaning. It provides a frame through which a certain interpretation can be ascribed to a particular action. Recall that the ‘prudential’ criteria of success in JWT presents a particular standard of achievability: ‘going to war without a reasonable chance of prevailing is imprudent’ (Eckert 2014: 64). Recall also that one of the biggest challenges of ‘sorting out’ the prudentialist perspective is that the hierarchical separation of JWT’s criteria can have the practical effect of shifting success calculations out of prudential considerations of ‘can win’ to culturally, historically, and affectively derived statements of ‘must win’.

The Past as Present; the Past as Future Familiarization can be further separated into two representative functions, each of which is a crucial element of connecting familiarity to affect: the past

The Scars of Victory

145

as present and the past as future. Familiarization is a distinct process associated largely with memory, ingrained memories and the act of misremembering. In the past as present, familiarization implies an inherent level of ‘comfort’ upon building comparisons and looking back. Comfort, or familiarity, found in the past is granted a type of legitimacy by the very nature of the looking back (Halbwachs 1992). Indeed the familiarity imparted by certain collective memories can serve important political and cultural needs in addition to satisfying psychological and emotional desires. Rather than popping up as isolated and disjointed ‘episodes’, the reconstruction of events is most often connected to similar spatial and temporal events previously experienced or understood (Halbwachs 1992: 48). Yet, the historical function of familiarization does not in fact assume that the details inherent in the recreation of that analogy have to be factually accurate or even represent the ‘whole’ picture. Thus, it is not particularly important that an analogy be critiqued for its incommensurability to a particular reality or the way things actually happened, so much that the purpose for which the analogy is enlisted is more fully understood; the more appropriate aim is to uncover what it is that the analogy is doing. While familiarization is about the stories and narratives a society uses to remember and understand particularly momentous events in its past, these events have further analogical power to create expectations for future outcomes as well, presenting the possibility for measuring how ‘the future will rise to the level of the past’ (Noon 2004: 342). This ‘past as future’ connection is therefore increasingly effective when particular past and future events are easily connected in temporally and spatially similar ways. Events such as war and conflict, especially on a mass scale, can profoundly affect the lives of a society’s members and ‘arouse their passions for long periods’, establishing the tendency to ‘hover over’ subsequent events ‘providing compelling analogies [for] later controversies’ (Osiel 1997: 19). As such, familiarization has a distinctive forward-looking element in which conditions of possibility expand the present by ‘informing it with memories of the past and hopes for the future’ (Lipsitz 1990: 16). Holes in memory and ‘misremembering’, intentional or not, serve an important purpose in constructing expectations for the future, especially for the purposes of national or military policy. Memory loops, the actual spatial and temporal parts of a past event that are left out or misremembered, allow for the present to be more easily connected to these missing ‘places’ of memory and for expectations for the future to look like the past and to be more effectively placed. If connected into one of these ‘loops’ or holes in memory especially in times of conflict military policy can be socially understood in line with that past, allowing for the suspension of ‘critical faculties and feelings of dissent’ (Torgovnick 2005: 4), and the carrying forward of policies that stretch beyond what might otherwise be questioned rationally.

146

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

Specifically, then, affective familiarization compares contemporary conflicts and their ends to past conflicts and their ‘clean’ resolutions. This comparison functions as part of an attractive teleological discourse that promises something different from the status quo—something not only better but progressively possible because of an ‘objective’ analogy to the past. Of course, there are all kinds of problems with analogies (Khong 1992). They imperfectly frame the social reality of the present crisis or conflict, and thereafter become inflexible references serving as biases reinforced (rather than refuted) by even the most challenging and disconfirming evidence. They push decision makers—and thus their political communities—even further away from the complexities of the conflict that are so important to disentangle if any successful resolution is to emerge. And so the promises of a victory like the ones of the past keep conflicts going, perpetuate new conflicts, and raise expectations for a political community, all because of the reproductive and affective power of familiarizing the past in the present. Thus, because these loops remain open they involve moments where communities come to reinterrogate how past wars are ‘remembered’, and alter the stories told about the past, both in the present and as a future set of expectations. How does a particular action reinscribe the ‘meaning’ of success through the process of accounting for and reckoning with the absence and presence of physical and metaphorical scarring? And how does this particular meaning and shared emotional frame help challenge, extend, and confuse attempts to characterize success more cleanly in a final way?

THE S CARS OF ( MORAL) VICTORY? This review of the literature on the just war tradition, as well as the affective familiarization that goes on regarding the collective (re)memorization (and rememorialization) of the victory of war suggests a couple of issues going forward. First, notions of success and victory ignore the violence that follows the ‘end’ of a war. Just war as traditionally conceived specifically avoids that which comes ‘after’ war (hence the emerging focus on jus post bellum, which does account for such developments, although in ways different from those discussed in this chapter). If anything, just war by its focus on ‘war’s end’ and the importance of ‘winning’ (Walzer 1977: ch. 7) reinforces the notion that wars can and will be won, eventually and decisively, by one side. So, we focus analytical, political, and even ethical attention on when and how wars ‘end’, without looking at the ways in which those wars ‘carry on’ past that point, both in terms of the violence that ensues as well as the political discourses that develop to narrate, re-narrate, reconstruct, and then deploy the ‘endings’ of past wars for contemporary purposes. As a result, by being focused on the

The Scars of Victory

147

possibility of a ‘war’s end’, but then nothing thereafter, there remains the possibility that wars—even restricted ones (see Chapter 13 in this volume)— get normalized through the compartmentalization of the space (where) and time (when) of war as a discrete event, rather than the possibility that war not only lives on, but continues as a traumatic process for years, decades, and even centuries (Dudziak 2012; McIntosh 2015). How can the ambiguity—the messiness—of war’s ends be cultivated so that not only war but the use of force more generally (which is in part influenced by these victory narratives) be confused, altered, and rechannelled? Following from one of our previous studies (Steele 2013a), we argue that the scars of violence can provide several functions in disrupting these normalizations and narrations of victory. Scars are understood here as both a literal and metaphorical concept (Steele 2013a: 7). Scars are created on bodies: when damaged our skin’s dermis forms new fibres to replace the damaged area. Even when the foreign object that created the mark is removed, scars remain on the body. They thus serve as a reminder that we have reached a particular level of vulnerability; our body resists something foreign to it, and builds up tissue around the mark as a defence. Steele points to three forms of scars: anthrobiological (the bodies of individuals and groups), architectural, and landscape scars. In a literal sense, scars exist on a body as a wound from the past, and on a landscape as a crater or altered skyline (skyscapes such as the absence created by the fallen twin towers on 9/11). Architectural and landscape scars get transformed over the years by overgrowth (both in the form of plant life and/or rebuilding around the impact site). Yet we can conceptually stretch the term to also include wounds that can never be healed because they exist on a corpse, the memorials which ‘re-embody’ those who simply disappeared in a moment of war (like the children of Lidice in 1942), the marks on buildings that remain damaged without any reconstruction, or the rubble that is left there (intentionally or not) as a sign of the carnage that war leaves behind (Steele 2013a: ch. 3). Scars make possible various accounts. They provoke a response from the political community that witnesses them (see ‘How It Came About’ in Chapter 11, this volume). And the accounts that that political community issues are themselves scar tissue (in a metaphorical sense), insofar as they represent attempts to ‘cover’ the wounds with a reading of why they were there in the first place. These accounts could be the basic story behind a particular impact (a bullet, in a battle, in a war), to the overall purpose of the war the body was participating in to begin with, to the function of war more generally. And, because scars operate in public, and because they remain open, they prove to be ‘democratic’ in the sense that anyone can re-engage them with their own story. We discuss some examples in a moment, but for now the key is the alternative accounts that scars make possible: in particular their political

148

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

capacity to challenge ‘clean’ readings of victory and the ending of wars. This is because scars confuse both time and space (Steele 2013a). Spatially, one has trouble answering the question of ‘where’ a scar exists because it manifests a juxtaposition of presence and absence: the scar is an absence of previous tissue, but a presence of new collagen fibres built upon the impact site. Yet the scar is not only ‘here’ on the person, building, or landscape; it was acquired ‘out there’ in the world of politics, and specifically in a conflict involving the impacted body (either willingly in the case of a combatant, or unwillingly in the case of civilians, buildings, and landscapes). Scars are thus multi-spatial, carried by physical bodies but also referring to other projectiles or forces—some other, impactful body present in this world. Scars also confuse and open up temporality; they are multi-temporal, a mark from the past that exists in the present and the symbol of an event that creates the mark in an instant yet remains forever. It is this temporality of the scar, its ability as dead tissue to ‘outlive’ the ending of the war that produced it, that allows it to foster memories and narratives contrary to those imposed on and through the endings of war. As a result, while existing narratives for the ‘clean’ ending of wars persist, scars remind us that another story can be told, and their very ambiguity (as amenable to both dominant and counter-narratives) and permanence make them powerful objects. This is not power in the sense of determining outcomes but simply the potential to alter them (Keohane and Nye 1977: 11), including the outcomes of war as collectively remembered. Scars have further analytical purchase that can bring just war into conversation with work on trauma and politics (Edkins 2003; Schick 2011), the memorialization of sites of violence (Heath-Kelly 2016; Auchter 2014), and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and ‘resilience’ narratives (Howell 2012). These works reminds us that while those affected by war carry with them the possibility of resistance to the moral certainty underlying just victory narratives, they also demonstrate the resilience of individuals and society. Scars are a form of resilience. They are different from wounds in that scar tissue demonstrates our ability to build around, over, and beyond an impact site. Scars thus mark a form of resistance but also a metaphor for how a given society and its succeeding generations have to absorb these impacts as the costs—the burdens—of being in a political community that must defend its ideals from threats (foreign and domestic). Thus, emerging generations deal with ‘scar tissue’ from past wars because the generation in power operates as if the wars that it experienced in the past encode political lessons for the present. Scars also call attention to visual politics, which are often at work in just war deliberations but very rarely examined. Like the scar itself, visual politics can both affirm and negate the justness of a war. Visuality provides another layer of collective emotional response, and thus a focus on its influences will build upon existing studies that seek a more affective reading of just war (Campbell 2015; Steele 2013b), especially the ‘frames’ of just war that provide its

The Scars of Victory

149

legitimacy (Butler 2012). Collective emotions and memories, and alternative accounts of wars and their endings—scars provide us a clearing house to investigate all of these forces so important for victory in just war.

THE APPOMATTOX M YTH AND THE PERMANENT ENDURAN CE OF WAR For a brief illustration, we turn to the ending of the US Civil War, which is part of what historian Gregory Downs (2015a) titles ‘the Appomattox Myth’. For context, the house of Wilmer McLean in Appomattox, Virginia, served as the site where, on 9 April 1865, Union General Ulysses S. Grant accepted the surrender of Confederate General Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia. It was not only the surrender, but the terms and the magnanimous ways in which Grant carried it out that helped generate the Appomattox Myth. Grant’s terms to Lee were considered ‘generous’: amnesty from prosecution for treason to Lee and his troops, while officers were allowed to keep their firearms as well as mules and horses for the spring planting. Grant also provided food rations for Lee’s army and, in a show of unity and reconciliation, prevented Union soldiers from celebrating their triumph because: ‘The war is over. The Rebels are our countrymen again’ (Downs 2015a: 9).1 This story exemplifies a firm, demarcated moment when soldiers, formerly in fierce and gruesome struggle, put fighting in the past, and the reunion of their country in the present and future. Thus, ‘the Appomattox myth is a mighty one that draws people to a message of mercy and reconciliation . . . it carries the weight of the birth of a new nation, forged in sacrifice and respect and forgiveness’ (Downs 2015a: 9). Appomattox proves a useful illustration of the ambiguity of war’s end for several reasons. First, coming in the heart of the age of modernity, the US Civil War was the first comprehensively visual war, being photographed by a number of pioneers of the medium, its images distributed far and wide throughout the United States at the time and in the 150 years since. Scars and disfigurement, the human carnage of the dead, as well as the ransacked landscapes of the battlefields, featured prominently in these photos. Yet this was not only productive imagery, it was reflective as well. Reinforcing the images of scarred soldiers returning to their communities from the battlefield, Civil War physician and poet Oliver Wendell Holmes Snr (whose son fought in the war and would go on to serve as a Supreme Court Justice) remarked, ‘It 1

Other vignettes prove difficult to confirm, like the one where Lee supposedly handed Grant his sword, and Grant handed it back to him. Grant called the story ‘pure fiction’.

150

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

is not two years since the sight of a person who had lost one of his lower limbs was an infrequent occurrence. Now, alas! there are few of us who have not a cripple among our friends, if not in our own families’ (Holmes 1863). Second, with a few caveats, the three decades that followed Appomattox produced a more restrained US polity on the world stage; puzzling, considering that a (re-)United States took over its place as an emerging power rivalling the great powers of Europe at the time. Michael Roskin and Jeffrey Meiser identify this period as one in which a ‘non-interventionist’ (Roskin 1974) or ‘strategically restrained’ (Meiser 2015) United States entered the world stage.2 This period saw the administrations of five US Presidents who were veterans of the US Civil War. It was not until the end of the Grover Cleveland (who paid for a substitute conscript to serve in his place in the Civil War) administration that the United States commenced a more ambitious international purpose and foreign policy. Third, and at the same time (hence one of the caveats above), in the years and immediate decades following Appomattox, there were concerted efforts to disentangle it from the period of Reconstruction that immediately proceeded from it. As Downs characterizes it: Once white Southern Democrats overthrew Reconstruction between the 1870s and 1890s, they utilized the Appomattox myth to erase the connection between the popular, neatly concluded Civil War and the continuing battles of Reconstruction. By the 20th century, history textbooks and popular films like “The Birth of a Nation” made the Civil War an honorable conflict among white Americans, and Reconstruction a corrupt racial tyranny of black over white (a judgment since overturned by historians like W. E. B. DuBois and Eric Foner; see Downs 2015b).

While we cannot here re-engage the historiography that has followed these events, one might note that even after such judgements were ‘overturned’ by DuBois and Foner, the legacy of Appomattox versus Reconstruction remains.3 Contemporary debates over displaying the Confederate flag—what its ‘meaning’ is (as if there were only one)—are a case in point. The impact of the retributive violence upon blacks in the South following the withdrawal of Union troops exploded into a legacy of racial violence (from beatings, to lynchings, to forced internal migration); indeed black bodies remain a site of struggle today (Coates 2015). Other legacies of the period include voting disenfranchisement—another contemporary locus of dispute—and housing practices of ‘red-lining’.4 One recent study even provides evidence that: Fareed Zakaria (1999: 48) calls this the US’s ‘Imperial Understretch’. For example, recent historical novels by Jeff Shaara (1996, 1998) represent the war as a noble effort by both sides. 4 This is a practice whereby both government agencies and private banks demarcated certain neighbourhoods as being unworthy of mortgage loans. As one recent account notes, the name is 2 3

The Scars of Victory

151

. . . contemporary differences in political attitudes across counties in the American South in part trace their origins to slavery’s prevalence more than 150 years ago. Whites who currently live in Southern counties that had high shares of slaves in 1860 are more likely to identify as a Republican, oppose affirmative action, and express racial resentment and colder feelings toward blacks. (Acharya et al. 2016: 621)

This, the authors suggest, has been fostered by ‘intergenerational transmission of racial attitudes’, reinforced by the ‘political’ and ‘economic’ incentives that have persisted in the American South for ‘black repression’ by whites in the post bellum years (Acharya et al. 2016: 632–3). Despite the Appomattox Myth, there never was a ‘just’ reconciliation brought about by Grant’s magnanimity and by the ‘honourable’ way the otherwise devastating war ‘ended’. Rather, contemporary tensions are the scars of the US Civil War’s violence—scars that made their mark during Reconstruction and after, and are carried by the US polity today. Thus, the war may have ended ‘officially’, but the US Civil War remains as a structural and cultural presence in the United States to this day. The war itself, then, as a permanent presence, is a scar. So what do we do with this in terms of JWT? To underscore, wars very rarely end in ways that establish, ‘finally’ and once and for all, who is the victor. Even if the defeated party surrenders, there remains the possibility (as in this illustration) that the scars of violence persist, always there to be uncovered or reopened. Even wars that ended ‘unconditionally’, like the Second World War, have ambiguities or leftover memory loops where a clear post bellum period is not, upon further inspection, clearly identifiable or discrete. Whether it be Japanese ‘holdout’ soldiers of World War Two (lost on islands refusing to surrender years and even decades after 1945), Japanese civilians confronting the radioactive fallout of atomic bombs for even longer, or a majority of German citizens either maintaining anti-Semitic views into the 1950s or denying any German responsibility for such views and even the Holocaust (Löwenheim 2009: 551), even the so-called ‘good’ Second World War did not end completely in 1945 (Terkel 1997). In sum, the problem we identify in the Appomattox example illustrates important and connected issues. First, the active process of attempting to cultivate a clean, final victory through the presentation and re-presentation of past victories (and defeats) both highlights and downplays the scars (physically and metaphorically) of war. Second, however, the theoretical and structural connection between both the applied aspects of success in JWT and, more importantly, the counter-process found within affective familiarization

derived from an early twentieth-century practice by these funding agencies: ‘Neighborhoods were ranked and color-coded, and the D-rated ones—shunned for their “inharmonious” racial groups—were typically outlined in red’ (Badger 2015).

152

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

point to how the affective process of scars themselves complicate and disrupt attempts at cleansing the transition from full-scale war to a successful ‘finish’.

CONCLUSIONS We want to be measured in our presentation of this argument. For even with its political functions and expressions of micropolitical resistance, there are several limitations to the scar (see Steele 2013a), two of which we recall here in the context of just war and victory. First, the scar’s very ambiguity generates its polyvalence. The contingency of a scar (that which produces it can happen to anyone) could promote a more cautious political subjectivity when it comes to just war, or ‘the reaction to this contingency could very well be a repositing of violence’ (Steele 2013a: 49). That is, scars can both shock and mobilize at the same time. Here we note the case of ‘Gordon’, a slave who escaped his captivity on a Louisiana plantation by fleeing to a Union soldier camp in Baton Rouge in 1863. There, he was examined by a Union physician, and at some point a photography team took a picture of him with his shirt off. The photo, which ran in abolitionist publications in the summer of 1863, showed his severely scarred back. No doubt, it served as a powerful image justifying principled justifications for the US Civil War, and thus scars have the potential not only to resist particular just war narratives, but also to aid and reinforce them as well. When the image reached international audiences, one London-based pro-Union publication, the Anti-Slavery Reporter, concluded: ‘it tells a tale which even Mrs. Stowe could not match, for it appeals not to the understanding alone, but direct to the eye’ (Anon. 1863).5 Scars were used not to stop war, but to propose a legitimacy of one form of violence to combat what abolitionists found to be the illegitimacy of another form (the beatings of slavery). Second, the physical shock of a scar is its power, but scars can fade through desensitization in the viewer or simply with time. It is possible that scarred individuals, landscapes, buildings, and the narratives they enable, all make it difficult to rearrange the past in ways that provide a clean and final ending to wars. Yet they also may lose their ability to disrupt precisely because a society internalizes their presence in ways that ‘normalize’ their effects, or assume that they, like the heroic wars that produced them, are simply a relic of a virtuous past that has made possible a peaceful present. We close with a reflexive suggestion that scholars recognize their own roles, albeit minimally and indirectly, in both fostering particular discourses that centralize ‘winning’ as not only preferable, but plausible and even necessary, ‘Mrs. Stowe’ is Harriet Beecher Stowe, an American abolitionist who wrote the infamous novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin that depicted the harshness of everyday slavery in the American South. 5

The Scars of Victory

153

and consider how they might promote discourses that challenge such a notion. As we have noted in previous work (Campbell and Steele 2015), the literature on public opinion and ‘winning’ wars (that the former can be turned around in favour of a war with strategies ensuring the latter),6 and the just war literature on victory and the importance of success as a condition of jus ad bellum are important investigations. But scholars who prioritize or uncritically adopt ‘winning’ as an analytical category could, at the very least, acknowledge the unintended consequences of winning discourses for collectives. A more promising avenue, short of outright advocacy, has been proposed by Eric Foner (2005) and David Crocker (2012). Here, historians and political scientists play a role in reopening the scars of violence to enable another narration: one that focuses less on the heroism and dramatics implied in decisive victory, and more on resources for reconciliation that honestly account for the human costs of war.

REFERENCES Acharya, Avidit, Matthew Blackwell, and Maya Sen. 2016. ‘The Political Legacy of American Slavery’, Journal of Politics 78(3): 621–41. Anon. 1863. ‘The Scourged-Slave’s Back’, The Liberator, 4 September. Available at , accessed 4 September 2016. Auchter, Jessica. 2014. The Politics of Haunting and Memory in International Relations. Abingdon: Routledge. Badger, Emily. 2015. ‘Redlining: Still a Thing’, Washington Post, 28 May. Bellamy, Alex J. 2006. Just Wars: From Cicero to Iraq. Malden: Polity Press. Brown, Chris. 2013. ‘Just War and Political Judgement’, in Anthony F. Lang, Cian O’Driscoll, and John Williams (eds), Just War and Political Judgement. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 25–48. Butler, Michael J. 2012. Selling a ‘Just’ War: Framing, Legitimacy, and US Military Intervention. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Campbell, Luke. 2015. ‘The “Importance of Winning”: Affect, Just War and the “Familiarization” of Success’. PhD dissertation, University of Kansas. Campbell, Luke and Brent J. Steele. 2015. ‘The Concepts of Success in (and of) War’. Paper presented at the ‘Concepts in Action’ Workshop, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 31 May–1 June. Coates, Ta-nehisi. 2015. Between the World and Me. New York: Spiegel and Grau. Coppieters, Bruno and Nick Fotion (eds). 2002. Moral Constraints on War: Principles and Cases. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. 6 This was a key factor that made Feaver’s work (especially) attractive to the Bush administration when in 2006 it ‘surged’ troops in Iraq. Feaver claimed it would not only be a ‘winning’ strategy but would turn public opinion in favour of the Iraq War (see Ricks 2009; Steele 2016).

154

Luke Campbell and Brent J. Steele

Crocker, David. 2012. ‘Ending the US Civil War Well: Reconciliation and Transitional Justice’, in Eric Patterson (ed.), Ethics Beyond War’s End. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 145–74. Downs, Gregory P. 2015a. After Appomattox. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Downs, Gregory P. 2015b. ‘The Dangerous Myth of Appomattox’, The New York Times, 11 April. Dudziak, Mary. 2012. War Time: An Idea, Its History, Its Consequences. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eckert, Amy E. 2014. ‘Private Military Companies and the Reasonable Chance of Success’, in Caron E. Gentry and Amy E. Eckert (eds), The Future of Just War: New Critical Essays. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 62–75. Edkins, Jenny. 2003. Trauma and the Memory of Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foner, Eric. 2005. Forever Free: The Story of Emancipation and Reconstruction. New York: Random House. Gelpi, Christopher, Peter D. Feaver, and Jason Reifler. 2005. ‘Success Matters: Casualty Sensitivity and the War in Iraq’, International Security 30(3): 7–46. Gelpi, Christopher, Peter D. Feaver, and Jason Reifler. 2009. Paying the Human Costs of War: American Public Opinion and Casualties in Military Conflicts. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Halbwachs, Maurice. 1992. On Collective Memory, ed. and trans. Lewis A. Coser. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Harbour, Frances V. 2011. ‘Reasonable Probability of Success as a Moral Criterion in the Western Just War Tradition’, Journal of Military Ethics 10(3): 230–41. Heath-Kelly, Charlotte. 2016. Death and Security: Memory and Mortality at the Bombsite. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 1863. ‘The Human Wheel, its Spokes and Felloes’, The Atlantic, May. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Hopf, Ted. 2010. ‘The Logic of Habit in International Relations’, European Journal of International Relations 16(4): 539–61. Howell, Alison. 2012. ‘The Demise of PTSD from Governing through Trauma to Governing Resilience’, Alternatives: Global, Local, Political 37(3): 214–26. Johnson, James Turner. 1999. Morality and Contemporary Warfare. New Haven: Yale University Press. Johnson, James Turner. 2005. The War to Oust Saddam Hussein: Just War and the New Face of Conflict. New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Keohane, Robert O. and Joseph S. Nye. 1977. Power and Interdependence: World Politics in Transition. Boston: Little, Brown & Co. Khong, Yuen Foong. 1992. Analogies at War: Korea, Munich, Dien Bien Phu, and the Vietnam Decisions of 1965. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lipsitz, George. 1990. Time Passages: Collective Memory and American Popular Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Löwenheim, Nava. 2009. ‘A Haunted Past: Requesting Forgiveness for Wrongdoing in International Relations’, Review of International Studies 35(3): 531–55.

The Scars of Victory

155

McIntosh, Christopher. 2015. ‘Theory across Time: The Privileging of Time-less Theory in International Relations’, International Theory 7(3): 464–500. McMahan, Jeff. 2005. ‘Just Cause for War’, Ethics and International Affairs 19(3): 1–21. Meiser, Jeffrey. 2015. Power and Restraint: The Rise of the United States, 1898–1941. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Mueller, John. 2005. ‘The Iraq Syndrome’, Foreign Affairs, November/December. Noon, David Hoogland. 2004. ‘Operation Enduring Analogy: WWII, the War on Terror, and the Uses of Historical Memory’, Rhetoric & Public Affairs 7(3): 339–64. Osiel, Mark. 1997. Mass Atrocity, Collective Memory, and the Law. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers. Ricks, Thomas. 2009. The Gamble. New York: Penguin Press. Roskin, Michael. 1974. ‘From Pearl Harbor to Vietnam: Shifting Generational Paradigms and Foreign Policy’, Political Science Quarterly 89(3): 563–88. Ross, Andrew. 2014. Mixed Emotions: Beyond Fear and Hatred in International Conflict. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Schick, Kate. 2011. ‘Acting Out and Working Through: Trauma and (In)security’, Review of International Studies 37(4): 1837–55. Shaara, Jeff. 1996. Gods and Generals. New York: Ballantine. Shaara, Jeff. 1998. The Last Full Measure. New York: Ballantine. Steele, Brent J. 2013a. Alternative Accountabilities in Global Politics: The Scars of Violence. Abingdon: Routledge. Steele, Brent J. 2013b. ‘Revenge and Just War’, in Anthony F. Lang, Cian O’Driscoll, and John Williams (eds), Just War: Authority, Tradition, and Practice. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 197–212. Steele, Brent J. 2016. ‘Whistle Disruption: Reflexivity and Documentary Provocation’, in Jack Amoureux and Brent J. Steele (eds), Reflexivity in International Relations. London: Routledge, 61–80. Terkel, Studs. 1997. The Good War: An Oral History of World War II. New York: The New Press. Torgovnick, Marianna. 2005. The War Complex: World War II in Our Time. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Walzer, Michael. 1977. Just and Unjust Wars: A Moral Argument with Historical Illustrations. New York: Basic Books. Zakaria, Fareed. 1999. From Wealth to Power: The Unusual Origins of America’s World Role. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

10 Winning Humanitarian Interventions? Problematizing Victory and jus post bellum in International Action to Stop Mass Atrocities Kurt Mills

INTRODUCTION If one is engaging in the use of military force in a situation which defies the hallmarks of war as traditionally conceived—clear enemies, which are usually state-based or state-like, and a clear understanding of what an end to the war means (i.e. what constitutes victory for one side or another)—how do we know when it is over or how to evaluate when someone has won? What counts as victory? What should happen when the application of force ends? These questions are particularly relevant for a particular type of the use of force: humanitarian intervention, or the use of military force to protect people at risk of significant and widespread human rights violations. Humanitarian intervention is frequently situated within the just war tradition as a potentially permissible instance of war to protect people (Walzer 1977: 101–8; Hehir 2013), although, as will be made clear, this is a misapplication of the concept of war. Taking this particular instance of the application of military force to protect people, which I assert is not ‘war’ in the traditional sense, I will address three questions: Why is this type of the use of force fundamentally different from war as traditionally conceived? How does this understanding of the use of force impact understandings of victory? And what are the responsibilities of those who engage in such activities—and others—once the conflict ends? The first question relates to how the legitimacy of the use of force is constructed (as Campbell and Steele discuss in ‘The Probability of Success in Just War Theory’ in Chapter 9, ‘social narratives about war and its purposes’ are changing), as

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

157

well as the realities of conflict involving peacekeepers and others legitimated by the UN Security Council to protect people. The second question problematizes the idea of victory as a practical and normative ideal (as opposed to Patterson, who argues in ‘War Aims, jus ad bellum, and Victory’ in Chapter 7 for the imperative of victory). The third addresses the so-called jus post bellum: what should be done when a conflict ends and who should do it. This might include physical and institutional rebuilding as well as transitional justice. The argument will draw on examples from contemporary conflict, including in particular the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

PROBLEMATIZING WAR AND V ICTORY W HEN PROTECTING CIVILIANS The concept of just war, which seeks to determine when it is permissible for one state to wage war upon another state, does not necessarily correspond to the dynamics of humanitarian intervention and other protection of civilian situations, or much contemporary violent conflict more generally. For humanitarian intervention is not a state or group of states waging war against another state. Rather, it is potentially a state, group of states, or an international organization like the United Nations or African Union (AU) intervening—using force—to prevent large numbers of people being killed. It is not war in the traditional sense, although there may be war-like elements. War is about expanding territory, gaining access to resources, defending oneself from attack, or punishing a state. The situation I am talking about is more akin to police action (Mills 1998: 158), where the entity using force is acting on behalf of the international community to enforce international norms: in this case, norms against genocide and other atrocities as found in the Genocide Convention, the Geneva Conventions, and other principles of international law. Indeed, this is how it has been conceptualized in evolving practice through the UN, AU, and elsewhere. The 2005 World Summit Outcome document (UN General Assembly 2005), through which the UN established the principle of the responsibility to protect (R2P), asserts that states have a responsibility to protect people within the state from mass atrocity crimes, and that when they fail, the international community has a responsibility to act, including by military means, to protect people within those states. It does not confer any right to wage war against the state; rather, it ties action directly to stopping international crimes. And any state or group of states authorized by the UN to take action to protect people from these crimes would be acting on behalf of the UN in order to implement internationally recognized human rights norms. The AU Constitutive Act gives the AU the right to intervene in situations of war crimes, crimes against humanity, and

158

Kurt Mills

genocide. Both the UN and AU specifically forbid the use of force—i.e. war— against other states, but they give to themselves the right to use force to uphold specific international norms. That is, they have the right to act as police to stop certain international crimes. Note that this is an argument over conceptualizing the actions described above, and thus would fall within jus ad bellum considerations, as opposed to Chris Brown’s (Chapter 6) critique of the revisionist constabulary model of the conduct of war which focuses on jus in bello considerations and the moral equivalency of combatants. Further, related to revisionist just war theorists (see Chapter 6), this conceptualization of such instances of the use of force as police upholding the law is firmly grounded in the real world and the realities of contemporary conflict. Such activities used to be called humanitarian intervention, which may be defined as ‘the threat or use of force across state borders by a state (or a group of states) aimed at preventing or ending widespread and grave violations of the fundamental human rights of individuals other than its own citizens, without the permission of the state within whose territory the force is applied’ (Holzgrefe 2003). Yet, as international norms and practices have developed over the last two decades, the concept of humanitarian intervention developed into the aforementioned R2P. Whereas humanitarian intervention was seen as potentially a transgression of one global norm (sovereignty or undermining territorial integrity) in support of another (human rights), such interventions are now conceived of as an upholding of sovereignty since protection of human rights is now conceived of as a component of sovereignty (Evans 2008). R2P was invoked in the intervention of Libya in 2011, resulting in a situation that looked like war, but was conceived of as action taken by a coalition of states upholding international human rights norms on behalf of, and authorized by, the international community. It began with a focus on protection but expanded to overthrowing the Libyan government. This attracted significant criticism, but one might argue that in extreme situations such action might be the only sure way to ensure the protection of civilians. But such activities may also look like the action taken by the United Kingdom, France, and the United States in Northern Iraq after the first Gulf War ended in 1991, where military force (in this case airpower) was used against the wishes of the state (Iraq) to protect people (Kurds) (Akhavan 1993). The intervention looked like a limited humanitarian intervention; people were protected while the state/government itself was not directly threatened. Yet this situation also highlights the dangers of mission creep—using an end perceived as righteous and legitimate to engage in other goals—in this case, punishing and undermining the Iraqi regime. Nevertheless, the more limited type of protection would be potentially useful in a situation such as Syria. Protection could be provided for people in a limited area without attacking the state itself and overthrowing the government. This becomes more complicated with so many different actors on the ground, with different agendas and all

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

159

threatening different groups of people (Murphy 2015). While some states have materially supported one side in the war, such actions may entrench the fighting rather than protect people. In a situation such as Syria, a safe zone would require ground troops to physically protect people, representing an escalation of commitment on the part of the intervener(s), but again this would not necessarily threaten the state, although the government would likely see it as a threat. Further, some actions to protect people, which may resemble war, may have at least some consent on the part of the state. This is the case with peacekeeping, where states accept a military force on their territory to help deal with a conflict. Recent years have seen the protection of civilians at the core of peacekeeping activities (Holt et al. 2009). But such activities, while perhaps also conceptualized as police enforcement, may include very robust military activities that resemble war. This has been the case in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) in recent years, in particular with the introduction of the Force Intervention Brigade (Vogel 2014). Yet, even though not war in the traditional sense, such activities still raise questions about what to do when the civilians have been protected and there is no more need for military force. Do the interveners or peacekeepers simply pack up and leave, or should they be doing more to help society get back on its feet? Further, again referring to the DRC, what happens when the conflict appears never-ending, when dozens of armed groups are vying for power, and all efforts seem like a drop in the ocean (Mills 2015)? Indeed, the concept of ‘victory’ may be meaningless here (or at least significantly problematized, as Brunstetter notes in Chapter 13 in this volume), certainly in its traditional understandings of vanquishing an enemy. And although Patterson finds a concept of victory in humanitarian intervention (see ‘War Aims, jus ad bellum, and Victory’ in Chapter 7), it is not clear exactly what this is. When the goal is to protect people or ensure that humanitarian assistance can be delivered, there is no victor and vanquished, and it is unclear what winning would look like. Furthermore, the mission may be undermined when it is framed in those terms, as the US found in Somalia when one particular warlord, Mohamed Farrah Aidid, was identified as the enemy. In this instance, the US was not tasked with fighting one or more particular ‘enemies’. Rather, it was there to ensure that humanitarian aid could be delivered. It was acting as an impartial peacekeeper. Once that impartiality ended and it started confronting identified enemies, its mission was undermined. The US was there to fill in when a UN peacekeeping mission failed. As such, from the outset the mission had no concept of victory in terms of defeating an enemy.1 1

Somalia was a conflict situation which illustrated that new wars (Kaldor 2007) and evolving situations where traditional understandings of peacekeeping are problematic—including

160

Kurt Mills

Traditional concepts of victory in armed conflict usually involve the identification of enemies over which one is victorious. Politicians and military leaders are comfortable with the idea of enemies, and frequently rely on constructions of enemies to justify their actions. Yet, when trying to protect people in a context where there are dozens of armed groups fighting the government and themselves, and people are being killed and raped by the thousands, is identifying an ‘enemy’ useful? The Congolese military identifies various groups as enemies (although this can change depending upon political expediency), but when UN peacekeepers get caught up in this dynamic, its civilian protection mission can be undermined by calling into question its impartiality and drawing it into situations antithetical to protecting civilians. The Congolese military was responsible for widespread violations of human rights, including in missions where the UN Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUC) cooperated in pursuing particular groups. In fact, MONUC identified the Congolese army—Forces Armées de la République Démocratique du Congo (FARDC)—as being responsible for 40 per cent of human rights violations, and had to institute guidelines for which elements of the military it would cooperate with and which it would not because it was too risky (Mills 2015: 98–102). In this situation, who is the enemy, and of whom? Is it the armed rebel groups whom the government identifies as the enemy (except when periodically the government tries to co-opt them into the government military), and who are responsible for much of the human misery seen in eastern DRC over the last twenty years? Are they also the enemy of MONUC? Can the UN have enemies? Is the Force Intervention Brigade fighting against particular ‘enemies’, or is it trying to subdue a variety of actors so that it can fulfil its primary mission of protecting civilians? Are the armed groups the enemies of the civilians caught in the midst of the fighting? Given that FARDC is responsible for so many civilian deaths, is it the enemy? Of whom? The civilians who are supposed to be under its protection? MONUC? If the latter, this is particularly problematic since UN peacekeepers are not normally going to fight against government troops. And what about the DRC’s neighbours? This includes in particular Rwanda, which has been deeply embedded in the conflict in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide which essentially spilled across the border, as well as Uganda which has also been fighting against its own ‘enemies’ on the territory of the DRC and beyond, and a number of other countries which have been deeply implicated in the fighting, in particular through supporting various groups, for both political and economic reasons. Are they the enemy? If so, how can they be vanquished since the fighting is not against them directly? Fighting against government and government-supported forces may be exactly what is needed neutrality and the non-use of aggressive force—do not fit into the category of traditional war with traditional enemies and goals and pathways to ‘victory’.

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

161

in Darfur where a weak peacekeeping operation has failed to stand up to those most responsible for the suffering: government forces and governmentsponsored militias (Mills 2015). Is the Sudanese government the enemy of the UN Mission in Darfur (UNAMID)? These are vital questions that thinking in terms of victory, and consequently enemies, leaves unanswered. What does victory mean in these situations? In the DRC, one of the armed groups, M23, has been subdued by the Force Intervention Brigade, but given that there are dozens more rebel groups, this hardly seems like a victory. And although Patterson in this volume (‘Victory Matters Prudentially and Morally’ in Chapter 7) discusses the importance of victory in ‘civil wars, or other longenduring, slowly simmering conflicts’, since there has been ongoing conflict in the DRC for two decades with no end in sight, it does not seem reasonable to talk about victory. Rather, if and when the fighting ends, it will be as a result of a combination of the military elimination of some of the groups and political accommodation with others, as well as political agreement with Rwanda and Uganda to stop supporting rebel groups. It will also require some sort of economic settlement since much of the fighting has been driven by access to resources. And given the contingent and unsatisfactory endings—or lack of endings—in such situations, is it possible to talk about the vindication of values, as Patterson (‘Defining Victory in War’ in Chapter 7) and Hom, O’Driscoll, and Mills (‘Reconstructing Victory and the Just War Tradition’ in Chapter 14) do in this volume? The values of human rights and human dignity are almost never upheld in a resounding and comprehensive way such that a clear new worldview reigns in the (former) zone of conflict with, as Patterson argues for, ‘a new status quo, one that is more secure than the previous conditions of instability and/or injustice’ (‘Victory Matters Prudentially and Morally’). Indeed, such victories may, following Patterson (‘The Scandal of Winning’), be Pyrrhic at best, given the human (and material) destruction which occurs in conflicts today, even when some participants are motivated by humanitarian concerns. And, as Heuser (Chapter 4), Scheipers (‘Moral Victories’ in Chapter 3), and Campbell and Steele (‘The Appomattox Myth and the Permanent Endurance of War’ in Chapter 9) note in different ways, there is also nothing to guarantee that these victories will durably resolve the conflicts that spawned them. The case of Libya is also problematic. The interveners were given the authority by the UN Security Council, in the context of R2P, to protect civilians. The tipping point in favour of action was a potential imminent massacre in the city of Benghazi. In a sense, the precursor resolution (1970) which referred the situation to the International Criminal Court (ICC), and then the resolution authorizing the intervention (1973), implicitly identified Muammar Gaddafi as the enemy, since it was clear that the responsibility for the killing of civilians lay with his government. Yet, again, is it possible for the UN to have enemies per se? Further, the focus of these resolutions was

162

Kurt Mills

protecting civilians, not removing the government from power. At the same time, this may have been a situation where the only way to ensure the ongoing protection of civilians was to remove the leader responsible for ordering the killing of civilians—Gaddafi—from power. Gaddafi thus occupied an ambiguous and important place in the interpretation of the intervention; he was not the enemy of the body which authorized actions that ended up entailing his removal/vanquishing. It is difficult to understand what victory means in this regard, particularly given the aftermath, where the country divided into competing factions and the flow of fighters and weapons out of the country led to increased destabilization across the Sahel. Thus, even though many of these activities look superficially like war—they involve the use of military force—they are not. They do not involve fighting against an enemy as such, the goals of the military actions are not the same as war, and the basis on which they are fought—police action upholding international human rights norms—is different from normal interstate war. Most armed conflict today does not fit the traditional understanding of war (Bellamy 2008: 61); it is now primarily intra-state (or indeed global, as Brunstetter notes in the context of the ‘war on terror’; see ‘The Principles of jus post vim’ in Chapter 13), and involves a variety of state and non-state entities (including private military companies, as Eckert’s Chapter 12 notes), and rather than having to do with territory or other interstate disputes, it has more to do with identity and access to resources. And peacekeepers, with differing rules of engagement, are frequently present in these internal conflicts. This raises serious questions about underlying assumptions in just war theory. Indeed, as Labonte argues, just war theory has by and large failed to come to grips with this reality, instead generally assuming that contemporary conflict ‘occurs mainly between states’ (Labonte 2009: 213). Further, however, while interveners may be involved in an internal conflict, the intent, scope, authority basis, and intended outcome are vastly different from anything we normally call war.

R ES P O N S I B I LI T I E S AF T ER H U M A N I T A R I A N INTERVENTIONS When R2P was first formulated by the International Commission on Intervention and State Sovereignty (ICISS) (ICISS 2001), it put forth a tripartite set of responsibilities for the international community in cases of genocide and other mass atrocities. States and the international community were expected to prevent such atrocities, react—potentially with military force when such atrocities were imminent or occurring—and rebuild states and societies after an intervention. As R2P has evolved in both conceptualization and practice,

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

163

the responsibility to rebuild has disappeared. The ICISS argued that: ‘The responsibility to protect implies the responsibility to not just prevent and react, but to follow through and rebuild. This means that if military intervention is taken . . . there should be genuine commitment to helping rebuild a durable peace, and promoting good governance and sustainable development’ (ICISS 2001: 39). Instead, the focus has become prevention and initial response. Yet, as has been clearly demonstrated by the case of Libya, if interveners simply pack up and leave after protecting people or removing a leader from power who had been abusing their people, the conditions for further instability and atrocities may well be present. While there is debate within just war theory regarding whether victors in war may or must participate in post-conflict reconstruction (Bellamy 2008), as I argue, the types of conflicts discussed here require a connection between those participating in a humanitarian intervention and actions after the intervention to ensure that the outcome is better than before, although that connection may be context-specific. One very significant question is: who holds these responsibilities? The common refrain is the international community, but what does this actually mean? From where do these responsibilities arise? R2P holds that when states fail in their duty to protect civilians, the international community must step in. This would happen primarily through the UN Security Council, although the AU has made a similar claim to authority to transgress sovereignty to protect civilians in Article 4h of its Constitutive Act. Other states or groups of states have made similar arguments for intervention without Security Council approval, such as the ECOWAS intervention in Liberia or the NATO intervention in Kosovo. But does identifying rebuilding as an international responsibility let some actors off the hook? Perhaps those who undertake the intervention should bear significant responsibility post bellum. The intervener may accrue special responsibilities, but it is not clear that the burden should fall completely or significantly on them. Yet they must also bear some responsibility. Interveners have a particular burden to ensure that the situation is ‘better’— however that may be defined—and not just leave behind chaos. This higher standard means that not only should the situation be ‘better’ than before the intervention, the interveners have a special responsibility to ensure that the conditions for a peaceful society are much more likely than the human rights abuses that justified the intervention in the first place. This does not necessarily mean installing a western-style liberal democracy—indeed the precursor conditions may make this very difficult and unlikely—but it does mean the development of a peaceful, human-rights-protecting society in whatever ultimate form it might take (perhaps along the lines of the re-establishment principle that Brunstetter discusses in ‘The Principles of jus post vim’, Chapter 13). But this obviously also excludes many types of highly authoritarian governance. This puts a very heavy burden on protectors, to such an

164

Kurt Mills

extent that some potential protectors might be deterred from engaging in protective activity in the first place. Indeed, Pattison (2015: 638) argues that it is ‘unfair’ that the intervening entity ‘should have to bear the costs of rebuilding, simply because it intervened’, particularly since it has already assumed a significant cost in the intervention itself. And it also raises the prospect of criticisms of neocolonialism (Gheciu and Welsh 2009: 121). Nevertheless, those who engage in an intervention face a high threshold for the post bellum situation, which may also create a link to the justification for the intervention (a linkage which Pattison 2015: 642 rejects). Indeed, Bass argues that ‘When the victorious state fails to assist in reconstruction in such post-genocidal cases, it calls in question its claim to have waged a just war of humanitarian intervention, for it has failed to finish what it began in waging the war’ (Bass 2004: 401). Yet can we say an intervention is not justified if the intervener attempts to make the situation better but fails? Obviously not. No intervener can say with perfect clarity and foresight what will happen, and it would be difficult to hold interveners to account for everything that happens after an intervention. But, the intervener must do everything within its power to ensure that things are better afterwards. This would include, most fundamentally, planning for the post bellum period, including both actions that the intervener might take but that other actors, such as the UN, might also take. The intervener must not assume that a situation will automatically right itself and that a positive authority will be able to readily assume power. The UK, US, and other intervening states failed to do this in Libya, with disastrous consequences: a splintered country controlled by multiple centres of power, a base in North Africa for ISIS, and regional fighting as a result of the flow of fighters and guns out of Libya and into the surrounding countries. President Obama indicated that his worst foreign policy mistake was ‘failing to plan for the day after’ the intervention (BBC News 2016). A UK parliamentary inquiry noted that the UK ‘had a particular responsibility to support Libyan economic and political reconstruction’ because it led the intervention, which it failed adequately to carry out (House of Commons 2016: 29). Does this undermine the justification for the intervention? There was a real and imminent risk of massacres in Benghazi—and probably elsewhere in Libya—which would justify protective military action. And one could make the case that permanent protection of civilian lives might have justified the removal of Gaddafi. Yet, the swift move to regime change without adequate planning for what came after Gaddafi was not justified and indicates the necessity of considering how humanitarian interventions end. When Gaddafi became the enemy and his removal the goal of the intervention, a sense of ‘victory’ might have become more discernible, but the goal—and potentially the legitimacy—of the intervention was undermined. What rebuilding might look like is not entirely clear, and will vary from case to case. The aftermath of the R2P actions in Libya demonstrates very clearly

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

165

a need for such rebuilding. Evans argues that those who engage in a war and are ‘victorious’ must undertake the following activities: 1. Set proportional peace terms to ‘ensure a just and stable peace as well as to redress the [original] injustices’ (e.g. the genocide or other human rights abuses which led to the intervention in the first place); 2. Contribute to the costs of material rebuilding; 3. Participate in national and international conflict prevention activities; 4. Participate in reconciliation activities; 5. Restore self-determination (Evans 2009: 155–7). Labonte provides a more detailed overview of necessary post bellum actions, framed within a human security perspective which goes beyond traditional just war theorizing, and focuses on the individual rather than the state as the key referent (Labonte 2009: 211–18). While Evans’ list (as perhaps modified and extended by Labonte) broadly describes the variety of activities necessary after a humanitarian intervention, the burden does not fall alone on individual states who may engage in protection, and indeed there may by prudential reasons for others to carry out some of these activities. To the extent that their activities are authorized by some other agent—e.g. the UN or AU—these other agents also have significant responsibilities at the end of the conflict. They bear responsibility for actions they have authorized. They also bear responsibility as representatives of the international community, either globally (the UN) or regionally (the AU), regardless of whether or not they played a role in the initial intervention.2 Indeed, Bellamy (2008: 616) argues that the UN has recognized, or is in the process of recognizing, such a responsibility, as seen in the creation of the UN Peacebuilding Commission. These other entities may be better placed to undertake the required activities—both in terms of resources and capacity and in terms of authority—although as Gheciu and Welsh (2009: 135–6) note, both the UN and regional organizations are also problematic because of deficiencies in legitimacy and effectiveness. Indeed, there may by situations where the intervening entity does not have the ability to adequately support rebuilding; one would not want to rule out a protective intervention because the intervening entity was not able to fulfil potentially onerous rebuilding activities (Bellamy 2008: 620–1). Thus, the individual protecting states must work with the authorizing agent—or other relevant agent, such as the UN—to ensure the rebuilding phase progresses, rather than just leaving when ‘mission accomplished’ is declared, although this will come into tension with the imperative to leave as soon as is practicable to allow for self-determination (Bass 2004: 412). 2

See Pattison (2015: 646–58), for philosophical arguments, in particular from cosmopolitan perspectives, to support an international duty to rebuild.

166

Kurt Mills

This self-determination imperative—as well as pragmatism—also requires that a variety of non-state actors be involved in the rebuilding process, including both civil society and possibly former combatants, even as these non-state actors may endanger the process (Labonte 2009: 221). There may be cases where normal governance can be restored very quickly. In this case, the responsibilities of the protectors may involve merely refraining from meddling in the process and supporting other types of post-conflict rebuilding activities. Other situations may demand more involvement—starting with preintervention planning—while also keeping in mind the problem of mission creep (Evans 2009: 157–8), which can undermine Evans’ fifth activity (quick restoration of self-determination), although what self-determination may detail, and which ‘self ’ should be prioritized is significantly more problematic than is frequently assumed (Gheciu and Welsh 2009: 140–2; Mills 1998). One important element which is frequently overlooked but which has risen to prominence in recent years is the question of post-conflict justice. This relates to Evans’ fourth point, but is broader than his more limited focus on reconciliation. But even this is a misnomer because many activities related to justice and holding people accountable for their actions in bello take place while conflict is still happening. Indeed, the ICC has intervened in multiple ongoing conflicts, including those where an intervention or peacekeeping force has been involved, such as the Central African Republic, Darfur, the DRC, Libya, and Uganda. The argument for such activities are fourfold. First, holding people accountable during conflict can remove them from the arena of conflict. They are no longer able to commit mass atrocities such as widespread killing of civilians, recruit child soldiers, etc. Yet there are also worries that targeting military—and civilian—leaders in the middle of conflict may make it harder to come to a political accommodation to end the conflict. Second, holding war criminals accountable for their crimes may deter future crimes. However, there is little evidence that such deterrence happens, and such evidence is anecdotal at best, as in the case of recruitment of child soldiers in the DRC (Mills 2015: 116). Third, it is important to remove those who commit atrocities from society so they do not act as spoilers after conflict has ended and undermine attempts at political reconciliation and rebuilding. Finally, such retributive justice is necessary for both individual and societal reconciliation. This drive towards justice has come to be known as the responsibility to prosecute (Mills 2013): a recognition that widespread gross violations of human rights (war crimes, crimes against humanity, and genocide) are an offence to international law and must not go unpunished. More generally, the responsibility to prosecute has become a general expectation incumbent on the international community, and, again, interveners may have special obligations here: not to try individuals themselves, which might be seen as victor’s justice (even though we have problematized the concept of victor), but to support relevant domestic and international

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

167

mechanisms to promote post-conflict justice and reconciliation. This would include supporting the work of the ICC, which is complementary to the work of domestic courts. In the case of one frequent intervener in particular, the US, this presents particular issues. While it has been more supportive of the work of the Court over the last few years,3 it has a history of antagonism, and it has not ratified the Rome Statute, leading to accusations of hypocrisy. One might question whether, given this new norm in the context of R2P, such countries as the US must become party to the ICC to fully implement their post bellum responsibilities, or is it enough just to provide other support and not work to undermine the Court in any way? Further, however, upholding the responsibility to prosecute may come into conflict with negotiations necessary to end the war (Bass 2004: 405) or other domestic considerations regarding post-conflict reconciliation. As Labonte (2009: 208) notes, the indeterminate nature of the ending of conflicts leads to ‘difficult normative trade-offs’ and reflects a ‘host of injustices’ which complicate the responsibility to prosecute imperative. While the trade-off between peace and justice or truth and justice is not as stark as it is sometimes made out to be, interveners and others must tread a fine line between respecting local imperatives and wishes and upholding international norms.4 This will further call into question understandings of victory where victors punish the vanquished for their misdeeds. Any punishment would be done on behalf of the international community rather than any notional victor, and there may be situations where punishment is delayed or forgone as a result of domestic considerations. Beyond ensuring criminal justice and reconstruction of physical infrastructure, rebuilding also entails reconstruction of political institutions and social justice to ensure that the roots of the conflict, including social and economic inequities, are addressed. This is a very tall order with a potentially unlimited scope. If in the course of protecting people a conflict ends, the intervener must contribute to creating an environment where people continue to be protected and not subject to the same threats to their personal security. This can be very difficult for a number of reasons. First, there may well be accusations of neoimperialism on the part of some or many whose sovereignty was transgressed, even though the intent of the intervention was to restore the sovereignty of the individuals in the country. Thus, any presence after the intervention must not be conducted in such a way as to be perceived as an occupation. Any reconstruction must be a true partnership where local actors are respected and play a leading role in deciding the way forward; outside actors must thus ‘render themselves accountable to the population they purport to assist’ (Bass 2004: 401). This was an important issue in Libya. The interveners, who had a 3 4

Which may change as a result of the 2016 US presidential election. As seen in the debate over the role of the ICC in northern Uganda, for example (Mills 2015).

168

Kurt Mills

Security Council mandate and thus were acting on behalf of the international community, decided early on that there would be no ‘boots on the ground’— no military forces would set foot on Libyan soil. This was for fear of taking casualties, but also because of a fear of being seen as a neo-imperial invading and occupying force. Such perceptions would have been heightened since it would have been western countries invading and occupying a Muslim country, a sure-fire recipe for increased global tensions. Second, in the context of peacekeeping operations, rather than being a clear distinction between in bello and post bellum phases, there may be a practical continuum, where some activities traditionally defined as post-conflict are undertaken while the conflict is going on. These might include traditional development activities or ‘quick impact projects’ which are intended to lay the foundation for more durable post-conflict solutions to displacement. Or a situation may be identified as being much closer to a post-conflict phase, such as stabilization, as the situation in the DRC was rather optimistically identified when MONUC became MONUSCO (United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo), rather than ‘pacification’. Further, as noted above, international criminal justice mechanisms may also come into play. In the DRC, several individuals have had ICC arrest warrants issued against them. UN peacekeepers have been reluctant to participate in apprehending suspects, although they have participated in the handover of suspects in a couple of instances (Mills 2015: 126). While the peacekeepers have obvious concerns regarding neutrality (although when they engage in active hostilities against particular armed groups they may lose that neutrality) and not wanting to get into major fire fights à la Mogadishu to arrest one individual,5 there will be a clear moral connection between their protection mandate and the responsibility to prosecute. As noted, in post-conflict situations there will be broader responsibilities with regard to rebuilding on the part of interveners and authorizers—as well as in situations where there has been no authorization legitimating the action. Most often, regardless of whether it has been the authorizer or not, the UN gets tasked with reconstruction and development responsibilities. Yet this does not absolve the primary interveners from their responsibilities. Further, such rebuilding activities are frequently taken over by non-state actors—NGOs— either as contractors for the UN and other state actors implementing their post bellum obligations, or of their own accord. In some situations, NGOs function as what Fiona Terry (2002) calls ‘humanitarian shadow states’, taking over many of the functions of the state and running civil infrastructures. This raises very significant concerns since it may absolve states of some of their responsibilities—a moral hazard which may allow states to redirect funds otherwise 5

Indeed, Walzer (1977: 119) notes that rounding up people to put on trial might prolong a conflict.

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

169

used for the good of their people into other endeavours, including the military. More generally, Recchia (2009) provides cautions about the depth and length of international trusteeship and other international paternalistic arrangements which may characterize post-conflict reconstruction situations.

PROBLEMATIZING VICTORY AND JUS POST B ELLUM The above discussion is not comprehensive. But hopefully it does demonstrate that the concept of ‘victory’ in the context of many contemporary conflicts is highly problematic. Further, it raises issues with regard to the potential responsibilities many participants in these conflicts may have post bellum. In today’s conflicts, especially in various types of peace operations, there may be particular expectations for how states will act. Further, the traditional distinction between jus ad bellum and jus post bellum may disappear as what happens after peace operations end is intimately tied into justifications for the operations in the first place. But, there is one final issue to be addressed. I have made reference to situations like Libya where the initial mission—protecting people from massacres on the part of the government—has been achieved and the government replaced. Yet, given the state of armed conflict and genocidal situations today, such situations are a minority. Rather, most situations where an outside force may participate in actions to protect civilians will involve much more indeterminacy. The DRC, by its very nature, calls into question the concept of victory. The multitude of both internal and external groups fighting each other and the government problematizes any notion of victory. Armed conflict has been going on for two decades, and even though there have been lulls in the fighting, and the situation is now classified as stabilization, it is anything but stable. How would we know when ‘victory’ had been achieved, and by whom? When each and every non-state armed group has been defeated? When other states who have been meddling in the multiple conflicts are finally expelled? Further, one of the main actors in eastern DRC is the UN. As noted, it is difficult to find ‘enemies’ that it might have a victory over. Relatively early on in the conflict, in May 2003, the European Union sent in a UN Security Council-authorized Chapter VII mission called Operation Artemis (Ulriksen et al. 2004). Its mission was to engage in peace enforcement and protect civilians in the north-eastern city of Bunia. It accomplished its mission during the three months it was deployed. The security situation in Bunia was stabilized and the civilian population (at least in Bunia itself) was protected. And then it left. It accomplished its mission, but there was no sense of ‘victory’, unless one counts temporarily protecting tens of thousands of people a victory, which would probably be stretching the concept too far. MONUC took over

170

Kurt Mills

after Artemis troops left, and it (and then its successor MONUSCO) has been trying to enforce the peace and protect civilians with variable success ever since. Again, this reflects the nature of contemporary conflict: multiple actors—both state- and non-state-based—engaged in armed conflict with a variety of goals focused more on resource extraction than traditional territorial gain or defence. One might say they are engaged in war—if a new variant—but it is not clear that MONUC or Operation Artemis count as war. Their focus was stabilization and civilian protection. While they may have engaged in some of the same activities we associate with war, they did not have the same goals as war, and victory in this context really only means relative stability and relative safety for civilians. Peacekeepers cannot hope for much more. One initiative where peacekeepers did look to achieve more is the aforementioned MONUSCO Force Intervention Brigade. It had a ‘victory’ of sorts over the M23 rebel group which disbanded, although much of this might also be attributed to a revived FARDC. Yet while this group was the one that was making the headlines, there continue to be many other groups of various sizes and backed by various actors operating internally and externally. There is little prospect of a comprehensive military victory over all the various groups. And protection of civilians is also significantly incomplete because of resources, the environment, and the nature of the conflict and the actors, both those who threaten civilians and those who protect them. Peace—or at least stability—has been declared multiple times even though it does little to describe the reality on the ground. Any notion of victory is illusory (see e.g. ‘Affective Familiarization’ in Chapter 9). While R2P has not been officially invoked in the DRC, it is emblematic of the kind of situation where military responses have been used to protect civilians at risk of atrocities. The very indeterminacy of the conflict is a direct challenge to the notion of victory in just war theory and to the theoretical models for ending humanitarian interventions. Unlike Libya, there has been no endpoint to the use of military force by external actors to protect civilians. While the peacekeeping operations in the DRC do not conform to previous notions of humanitarian intervention where individual states or groups of states might intervene in a situation without UN authorization (or even post facto authorization), it is the face of conflict response and civilian protection today—protection which is radically imperfect and response which seems to have no endpoint—even if versions of victory are declared along the way.6 Libya, on the other hand, is traditional humanitarian intervention for the modern R2P age: relatively quick response to an evolving atrocity situation, authorized by the UN Security Council, and then a quick withdrawal. In past interventions, this quick withdrawal was key. Even though in situations like the For a related discussion of ‘little, insignificant truncated “victories” ’, see Brunstetter, ‘Conclusion: Limited Force and the Question of Peace’ in Chapter 13. 6

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

171

Tanzanian intervention in Uganda to oust Idi Amin or the Indian intervention in what would become Bangladesh were not, at the time, justified by the interveners on humanitarian grounds, retrospectively they are considered to be instances of humanitarian intervention (Mills 1998; Wheeler 2000). In each situation the intervention was relatively swift and an endpoint—victory—was declared. India withdrew quickly, and a new country was created. In Uganda, the Tanzanian intervention was limited, and a victory—the ousting of Amin—could be declared. But while Libya was swift, it was precisely the lack of follow-up that undermined any claims to victory. Today, humanitarian intervention requires continued engagement—and advance planning of that engagement—before the intervention takes place. Yet, the DRC, Somalia, Kosovo, and many other places demonstrate the ambiguity and potentially long-term nature of the engagement. The present situation in Syria similarly illustrates the problematic nature of the concept of victory in potential humanitarian intervention situations. While the need for an intervention is great, the UN has failed to act to stop the killing and protect civilians. Even those states which have expressed a willingness to act in the absence of UN authorization, such as the US and UK, have demonstrated a reluctance to actually do so. Part of the reluctance has to do with the fact that there is no clear endgame, no vision of victory after which the interveners could pack up and go home. Rather, apocalyptic scenarios are envisioned, involving an expanded war with multiple regional actors—Iran, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Israel, among others—as well as a multitude of non-state actors—various rebel groups, Hezbollah, Al Qaeda, ISIS—and those trying to protect civilians caught in the middle having to fight multiple groups simultaneously. Any intervention to protect civilians might have been easier when things kicked off in 2011 in the context of the Arab Spring, but the prospect of Iran becoming involved seemed to call for prudence. But the failure to act then has allowed many elements of the complex apocalyptic scenario to come to fruition. ISIS has dramatically expanded the areas under its control (in neighbouring Iraq as well), and Russia has taken advantage of the lack of western response to multiple ‘red lines’ to intervene clearly on the side of the Syrian government, dramatically increasing the risk to civilian populations in places like Aleppo. Without a clear concept of victory and the associated exit strategy—which not even the world’s last remaining superpower could imagine—it appears that apocalypse becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

CO NCLUSION The nature of contemporary conflict calls into question the concept of victory. The dynamics of conflict and the multiplicity of actors and motivations for engaging in conflict blur the line that marks when conflict ends and who

172

Kurt Mills

(if anybody) has actually ‘won’. The perceived imperative of bringing in former enemies to sustain the peace radically undermines the idea of victory over a foe. The role of UN and other multilateral peacekeeping forces engaged in protection of civilian activities—and those involved in more robust humanitarian interventions—calls into question the idea of enemies over whom one can be victorious in the first place. And when the conflict ends—if indeed it does have a definitive endpoint (situations like that in the DRC call this assumption into serious question)— there are unresolved questions about the nature and quality of that ending. There is likely to be a need for rebuilding, yet it is unclear who should do that rebuilding and whether the commitment to and effectiveness of that rebuilding is related to justifications for engaging in a humanitarian intervention in the first place. The idea of victory is thus rendered problematic in the best instance, and completely irrelevant in the worst. Those needing protection from a ruthless despot may not care who is ‘victorious’ as long as they are no longer subject to mass killing, although they will care what the post-intervention situation looks like. But any ‘victory’ in these situations is likely to be highly imperfect. Operation Artemis had a short-term positive impact, but more than thirteen years later, civilians in north-eastern DRC are still under threat from a variety of armed groups. The seemingly clear ‘victory’ against Gaddafi continues to have widespread negative repercussions across North Africa. In most contemporary conflicts, in particular those involving protection of civilians operations, which may bear little resemblance to classical understandings of war, it is difficult to find clear conceptions of victory.

REFERENCES Akhavan, Payam. 1993. ‘Lessons from Iraqi Kurdistan: Self-Determination and Humanitarian Intervention against Genocide’, Netherlands Quarterly of Human Rights 11(1): 41–62. BBC News. 2016. ‘President Obama: Libya Aftermath “Worst Mistake” of Presidency’, BBC News, 11 April. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Bass, Gary. 2004. ‘Jus post bellum’, Philosophy & Public Affairs 32(4): 384–412. Bellamy, Alex J. 2008. ‘The Responsibilities of Victory: Jus post bellum and the Just War’, Review of International Studies 34(4): 601–25. Evans, Gareth. 2008. The Responsibility to Protect: Ending Mass Atrocity Crimes Once and For All. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution. Evans, Mark. 2009. ‘Moral Responsibility and the Conflicting Demands of jus post bellum’, Ethics & International Affairs 23(2): 147–64.

Winning Humanitarian Interventions?

173

Gheciu, Alexandra and Jennifer Walsh. 2009. ‘The Imperative to Rebuild: Assessing the Normative Case for Postconflict Reconstruction’, Ethics & International Affairs 23(2): 121–46. Hehir, Aidan. 2013. Humanitarian Intervention, 2nd edition. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Holt, Victoria, Glyn Taylor, with Max Kelly. 2009. Protecting Civilians in the Context of UN Peacekeeping Operations: Successes, Setbacks and Remaining Challenges. Independent study jointly commissioned by the Department of Peacekeeping Operations and the Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, United Nations, November. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Holzgrefe, J. L. 2003. ‘The Humanitarian Intervention Debate’, in J. L. Holzgrefe and Robert O. Keohane (eds), Humanitarian Intervention: Ethical, Legal, and Political Dilemmas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 15–52. House of Commons, Foreign Affairs Committee. 2016. ‘Libya: Examination of Intervention and Collapse and the UK’s Future Policy Options’, 14 September. International Commission on Intervention and State Sovereignty (ICISS). 2001. The Responsibility to Protect. Ottawa: International Development Research Centre. Kaldor, Mary. 2007. New and Old Wars: Organized Violence in a Global Era, 2nd edition. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Labonte, Melissa. 2009. ‘Jus post bellum, Peacebuilding, and Non-State Actors: Lessons from Afghanistan’, in Eric A. Heinze and Brent J. Steele (eds), Authority and War: Non-State Actors and the Just War Tradition. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 205–38. Mills, Kurt. 1998. Human Rights in the Emerging Global Order: A New Sovereignty? Basingstoke: Macmillan. Mills, Kurt. 2013. ‘R2P3: Protecting, Prosecuting or Palliating in Mass Atrocity Situations?’, Journal of Human Rights 12(3): 333–56. Mills, Kurt. 2015. International Responses to Mass Atrocities in Africa: Responsibility to Protect, Prosecute, and Palliate. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Murphy, Dan. 2015. ‘Syrian “Safe” Zone: What Does that Really Mean?’, The Christian Science Monitor, 27 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Pattison, James. 2015. ‘Jus post bellum and the Responsibility to Rebuild’, British Journal of Political Science 45(3): 635–61. Recchia, Stefano. 2009. ‘Just and Unjust Postwar Reconstruction: How Much External Interference Can Be Justified?’, Ethics & International Affairs 23(2): 165–87. Terry, Fiona. 2002. Condemned to Repeat? The Paradox of Humanitarian Action. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Ulriksen, Ståle, Catriona Gourlay, and Catriona Mace. 2004. ‘Operation Artemis: The Shape of Things to Come?’, International Peacekeeping 11(3): 508–25. United Nations General Assembly. 2005. 2005 World Summit Outcome, 24 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016.

174

Kurt Mills

Vogel, Christoph. 2014. ‘DRC: Assessing the Performance of MONUSCO’s Force Intervention Brigade’, African Arguments, 14 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Walzer, Michael. 1977. Just and Unjust Wars. New York: Basic Books. Wheeler, Nicholas J. 2000. Saving Strangers: Humanitarian Intervention in International Society. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

11 Neither Victors nor Victims Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations in the Twenty-First Century David Whetham

I N T R O D U C TI O N Success may be the same as victory, but even in the aftermath of many traditional conflicts, it has often been hard to see them as synonymous. As other authors in this volume have attested—see O’Driscoll and Hom (‘Degrade and Destroy’ in Chapter 1), Tierney (‘Unwinnable War’, Chapter 8), Campbell and Steele (‘The Scars of (Moral) Victory?’, Chapter 9), Mills (‘Problematizing War and Victory When Protecting Civilians’, Chapter 10)— western leaders have acknowledged that victory is not a realistic goal in many types of contemporary conflict they find themselves engaged with. However, they are not good at articulating how something that falls far short of this possibly rather archaic concept can still be considered a goal worth losing blood and treasure fighting for. An even bigger challenge is justifying the blood and treasure that discretionary wars may cost: those conflicts that are not about directly defending one’s homeland or people against an imminent existential threat. The public’s engagement with such wars most often happens on the fringes. With the military making up an ever smaller percentage of the population, with military life and activities thereby directly impacting on fewer and fewer families and friends as a result, there can be an increasing disconnect between the general public and their armed forces. In the UK, the average citizen is unlikely to even see someone in uniform apart from on specific memorial days such as Remembrance Day. If a conflict drags on, everyday politics and events will often, almost inevitably, appear higher in the news cycle. This may even suit a government that wishes to have public attention directed elsewhere, especially if the conflict’s aims and goals are unclear. Such

176

David Whetham

conflict may disappear from the headlines altogether except when something extraordinary happens, and that kind of event is most likely to be related to incidents that involve casualties. This chapter explores the implications of some of these considerations on civil–military relations using the case study of a small Wiltshire town in the UK and the way its population responded to the deaths of British service personnel. Drawing on the media coverage, academic analysis, and first-hand interviews with key people in the town, this chapter is an attempt to explain the events that took place and the grassroots phenomena that shaped them. In particular, the chapter will look at how government handling of an unpopular and then misunderstood conflict caused a fracture in civil–military relations and how events that followed in Wootton Bassett mirrored broader changes in public attitude. The chapter will conclude by looking at the implications for civil–military relations in the UK in the early twenty-first century in a time of discretionary conflicts.

HISTORY AND BA CKGROUND It has become the norm for the UK to repatriate servicemen and -women who are killed in the line of duty overseas. In 2007, the UK was engaged in military operations in both Iraq and Afghanistan, operations that were sadly, but also inevitably, leading to loss of service personnel in theatre. Upon repatriation, it is necessary for the body to be taken to the specialist armed forces department of pathology at Oxford’s John Radcliffe Hospital. Until April 2007 service personnel killed in the line of duty overseas were flown back to RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. Spring 2007 saw the runway there being closed for routine repairs, and at that point, the C-17 Globemasters carrying the coffins were rerouted to RAF Lyneham instead. This move necessitated a longer road journey from the neighbouring county of Wiltshire into Oxfordshire. To travel from RAF Lyneham to the John Radcliffe, it is necessary to pass through the High Street of the ‘sleepy Wiltshire town’ of Wootton Bassett before heading east on the M4 motorway. The first of these repatriations took place on 5 April 2007 when two soldiers—18-year-old Aaron Lincoln, of the Rifles, and Danny Wilson, 28, of the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment—were quietly driven through the High Street, without fuss and largely unnoticed by the shoppers.1 This was a situation that changed in an extraordinary way over the next four years. By the end of August 2011, 345 servicemen and -women had been repatriated through the town and each was met by many thousands of people from all 1

See .

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

177

over the country, gathering to show their respects in Wootton Bassett High Street, with each occasion featured in the national news coverage of the day. Wootton Bassett had become a household name, and its residents found themselves being thanked, hands shaken, and drinks bought for them wherever they went (Morris 2009).2

HOW IT CAME ABOUT What becomes clear from talking with local residents is the almost organic way the response to the repatriations developed. By the end, townsfolk were very used to the crowds, regular security sweeps by sniffer dogs, parking restrictions, and traffic diversions and a great deal of organization was required to ensure that each repatriation passed off without fuss. A host of volunteers ensured that everything happened smoothly, from the Cross Keys public house providing free refreshments for the families of the bereaved through to ensuring that the flags and flag-bearers of the Royal British Legion were in the right place at the right time. However, there is little sense of any central planning or grand architect at work in the way that this developed. To start at the beginning, at the same time as the otherwise unnoticed first repatriation was driving through the town’s High Street, two local members of the Royal British Legion (2016) (a campaigning organization that promotes the welfare and interests of current and former members of the British Armed Forces) happened to notice the black hearse as it came through. They held a meeting afterwards and decided to find out when the next repatriation was going to be so that they could pay their respects properly. The town mayor at the time, Percy Miles, also decided to mark the next occasion by simply standing by the war memorial in the High Street in his robes to watch the cortege pass. At this point, there were no police outriders, no traffic police to close the road—just the hearse and the car carrying the family of the deceased travelling along with all of the normal daily traffic. As the date and time were shared by word of mouth, others in the town gradually began to congregate when a repatriation was known to be due, to stand in silence and show their respects as the car passed by. There were no families present at first, but there were sometimes extended family and friends who for whatever reason would not be able to go onto the military base at RAF Lyneham for the actual landing of the aircraft carrying the coffin or attend the small close family rituals that took place at that time. RAF chaplains sometimes found it useful to use Wootton Bassett as a meeting point for these 2

As a long-term resident of Royal Wootton Bassett, the author can speak from experience to these last points.

178

David Whetham

people and they would naturally congregate around the war memorial in the High Street as the hearse passed by (Woodhouse 2012). As interest grew, timings began to be posted on the Town Council website and some shopkeepers would put notices in their windows. Tens turned into hundreds and then thousands as local numbers began to be swelled by travellers from further afield. Greater numbers of extended family and friends of the deceased began to travel to Wootton Bassett, along with many others who felt moved to pay their respects, and the new mourners joined the silent members of the town.3 Some shops started temporarily closing as staff stopped serving and came out to join the throng. First one or two riders attended and then eventually the massed motorbikes of the Royal British Legion Riders Branch began to assemble well in advance of each repatriation and local people turned out to help show the bereaved family where to stand and offer them refreshments. As the phenomenon grew, the High Street became increasingly congested, Wiltshire and Oxfordshire police forces started to provide outriders for the cortege through their appropriate sections of the journey, and it became necessary to begin restricting the other traffic trying to get through the High Street at certain times. The side roads would be temporarily closed and access to the High Street was restricted to the cortege, which now slowed to a walking pace through the centre of the town, with the Ministry of Defence undertaker on foot in front of the car with his cane, sometimes pausing once past the war memorial to remove the flowers that had been placed all over the vehicle by those along the procession route. The flowers were occasionally so thick on the windscreen that it was no longer safe for the driver to proceed onto the next stage of the journey. The almost ritual nature of the event therefore did not suddenly appear in a fully formed state in 2007, but rather developed gradually and naturally over time. Whether people were specifically in the High Street to show their respects, or they just happened to be there for other everyday reasons, one of the most striking aspects of the repatriations was the tolling of a single church bell from St Bartholomew’s Church that began as the hearses approached. The bell acted as the signal for silence to descend on the crowds that had assembled, having a sombre and deeply moving impact on those who heard it in the suddenly unnaturally quiet shopping centre of the town. However, there was no bell sounding at the first repatriations in 2007; like so many aspects of Wootton Bassett’s display of respect, this element began almost by accident when a repatriation took place on a Monday evening at the same time as the regular bell ringers’ practice. Knowing what was to be happening just outside the church gates at the same time as the practice, the bell ringers decided to forgo their regular rehearsal, but thought that it would be appropriate to toll a single

3

On the importance of mourning in victory and defeat, see the ‘Conclusion’ to Chapter 4.

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

179

bell instead of the peals and rounds that would normally take place. Upon being told afterwards by others present in the High Street how fitting this seemed with the events outside, the bell ringers decided that they would take it in turns to do this for each of the subsequent repatriations that took place. This typified the way that the organization for the repatriations developed, leading the Reverend Canon Thomas Woodhouse to explain that the town’s communal response can in part be attributed to the fact that no individual or group could claim it was ‘their’ idea, ensuring a sense of joint ownership throughout (Woodhouse 2012). Although many aspects of the town’s involvement in the repatriations developed naturally over time, that did not mean that it was completely unprepared. Canon Woodhouse explains that a previous tragedy meant that there were experiences to draw upon (Woodhouse 2012). In January 2005 an RAF Hercules had been brought down by enemy ground fire in Iraq, killing all ten people on board including eight crew based at RAF Lyneham (BBC 2005). This was the single greatest loss of life for the British military in the whole Iraq campaign and had a significant impact on the communities around Lyneham, including Wootton Bassett where family and friends lived and their children went to school. The subsequent services and commemorations provided a background knowledge for events that were to follow two years later. However even with this, many things were simply a matter of ‘doing things properly’ rather than following any kind of template. An example of this was the town’s Union Flag being lowered at the final Sunset Ceremony, marking the end of the period of the repatriations into RAF Lyneham (Drury 2011a). The flag was folded and taken by a small group including Canon Woodhouse and the Lord Lieutenant of Wiltshire back to the altar of St Bartholomew’s. Again, this had not been determined or directed through formal meetings; it just appeared by those present to be the right thing to do. With the reopening of the runway at Brize Norton, the repatriations returned to Oxfordshire in September 2011 and the people of nearby Carterton took on Wootton Bassett’s role. The next repatriation on 8 September for Sgt Barry Weston was fittingly met with thousands of people paying their respects just as they had done in Wootton Bassett before (Morris 2011).

GROWING M EDIA AND NATIONAL AWARENESS Despite the growing number of people involved, beyond local radio commenting on the traffic disruption, media attention to the repatriations was almost absent until late 2008. However, it had certainly been noticed and appreciated by the military community. In October of that year, the station commander at RAF Lyneham organized a tri-service ‘thank you’ for the town (Morgan 2008).

180

David Whetham

Figure 11.1 Wootton Bassett High Street, October 2008. Photograph courtesy of the author.

While few other non-military VIPs attended, the Defence Secretary, John Hutton, was present, as was a TV crew, although they were more interested in covering the new minister, who had only been in post for a matter of days, than Wootton Bassett. As the tempo of military operations accelerated through 2008 and into 2009, so too did the number of repatriations and the press started to take much more interest. Increasing numbers of headlines coincided with attention being focused on issues of alleged faulty or inappropriate equipment being provided in theatre. It was at about this time that IED became a commonly recognized expression due to the numbers of injuries and deaths associated with them.4 One of the ways in which national focus changed over time can also be seen in the way that Remembrance Sunday services changed. This date is designated as the Sunday closest to 11 November, the anniversary of the suspension of hostilities in the Great War (1914–18). The commemoration is for the contribution of British and Commonwealth military and civilian men and

4

Improvised Explosive Device—responsible for the majority of the deaths and injuries of service personnel in Iraq.

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

181

women, who have served in the two World Wars and later conflicts. This has always been an event well-supported by the general public. While the main national ceremony is held at Whitehall in London and is attended by the Royal Family and the holders of the great offices of state, representatives from the Commonwealth High Commissioners, the military Service Chiefs, etc., precisely because the same service is happening simultaneously in communities all over the country, these local affairs tend to be led and participated in by those local communities with local padres or chaplains leading proceedings. However, as attention became more focused on Wootton Bassett, the speakers at the town’s main service at St Bartholomew’s Church included the DirectorGeneral of the Imperial War Museum, the Bishop of Ramsbury, and the military officer who had been in charge of the repatriations, who used the opportunity to explain the significance of the town’s actions for the families and friends of those who had given their lives. Steve Bucknell, after being elected as mayor in May 2009, found himself invited to various national events, one of these being the Military Awards or ‘Millies’, created by His Highness the Prince of Wales in 2008 and organized and supported by the popular daily newspaper, The Sun (HM Government 2010). Bucknell (2012) found himself part of a small delegation from the town being driven to London to attend the 2009 ceremony and receive an award on behalf of the town for ‘Support to the Armed Forces’. Other events were organized to pay tribute to the town. For example, following the 110th repatriation in January 2010, HRH Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall attended a flagpole dedication where they also laid wreaths at the war memorial (Longbottom 2010). A huge motorcycle ride took place in March of the same year with 15,000 bikers being drawn from all over the country to ride down the now famous High Street. Much money was raised for various service charities at the same time, including tens of thousands of pounds for Afghan Heroes (Anon. 2010a).5 There were calls for other recognitions and awards as well. As far back as 2009, The Sun newspaper was backing a petition started on the 10 Downing Street website to rename the High Street of the town, ‘The Highway of Heroes’, echoing a similar move in Canada where the road between an Ontario air base and Toronto was given this honour in 2008.6 However, along with the recognition and support, there was also some criticism. There were sections of the media who saw Wootton Bassett as representing something akin to the decidedly un-British outpouring of public 5 Wootton Bassett has proved to be a focus for much charity activity. For example, the town’s road signs were sold to raise money for Help for Heroes in 2012 (BBC 2012). Also a charity single, Wake Me Up When September Ends, was recorded in the town in 2011. See . 6 While such initiatives were genuinely meant, the local council representing the town, for reasons explained below, did not support them.

182

David Whetham

grief that accompanied the death of Diana Princess of Wales in 1997, flying in the face of the usual ‘stiff upper lip’ expected in such circumstances. Some commentators referred to the ‘commercialization of emotion’ (Morris 2009). Others saw it as a cynical part of a war on language, linking the attempts to repackage unpopular government reforms and modernization attempts with attempts to rebrand an unpopular war (Bell 2011). One event that caused more comment than most occurred in July 2009 when eight British soldiers were repatriated through the town on the same day. On this occasion, as well as placing and throwing flowers onto the hearses, some family members and friends of the deceased spontaneously began applauding their loved ones (Morris 2009). As well as comments in the press, this met with some discomfort by many in the Town. However, at the same time it was recognized that it was not up to the people of Wootton Bassett to tell grieving family members how they were supposed to act. This was the sentiment that Steve Bucknell expressed in a BBC Radio 4 interview on World at One shortly afterwards, finding his comments forming part of the Thought for the Day broadcast on the BBC the following morning. At the peak, the mayor was answering two hours of emails relating to the repatriations a day, combined with giving interviews at the start and end of each day, even receiving fan mail from the radio interviews. Fifty or sixty thank-you letters were coming in each week, some containing lottery tickets and money and a ‘Thank You Wootton Bassett’ Facebook page rapidly hit 350,000 ‘likes’. ‘It was hard to understand the level of attention we were receiving’ (Bucknell 2012). Charges that the town was in some way profiting from the repatriations were angrily rebutted and the local Chamber of Commerce noted the detrimental impact of effectively closing the High Street for extended periods of time once or twice a week.7 Although there were many people coming to the town, they were not there to shop and the retailers that did not close their doors to attend the repatriations themselves generally found their premises empty anyway; people don’t want to be having their hair done while a coffin is passing by. Many places where shoppers might have parked were taken by the huge media satellite communications vans that began to turn up from first thing in the morning of an expected repatriation. Public bus routes needed to be redirected away from the route of the hearses and a short journey, such as the school run, could easily turn into an extended wait if one were caught out by the road closures. Even where money could have been made, opportunities were not seized upon; for example, the small book shop positioned right behind the war memorial in the High Street took the conscious decision not to stock military-related books as this was considered inappropriate by the proprietor (Bucknell 2012). Ultimately, the disruption 7

This was prompted by a letter in the Western Daily Gazette but such views were heard elsewhere as well.

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

183

and inconveniences were generally accepted as a minor cost that would be borne without complaint. Just as the shops chose not to use the repatriations as the town’s unique selling point, the church too chose not to make spiritual capital from the role. The spiritual needs of the bereaved families were being met by the service chaplains and Canon Woodhouse felt that to wear robes at the repatriations would be to assume more authority than was justified in the circumstances. Such a low-key role was seen as surprising to some people. However, Woodhouse believed that any such proselytizing would have been utterly inappropriate in the circumstances to the extent of not even using the town’s profile to support the church refurbishment fund (Woodhouse 2012). The high levels of media presence did however prompt a response. The press scramble at the joint repatriation of eight soldiers in 2009 took the circus to a new level with even more satellite vans than usual, mechanical ‘cherry pickers’ used to raise cameramen above the crowds to look down on the road, a helicopter hovering over the High Street during the repatriation, and distressing camera flashes in the faces of the bereaved. Voice-overs to camera during the otherwise silent procession particularly annoyed local residents (Bucknell 2012). ‘It took away the dignity of the tribute’, said Councillor Chris Wannell: ‘The silence of it all is very important. With so many journalists there it was no longer a silent affair’ (Morris 2009). The Council called a press conference in response, making it clear that if necessary, crowd control barriers and parking restrictions could be introduced to manage the press presence, but that they would rather work with the media in return for them toning down their presence and demonstrating respect for what was happening. It was also pointed out on more than one occasion that there were people paying their respects all along the route that the hearses were taking from Wiltshire to Oxfordshire; even if Wootton Bassett had unwittingly become the focus of the demonstrations of respect, it was not something that only happened in the town.

POLITICS AND REMEMBRANCE From the very start, the local Town Council were wary about any politicization of the repatriations or the town’s role in them. From talking with family members of the repatriated service personnel, it was clear to the Council that there was a whole range of views represented on the UK’s foreign policy and military interventions overseas. While few service families questioned the mission itself, it was clear that some passionately supported the military operations, while others just wanted to know what could have been done to prevent their tragedy from taking place. What was clear from across the spectrum of views was the pride and the respect they wanted to pay to their lost family members for the

184

David Whetham

sacrifice they had made. It was not just family that wanted to pay their respects; the predominantly young men who had been killed inevitably left large holes in their communities. They were often seen as successes in the places where they had grown up, because they had ‘made something of themselves’. Steve Bucknell recalled that at one of the repatriations, a coach of school children turned up having travelled across the country because their friend, who had left school at sixteen while they had stayed on, had been killed (Bucknell 2012). Due to the huge range of views, members of the Council took the decision early on that the town would remain politically neutral. Although this was not formally adopted in Council Chambers, the full Council supported this stance, even as it was to be tested by subsequent events. The role of local mayor in British community life is largely ceremonial.8 While holders of the office will probably be familiar figures in their local communities, they do not generally expect to be having conversations with the Prime Minister. However, Prime Minister Gordon Brown telephoned new mayor, Steve Bucknell, in the summer of 2009 to say thank you to Wootton Bassett. During the conversation, the Prime Minister was reassured that there was a clear desire on the part of the town to remain apolitical with respect to the repatriations.9 To many looking into the world of British politics, this neutral stand by the Town Council must seem a little strange. It would have been very easy for the Conservative-dominated Council and Conservative local Member of Parliament to make political capital out of the Labour government’s handling of what was by now an unpopular conflict. Beyond some vague justifications about keeping threats away from the UK’s doors, there was very little explanation or discussion from government about the purpose of the ongoing military operations. While the local MP, James Gray, was present at many repatriations, he chose to do this as a constituency representative rather than in any party political role, generally taking a low-key position among the crowd. The Prime Minister himself was present at the final Sunset Ceremony in August 2011, marking the end of the Wootton Bassett repatriations, but otherwise there was very little official institutional involvement on a day-by-day basis. This was entirely consistent with the Town Council line, itself supposedly simple; it was about demonstrating respect for the fallen, not about showing support or otherwise for any political position. The Council did not want ‘our boys’ to feel the same way that the Vietnam veterans had done when they were blamed upon their return for fighting (and losing) an unpopular war that people did not understand (Bucknell 2012). The mayor, local MP, leader of the local Royal British Legion, and leader of the Council wrote an open letter to

8

For an overview, see . The mayor did take the opportunity of the private phone call to discuss the provision of adequate equipment for deployed troops, which quickly ended the otherwise cordial conversation (Bucknell 2012). 9

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

185

the press in July 2009 seeking to explain the town’s position and asking for it to be respected: We who represent the people of the town of Wootton Bassett, are honoured and humbled that the way we have paid our respects to our fallen soldiers in every weather and for upwards of two years now has touched people in the way it has, and that in a way we stand proxy for the grief of the nation. But we are simply the ordinary people of a very special town standing still and quiet for a few moments in a mark of sorrow and gratitude for those who have given their lives in service of the Nation. We welcome people from all over the country who come to join us, and we are proud that the national media has broadcast our moment’s stillness to the world, although we’d be grateful for slightly less intrusive media coverage in the future. We welcome visiting generals and senior politicians, if they would like to come, and simply mingle with the crowds. But we’d prefer no pomp, nor militarization. It’s the people of the town; no more nor less than that. What’s more, as a town, we’d much prefer that there was no further discussion of any recognition for what we do, or at least certainly not until it’s all over and that happy day has arrived when there are to be no more of these ‘repatriations’. We really do NOT want to be ‘Royal Wootton Bassett’, nor be awarded the GC, nor rename our High Street in any way at all. It’s not about us. It’s about our fallen brothers and sisters, husbands and friends. The power and pathos of the occasion is its simplicity; its peace and quiet in an angry world. And we, the people of Wootton Bassett, want it to stay exactly like that. (Gray et al. 2009)10

However, despite the best intentions and wide coverage that the letter received, it still proved very hard to keep the politics out as Wootton Bassett became the focus for various agendas, political messages, or arguments. One man approached the Council wanting to set up a passion play in Wootton Bassett decrying war, but this had to be politely declined, not because the townspeople were ‘pro-war’, but simply because that would have been associated with a political message not in keeping with the apolitical path that was being walked (Bucknell 2012). Other events proved harder to keep control of. In December 2009, not long after the 100th repatriation through the town, the BBC decided that it would use Wootton Bassett as a location for its flagship weekly political and current affairs panel programme Question Time. Despite being invited, the Council, regardless of party affiliations, chose to take no part in it through fear of politicizing the repatriations (Bucknell 2012; see also BBC 2009). The decision to remain uninvolved appeared to be a wise one when the very first question asked whether bonuses paid to bankers should be confiscated and given to the troops in Afghanistan instead. Nearly every subsequent question put to the panel was related to the war somehow and Wootton Bassett was, as feared by the Town Council, being associated with the rights and wrongs of 10 Reprinted with permission from The Guardian. The GC refers to the George Cross: one of the suggestions being mooted at the time.

186

David Whetham

the controversial conflict rather than demonstrating respect for those who paid the ultimate sacrifice by participating in it. Other groups attempted to use the town’s role and profile for their own purposes. The controversial leader of the right-wing British National Party attended a repatriation in 2009 following general condemnation of his party’s use of images of the armed forces during World War II in party election material. Despite claiming he was there in a personal capacity rather than as leader of a political party, his presence was still not welcomed. Most residents chose simply to ignore him, but that did not stop his presence from gaining press coverage (Anon. 2009). The secretary of the Devonshire and Dorset British Legion, Tony Coombes, who was present along with many other representatives of the British Legion, told The Guardian: ‘Repatriations aren’t about politics. We’re here because some terribly brave young men went out there and we have come to share their loss with their families. I think that Nick Griffin detracts from that, and he will certainly never get my vote’ (Booth 2009). In January 2010, the anti-war group Islam4UK announced that they were planning on having a peaceful protest march through the town, carrying coffins to symbolize the Muslim victims of the conflict in Afghanistan (BBC 2010a). The Prime Minister immediately denounced the proposal and rightwing groups proposed counter-marches in response. The popular press, predictably, were incandescent with rage and there was much talk (and subsequent action) of banning groups and curtailing certain forms of freedom of expression (Slack 2010). In one event, about 200 English Defence League supporters arrived, some carrying baseball bats, to ‘defend the town from the Muslims’ (Anon. 2010b). They ended up in the Cross Keys pub and had left peacefully by mid-afternoon. Interestingly, this event (or perhaps thankfully, non-event) was not widely reported in the press due to a request from the Town Council, demonstrating that the cooperation with the media was not simply a one-way street by this point (Bucknell 2012). Whether or not Islam4UK would have received permission from the police to hold their protest turned out to be a moot point as they ‘cancelled’ their plans almost immediately, as they had ‘successfully highlighted the plight of Muslims in Afghanistan’ without actually going anywhere near the town, even though it was at the heart of the debate again (BBC 2010b).

THE TOWN RECOGNIZED Despite the very public declaration that the town sought no recognition for their actions, and wanted the focus to remain on those that were being repatriated, Wootton Bassett was granted royal patronage in March 2011 by the Queen. This meant the town was now Royal Wootton Bassett. The

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

187

title was officially conferred by the presentation of the Letters Patent on 16 October, some two months after the last repatriation had gone through the town. This was the first title to be bestowed on a town for over 100 years, with Royal Wootton Bassett joining only two other royal towns in the country: Royal Leamington Spa and Royal Tunbridge Wells (Kennedy 2011). Although not sought by the community, there is now a sense of civic pride in the title and the ceremony itself was very much in keeping with those that had preceded it (BBC 2011a). While there was a band of the Royal Marines present, so too was the local brass band made up of local musicians of all ages and talents (see Figure 11.1). The Prime Minister, Defence Secretary, and Chief of the General Staff were accompanied by the local people who had played their parts in the preceding four years. There were fly-pasts along the High Street by a C17 Globemaster, a C130 Hercules, and a Vulcan bomber. The mayor, Paul Heaphy summed up the feeling: ‘We did not ask for recognition and we find the attention rather humbling’, announcing that the town’s new motto would be ‘We honour those who serve’. He said: ‘The royal status is a privilege, yet it is received with sadness, mindful of the high price paid by our armed forces’ (Kennedy 2011).11

IMPLICATIONS FOR THE CIVIL – M I LI TARY RELATIONSHIP The Town Council’s carefully navigated position through the repatriations is entirely consistent with the conventional understandings of the jus ad bellum/ jus in bello distinction at the heart of the just war tradition. Jus ad bellum refers to the ethical considerations at the political level of judgement when thinking about going to war, while jus in bello refers to the actual conduct of war. While they are related, they are also distinct, as is the moral division of labour. It is the politicians, princes, and kings who bear the responsibility for the decision to go to war, while it is the responsibility of the soldiers, sailors, and airmen to fight within the rules of war. Each should be accountable for their own areas of responsibility. ‘It is this separation that allows a nation’s public to support their military forces even in an otherwise unpopular conflict’ (Whetham 2011: 76). Thus, even though the language and content of the just war tradition may have been alien to the people of Wootton Bassett, the actual ideas behind it are intuitively part of the fabric of our understanding of peace and war.

11 A statue of a giant poppy on the edge of the town, created by artist Mark Humphrey, was dedicated by the Princess Royal in June 2016 (Robins 2016). See .

188

David Whetham

However, on a national level this intuitive understanding had been severely challenged by the controversial decision to take the UK to war in 2003. The scale of the disagreement was unprecedented, dwarfing even the Vietnam protests from the previous century. A coordinated day of protests on 15 February 2003, not just in the UK but around the world, involved more than 600 cities and has been described as the ‘largest protest event in human history’ (Walgrave and Rucht 2010: xiii). Official police figures put the attendance in London at well in excess of 750,000 people and the BBC estimated that around a million attended, making it the largest march London had ever seen (BBC 2003). Yet even this level of opposition was insufficient to stop the military action. With such a background, it is hardly surprising that the instrument used to carry out such an unpopular policy, the British military, became associated with and intertwined with feelings about the war itself. The war in Afghanistan had been underway since 2001, and was to long outlast Operation Iraqi Freedom. Although fundamentally different on many levels, the motivations and conduct of the two conflicts were difficult to distinguish for many people and this sense of blurring was only reinforced as the British effort shifted towards Afghanistan at the same time as it withdrew from Iraq. The British public did not understand what ‘we’ were doing there, and many were still convinced that the military action in the Middle East was not justified. Standing orders issued during the IRA bombing campaigns of the 1980s to avoid attracting attention in public by wearing military uniform meant that the military had in some senses distanced themselves from society, visually if nothing else, long before 2003. Public hostility to an unpopular conflict in Iraq did little to change this. The Army Rumour Service blogs confirm that up until 2006, wearing a military uniform in public could result in receiving lectures about invading countries from hostile or even abusive members of the general public (Anon. 2006a). Other accounts demonstrate how those in uniform were denied access to shops or pubs between 2003 and 2006 (Anon. 2006b). Tensions were exacerbated by resource cuts and changes in the way that the military were supported. These were stressed by the outspoken Chief of the General Staff, Sir Richard Dannett, in October 2006 when he highlighted a number of situations that had been allowed to develop over time: ‘It is not acceptable for our casualties to be in mixed wards with civilians. I was outraged at the story of someone saying “take your uniform off ”. Our people need the privacy of recovering in a military environment—a soldier manning a machine gun in Basra loses consciousness when he is hit by a missile and next recovers consciousness in a hospital in the UK. . . . He wants to wake up to familiar sights and sounds, he wants to see people in uniform. He doesn’t want to be in a civilian environment’ (Anon. 2006c). In Clausewitzian terms, the critical link between the military and the people was in trouble (see Chapter 3, ‘The “Most

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

189

Beautiful of Wars”’),12 and the intuitive distinction between the moral levels of responsibility mentioned above was not being recognized or appreciated. However, the period following this saw changes in public perception and attitudes, not necessarily towards the war itself (although the withdrawal from Basra in 2007 did draw a line under that conflict for some), but most definitely towards those who were sent to fight it (Mohammed 2007). Whether events in Wootton Bassett helped shape those changes or merely reflected them, it is difficult to say, but when a Petty Officer was mistakenly asked to remove her fatigues before flying on a Virgin Atlantic flight in 2013, the company involved could not apologize fast enough, with the statement coming directly from the CEO himself rather than a spokesperson (Sky News 2013). In July of that year, a British soldier, Lee Rigby, was killed in a machete attack near his barracks in London. The public support was overwhelming, with hundreds of tributes left by the general public and a rare consensus from the political establishment (Taylor 2013). An order issued to military personnel immediately following the attack to stop wearing military uniform outside of military bases was quickly reversed in the face of vocal criticism (Nelson 2013). People now wanted to see service personnel in uniform. In other examples of the changes in public perceptions, the British charity Help for Heroes, founded in 2007 to provide better facilities for wounded servicemen and -women, raised £674,000 in its first year. The annual review for 2011 showed that they had collected £46.7m in that year, demonstrating a phenomenal amount of public support (Help for Heroes 2011). Local communities have noted an increase in the numbers attending remembrance services each November (Anon. 2016). On the face of it, the link between the people and the military looks in much better shape now than at any time in recent memory. At the same time as the apparent strengthening of the relationship between the people and the military, the links between the military and the government appeared to suffer in equal measures. Many in the military felt betrayed after trusting their government in the run-up to the invasion of Iraq in 2003, only to find that the justification for the war proved to be unfounded; there were no weapons of mass destruction (WMDs) (Spencer 2013). Even official doctrinal publications recognized the damage that had been done to this relationship, with a 2011 publication on military reserve forces recognizing that ‘cohesion between what is referred to as the Clausewitzian trinity of Government, Armed Forces and Society, has been weakened by misunderstanding over the UK’s involvement in unpopular conflicts, and the absence of an existential threat’ (Ministry of Defence 2011: 10). On top of this, lack of or faulty 12 Obviously, I am referring to Clausewitz’s character of war as it manifests itself in reality rather than the underlying nature of war, which here would be referring to the play of chance and probability and passions/hatred/enmity. See Clausewitz (1976: 89).

190

David Whetham

equipment being linked to otherwise preventable deaths was a theme being reported on a fairly constant basis. A typical headline as late as 2011 read: ‘Soldiers on Afghanistan frontline left with faulty vehicles, radios and lack of medic, says damning Army report’ (Anon. 2011). Attempts by the government to restrict the coroner verdicts from using language such as ‘serious failure’ proved unsuccessful, compounding the feeling that the government was attempting to manipulate the coverage of a situation in which they were letting down the military. At the same time, the British High Court ruled that soldiers injured due to being issued with defective equipment may have had their human rights breached (Walker 2008). The well-publicized issues with equipment, whether justified or not, fed a popular impression that the government was simply not interested in the military and would prefer it if the public stopped thinking about the war in Afghanistan at all. The youngest soldier ever to win the George Cross for bravery, Chris Finney, received the honour in 2004, but summed up the sense of betrayal felt by many in the services when he said in a 2009 interview: ‘I couldn’t believe it when I read that Gordon Brown [the Prime Minister] had phoned Simon Cowell to ask how Britain’s Got Talent contestant Susan Boyle was when she had a breakdown. He doesn’t phone any of the bereaved military families. I thought that was absolutely disgusting, a real slap in the face for the parents of the hundreds of soldiers killed’ (Gillan 2009). When Mr Brown did visit the specialist military hospital at Selly Oak at the end of 2009, many soldiers met him with open hostility or closed the curtains around their beds. Twenty-year-old Sapper Matthew Weston, who lost both legs and his right arm in an explosion while fighting in Afghanistan, said: ‘I didn’t want to speak to him. I didn’t want to waste my time talking to someone who was just trying to make themselves look good’ (Driver 2009). He continued, ‘Half the lads didn’t want to speak to him and those that did pretty much blamed him for everything’ (Driver 2009). As can be seen from these examples, the tone of the media reporting by 2009 was very clear. While there was some good coverage and analysis there for those willing to look for it, the popular media coverage of the war was almost entirely focused on the casualties. Compounded by a lack of journalists in theatre, embedded or otherwise, and a general lack of news time, rather than reporting on what was happening in Afghanistan at the policy or even operation level, the popular media in the UK became obsessed with milestones—the first female fatality (June 2008), the first officer (2009), the 300th casualty (2010), 100th casualty this year, 10th casualty this month, etc.—each often being accompanied with a story about lack of proper equipment, lack of support for the family left behind, or just the personal tragedies.13 An

13

It is difficult not to conclude that much of this was simply lazy reporting.

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

191

example of the last was the repatriation of Lance Corporal Liam Tasker whose bomb sniffer dog died ‘of a broken heart’ hours after his handler was killed in Helmand. They were repatriated together in March 2011 (BBC 2011b). The government was clearly aware of the hugely damaging impact of the negative press coverage but it made little attempt to try to engage with the reasons behind the conflict. That did not mean that it did not wish to refocus the popular narrative, however. When the repatriations returned to Brize Norton in 2011, a conscious decision was made to avoid creating another Wootton Bassett situation by using a side gate to the RAF base rather than going through the centre of Carterton, the nearest town. The Minister for Defence Personnel, Welfare, and Veterans admitted that it was a deliberate decision to try to avoid public scenes of emotion. ‘I am not sure taking coffins in hearses past schools, past families, past married quarters is necessarily the thing that everybody would wish to see . . . the focus must be on the families of the dead service personnel. They are the people who care most. That is where our focus is’ (Ward 2011). When this came to public attention, the reaction was outrage, with a typical headline reading: ‘As Dave does the “talking”, war dead are sneaked out of the back gate’ (Hitchens 2011).14 Attempts were made to recover the situation from a public relations point of view, with the Defence Minister claiming the new route would be ‘dignified, respectful and solemn’, explaining that a memorial garden at Carterton (complete with the flag that had flown over Wootton Bassett) would become the new focus for those seeking to pay their respects on the route, but at least initially, this did little to assuage the general sense of outrage at the perceived snub to the fallen (BBC 2011c). It can be no accident that the Military Covenant, the social contract that is supposed to exist between the state and its military, started to gain increasing attention through this period. Although it had its origins in ideas well before this date, not least in the public recognition demonstrated by the annual Remembrance Day services, it was only formally articulated in 1998 by Major General Sebastian Roberts. The written doctrine then ‘sat harmlessly on the MoD website’ until it started to gain attention in 2007 with a campaign by The Independent on Sunday newspaper prompted by the treatment of Lance Corporal Justin Smith, who had been discharged from the army with posttraumatic stress disorder and subsequently lost everything that was important to him, receiving little or no help from the military he had once considered his family (Tulloch 2010: 206, 209). Suddenly the Covenant was receiving attention from all quarters. Reflecting the widespread feeling that something was wrong, the new coalition government, formed after the 2010 elections, 14 Dave referred to the Prime Minster, David Cameron, who had recently put the defence chiefs in their place by telling them ‘You do the fighting, I’ll do the talking’ when objections to government policy were raised. See Drury (2011b).

192

David Whetham

made a commitment to rebuild the Covenant. A new document was published in May 2011 covering all three services rather than just the Army and setting out the relationship between the nation, the state, and the armed forces (Ministry of Defence 2013). While this was not itself enshrined in law, it was linked to the Armed Forces Act 2011, meaning the Secretary of State for Defence is now obliged to report to Parliament annually on the state of the Covenant. One of its clear stated goals was to address some of the disadvantages associated with military service, recognizing, for example, that rigidly adhering to a maximum class size could disadvantage service children who may have to frequently move schools and could easily find themselves waiting for a class place to come up. Scholarship funds for bereaved service children were set up with the clear aim of not providing an advantage, but simply removing disadvantage (Ministry of Defence 2013). While the effectiveness of the approach is still too early to judge, it is clear that the government has now recognized the poor state of civil–military relations in the UK and, through the new Military Covenant, there is now an instrument of sorts by which to hold Parliament to account. The relationship between the public and the military also appears to be stronger now than it was in 2007 when the repatriations first moved to Wootton Bassett. Whether this is a coincidental or causative relationship is beyond the scope of this chapter; however, the traditional separation between the moral responsibilities of ad bellum and in bello has been re-established to some extent and the military is no longer widely blamed for the war in which it has been sent to fight.

CONCLUSIONS While in one respect the Military Covenant may appear to be in a healthier state in the UK now, there are other concerns in civil–military relations that may have serious implications for the use of military power. The soldiers themselves are now supported by popular opinion, but the character of the conflicts they are sent to serve in, and the lack of public understanding about why they are being put in harm’s way, is affecting the way those soldiers are perceived. Discretionary conflicts may involve containment of a threat to ensure it remains distant, the disruption of a potentially hostile movement before it can impact on vital national interests, or might even be as simple as being seen to stand shoulder to shoulder with an important ally for geopolitical reasons and share a burden. Success in such operations may be very qualified— so qualified that even if there is a positive outcome, it certainly does not look anything like victory in a classical sense. Precisely because that outcome is so hard to judge (how does one prove a negative when the attack on the homeland or wider British interests did not take place?), it is easy to see why politicians

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

193

would choose not to focus public attention on the conflicts to which they have committed the country’s Armed Forces. In such a context, it hardly surprising that there is a public belief that British soldiers are no longer sent to win wars, but rather to sacrifice themselves in order to further misguided or inexplicable government policy. The people of Wootton Bassett’s genuine, sombre, and dignified demonstration of respect for those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country became, for a time at least, transformed by the popular media into a perception of ‘our poor brave boys, sent to die in a pointless war without even the right equipment’.15 While each loss of life is indeed a tragedy and deserves to be marked and commemorated, the tone of the reporting meant that some of the media coverage shifted to something akin to the martyrdom of the British Armed Forces as a whole. By viewing soldiers as victims instead of potential victors, their agency becomes removed, and they become ‘objects rather than subjects of their destiny’ (Furedi 1998: 80). This was certainly not the sentiment that the people of Wootton Bassett wished to promote, nor does it seem to be a healthy development for civil–military relations and perhaps demonstrates that the link between the military and the people can only be properly repaired when the links between both the public and the government and the military and the government are also rebuilt.16 One might not need to put it quite as bluntly as the commentator Matthew Parris (2009), but there is more than a grain of truth when he says: We keep an army, navy and air force as tools of foreign policy, in order both to defend and promote our national interests. These interests may include assisting allies in wars that we might not ourselves have chosen, which may have been mistakenly embarked upon, and in which victory may be unlikely . . . Viewed over the last half century and in coolly statistical terms, a young person’s decision to sign up for the Armed Forces has not invited a greater career risk of death or serious injury than the decision to sign up for a career in railway lineside track maintenance.

Of course, the nature of military service is not directly comparable to other professions, even those in which people may place themselves at risk to protect others. There is a supererogatory element to military service where death or serious injury is not simply a possibility but is something that may be expected or even required in order to fulfil a mission. This is something that is absent in any other profession (Coleman 2012: ch. 3). That mission may be to defend against an existential threat, or it might be simply because one’s government has decided that it is in the broader national interest; interests that have little or 15 The complex interplay of societal factors that have contributed to this situation is explored in McCartney (2011). 16 The impossibility of concentrating on only one element of the ‘Paradoxical Trinity’ will not be lost on students of Clausewitz.

194

David Whetham

nothing to do with traditional understandings of winning and victory. Those who join the military generally understand this, but it is clear that discretionary wars—which are often wars where winning is not necessarily ‘the only thing’— can pose particular challenges for any government which does not explain how or why the cost being paid in blood and treasure is ‘worth it’.

REFERENCES Anon. 2006a. ‘Wearing Uniform in Public’, Army Rumour Service (website), 20 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Anon. 2006b. ‘Soldiers in Uniform Refused Entry to Pub and Shop’, Sheffield Forum (website), 25 November. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2006. Anon. 2006c. ‘Government Stunned by Army Chief ’s Iraq Blast’, The Daily Mail, 13 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2006. Anon. 2009. ‘BNP Leader Nick Griffin Tries to Hijack Homecoming of Six British Soldiers Killed in Afghanistan’, Daily Mail, 11 November. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Anon. 2010a. ‘Roar of Respect: 15,000 Bikers Ride through Wootton Bassett to Honour Troops Serving in Afghanistan’, Daily Mail, 15 March. Available online at: , accessed 25 November 2016. Anon. 2010b. ‘Right Wing Extremists Descend on Wootton Bassett’, The Telegraph, 11 January. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Anon. 2011. ‘Soldiers on Afghanistan Frontline Left with Faulty Vehicles, Radios and Lack of Medic, Says Damning Army Report’, The Mirror, 2 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Anon. 2016. ‘Remembrance Parade & Service’, Moreton-in-Marsh Town Council. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2003. ‘Anti-War Rally Makes its Mark’, BBC News, 19 February. Available at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2005. ‘Ten Feared Dead in Hercules Crash’, BBC News, 1 February. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2009. ‘Wootton Bassett Mayor Wary of Question Time’, BBC News, 11 December. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016.

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

195

BBC. 2010a. ‘Islamist Group Plans Wootton March’, BBC News, 2 January. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2010b. ‘Islamists Cancel Wootton Bassett Protest Plans’, BBC News, 10 January. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2011a. ‘In Pictures: Crowds Turn Out for Royal Wootton Bassett Naming’, BBC News, 16 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2011b. ‘Dead Soldier Liam Tasker and Army Dog Return Home’, BBC News, 10 March. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2011c. ‘Andrew Robathan Defends “Dignified” Repatriation Route’, BBC News, 4 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. BBC. 2012. ‘Wootton Bassett Road Sign Cash Given to Help for Heroes’, 31 January. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Bell, Steve. 2011. ‘Steve Bell on Wootton Bassett—Cartoon’, The Guardian, 17 March. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Booth, Robert. 2009. ‘Nick Griffin Accused of “Hijacking” Dead Soldiers’ Ceremony’, The Guardian, 10 November. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2009. Bucknell, Steve. 2012. Interview with the author, 13 July. Clausewitz, Carl von. 1976. On War, trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Coleman, Stephen. 2012. Military Ethics: An Introduction with Case Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Driver, Carol. 2009. ‘BBC “Cheapening” Wootton Bassett Repatriations with Question Time Filming’, Daily Mail, 7 December. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Drury, Ian. 2011a. ‘Sunset Farewell for Wootton Bassett as Town Marks End of Sombre Ceremonies for Britain’s War Dead’, Daily Mail, 1 September. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Drury, Ian. 2011b. ‘ “You Do the Fighting, I’ll Do the Talking”: Cameron Slams Down Defence Chiefs over Claims We Can’t Stay in Libya Beyond the Summer’, Daily Mail, 22 June. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Furedi, Frank. 1998. ‘New Britain—A Nation of Victims’, Society 35(3): 80–4. Gillan, Audrey. 2009. ‘I’ve Been Betrayed by this Government, Says Iraq War Hero who Won George Cross But Now Works in a Call Centre’, Mail on Sunday,

196

David Whetham

1 November. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Gray, James, Steve Bucknell, Maurice Baker, and Chris Wannell. 2009. ‘Wootton Bassett’s Silent Tribute’, The Guardian, 16 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Help for Heroes. 2011. Annual Review 2011. Available online at , accessed 19 May 2017. Hitchens, Peter. 2011. ‘As Dave Does the “Talking”, War Dead Are Sneaked Out of the Back Gate’, Daily Mail, 3 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. HM Government. 2010. ‘Sun Military Awards Return to Honour Best in Defence’. Announcement made on 22 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Kennedy, Maev. 2011. ‘Royal Wootton Bassett Celebrates its New Title’, The Guardian, 16 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Longbottom, Wil. 2010. ‘Prince Charles and Camilla Pay their Respects as Wootton Bassett Mourns Two More Dead Soldiers’, Daily Mail, 29 January. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. McCartney, Helen B. 2011. ‘Hero, Victim or Villain? The Public Image of the British Soldier and its Implications for Defense Policy’, Defense and Security Analysis 27(1): 43–54. Ministry of Defence. 2011. Future Reserves 2020. London: The Stationary Office. Ministry of Defence. 2013. ‘The Armed Forces Covenant: Guidance and Actions’. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Mohammed, Aref. 2007. ‘Iraqis Say Basra Quieter after British Troop Pullout’, Reuters, 1 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Morgan, Tom. 2008. ‘Military Pays Tribute to Respectful Residents of Wootton Bassett’, The Express, 13 October. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Morris, Steven. 2009. ‘The Myth of Heroes’ Highway’, The Guardian, 18 July. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Morris, Steven. 2011. ‘First Repatriation in Carterton as Town Takes Up Wootton Bassett’s Role’, The Guardian, 8 September. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016.

Royal Wootton Bassett and Civil–Military Relations

197

Nelson, Sara C. 2013. ‘Woolwich Machete Attack: Military Personnel “Advised Not To Wear Uniforms In Public” ’, The Huffington Post, 23 May. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Parris, Matthew. 2009. ‘We Are Far Too Sentimental about “Our Boys” ’, The Times, 12 December 12. Robins, Tina. 2016. ‘Princess Anne Sees Royal Wootton Bassett Poppy Dedicated’, Swindon Advertiser, 21 June. Available online at: , accessed 25 November 2016. Sky News. 2013. ‘Virgin Apologises to Navy Engineer over Uniform’, 9 March. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Slack, James. 2010. ‘Islamist Group that Planned Wootton Bassett Hate March Is Finally BANNED but Will They Just Find a New Front?’, Daily Mail, 13 January. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Spencer, Ruth. 2013. ‘Iraq Veterans Around the World Reflect: “The Best and Worst Time of my Life”’, The Guardian, 19 March. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Taylor, Rosie. 2013. ‘RIP Brave Soldier: Outpouring of Grief for Murdered Lee Rigby as Stream of Strangers Leave their Tributes on Street Where He Died’, 24 May. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Tulloch, John. 2010. ‘Soldiers and Citizens: The Afghan Conflict, the Press, the Military and the Breaking of the “Military Covenant” ’, in Richard Lance Keeble and John Mair (eds), Afghanistan, War and the Media: Deadlines and Frontlines. Bury St Edmunds: Abramis, 206–28. Walgrave, Stefaan and Dieter Rucht (eds). 2010. The World Says No to War: Demonstrations against the War on Iraq. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Walker, Peter. 2008. ‘Faulty Army Gear May Breach Human Rights, Court Rules’, The Guardian, 11 April. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Ward, Victoria. 2011. ‘War Dead to Be Driven Down Side Streets to Avoid the Public’, The Telegraph, 26 June. Available online at , accessed 25 November 2016. Whetham, David. 2011. Ethics, Law and Military Operations. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Woodhouse, Reverend Canon Thomas. 2012. Interview with the author, 16 July.

12 Cui Bono Moral Victory in Privatized War Amy E. Eckert

INTRODUCTION The question of victory and the type of outcome secured by a just war lurks within the jus ad bellum criteria by which we assess war. Proportionality, for instance, measures the inevitable harm and destruction caused by war against the good that can be secured only by the use of force. The jus ad bellum principle of right intention speaks to the motivation of those who would wage a just war, and defines such a just war as one that seeks to re-establish a just peace, as opposed to pursuing other motivations such as punishment or selfaggrandizement of the state. But what does this just outcome look like? The concept of a just peace encompasses the end of conflict and fighting, but it speaks to something more about the character of the peace won. The growing involvement of private military companies (PMCs) in conflict raises real questions about how PMCs shape not only war, but also victory and peace. Despite the apparent incentive for PMCs to prolong conflict in service of economic interests, some studies suggest that PMCs can, in some circumstances, bring conflicts to a swifter conclusion. Particularly where PMCs are considerably more capable than local national militaries, they might force a swifter conclusion to fighting as one side secures a military victory over the other, but this may ultimately be insufficient to satisfy the more demanding standards of the just war tradition. The concept of just peace, however, mandates that we look beyond the mere conclusion of a peace agreement to consider the quality of the peace secured by that military victory. It is the justness of the resulting peace that distinguishes a real moral victory from a mere end to armed conflict. The durability of the peace and conditions post-conflict suggest that while PMCs themselves may benefit from the conflict and its resolution, the people living in the war-torn society may not reap similar benefits.

Cui Bono: Moral Victory in Privatized War

199

VICTORY A ND JUST PEACE IN THE JUST W AR TRADITION Though war and peace seem antithetical to one another, a cornerstone of the just war tradition has been the occasional necessity of waging war to obtain peace. In City of God, Augustine wrote that the earthly city ‘desires a certain earthly peace [which] it strives to obtain through war. If it triumphs and there is no one left to resist there will be peace, which the parts of the city struggling against each other did not have before . . . Exhausting wars try to obtain this peace, and whatever achieves it is considered a glorious victory’ (book 15, chapter 4).1 In book 19, chapter 12, he goes on to state that ‘those who want war want nothing other than to achieve victory; by warring, therefore, they desire to attain a glorious peace.’ It is the attainment of this peace that justifies the destructiveness of the war fought to win it. It is important to distinguish between peace and a truce or armistice. As Pufendorf (2006: 460) wrote, ‘[a]cts of war are suspended by a truce, which is an agreement to refrain from acts of war for a period of time, without ending the state of war or settling the dispute from which the war started.’ A truce stops the active fighting, but does not resolve the underlying issues that gave rise to the fighting, and this sets it apart from a lasting victory or a just peace. Regardless of how long a truce lasts, it is not truly peace. Only a peace that accomplishes this purpose and attains the just cause motivating the war can justify the resort to war in the first place. The concept of moral victory and a just peace as the goal of a just war also underlies a number of the jus ad bellum principles. Just cause underscores the need to have a purpose whose achievement justified the harm and destruction that will be inflicted by the ensuing conflict. A just war is waged not in pursuit of state interest alone, but in service of a just cause. Likewise, the principle of proportionality invites us to think about whether the good consequences of a war outweigh the inevitable harm that it will cause. This assessment is always a difficult one, particularly when applied at the outset of a war, but the principle of proportionality certainly condemns wars whose harmful effects outweigh the good that they achieve. The satisfaction of this principle, then, requires at a minimum a victory that achieves some just and beneficial effects which outweigh the inevitable harm. Right intention also bears upon the question of the purpose of a just war. While Augustine was the first to address the question of intention, the presentday formulation of this principle is indebted to Thomas Aquinas (2006: 177), who emphasized the importance of the advancement of good, or the avoidance of evil. This intention stands in contrast to other motivations like vengeance or 1

Quoted in Reichberg et al. (2006).

200

Amy E. Eckert

the pursuit of power. The Thomistic conception of right intention is instead associated with serving justice and establishing post-war peace (Johnson 1999: 33). In its contemporary incarnation, the principle of right intention holds that those waging war do so ‘for the common good’ (Bellamy 2006: 122). The growing literature on jus post bellum principles also speaks to the importance of achieving a just peace by giving us a fuller picture of what a just post-war settlement should look like. Brian Orend (2007: 575) emphasizes the need for jus post bellum principles, noting that fighting a just war does not guarantee the imposition of a just set of terms to end the war, that is, a just victory. As Orend notes, the aim of a just war is: a more secure possession of our rights, both individual and collective. The aim of a just and lawful war, we know, is the resistance of aggression and the vindication of the fundamental rights of societies, ultimately on behalf of the human rights of their individual citizens. (Orend 2007: 578, emphasis in original)

Orend goes on to elaborate on some specific principles that contribute towards this end, including rights vindication, proportionality and publicity, discrimination, punishment, compensation, and rehabilitation which, he argues, contribute to the attainment of this goal. While Orend is correct in emphasizing the significance of these principles and in his argument that they do not necessarily follow from a justly waged war, they are nonetheless consistent with jus ad bellum principles, particularly right intention. As James Turner Johnson has argued, right intention tells us that peace should be the aim of war, with peace being understood as ‘a state of affairs interconnected with the establishment and maintenance of a just order, and the just use of force must aim at this end’ (Johnson 2012: 21). It is appropriate to understand the relationship between jus ad bellum and jus post bellum on this point as defined less by the substance of the principles and more by the time frame to which they apply. Taken collectively, these jus ad bellum and jus post bellum principles point strongly to an impetus within the just war tradition to promote a just peace. Just peace entails more than just mere military victory. It instead demands that this military victory have a moral dimension—that it goes beyond a decisive end to the fighting to secure some benefit to those who have been victimized by the effects of war. As such, I will consider it as having two components. First, a just peace is measured by a ‘negative peace’ standard: its durability in preventing further violence. Second, the peace also encompasses elements of a ‘positive peace’, which looks for some improvement in the standard of living for those who have suffered as a result of the conflict (see ‘Just War Theory’ in Chapter 8). A new layer to the challenge of attaining a just peace has been the privatization of conflict that has been growing since the late twentieth century. The phenomenon of privatization introduces new actors with interests and agendas of their own, which may not always serve the goal of a just peace.

Cui Bono: Moral Victory in Privatized War

201

PMCS AND THE MARKET FOR F ORCE Against the backdrop of the Westphalian state system and national militaries that emerged following the French Revolution, the robust market for PMC services seems rather striking. The present market for force has its origins in the end of the Cold War and related events. These events had the effect of putting a large number of military personnel out of work as states downsized their military forces. At the same time, anticipated peace dividends did not materialize. Fatigue within international organizations and the relative withdrawal of the US and Soviet Union after the end of the Cold War meant that these conflicts created an unmet need for additional security services. Coupled with these dynamics of supply and demand was a wave of pro-privatization sentiment, which prompted states and other entities to look to the private sector as the preferred means of resolving these unmet security needs (Singer 2001, 2003). In response to these dynamics, a number of PMCs began to form and to sell a variety of services on the private market. Unlike their mercenary predecessors, which focused exclusively on the sale of combat services, PMCs sell a range of services to their clientele. P. W. Singer (2003: 91–2) describes these services using a helpful spear analogy, in which a PMC’s position on the spear is defined by its proximity to the battlefield. He identifies three distinct categories. The firms closest to the tip of the spear are military providers, which engage in actual fighting or other services in the battlespace itself. Military consulting firms are at the midpoint of the spear. These firms offer analysis and advice. Although they do not engage in combat directly, their contributions can nevertheless transform the tactical capabilities of their clients. Finally, military support firms, which perform functions like logistics and transportation, are furthest from the tip of the spear. A single company may provide any or all of these services, but the range of services extends far beyond engaging in combat. Of course, PMCs are not the only private actors who can potentially become involved in civil wars. As Mary Kaldor explores in New and Old Wars, warfighting by ‘networks’ of state and non-state actors includes PMCs but also groups like paramilitary groups, police, rebel groups, militias, and others (Kaldor 2007). I have argued elsewhere (Eckert 2016) that PMCs are distinct from these other groups because they operate with the approval of the state. Additionally, while other groups may be motivated by economic gain as well, PMCs are contractually obligated to act on behalf of the entity that has hired them, meaning that we can view PMCs as working in concert with the actor that employs them. On an intuitive level, it would seem that PMCs have an economic interest in prolonging conflict. As David Shearer has argued, ‘a lucrative contract may itself act as an incentive to prolong violence and ensure larger payment’

202

Amy E. Eckert

(Shearer 1998: 70). In Nigeria’s civil war, Herbert Howe alleged that PMCs refused to bomb Biafra’s airport for the purpose of prolonging the war and increasing their salaries (Howe 1998: 4). Determining whether PMCs prolonged a particular conflict or not is a difficult question, but at a minimum, PMCs have a ‘powerful incentive . . . to sustain the conditions of instability that create the demand for their services’ (Shannon 2002: 39). Nevertheless, some studies suggest that the involvement of PMCs may actually bring about a more rapid termination of conflict in certain circumstances. Based on their study, Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski conclude that what they call the ‘opportunity structure’ plays a key role in determining whether PMCs will extend conflicts or not (Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski 2013). In particular, they find two key circumstances in which prolonging conflict does not serve the interest of PMCs. One such circumstance is when the PMC (or some element of the corporate entity that owns the company) receives payment in the form of natural resource concessions. In that case, the establishment of a peaceful order is essential to successful exploitation of those resources. The second circumstance that brings about swift termination of privatized conflict is the presence of multiple PMCs within a single country, when ‘a military company would actually hurt its future contracts if it sought to prolong violence and underperform in delivering security’ (Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski 2013: 21). In other words, a long-term economic interest in securing future contracts may prevail over the short-term economic interest in prolonging a current conflict to pad the bill. Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski begin their piece with a discussion of the conflict in Sierra Leone, which seems to bear out their argument. It is widely believed that the services of PMCs were secured with mineral rights concessions. One of the PMCs involved in Sierra Leone, Executive Outcomes (EO), had a corporate connection with the Branch-Heritage Group, which included a number of companies engaged in mining or oil exploration, particularly in areas of political instability (Shearer 1998: 44). In the case of Sierra Leone, Branch Energy reportedly received a gold concession and at least two diamond concessions, in addition to a concession for a Kimberlite formation. Additionally, there were multiple PMCs that were involved over the course of Sierra Leone’s conflict. The government of Sierra Leone, locked in civil war with the Revolutionary United Front (RUF), first turned to the British Gurkha Security Guards (GSG) before hiring EO. Subsequent to the signing of a peace accord with the RUF, the government brought in a third company, Sandline. There were three PMCs with significant levels of involvement in the civil war with the RUF. However, a closer consideration of Sierra Leone casts doubt on whether the type of just peace envisioned by the JWT was secured in this case. Additionally, though there were multiple PMCs engaged by the government to fight the RUF, the situation cannot really be described as a case of competition among

Cui Bono: Moral Victory in Privatized War

203

the PMCs to deliver the best outcome for the government. Rather, these PMCs were involved serially in Sierra Leone and did not directly compete with one another. In early 1995, GSG sent a force of about sixty-one people to Sierra Leone (Avant 2005: 84–5). Within a few days, the rebels ambushed the Gurkhas, who sustained up to twenty casualties (Dokubo 2000: 57). Although GSG sent reinforcements, they would ultimately withdraw from Sierra Leone without enhancing security there (Avant 2005: 86). EO’s military objectives in Sierra Leone included securing Freetown, regaining control of key resources, destroying RUF headquarters, and clearing out remaining RUF occupation (Shearer 1998: 49). EO quickly achieved its military goals and created an atmosphere of stability that allowed for elections and the negotiation of a peace agreement. In November 1996, the newly elected civilian government and the RUF signed the Abidjan Peace Accord, an agreement that was conditioned upon EO’s departure from Sierra Leone (Francis 1999: 327). Unfortunately, these gains were short-lived. In May 1997, a military junta overthrew the new civilian government and promptly aligned itself with the RUF. Moreover, violence continued as the new civilian government fled Sierra Leone only to lead a counter-coup. Because a moral victory demands more than a mere termination of the conflict, Bozena Welborne and I have asked the question of what happens after the conclusion of a peace accord (Eckert and Welborne 2016). In considering the conflicts that Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski look at in their study, we ask two questions about the peace settlement: does the peace hold? And does the peace achieved improve conditions for the society’s most vulnerable, who suffer the most during war?

PRIVATIZED WAR A ND JUST PEACE Termination of conflict has often been measured with a two-tiered approach that includes a minimal standard which looks at the question of how long peace lasts following the cessation of active fighting (following Galtung 1969, we refer to this as a ‘negative peace’ standard), and a more demanding standard, which looks at whether the war has secured some benefit for the society in the aftermath of the war (the ‘positive peace’ standard). The use of two measures allows us to ask whether PMCs secure a lasting peace and, further, whether the peace is just. The negative peace standard can take a number of forms. In her look at the efficacy of international peacekeeping, Fortna’s duration of peace variable measures ‘the time between the termination of fighting and the start of another war, if any, between the same parties’ (Fortna 2004: 276). While parties to a conflict may establish a peace agreement, this alone does not

204

Amy E. Eckert

indicate that the peace will endure. Rustad and Binnigsbø use a similar measure, though one that considers violence in more general terms (Rustad and Binningsbø 2012). In their study of the role of natural resources in the recurrence of conflict, they measure the time between days with twenty-five or more battle deaths. These measures look at negative peace, defined as the absence of conflict between the parties. Similarly, Doyle and Sambanis use the number of deaths and displacements to measure the ‘end to war and to residual lower-level violence and uncontested sovereignty’ (Doyle and Sambanis 2000: 783). The measure of low-level residual violence, as well as a long-term view of the aftermath of war provides a more nuanced consideration of the outcome than merely whether or not the war ended (Doyle and Sambanis 2000: 798). Doyle and Sambanis also use a more demanding, maximal standard to measure post-war peace. Their more demanding measure of peace-building success is associated with enhanced post-war democratization, using Polity data (Marshall, Jaggers, and Gurr 2002) they coded for democracy as [Democracy + (10 − Autocracy)] (Doyle and Sambanis 2000: 798). This measure allows them to look at whether a peacekeeping operation leads to greater democratization as a result of the operation, as well. There is little quantitative literature about the impact of PMCs on the outbreak of conflict and even less on the duration and quality of peace following a conflict in which PMCs have been involved. This stems partly from the lack of data on the activities of PMCs. We have chosen to focus on civil wars in sub-Saharan Africa in part because of the availability of data on these wars and the role of PMCs in them. Musah, Fayemi, and Fayemi’s (2000) Mercenaries: An African Security Dilemma was the first systematic and numerical tracking of PMC involvement in the region, reporting more than eighty foreign PMCs active between 1990 and 1998. They compiled this information by country and year in the appendix of their text across forty-seven states in Africa. Recently, Welborne (2006) and Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski (2013) have used Musah and Fayemi’s information on PMC presence in Africa to code the first quantitative data used in the aforementioned scholars’ statistical analysis. In my work with Welborne, we rely on Welborne’s (2006) data-coding of the presence of PMCs in African civil wars (Eckert and Welborne 2016). These data admittedly provide us with a small window into the much larger phenomenon of PMC involvement in conflict. Selection bias is an issue of concern since the sample is limited to forty-seven African countries. However, there is still enough variation within individual panels and the sampled time period to draw substantive conclusions regarding the impact of PMCs in the region. As such, we can draw some tentative conclusions about the nature of victory in privatized wars. The fourteen African countries where PMCs were present between 1990 and 1998 are depicted in Table 12.1.

Cui Bono: Moral Victory in Privatized War

205

Table 12.1 PMC presence in Africa (1990–8) During and Pre-Civil Conflict

Exclusively During Civil Conflict

During and Post-Civil Conflict

No Civil Conflict

Presence of Private Military Companies

Uganda

Algeria, Liberia

Angola, Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Sierra Leone

Botswana, Malawi, Mozambique, Namibia, South Africa, Togo, Zambia

Presence of UN Peacekeeping Mission

Uganda

N.A.

Angola, Liberia, Mozambique, Rwanda, Sierra Leone

Central African Republic, Chad, Namibia

We looked at the question of the durability of peace by using event history analysis techniques (log-normal survival and Weibull hazard models, respectively), similar to previous research by Gurses, Rost, and McLeod (2008) and Gurses and Rost (2013). This measurement of the survival of peace and the hazard of war was our ‘negative peace’ measure. The primary dependent variable for the survival model is calculated from the Correlates of War (COW) dataset’s raw data on the number of days of intrastate conflict, reversed to calculate days of peace for each year between 1990 and 1998. For the survival model, we used Fearon and Laitin’s (2003) binary variable on the presence of intrastate conflict by setting the negotiation of peace as the ‘event’ and the absence of ‘peace’ as the ‘event’ when considering the termination and renewal of civil conflict, respectively. Beyond negative peace, Welborne and I also sought variables that could suggest some progress towards ‘positive peace’ from the Cingranelli–Richards Human Rights dataset. With random-effects generalized linear modelling, we looked at variables that could serve as proxies for positive peace, including government respect for the individuals’ rights to be free from torture, extrajudicial killing, political imprisonment, and disappearance. To measure peace and stability on a more social scale, we also used the Political Risk Group’s measures of ‘socioeconomic stability’ and ‘government stability’ for the thirtyone of our forty-seven states included in PRG. Finally, in consideration of recent literature on the gendered impact of PMCs (Eichler 2015) and previous research demonstrating unstable post-war scenarios rendering women particularly vulnerable to the effects of public and private coercion (Arcel and Kastrup 2004; Tickner 2004; Sjoberg 2013), we also include CIRI’s measures capturing women’s social and economic rights. We controlled for openness of trade, ethno-linguistic fractionalization, regime type (POLITY IV), economic development (GDP per capita adjusted

206

Amy E. Eckert

for PPP), the presence of intergovernmental organizations (an aggregated measure from the Correlates of War dataset), and the presence of United Nations peacekeepers.2 We tested the following hypotheses: Hypothesis I: An increasing number of PMCs present in a given country will negatively impact the duration of peace or increase the hazard of intra-state conflict. Hypothesis II: An increasing number of PMCs present in a given country will negatively impact indicators of ‘positive’ peace, such as the enforcement of physical integrity rights, the enforcement of women’s social and economic rights, and political and socioeconomic stability during peacetime. The results of the survival model in Table 12.2 show that PMCs decrease the duration of peace in a manner consistent with Hypothesis I, with each additional PMC decreasing the duration of peace by 29 per cent. To further test Akcinaroglu and Radziszewski’s (2013) contention that the presence of Table 12.2 Survival model of the impact of PMCs on the duration of peace Coefficient/Standard Errors

Model 1

Presence of PMCs

−0.353** (0.125) −1.525** (0.3811) −0.306 (0.974) 0.013 (0.009) −0.004 (0.020) 0.582** (0.260) 0.004 (0.005) __

Presence of UN Peacekeepers Ethno-linguistic Fractionalization Democracy Presence of IGOs Economic Development Openness to Trade Mineral Rents Observations Log-Likelihood

284 −90.83

Model 2 −0.132* (0.071) −0.454** (0.207) 0.356 (0.024) 0.015** (0.003) 0.032** (0.005) −0.0004 (0.055) −0.005** (0.001) −0.027* (0.014) 275 −263.80

Note: Estimated coefficients are given with standard errors underneath. Asterisks indicate statistical significance at the p