August 7, 1964

On this day 42 years ago, Congress passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution authorizing President Lyndon B. Johnson to "...take all necessary steps, including the use of armed force, to assist any member or protocol state of the Southeast Asia Collective Defense Treaty requesting assistance in defense of its freedom."

Today, almost four years after Congress authorized military action against Iraq, would be a good day to reflect on the lessons of that much earlier action.

Limits to Super Power

Two excellent articles illustrate America’s dilemma as the “worlds only superpower.” Pierre Tristam writes in Candide’s Notebooks that the United States has come face to face with the limits of its power in Iraq. Tristam begins by quoting Chief of Staff General Peter Pace at last week’s Senate Armed Services Committee hearing:

“I believe that U.S. armed forces today can continue to do what we’re doing, which is to help provide enough security inside of Iraq for the Iraqi government to provide governance and economic opportunity for their citizens.” But here was the catch: “The weight of that opportunity rests with the Iraqi people. We can provide support. We can help provide security. But they must now decide about their sectarian violence.”

In other words, the U.S. military’s mission is confessing its limits—and unwillingness to go beyond them. It is as good as a green light to the warmongers, not dissimilar from the implicit green light to warmongering in Lebanon , and not with entirely different results. In either case, radical Shiitism is ascendant, American influence in decline. The Bush doctrine, intended as the wildfire of democratic reform, proved to be the accelerant of that decline.

[...]

It’s not, as Bush claim[s]..., that the war there “is part of a larger struggle between the forces of freedom and the forces of terror in the Middle East .” It’s that overwhelming military force in the 21 st century is meaningless when it’s up against the flammables of what the West is neither equipped nor willing to understand, let alone deal with in less than embarrassing, savage ways: a mixture of sectarianism and tribalism paradoxically wedding itself to nationalist mantles: Hezbollah’s Shiitism in the name of Lebanese independence (however alleged), Sunnis and Shiites battling it out in Iraq in the name of supremacy of the faith and the nation—Umma, Oprah. For now, only Sartre seems to have the answer of what so many analysts have been calling an “existential” struggle on all sides: “No Exit.” (emphasis added)

That theme is similar to Jonathan Schell’s much longer article in The Nation. Schell traces American ascendancy as a world power, noting the irony of great power often checked by nationalist movements (China, Vietnam) or rivals’ nuclear weapons (Soviet Union, even North Korea).

The United States, to be sure, is a great power by any measure, surely the world's greatest, yet that power is hemmed in by obstacles peculiar to our era. The mistake has been not so much to think that the power of the United States is greater than it is as to fail to realize that power itself, whether wielded by the United States or anyone else--if conceived in terms of military force--has been in decline. By imagining otherwise, the United States has become the fool of force--and the fool of history. (emphasis added)

Schell also traces the ominous consequence of America’s failure to understand the limits of military power. In addition to the costs of war are the threats to Constitutional government from the politicians–Joseph McCarthy, Richard Nixon and Richard Cheney–who blame internal weakness and domestic traitors for the failure of American arms.

Supposedly, the United States learned those lessons in Vietnam and the Watergate scandals that flowed from that bitter experience. I guess Americans still need remedial education. The costs are high for this nation and the world.

In Memory of August 6, 1945

Today is the 61st anniversary of the nuclear attack on Hiroshima. Watch this video to learn how we have progressed since then.

The Heart of War

Even as the United States fights a war in Iraq, that war in Vietnam just won’t go away. For those of us who served in that conflict, Vietnam has never gone away although the nation has done it best to forget that war. But like the beating heart in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”, Vietnam still throbs into our consciousness. The flag draped coffins now returning to America’s cities and towns are all too reminiscent of the images so many of us remember from the Vietnam era.

That Tell-Tale Heart still beats, forcing its way into our consciousness. From today’s Los Angeles Times:

The men of B Company were in a dangerous state of mind. They had lost five men in a firefight the day before. The morning of Feb. 8, 1968, brought unwelcome orders to resume their sweep of the countryside, a green patchwork of rice paddies along Vietnam's central coast.

They met no resistance as they entered a nondescript settlement in Quang Nam province. So Jamie Henry, a 20-year-old medic, set his rifle down in a hut, unfastened his bandoliers and lighted a cigarette.

Just then, the voice of a lieutenant crackled across the radio. He reported that he had rounded up 19 civilians, and wanted to know what to do with them. Henry later recalled the company commander's response:

Kill anything that moves.

Henry stepped outside the hut and saw a small crowd of women and children. Then the shooting began.

Moments later, the 19 villagers lay dead or dying.

Back home in California, Henry published an account of the slaughter and held a news conference to air his allegations. Yet he and other Vietnam veterans who spoke out about war crimes were branded traitors and fabricators. No one was ever prosecuted for the massacre.

Now, nearly 40 years later, declassified Army files show that Henry was telling the truth — about the Feb. 8 killings and a series of other atrocities by the men of B Company.

The files are part of a once-secret archive, assembled by a Pentagon task force in the early 1970s, that shows that confirmed atrocities by U.S. forces in Vietnam were more extensive than was previously known.

The documents detail 320 alleged incidents that were substantiated by Army investigators — not including the most notorious U.S. atrocity, the 1968 My Lai massacre.

Despite reports filed by courageous soldiers like Jamie Henry, the military was not interested in prosecuting these crimes. Of the 320 substantiated incidents, only 203 individuals were court martialed, resulting in 57 convictions.

Fourteen received prison sentences ranging from six months to 20 years, but most won significant reductions on appeal. The stiffest sentence went to a military intelligence interrogator convicted of committing indecent acts on a 13-year-old girl in an interrogation hut in 1967.

He served seven months of a 20-year term, the records show.

Many substantiated cases were closed with a letter of reprimand, a fine or, in more than half the cases, no action at all.

In the words of one investigator, “Everyone just wanted Vietnam to just go away.”

Almost four decades later, Americans are once again involved in a frustrating, guerilla war that has produced horrifying incidents. Unlike Vietnam, where only a few abuses ever entered the public consciousness, Abu Ghraib, Haditha, Mamuhdiya are now part of the known history of our war there.

Retired Brig. Gen. John H. Johns, a Vietnam veteran who served on the task force, says he once supported keeping the records secret but now believes they deserve wide attention in light of alleged attacks on civilians and abuse of prisoners in Iraq.

"We can't change current practices unless we acknowledge the past," says Johns, 78.

I wonder, though, if this nation is any more willing to confront this all too predictable consequence of war. Will we want Iraq to "just go away".

Nothing Sweet About Parting

Riverbend at Baghdad Burning on the Summer of Goodbyes:

Residents of Baghdad are systematically being pushed out of the city. Some families are waking up to find a Klashnikov bullet and a letter in an envelope with the words “Leave your area or else.” The culprits behind these attacks and threats are Sadr’s followers- Mahdi Army. It’s general knowledge, although no one dares say it out loud. In the last month we’ve had two different families staying with us in our house, after having to leave their neighborhoods due to death threats and attacks. It’s not just Sunnis- it’s Shia, Arabs, Kurds- most of the middle-class areas are being targeted by militias.

[...]

I’ve said goodbye this last month to more people than I can count. Some of the ‘goodbyes’ were hurried and furtive- the sort you say at night to the neighbor who got a death threat and is leaving at the break of dawn, quietly.

Some of the ‘goodbyes’ were emotional and long-drawn, to the relatives and friends who can no longer bear to live in a country coming apart at the seams.

Many of the ‘goodbyes’ were said stoically- almost casually- with a fake smile plastered on the face and the words, “See you soon”… Only to walk out the door and want to collapse with the burden of parting with yet another loved one.

During times like these I remember a speech Bush made in 2003: One of the big achievements he claimed was the return of jubilant ‘exiled’ Iraqis to their country after the fall of Saddam. I’d like to see some numbers about the Iraqis currently outside of the country you are occupying… Not to mention internally displaced Iraqis abandoning their homes and cities.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever know just how many hundreds of thousands of Iraqis left the country this bleak summer. I wonder how many of them will actually return. Where will they go? What will they do with themselves? Is it time to follow? Is it time to wash our hands of the country and try to find a stable life somewhere else?

More Pondering Lebanon

Boris' fourth installment about Lebanon at The Galloping Beaver discusses the corrosive effect of a war where the two sides are so disproportionately mismatched.

Learning History at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

When I paint, I must know when to stop. More than once I have ruined a painting by continuing to tweak it, to change this or that. At a certain point, anything more just detracts from the work. I mention this because I read that a Vietnam Veterans Memorial visitor center has just been approved for construction adjacent to the memorial on the National Mall.

The federal commission with final say over monuments and memorials in the nation's capital gave the green light yesterday for the newest addition to America's front yard: a sprawling underground Vietnam Veterans Memorial visitor center that will be constructed between the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall.

The center will be the first new memorial project on the coveted Mall since the National World War II Memorial was built. Preservationists, who have wanted to conserve the Lincoln Memorial's grounds, fought the center. But the project was championed by some veterans groups that have long been troubled by the understated nature of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall and want to provide more history and context for its list of more than 58,000 Americans killed or missing in the war. (emphasis added)

Like the war it memorializes, The Wall has been controversial from its very beginnings. It’s lack of traditional memorial iconography disturbed many as did the designer Maya Lin’s Asian ethnicity. Wikipedia has a good summary of the memorial’s history and development. Despite the controversy, the memorial has become the most visited site in Washington.

I have visited three times, in 1983, 1986 and 1988. More than anything else, The Wall is a memorial to equality in death. No rank. No branch of service. Just names: heroes, fools, combat dead, accidental dead, grunts, REMF’s (rear echelon motherfuckers), seasoned vets, new guys, alcoholics, drug addicts, men and eight women. They all served. They all died. More than anything else, The Wall reminds the viewer that war is death. Anything else is eyewash.

My visits also gave me a sense of where my Vietnam service fit in the scheme of things. Looking up the name of one the dead from my company, I was amazed to see how close to the end of the war my service came. My dead comrade is on panel 4-W, only three more panels and another 3,500 or so dead to the apex where the cycle begins again. I knew at the time, I was on the tail end of combat but The Wall makes it so clear. It also makes it very clear that, long after the US decided that it did not want to sacrifice any more soldiers, soldiers continued to die.

The simplicity and equality of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial has always appealed to me. That’s why I am disturbed at any change in the wall. A statue and flag were added in 1984. Suddenly, the dead have an image of three combat soldiers. Admittedly, combat deaths are the majority of the names on the memorial but by its nature, the statue excludes the pilots, the nurses, the truck drivers and all the others who died in Vietnam. The Three Soldiers statue did not compromise the original design, it looked to me more like an afterthought compared to the power of those names; I suspect the same of the Womens’ Memorial that was added in 1994. I don’t mean to denigrate combat dead or the women but, in the end, the only thing that matters is all served, some died and many, like me, somehow survived. The names on the reflective black granite say it all for me.

Now a visitor center will offer “history and context”. It will be an underground facility and probably will not change the visual experience but that history and context will add political debate to what has been a site of remembrance and reflection.

Somehow, we just can’t leave well enough alone. Maybe there is a fear that if all we see in the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Americans will only know that men and women die in wars. Not a bad lesson as far as I am concerned.

Pondering Lebanon, Part 3

Boris posts his third installment on the Israel-Lebanon war at The Galloping Beaver. The money quote:

I think it is fair to say...[Israel wants]...to de-populate southern Lebanon of, well, as many Lebanese as possible. The logic is simple: Hizbollah is an organic part of the social and political landscape of south Lebanon, therefore in order to defeat Hizbollah, obliterate the environment in which they exist. Destroy the social and civic infrastructure that supports them. This means demonstrating in the worse possible way, to the civilians in the region, that it is a better option for them to leave. If that means turning their homes and workplaces into rubble, cratering roads and destroying bridges so be it. It is the equivalent of draining a lake to kill the fish. If the civilians are gone, then anyone left must be Hizbollah and is fair game for the IDF. If you have to slaughter the odd batch of innocents to emphasise the point, so be it. If the UN are on a hill taking notes and you want them out of the way, drop a guided bomb on their position so there can be no doubt they are not longer welcome. It doesn’t matter what you say in public. This fight is for keeps.

Be sure to follow the "Dr. Strangelove" link. It reminds us that the logic of war is a constant in the pantheon of human behaviors.

Summer Thunderstorm

[Four years ago on this date, I was hiking the Appalachian Trail in western Massachussets. This is what that day was like.]

The storm hits hard and fast. Towering thunderheads sweep in from the west, driven by strong winds. Thunder and lightning crash ever closer as I near the top of East Mountain in western Massachusetts. At 1,900 feet, it’s pretty low but still the highest peak around. I climb quickly, hoping to beat the worst of the storm over a natural target for its lightning. The last thing I need is to end my Appalachian Trail hike dead from a lightning bolt.

Only a few hours ago, I nursed the illusion that maybe the storm wouldn’t materialize. A day hiker warned me early on that the afternoon forecast called for severe thunderstorms and, sure enough, clouds were visible in the west as I crossed Route 7 with Red and Gary. But more than anything, the day was just hot, muggy and still. Thunderstorms were the least of my worries as I limped into the Corn Crib, a local nursery doing a brisk business selling food and drink to hikers. All I wanted was to sit in the shade and drink something cold. Soda and ice cream were welcome and refreshing, although its benefits quickly faded as I walked alongside the Housatonic River. I joined Red and Gary in a quick swim in the river–anything to cut the heat.

I knew that the storm was imminent as I began climbing up from the river. The clouds that had been in the west when I was sweltering across Route 7 were now overhead, the day had become dark and windy. The breeze felt great but I knew what was coming. Lightning flashes. I count down. “One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three....” Thunder ends my count at eight seconds. The storm is about a mile and a half away, heading my way. I continue up the slope, wondering how exposed the ridge will be. I conjure lurid images of my body fried by lightning or ripped by splintered wood. Trees bend in the howling wind. FLASH! One thousand one. One thousand two,...One thousand five. CRACK! Closer. Suddenly, a sign: “foul weather alternate route”, a blue blazed side trail. I make the turn, hoping the side trail will keep me safe.

The alternate trail is distinct but less so than the AT. I look carefully for the path on the ground, scanning trees for blue blazes. FLASH! CRACK! Right over me. I wince at the close call. The first rain drops strike my parka, followed by more and more and more. Now it’s pouring. Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles. I pick up my pace with each bolt, somehow hoping that speed will keep me safe. Thunder and lightning continue to explode around me. The blue blazes seem to disappear against the wet bark. I worry that I’ve lost the trail but no, here’s another blaze. I crest the summit under a canopy of trees, not exposed rock, still nervous each time lightning strikes.

The woods are wet. Rocks, roots, branches and leaves glisten with a moist sheen in the forest darkness. The day has cooled dramatically. Now I’m cold unless I move and move fast. I’m scared, too. I worry about the lightning, which is still close but seems to be–maybe–moving away. I worry that I’ve lost the alternate trail. I worry that I’ll miss the next shelter because it will be south of the junction with the AT and not clearly marked. The wind and rain have sapped my confidence but all I can do is push on. I sure can’t stop here.

The junction with the AT is unmarked. No sign alerts southbound hikers to the alternate trail. I wonder how many unfortunate souls end up on the rocks in a storm because they did not see the alternate trail. I thank the spirits for the sign that I saw. I head north on the AT, hoping I’ve not missed the shelter. No rain now but moisture drips from all surfaces. The thunder is a safe rumble in the distance. I pick my way over wet rock and muddy trail, thinking that I should have seen the shelter by now. I wonder where Red and Gary are. Damn, I hate being alone at times like this.

Finally, a sign for the shelter! A short side trail leads down a steep, rocky slope. I see the shelter below. Red and Gary are there. So are Pickle and Pinata; they got in before the storm. We decide to stay in the shelter since no good tent sites are available. We change into dry clothing. We slap at the mosquitoes now emerging after the storm. I’m happy to be dry and safe with my friends and not sprawled atop East Mountain, felled by lightning. I lucked out once again.