C:\BOOKS\PDFS\MEILPATH\FRONT.PRN.pdf

The Paths of Heaven

The Evolution of Airpower Theory

The School of Advanced Airpower Studies

Edited by

Col Phillip S. Meilinger, USAF

Air University Press

Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama

1997

Disclaimer

Opinions, conclusions, and recommendations expressed or implied within are solely those of the

authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Air University, the United States Air Force,

the Department of Defense, or any other US government agency. Cleared for public release:

distribution unlimited.

Library of Congress Cataloging–in–Publication Data

The paths of heaven : the evolution of airpower theory / by the School of Advanced

Airpower Studies ; edited by Phillip S. Meilinger.

p. cm.

Includes index.

1. Air power. 2. Air warfare—History. I. Meilinger, Phillip S., 1948– . II. Air

University (U.S.). Air Command and Staff College. School of Advanced Airpower

Studies.

UG630.P29 1997

358.4—dc21 97–24531

CIP

ISBN 1-58566-027-2

First Printing 1997

Second Printing 1998

Third Printing 1999

Fourth Printing March 2001

Contents

Chapter Page

DISCLAIMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii

FOREWORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

ABOUT THE SCHOOL OF

ADVANCED AIRPOWER STUDIES . . . . . . . . ix

INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

1 Giulio Douhet and the Origins of

Airpower Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Col Phillip S. Meilinger

2 Trenchard, Slessor, and Royal Air

Force Doctrine before World War II . . . . . . . . 41

Col Phillip S. Meilinger

3 Molding Airpower Convictions: Development

and Legacy of William Mitchell’s Strategic

Thought . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Lt Col Mark A. Clodfelter

4 The Influence of Aviation on the Evolution

of American Naval Thought . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

Dr. David R. Mets

5 Airpower Thought in Continental Europe

between the Wars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

Dr. James S. Corum

6 Interwar US Army Aviation and the

Air Corps Tactical School: Incubators

of American Airpower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

Lt Col Peter R. Faber

iii

Chapter Page

7 Alexander P. de Seversky and American

Airpower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239

Col Phillip S. Meilinger

8 Strategic Airpower and Nuclear Strategy:

New Theory for a Not-Quite-So-New

Apocalypse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279

Dr. Karl P. Mueller

9 Air Theory, Air Force, and Low Intensity

Conflict: A Short Journey to Confusion . . . . . . 321

Prof. Dennis M. Drew

10 John Boyd and John Warden:

Airpower’s Quest for Strategic Paralysis . . . . . . 357

Lt Col David S. Fadok

11 An Ambivalent Partnership: US Army and

Air Force Perspectives on Air-Ground

Operations, 1973–90 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 399

Dr. Harold R. Winton

12 The Evolution of NATO Air Doctrine . . . . . . . . 443

Col Maris “Buster” McCrabb

13 Soviet Military Doctrine and Air Theory:

Change through the Light of a Storm . . . . . . . 485

Lt Col Edward J. Felker

14 Ascendant Realms: Characteristics of

Airpower and Space Power . . . . . . . . . . . . 529

Maj Bruce M. DeBlois

15 Reflections on the Search for Airpower Theory . . 579

Dr. I. B. Holley Jr.

CONTRIBUTORS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 601

INDEX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 607

Illustrations

Figure Page

1 Boyd’s OODA Loop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366

2 Boyd’s Theory of Conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368

3 Warden’s Five Strategic Rings . . . . . . . . . . . 373

4 Warden’s Theory of Strategic Attack . . . . . . . . 376

Table

1 The Changing Atmospheric Medium . . . . . . . 551

2 Characteristic Advantages of Airpower

and Space Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 564

Foreword

For the past half century, the United States Air Force has

been responsible for controlling and exploiting the air and

space environment to meet the needs of the nation. We are

America’s Air Force—the only service that provides airpower

and space power across the spectrum, from science and

technology, research and development, testing and evaluation,

to fielding and sustaining forces.

Although the men and women of the Air Force have

recorded some outstanding accomplishments over the past 50

years, on the whole, our service has remained more concerned

with operations than theory. This focus has produced many

notable achievements, but it is equally important for airmen to

understand the theory of airpower. Historian I. B. Holley has

convincingly demonstrated the link between ideas and

weapons, and in the conclusion to this book, he cautions that

“a service that does not develop rigorous thinkers among its

leaders and decision makers is inviting friction, folly, and

failure.”

In that light, The Paths of Heaven is a valuable means of

increasing our expertise in the employment of airpower. It

offers an outstanding overview of airpower theories since the

dawn of flight and will no doubt serve as the basic text on this

vital subject for some time to come. The contributors, all from

the School of Advanced Airpower Studies (SAAS) at Maxwell

AFB, Alabama, are the most qualified experts in the world to

tackle this subject. As the home of the only graduate-level

program devoted to airpower and as the successor to the Air

Corps Tactical School, SAAS boasts students and faculty who

are helping build the airpower theories of the future.

In explaining how we can employ air and space forces to

fulfill national objectives, this book enriches the Air Force and

the nation. Airpower may not always provide the only solution

to a problem, but the advantages of speed, range, flexibility,

and vantage point offered through the air and space

environment make airpower a powerful instrument for

vii

meeting the needs of the nation. Understanding these

advantages begins by knowing the ideas behind the

technology.

RONALD R. FOGLEMAN

General, USAF

Chief of Staff

viii

About the School of

Advanced Airpower Studies

Established in 1990, the School of Advanced Airpower Studies

(SAAS) is a one-year graduate school for 27 specially selected

officers from all the services. The mission of SAAS is to develop

professional officers educated in airpower theory, doctrine,

planning, and execution to become the air strategists of the

future. SAAS achieves this mission through a unique

educational process that blends operational expertise and

scholarship in an environment that fosters the creation,

evaluation, and refinement of ideas. The goal is thus twofold: to

educate and to generate ideas on the employment of airpower in

peace and war. SAAS is part of Air Command and Staff College,

located at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama.

The SAAS curriculum consists of a series of courses that

emphasize military and airpower theory, political science,

economics, history, and technology. Civilian academics and

high-ranking military officers are frequent visitors. All students

must write a thesis and undergo an in-depth oral examination

by the faculty. In addition, students participate in war games

and joint exercises which hone their skills as airpower thinkers

and planners. The faculty implementing this curriculum is

composed of eight members—four military and four

civilian—who are chosen for their academic credentials (a

doctoral degree), teaching abilities, operational experience,

desire to write on topics of military concern, and dedication to

SAAS and its students. Strict academic and professional criteria

are used to select students for SAAS, and volunteers are

ultimately chosen by a special board of senior officers. The

typical student is an aviator who has an outstanding military

record, has been promoted ahead of his or her contemporaries,

already holds a master’s degree, and has a strong desire to learn

and to serve his or her country. Upon graduation with a

master’s degree in airpower art and science, officers return to

operational assignments or are placed in impact positions on

higher headquarters staffs in the Pentagon and around the world.

Introduction

Col Phillip S. Meilinger

In greater skill the paths of heaven to ride.

—Gordon Alchin

Airpower is not widely understood. Even though it has come

to play an increasingly important role in both peace and war,

the basic concepts that define and govern airpower remain

obscure to many people, even to professional military officers.

This fact is largely due to fundamental differences of opinion

as to whether or not the aircraft has altered the strategies of

war or merely its tactics. If the former, then one can see

airpower as a revolutionary leap along the continuum of war;

but if the latter, then airpower is simply another weapon that

joins the arsenal along with the rifle, machine gun, tank,

submarine, and radio. This book implicitly assumes that

airpower has brought about a revolution in war. It has altered

virtually all aspects of war: how it is fought, by whom, against

whom, and with what weapons. Flowing from those factors

have been changes in training, organization, administration,

command and control (C

), and doctrine. War has been

fundamentally transformed by the advent of the airplane.

Billy Mitchell defined airpower as “the ability to do

something in the air. It consists of transporting all sorts of

things by aircraft from one place to another.”

Two British air

marshals, Michael Armitage and Tony Mason, more recently

wrote that airpower is “the ability to project military force by

or from a platform in the third dimension above the surface of

the earth.”

In truth, both definitions, though separated in

time by almost six decades, say much the same thing.

Interestingly, however, most observers go on to note that

airpower includes far more than air vehicles; it encompasses

the personnel, organization, and infrastructure that are

essential for the air vehicles to function. On a broader scale, it

includes not only military forces but also the aviation

industry, including airline companies and aircraft/engine

manufacturers. On an even broader plane, airpower includes

ideas—ideas on how it should be employed. Even before the

aeroplane was invented, people speculated—theorized—on

how it could be used in war. The purpose of this book is to

trace the evolution of airpower theory from the earliest days of

powered flight to the present, concluding with a chapter that

speculates on the future of military space applications.

Attempting to find the origins of airpower theory, trace it,

expose it, and then examine and explain it, is no easy task.

Perhaps because airpower’s history is short—all of it can be

contained in a single lifetime—it lacks first-rate narrative and

analytical treatments in many areas. As a result, library

shelves are crammed with books about the aerodynamics of

flight, technical eulogies to specific aircraft, and boys’

adventure stories. Less copious are good books on airpower

history or biography. For example, after nearly five decades,

we still do not have an adequate account of American

airpower in the Southwest Pacific theater during World War II,

or the role of George Kenney, perhaps the best operational-

level air commander of the war. Similarly, we need a

biography of one of the most brilliant thinkers and planners in

US Air Force history; the only airman ever to serve as

Supreme Allied Commander Europe, and the third youngest

general in American history—Lauris Norstad. Nor do we have

a complete, official history of airpower’s employment in the war

in Southeast Asia. Much needs to be done to fill such gaps.

The second roadblock to an effective concept of airpower

employment in an evolving world is the lack of a serious study

of airpower’s theoretical foundations. For example, each of the

two editions of Makers of Modern Strategy, the classic

compendia of military theory, includes only a single chapter

out of two dozen that deals with air theory—and neither is

comprehensive.

Admittedly, however, the list of great air

thinkers is not large, and in some cases the list of their

writings is surprisingly thin. Nonetheless, even before the

invention of the airplane, some people imagined flight as one

of mankind’s potentially greatest achievements. Flight would

not only free people from the tyranny of gravity and its earthly

xii

chains, but it would liberate them mentally, socially, and

spiritually. This linkage of the airplane and freedom was

prevalent in much of the literature of the first decades of this

century. This spirit dovetailed with the growing fascination

with all things mechanical. The machine became synonymous

with modern man, who saw the airplane as the ultimate

machine. Certainly, it was capable of causing great harm—the

scientific fantasies of H. G. Wells and Jules Verne anticipated

this clearly—but, paradoxically, the airplane and its pilot were

held up as a symbol of courage and nobility. Once in the

clearness and pristine purity of the sky, the dirt and

meanness of earthbound society were left behind. This was

heady stuff, bespeaking the callowness of a forgotten era.

Although most military men dismissed such fantasies,

arguing instead for more traditional means and methods of

war, others quickly saw the airplane’s potential as a weapon.

Perhaps the most important air theorist was Giulio Douhet.

When studying him, however, one is struck by how little has

been written about the man and his ideas. No biography of

Douhet has been published in English (although a useful

doctoral dissertation on him appeared nearly 25 years ago),

and little is known about his life. Analyses of his works are

also surprising in both their superficiality and their paucity in

number. Most amazing of all, although Douhet wrote

prodigiously, very few of his works have been translated from

his native Italian. His prewar writings, war diaries, and

numerous articles and novels composed in the 1920s are

unknown in English. Indeed, fully one-half of the first edition

of his seminal The Command of the Air remains untranslated

and virtually forgotten.

Nonetheless, the available writings clearly place Douhet in

the top rank of air theorists. He was one of the first to think

and write seriously and systematically about the air weapon

and the effect it would have on warfare. Like the other early

airmen, he was profoundly influenced by the carnage of World

War I. Douhet was a believer in the future of airpower even

before the war, and his experiences during the Great War and

the horrendous casualties suffered by the Italian army on the

Austrian front hardened his views even further. His basic

precepts—that the air would become a violent and crucial

xiii

battlefield; that the country controlling the air would also

control the surface; that aircraft, by virtue of their ability to

operate in the third dimension, would carry war to all peoples

in all places; and that the psychological effects of air

bombardment would be great—have proven accurate.

Unfortunately, however, he also had a distressing tendency to

exaggerate the capabilities of airpower—an endemic affliction

among air theorists. He grossly overestimated the physical

and psychological effectiveness that bombing would have on

civilian populations. Douhet’s hyperbole should not, however,

allow us to ignore his very real contributions to the early

development of airpower theory.

Another of the early thinkers who had a similarly great

impact on the evolution of the air weapon was Hugh

Trenchard. Widely recognized as the father of the Royal Air

Force (RAF), Trenchard was both more practical and less

inclined to exaggerate claims for the air weapon than was his

Italian counterpart. As commander of the British air arm in

war and peace, he was responsible not only for imparting a

vision for the use and future of the air weapon, but also for

carrying out the sobering task of organizing, equipping,

training, and leading a combat organization on a day-to-day

basis. Initially not a strong advocate of strategic airpower,

Trenchard soon became a passionate proponent. Specifically,

he was convinced that air bombardment of a country’s

industrial infrastructure would have a devastating and

decisive psychological effect on the morale of the civilian

population. His emphasis on morale, regrettably, was often

misunderstood as a brief for population bombing. Unlike

Douhet, Trenchard never advocated such an air strategy.

A major reason for this misunderstanding was an unwilling-

ness or an inability to fully articulate his ideas on airpower.

One can count the number of Trenchard’s published writings,

none longer than 10 or so pages, on the fingers of one hand.

Added to this were his notoriously poor speaking skills;

seemingly, he was not a very good communicator—although it

must be said that the RAF certainly seemed to divine his drift.

Thus, attempting to reconstruct his views on air warfare is not

an easy task. Indeed, to write a history of RAF thought between

the world wars, one must mine the fairly modest collection of

xiv

essays written by serving RAF officers (mostly junior) that

were published in the occasional book or in the pages of the

RAF Quarterly and RUSI [Royal United Services Institute]

Journal.

No individuals dominate this field, with the possible

exception of John Slessor. But even his intellectual reputation

is based largely on, first, his book Air Power and Armies, that

contains a collection of his lectures at the British Army Staff

College in the early 1930s, and, second, his later fame as a

marshal of the RAF and the relatively prolific (for an airman)

literary legacy that he accumulated after retirement. One

should also note that there is no history of the RAF Staff

College—what Trenchard called “the cradle of our brain,”

where airpower doctrine was formulated and promulgated

between the wars. Moreover, there is not even a complete

collection of Staff College lectures extant that can give us a

definite picture of what was taught there.

Excavating the intellectual foundations of the US Army Air

Corps can also be a challenge. We certainly have available the

extensive writings of Billy Mitchell, who published five books,

dozens of articles, and scores of newspaper op-ed pieces.

Unquestionably, Mitchell dominated the early years of the

American air arm just as Trenchard did the RAF. Like his

British counterpart, this influence was due not simply to his

administrative position but also to his ability to impart a

vision of airpower to an eager group of subordinates. The men

who would lead the Army Air Forces in World War II—Hap

Arnold, George Kenney, Carl Spaatz, Frank Andrews, and

others—considered him their intellectual father.

Mitchell achieved this status through the strength of his

personality and through his incessant writing and speaking

efforts, bringing the message of airpower to the American

public. Unfortunately, Mitchell’s writings become almost

embarrassingly repetitious after 1925 or so. Moreover, his

inordinate and near-neurotic hatred of the Navy distorted

much of his writing, confused his message, and left a legacy of

animosity between the two services that has never fully

healed. One could certainly argue, both paradoxically and

heretically, that because of his incessant attacks, the Navy

was forced to adapt in ways it otherwise might not have.

Consequently, Mitchell may have been the father of both naval

aviation and interservice rivalry. If this hypothesis is accurate,

one could further argue that precisely because of his

enormous popularity and influence within the Air Service,

Billy Mitchell was both one of the best and one of the worst

things that ever happened to American airpower.

Undoubtedly, many naval aviators would resent the

implication that the rise of their branch was somehow due to

the rabble-rousing of Billy Mitchell. Naval aircraft had

participated in the Veracruz operation of 1914, and their

record in World War I was sound if not glorious. After the war,

farsighted naval airmen like John Towers and Ernie King

pushed hard for the development of aircraft carriers and a

change in naval doctrine and organization to accompany those

carriers. In 1921 the Navy formed the Bureau of Aeronautics

and placed Adm William Moffett in charge.

Moffett was certainly no friend of the outspoken Mitchell

and people of like mind. But the former battleship captain

realized that a sea change was in the offing in naval warfare

and moved to alter his service’s thinking to accommodate that

change. In this regard, he was assisted by the Washington

Naval Conference of 1921–22 that placed strict limits on the

tonnage of capital ships. If battleships could not be built

under the treaty, aircraft carriers certainly could, and by the

end of the decade the Langley, Lexington, and Saratoga were

in commission. Although surface seamen still dominated their

service in the interwar years, the role of the aircraft carrier

was becoming increasingly prominent. Everyone recognized

that air superiority over the fleet was essential, but surface

admirals saw the main decision in battle still residing with the

big guns. Naval airmen quietly disagreed, thinking instead of a

fleet based around aircraft carriers as the decisive arm.

The war in the Pacific, heralded by the destruction of the

battleship fleet at Pearl Harbor, to a great extent fulfilled the

hopes of the naval airmen. Although initially seeing their role

as fleet defense and then as air support during amphibious

operations, by the end of World War II their sights were set

higher. In 1945 “targets ashore” increasingly became the

objectives of carrier air. Thus, it was a small step in the

postwar era to move from air attack of land targets to strategic

xvi

bombardment, using nuclear weapons, of objectives deep

inside enemy territory. Once a small and weak youngster,

naval airpower became the dominant force within its service in

the space of a generation. Traditional sea power had given way

to airpower employed from the sea. The most interesting

aspect of this transformation is that it was accompanied by

surprisingly little internal bloodshed. Naval aviators saw

themselves as sailors first; there was little talk of divorce. The

Navy had no Billy Mitchell—and obviously has not regretted it.

Perhaps it is not surprising that Britain and the United

States, traditional sea powers, embraced strategic airpower

more vigorously than did other countries. Similarities exist

between the type of long-term—and long-range—economic

warfare characterized by a naval campaign and the aerial

bombing of a country’s centers of gravity. The broad, strategic

thinking required of sailors was akin to that required of

strategic airpower advocates. On the other hand, the four

major continental powers in interwar Europe—Italy, France,

the Soviet Union, and Germany—were traditional land powers.

Logically, they saw airpower from a ground perspective. Giulio

Douhet was an exception; most of his countrymen had

different ideas on the proper use of airpower.

Amedeo Mecozzi was a decorated combat air veteran who

rejected Douhet’s calls for an emphasis on strategic airpower.

Instead, he stressed the need for tactical aviation to cooperate

with the army. His ideas were adopted by the Italian air

minister, Italo Balbo, and the composition of the air arm took

on a balance that Douhet would have found dismaying. It

mattered little. A combination of poor leadership, political

indecision, corruption, and financial constraints resulted in a

weak and ineffectual air force at the outbreak of World War

II—despite il duce’s exhortations to the contrary.

The story in France was similar. At the close of World War I,

the French air force was one of the largest and most well

respected in the world. The psychic paralysis that gripped the

army, however, was transmitted to the entire defense

establishment. With the exception of Air Minister Pierre Cot

and a handful of his disciples, the French were simply not

interested in a defense policy that advocated offensive

operations—especially strategic air operations that might

xvii

bring retaliation down on French cities. As in Italy, when

World War II broke out, the French air force was hopelessly

outclassed by the Luftwaffe. Moreover, French doctrine, which

emphasized the primacy of defensive air operations, made the

air arm almost an irrelevancy.

One finds a different story in the Soviet Union. When the

Russian Empire collapsed in 1917, the country’s air arm was

weak and outmoded. For the next few years, this downward

trend continued but began to change in the mid-1920s, when

revolutionaries started rebuilding their military forces. Mikhail

Tukhachevski, army chief of staff, articulated the concept of

“deep battle” that was to dominate Soviet military thinking for

the next several decades. Airpower played a major role in this

type of warfare, mainly via interdiction of enemy troops and

supplies. The predilection for tactical airpower was reinforced

by the Soviets’ close relationship between the wars with the

German military, which also emphasized tactical over

strategic airpower. Although the Soviets did not neglect

bombardment doctrine or the development of bomber aircraft,

by the outbreak of war, the Soviet air force had a distinctly

tactical focus.

The rise of the Luftwaffe from the ashes of defeat makes for

a remarkable tale. Field Marshal Hans von Seeckt was the

intellectual progenitor of what would soon be called blitzkrieg.

In this type of war, reminiscent of the ideas then being

espoused by Tukhachevski, airpower was of great importance.

More so than in any other country, the actions of the ground

and air arms were closely linked—doctrinally and

organizationally. The experience of the Spanish Civil War

bolstered these beliefs. As a result, although the Luftwaffe

flirted with the idea of strategic bombing in the 1930s, for a

variety of reasons, the Germans never built a long-range air

force. It is certainly debatable whether or not that was a wise

decision. In any event, Germany, prostrate in 1919, had the

strongest and most capable air arm in the world 20 years

later.

The intellectual center of the American air arm during the

1930s was the Air Corps Tactical School (ACTS). A coterie of

exceptional individuals at Maxwell Field, Alabama, devised

and disseminated the doctrine of high-altitude precision

xviii

bombing of an enemy’s industrial centers. This was the

“industrial web” concept that the Army Air Forces followed in

World War II. Nonetheless, we must not forget that our

knowledge of these men and their work is most unusual.

First, they published very little at the time: the Air Corps

had no professional journal equivalent to the RAF Quarterly .

The closest thing to it on this side of the ocean was US Air

Services, an intelligent monthly magazine that dealt with

aviation matters in both the military and civilian sectors. It

often contained articles by American military airmen, but

these were generally short and dealt with technical or tactical

matters. Published herein and elsewhere were articles by

George Kenney, Ken Walker, Claire Chennault, Hugh Knerr,

and others. As in Britain, their names call to us from the

pages of the 1930s, not really because of what their articles

contained, but because of who they later became.

How then do we know in such detail the nature of American

airpower thought in the 1930s? Thankfully, we have a

remarkable collection of lectures, written and delivered at

ACTS, carefully stored away, and often containing appendices,

notes, and comments by later lecturers. Most of our

knowledge and understanding of American airpower theory is

based on these documents—a fact that is both comforting and

dangerous. It is comforting because we have a readily

accessible, discrete, limited, and authoritative cache of

information that, once mastered, gives a remarkably clear

view of what went on at ACTS. But does that picture reflect

thinking throughout the Air Corps as a whole? Therein lies the

danger.

Generally, historians base their chronicles on the written

evidence at hand; if there is no written evidence, there is no

history. Because of this rather simple but ironclad rule, we

know precious little of what doctrinal innovation was

occurring at airfields and operational units around the

country. Airmen were too busy “operating” to be encumbered

with writing down what they did. Their story, though crucial,

is little known and thus overshadowed by that copious, clear,

discrete, and “authoritative” cache referred to above. In short,

do we give a disproportionate share of emphasis and credit to

the thinkers and instructors at ACTS merely because they

xix

were the ones who had the time and opportunity to write all

the books? Do we really know the extent of their impact on the

contemporary Air Corps? Did anyone in the field actually

listen to them?

There are no such doubts regarding Alexander P. de

Seversky (who liked to use his reserve rank of major), a

prodigious writer and speaker who had an enormous influence

on the American public. De Seversky was perhaps the most

effective popularizer of and propagandizer for airpower in

history. He wrote three books—one of which, Victory through

Air Power, was a Book of the Month Club selection, reportedly

read by five million people and even made into an animated

movie by Walt Disney. He also wrote scores of articles for

magazines as diverse as Ladies’ Home Journal, Look, Reader’s

Digest, Mechanix Illustrated, and Air University Quarterly

Review. Finally, he gave hundreds of radio addresses and

wrote hundreds more press releases for the news media. All

were devoted to the same theme: the importance of airpower

to American security.

Because he was a civilian, he did not have to worry about

angering his military superiors, as did Douhet, Mitchell,

Slessor, and others, and because he was a successful aircraft

engineer and manufacturer, he spoke with formidable

technical authority. Significantly, the target audience of de

Seversky’s message was the American public and its elected

representatives. He decided that the civilian and military

leadership of the country—including that in the Army Air

Forces—was too conservative and too dominated by vested

interests to be receptive to new ideas. The major, himself a

simple and straightforward man, wanted his unfiltered

message to reach average Americans so, collectively, they

could put pressure on the country’s leadership to change

defense policies.

De Seversky made “victory through airpower” and “peace

through airpower” household terms in America during the

1940s and 1950s. He certainly did not originate ideas about

global airpower, its dominance over surface forces, or massive

retaliation, but, to a very great extent, he explained and sold

those ideas to the public. Despite de Seversky’s many

exaggerations, his repetitiveness, and his missteps, there has

never been a more effective spokesman for airpower.

After de Seversky, airpower thought fell into a funk, where it

lay for several decades—not that people ignored the subject,

but theorists were writing little that was fresh or innovative.

No major figures emerged as airpower thinkers, for a fairly

apparent reason. Atomic weapons—and then nuclear

weapons—appeared to throw traditional concepts of warfare

and strategy out the window. This was virgin territory, and no

one quite knew his way—no experience or historical models

seemed relevant to this new era. As a result, a new breed of

strategists invented a new field of study, related to—but not

identical to—traditional airpower thought. Men like Bernard

Brodie and Herman Kahn, civilian academicians rather than

uniformed professionals, took the fore in thinking and writing

about nuclear strategy.

These civilians had significant advantages over the airmen

who preceded them. Before World War I, airpower had been

largely untested, and its impact on war speculative. For many,

therefore, it was easy to dismiss the ideas of the air advocates.

In the decades after Hiroshima, however, the nuclear theorists

had no such problem; everyone recognized the deadly

seriousness and import of the new weapon. In addition,

although the complexities of conventional war took a lifetime

of study, the principles of nuclear theory—assured

destruction, deterrence, mutual assured destruction, and so

forth—were relatively straightforward. As one of the

contributors to this book wryly puts it, any above-average

graduate student can learn the rudiments of this discipline

merely by watching the movie Dr. Strangelove or: How I

Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. Although an

exaggeration, this comment has more than a little truth to it.

The product of the labors of these new thinkers was a

substantial literature grounded more in the social sciences

than in history. Models and case studies replaced historical

narrative. Because there was virtually no experience extant on

the subject of nuclear war and its effects on a population or

its leaders, the new theorists wrote of models and logic.

Precisely because there was no experience, there was no proof,

and no one could say whether the academicians were right or

xxi

wrong. These were exercises in Aristotelian logic. Thus, the

new thinkers were in much the same position as Douhet,

Mitchell, Trenchard, and others several decades earlier—or,

for that matter, as the medieval theologians who debated how

many angels could dance on the head of a pin.

During the decades of the 1950s and 1960s, this new breed

dominated strategic thinking. Some people would claim that

this domination was most unfortunate for the country,

because thinking about conventional warfare—especially

conventional air warfare—atrophied. Airmen like Douhet

argued that war, though inevitable and total, would be

mercifully short and decisive due to airpower. The nuclear

theorists offered a more positive future: major war was now so

horrible and thus “unthinkable” that it might no longer occur.

Unfortunately, it did. As a result, this new breed planned and

articulated, to a great extent, the strategy (or nonstrategy) of

Vietnam. Military leaders, having lost their preeminence in the

realm of military strategy, largely through their own

intellectual lethargy, now received schemes designed by “whiz

kids” and had to implement them. By necessity, airmen in the

United States were forced to grapple, however tentatively, with

the issue of the role of airpower in what was euphemistically

referred to as low intensity conflict (LIC).

LIC is not a subject most airmen readily discuss. Indeed,

most military officers prefer not to treat with the subject. LIC

is a nasty and brutish affair, not conducive to the gaining of

either glory or military force structure. A standard response of

military leaders is to assume away the problems involved in

this type of warfare, believing that preparation for general war

will ensure automatic coverage of “lesser” forms of war. This

was certainly the attitude in the US Air Force. Despite the hint

of things to come, represented by guerrilla insurgencies in the

Philippines, Malaysia, and French Indochina during the

decade following World War II, airmen focused on the major

nuclear threat emanating from the Soviet Union. This

absorption was so pronounced that not even the Korean War,

although largely conventional, could shake the belief that

such conflicts were peripheral, aberrant, or both. The lack of

interest generated in the subject of airpower in LIC is

illustrated by the fact that during the entire decade of the

xxii

1950s, despite the four conflicts noted above, only two articles

on the subject appeared in the Air Force’s professional

journal, the Air University Quarterly Review.

Quite surprisingly, this institutional reluctance to engage

with the subject of airpower in LIC continued, even as the

country found itself ever more deeply involved in Vietnam

during the 1960s. Not until 1964 did official doctrine manuals

seriously discuss the subject—and then it received a scant

two pages. As the war struggled into the 1970s, this disregard

increased rather than decreased. Never a popular topic, LIC

became even more disdained as the Vietnam War shuddered

to its unhappy conclusion. The role of airpower in LIC carried

with it an odor of defeat—not a scent of victory. On the other

hand, although the disaster of Vietnam had many such negative

outcomes, one of the positive aspects was a resurgence of

strategic thinking within the services.

Realizing that war was too important to be left to scholars,

the “generals” began to reassert themselves. In the American

Air Force, this trend began with John Boyd, a semilegendary

cult figure in the fighter community. Boyd had flown F-86s in

the Korean War and was struck by the 10-to-one kill ratio that

US aircraft had enjoyed in combat with the Soviet-built

MiG-15. The smaller, quicker, and more maneuverable MiG

should have performed better. Although most observers

attributed the Sabre’s advantage to the superior quality of

American pilots, Boyd thought otherwise. He theorized that

the hydraulic flight controls of the F-86 were the key factor,

because they allowed the pilot to move from one attitude to

another more quickly than his MiG counterpart.

Upon returning to the Fighter Weapons School, Boyd

continued to study what he termed “fast transient maneuvers,”

a concept that evolved into his famous OODA Loop. Battle was

governed by the continual cycle of observing, orienting,

deciding, and acting. Pilots who were able to outthink their

opponents—to get inside their OODA Loop—would be

successful, just as the Sabre could physically maneuver inside

the MiG’s decision cycle. More importantly, Boyd hypothesized

that the OODA Loop concept applied at the strategic level of

war as well as the tactical. Countries that could plan, decide,

and carry out military operations more rapidly than their

xxiii

opponents would so disorient and confuse them that victory

would become inevitable. At the same time, Boyd focused on

the primacy of the “orient” portion of his loop, arguing that

modern war demanded broad, interdisciplinary thinking that

could continually extract ideas and fragments of ideas from

diverse sources and then reconstruct them in new and

original ways. This process of “destruction and creation” lay at

the heart of “orienting” oneself in an increasingly complex

world.

These theories and their implications for a rapid, paralyzing

method of warfare were particularly suited to airpower.

Unfortunately, Boyd has never really put his thoughts on

paper, relying instead on extremely long briefings composed of

scores of slides—some containing only a single word or phrase—

that last for up to eight hours. As a result, his theories remain

vaguely known and understood by the military and academic

communities.

Another American fighter pilot who began questioning

conventional wisdom emerged in 1986 at National Defense

University (NDU). There, a young colonel, John A. Warden III,

wrote a thesis titled “The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat,”

an unusual and controversial piece. Whereas most of the Air

Force seemed polarized between those who saw war largely at

the nuclear level and those who concentrated instead on the

tactical air battle, Warden dared to consider the possibility of

strategic, conventional operations. Fortunately and fortuitously,

the president of NDU at the time was Maj Gen Perry McCoy

Smith, who as a young officer was himself accused of being a

controversial and therefore troublesome writer in matters

concerning his service.

Smith encouraged and backed

Warden in his efforts, and the thesis became a book.

Warden expanded on his theory of airpower, characterized

by visualizing a society as a series of concentric rings. The

most important of these rings, the center, was enemy

leadership, because leaders make decisions regarding peace

and war. The military, therefore, should direct its actions,

both physical and psychological, towards removing, blinding,

confusing, or disorienting the enemy leadership. This in turn

would lead to paralyzing indecision and inaction. Although

many critics have disagreed with Warden’s theories, his book’s

xxiv

importance lies in the fact that it is one of the very few works

about airpower theory written by a serving American officer

since World War II. More importantly, Warden would

eventually end up at the Pentagon as the deputy director for

war-fighting concepts development, a position he held when

Saddam Hussein decided to move south. His superiors then

gave him the opportunity to translate his theories into a

workable air campaign plan that served as the blueprint for

the air war against Iraq.

In some ways Warden was responding to a tendency he saw

developing in the Air Force since the end of the Vietnam War:

the increasing emphasis placed on tactical air operations.

Institutionally, the US Army and the US Air Force emerged

from Vietnam with much closer ties to each other than had

existed before the war. As the senior leadership in the Air

Force slowly changed from officers with bomber backgrounds

to those with fighter backgrounds—the men who had borne

the brunt of air combat in the Vietnam War—this closeness

increased, especially in the sphere of doctrine. Significantly,

because the Army has always taken the subjects of theory and

doctrine most seriously, and because it formed a Training and

Doctrine Command (TRADOC) in 1973, the Army took the lead

in evolving new concepts and methods of achieving air-ground

cooperation.

A strengthening of Warsaw Pact forces in the

Central Region in Europe spurred this move. Outnumbered

North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) forces needed to

maximize the efficiency and punch of their combat units.

The initial Army response, partly induced by the trauma

still lingering from Vietnam, entailed an emphasis on

defensive operations. But by the early 1980s, this posture was

already moving towards a far greater concentration on the

offense—specifically, deep operations employing airpower and

highly mobile maneuver units that could attack second- and

third-echelon forces. This concept developed into the Army’s

AirLand Battle doctrine, acknowledged and approved by the

Air Force. In solving one set of problems, however, others

arose. For decades the main area of disagreement between

land and air forces has been command and control—

ownership of airpower over the battlefield. In truth, the issue

of the tactical battle was easily solved: the ground commander

xxv

clearly had a dominant influence in matters regarding close

air support of troops in contact. Similarly, the deep

battle—strategic attack—was reserved for the air commander.

The contentious issue became the area in between, where

interdiction tended to occur. The development of new

weapons—attack helicopters and surface-to-surface missiles—

that allowed the Army to strike deeper than it had previously,

aggravated this disagreement.

The interesting aspect of the debate was its surprisingly

amiable resolution. Personalities—close personal compatibility

between senior Army and Air Force leaders—were instrumental

in forging a partnership between the two services. Even these

close ties could not, however, completely resolve underlying

tensions that emerged from the services’ operating in two

vastly different media. Nonetheless, the mutual trust and

respect evident between Army and Air Force leaders in the

period from Vietnam to the Persian Gulf War stand in marked

contrast to the Air Force leadership’s traditionally more

stormy relationship with its naval counterparts. Personalities

have been crucial in both instances.

A particular and unique strain of airpower theory evolved in

Europe as a result of NATO. The mission of the alliance was to

keep the peace in Europe. However, the peculiar demands of

each member nation ensured that military strategy was

dominated by political imperatives to an unusually high

degree. For example, in order to project the image that NATO

was purely defensive, military planners were not allowed to

plan for offensive operations outside alliance territory. If

Warsaw Pact forces attacked, they would merely be driven

back. NATO had no intention of liberating even East Germany,

much less Eastern Europe. In addition, the requirement that

military decisions, doctrine, and policy have unanimity among

all the member nations put a high premium on compromise

and consensus building.

Analysts recognized early in the 1950s that NATO could

never match the size of the Warsaw Pact forces opposing

them. In geographic terms, this translated into a realization

that West Germany—and perhaps the low countries as

well—would be difficult to hold in the event of Soviet attack.

To counter this deficiency, NATO relied on several factors:

xxvi

technological superiority, nuclear weapons, energetic

commitment to maneuver warfare, and airpower. In truth, all

of these factors were directly related to airpower. This

realization led to a number of doctrinal initiatives that

stressed, among other things, centralized command and

control of air assets. It also led to a long and spirited debate

between and within member nations regarding the relative

importance of strategic air attacks, air interdiction, and close

air support.

The nations attained consensus, but it took many years—

and it carried a price. In order to maximize the effectiveness

and efficiency of NATO airpower, nations have had to

specialize in those areas most useful to the overall good. In

some cases, this has resulted in hopelessly unbalanced air

forces: excellent interceptors, but with no ground attack

capability; or perhaps a strong tactical airlift fleet, but no

tankers, strategic airlifters, or ability to project power.

Nonetheless, the imperative of a serious, technically

sophisticated, and numerically superior foe has forced a

resultant and beneficial emphasis on quality, efficiency,

standardization, and professionalism.

The Soviet Union—the object of all these doctrinal

evolutions both within the United States and in NATO—was

undergoing its own metamorphosis. Understanding the Soviet,

and then Russian, experience requires first that one recognize

that doctrine and theory have a political component quite

different than that operating in the West. To the Russians,

military doctrine is neither a general theory nor the view of

individuals. Rather, it is a system of official state views shaped

and responsive to the ideological imperatives of the leadership.

Although the Marxist-Leninist prism has been tarnished and

discredited to a great degree, the political underpinnings of

military doctrine represented by that ideology have not. The

result is a relatively dogmatic approach to warfare: political

objectives drive military doctrine, and that doctrine is not

open for debate.

Nonetheless, change has occurred in Russia, and since

1989 that change has been dramatic. The collapse of the

Soviet Union signaled both massive external and internal

changes. Not only did the entire strategic situation change

xxvii

with the loss of ally/buffer states in Eastern Europe, but the

privileged position and economic priority of the military within

the state ended as well. The greatest external shock, however,

occurred in 1990–91, when the Russians saw the astounding

ability of the West to project power on a global basis and then

employ that power in an overwhelmingly decisive way.

Russian military leaders were mesmerized by the effectiveness

of airpower in the Gulf War. The combination of mobility,

accuracy, stealth, rapid communications, intelligence

gathering and dissemination, target analysis, C

channels,

and simple professionalism had a profound impact on

Russian military leaders. In their view, airpower had become

the dominant factor in modern war. The challenge, however, is

not only for Russia to modernize its military forces on the

Western model within the constraints of its faltering economy,

but more importantly, within the parameters of an

increasingly volatile political situation. Reconciling military

reality with political ideology will be extremely difficult.

One should note that, until recently, most airpower

theorists around the world tended to equate strategic bombing

with strategic airpower. Consequently, differences between

theorists have generally focused on which set of targets is

most appropriate to achieve a given strategic objective.

Although the Berlin airlift of 1948–49 demonstrated that one

can wield strategic airpower without firing a shot, most

airmen have focused on the “fire and steel” side of operations.

Over the past decade, this has changed—due partly to a

dramatic lowering in tensions between the superpowers,

partly to increased capabilities that allow the employment of

air and space assets in varied and discrete ways, and partly to

heightened sensitivities over the use of force, emphasizing less

loss of life and less collateral damage. This more peaceful use

of strategic airpower has become a much debated and

explored topic of late.

One of the main foci of that debate has been space-based

assets and capabilities. In truth, it is interesting to note that

for most of the past century, ideas about airpower have been

far in advance of the technology needed to carry them out.

Many people argue that only today are capabilities finally

catching up to the predictions of the early air theorists. In the

xxviii

case of space, however, just the opposite is true: the technology

is far in advance of the doctrine and concepts regarding its

employment. Because this situation is beginning to change, it

is time to examine more fully the fundamental issue of

whether air and space are one and the same—or if indeed they

are two separate realms. This issue is fraught with political,

economic, military, and bureaucratic minefields. The Air

Force, perhaps in an attempt to solidify its hold on space and

keep the other services at bay, argues forcefully that space is

merely a place, one that is akin to the atmosphere—which is

to say it is fundamentally different from the places where land

and sea forces routinely operate. The Air Force’s share of the

space budget, generally 90 percent, fortifies this strongly held

belief by putting money where the talk is. Even airmen,

however, are questioning that postulate, precisely because the

cost of space is increasing dramatically, as are the capabilities

it promises. In order to address this issue most dispassionately,

one must examine the basic characteristics of both air and

space. Once that is done, a more logical and verifiable answer

will be forthcoming to the question, Whither space?

Theory and doctrine are not subjects that airmen readily

take to. As Carl Builder has noted, airmen tend to be doers,

not thinkers.

That is not a healthy trait. Unfortunately, the

most recent major conflict has not helped the situation. In the

Persian Gulf War, the abundance of available airpower allowed

us to use it redundantly and even inefficiently in order to

avoid irritating service and allied sensitivities. Doctrinal and

theoretical differences were therefore papered over. But force

drawdowns may not permit inefficiencies and doctrinal

vagueness in future conflicts. The double bind for the future is

that interservice rivalry will heighten as a result of budget

cuts at precisely the time decreased forces and capabilities

make any such rivalry unacceptably dangerous. Key issues

such as command and control, theater air defense, the joint

use of strategic tanker aircraft, the employment concepts of

attack helicopters, the effectiveness of land-based versus

sea-based airpower, the emerging field of information warfare,

the organizational structure for employing space assets, and a

host of other such issues must be addressed and resolved.

Moreover, this must be done in peacetime; when a crisis

xxix

erupts, it is too late to begin thinking through basic premises.

It is the hope of the contributors, all associated with the

School of Advanced Airpower Studies—the descendant of the

Air Corps Tactical School—that this book will serve as a

primer and an analytical treatment of airpower theory for

fellow students of modern war.

Notes

1. William Mitchell, Winged Defense: The Development and Possibilities of

Modern Air Power—Economic and Military (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

1925), xii.

2. M. J. Armitage and R. A. Mason, Air Power in the Nuclear Age

(Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1983), 2.

3. When the term airpower is used in this book, it refers not only to

terrestrial assets, but space assets as well. The term aerospace, intended

explicitly to include both regimes, is inelegant and has never achieved

universal acceptance.

4. The first edition, Makers of Modern Strategy: Military Thought from

Machiavelli to Hitler, was edited by Edward Mead Earle and published by

Princeton University Press in 1943. The modern edition, Makers of Modern

Strategy: From Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age, containing new essays but

covering largely the same people, was edited by Peter Paret and published

by Princeton in 1986.

5. Smith’s controversial dissertation from Columbia University was

published as The Air Force Plans for Peace, 1943–1945 (Baltimore: Johns

Hopkins Press, 1970).

6. Predictably, the Air Force responded with technology—developing the

A-10 ground attack aircraft.

7. Carl H. Builder, The Icarus Syndrome: The Role of Air Power Theory in

the Evolution and Fate of the U.S. Air Force (New Brunswick, N.J.:

Transaction Publishers, 1994).

xxx

Chapter 1

Giulio Douhet and the

Origins of Airpower Theory

Col Phillip S. Meilinger

Gen Giulio Douhet of Italy was among the first people to

think deeply and write cogently about airpower and its role in

war, methodically and systematically elevating an idea to a

level of abstraction that could be considered a theory. Many of

his ideas and predictions were wrong, but echoes of his basic

concepts are still heard more than 60 years after his death.

Indeed, the overwhelming victory of the coalition in the

Persian Gulf War in 1991 is an example of what Douhet

predicted airpower could accomplish. Specifically, his formula

for victory—gaining command of the air, neutralizing an

enemy’s strategic “vital centers,” and maintaining the

defensive on the ground while taking the offensive in the

air—underpinned coalition strategy. Certainly, not all wars

have followed or will follow this model, but unquestionably

Douhet’s theories of airpower employment have become more

accurate as time has passed and as the air weapon has

become more capable. The purpose of this chapter is to

reexamine the theories of this first great air theorist, analyze

them based on their own internal logic, and reassess them.

Giulio Douhet was born in Caserta, near Naples, on 30 May

1869. His father came from a long line of soldiers, and his

mother was from a family of teachers and journalists. He

performed well in school, graduating first in his class at the

Genoa Military Academy. Giulio was then commissioned into

the artillery in 1888 at the age of 19. Soon after, he attended

the Polytechnic Institute in Turin and continued his studies in

science and engineering. His performance continued to be

excellent, and his graduate thesis, “The Calculation of

Rotating Field Engines,” became a standard text at the school.

Douhet’s professional ability was also evident, and as a

captain in 1900, he was assigned to the General Staff. There,

he read closely all reports regarding the Russo-Japanese War,

which broke out in 1903. Early on, he predicted that Japan

would emerge victorious, but few Westerners agreed with him

at the time. Also while on the General Staff, he continued his

technological bent and wrote several papers advocating

mechanization of the Italian army. In 1901 he published a

series of lectures titled “Mechanization from the Point of View

of the Military,” and three years later he wrote a pamphlet on

the subject—“Heavy and Military Mechanization.” Significantly,

although Douhet saw a role for heavy trucks to move men and

supplies in a theater of operations, he did not predict the

development of armored vehicles for use on the battlefield. In

addition, he viewed mechanization solely in terms of Italy’s

peculiar geographic, economic, and political limitations.

Technology would compensate for Italy’s inherent weaknesses

in manpower and natural resources. This theme would later

repeat itself in his writings on airpower.

In 1905 Italy built its first dirigible, and Douhet immediately

recognized its possibilities, becoming a keen observer of what

he believed was a revolution in military technology. He

followed aeronautical events closely, and when Italy’s first

airplane flew in 1908, he commented, “Soon it will be able to

rise thousands of feet and to cover a distance of thousands of

miles.”

Two years later—only seven years after Kitty Hawk—

Douhet predicted that “the skies are about to become a

battlefield as important as the land or the sea. . . . Only by

gaining the command of the air shall we be able to derive the

fullest benefit from the advantage which can only be fully

exploited when the enemy is compelled to be earth bound.”

However, the superiority of the airplane over the dirigible was

not yet obvious to everyone. Douhet’s superior, Col Maurizio

Moris of the aviation inspectorate, was a staunch supporter of

the airship. He and Douhet had several clashes over the issue,

most of which Douhet lost. In fact, as late as 1914, Italy was

still spending 75 percent of its aviation budget on dirigibles.

At the same time, Douhet realized that the aircraft could

become a dominant weapon only if it were freed from the

fetters of ground commanders who did not understand this

new invention. He therefore advocated the creation of a

separate air arm, commanded by airmen.

During this period,

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

he became close friends with Gianni Caproni, a bright young

aircraft engineer who held similar views on the future of

aircraft. The two men teamed up to vigorously extol the

virtues of airpower in the years ahead.

In 1911 Italy went to war against Turkey for control of Libya —

a war that saw aircraft used for the first time. Amazingly,

aircraft were used not only for reconnaissance but also for

artillery spotting, transportation of supplies and personnel,

and even bombing of enemy troops, supplies, and facilities—

both day and night. In short, most of the traditional roles of

airpower employment were identified and attempted during

the very first year aircraft saw combat.

The following year, Douhet, now a major, was tasked with

writing a report on the meaning of the Libyan War for the

future employment of aircraft. Perhaps because his superiors

and colleagues were less enthusiastic about airpower than he

was, Douhet’s comments were muted. Most of his report dealt

with the organization, training, and equipping of the Italian

air arm. He did note, however, that although some people

thought the primary role of aircraft was reconnaissance,

“others” believed that aircraft should be used for “high altitude

bombing.” As for who would control airpower, Douhet

suggested that aviation units be assigned to each army corps

but slyly added, “This would not prevent, where necessary,

grouping such flights with the Army Group, or for that matter,

the formation of independent air units.” Further, the major

called on Italian industry to embrace the new invention and to

develop its potential for both commerce and national security.

The relationship between the civilian aircraft industry and the

strength of a country’s military defense was an important

subject, one to which he would later return. Finally, when

discussing the types of aircraft the air force should have,

Douhet suggested that a “general purpose type of aircraft” be

developed that could fulfill the roles of reconnaissance, air

combat, and bombardment.

Significantly, this aircraft should

be capable of carrying a heavy load of bombs. Overall, this

report left interesting clues about the direction Douhet’s ideas

on airpower would soon take.

Also in 1912, Douhet assumed command of the Italian

aviation battalion at Turin and soon wrote “Rules for the Use

MEILINGER

of Airplanes in War,” one of the first such manuals in any air

force. Interestingly, however, his superiors made him delete all

passages referring to the airplane as a “weapon”; to them it

was merely a “device” to support the surface forces—nothing

more.

Douhet’s incessant preaching on such matters irked

his superiors, and he soon became known as a “radical.”

Moreover, in early 1914 he ordered, without authorization, the

construction of several Caproni bombers. In truth, Douhet

had tried to go through proper channels, but his superior,

Colonel Moris—who was still enamored with the dirigible—

dragged his feet. Characteristically, Douhet became impatient

and took matters into his own hands. Such presumption,

coupled with a personality variously described as dogmatic,

assertive, persistent, impatient, tactless, and supremely

self-confident, earned him exile to the infantry.

Unfortunately, Douhet’s methods for advancing the cause of

airpower tended to work at cross-purposes to his goals.

Douhet was serving as a division chief of staff at Edolo

when Europe blundered into World War I in July 1914. He

was unable to resist a prophecy. In August, barely a month

after the beginning of the conflict, he wrote an article titled

“Who Will Win?” In it, he stated that modern war had become

total war. Moreover, because the industrial revolution of the

previous century allowed the mass production of weapons, the

quick wars of annihilation predicted by many people had

become a thing of the past. Douhet warned instead that the

new war now begun would be long and costly. Nonetheless, he

concluded that in the long run, the difficulties of fighting on

multiple fronts would spell defeat for the Central Powers.

Although Italy had at that point declined to enter the war on

the side of the entente, Douhet called for a military buildup—

especially in airpower—in case the effort to maintain

neutrality failed. Even in his peripatetic position in Lombardy,

Douhet, now a colonel, peppered his superiors with ideas on

airpower. In December 1914 he wrote that Italy should build

an air force whose purpose was “to gain command of the air”

so as to render the enemy “harmless.” According to Douhet,

“To gain command of the air is to be able to attack with

impunity any point of the enemy’s body.”

In another essay,

he suggested that five hundred bombers be built to strike “the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

most vital, most vulnerable and least protected points of the

enemy’s territory.”

He maintained that such an armada

could drop 125 tons of bombs daily.

After Italy plunged into the war in 1915, Douhet was so

shocked by his army’s incompetence and unpreparedness that

he frequently wrote his superiors, suggesting organizational

reform and increased use of the airplane. He filled his diary

with angry, sarcastic, and frustrated remarks regarding his

superiors and their war strategy. Rejecting the offensively

oriented ground strategy of the General Staff, he commented

ruefully, “To cast men against concrete is to use them as a

useless hammer.” In another entry, he noted the existence of

reports that Italian soldiers at the front did not even have

rifles. Perhaps, he offered, “if an enemy attacks they could

always beg a mule to kick him.”

In yet another memo to his

superiors, the colonel advocated that a bomber force drop one

hundred tons of explosives on Constantinople each day until

the Turkish government agreed to open the Dardanelles to

Allied shipping.

Typically, he even wrote Gen Luigi Cadorna,

the Italian commander in chief, about his concerns and was

twice reprimanded for his intemperate remarks.

Beginning in 1916, Colonel Douhet started corresponding

with several government officials, including Leonida Bissolati,

a cabinet minister known to be an airpower advocate. His

letters to the minister were especially candid, even for Douhet.

In one, he roundly criticized the Italian conduct of the war,

noting that “we find ourselves without a reserve, in a crisis of

munitions, with all our forces engaged in an offensive already

halted, with the rear threatened by old and new enemies,

exposed to being attacked at any moment and overcome

decisively in the shortest moment.”

Unfortunately, a copy of

Douhet’s scathing missive reached General Cadorna, who

labeled it “calumnious.” As a result, in September 1916

Douhet was arrested and court-martialed for “issuing false

news . . . divulging information differing from the official

communiqués . . . diminishing the prestige and the faith in

the country and of disturbing the public tranquillity.”

He did

not deny writing the letter to Bissolati but insisted he was

motivated strictly by love of country and a desire to see Italy

win the war. But his reputation as an agitator had preceded

MEILINGER

him, and the court found him guilty. Douhet was sentenced to

a year in jail at the fortress of Fenestrelle, beginning his

incarceration on 15 October. One can only speculate on

whether Douhet was actually relieved to have finally brought

matters to a head. In a mood that echoes of resignation,

mingled with frustration, he confided in his diary, “They [the

government] can no longer say that they were not warned.”

Colonel Douhet continued to write about airpower from his

cell, finishing not only a novel on air warfare but suggesting in

a letter to the war minister that a great interallied air fleet be

created. He envisioned a fleet of 20,000 airplanes, mostly

provided by the United States, whose role would be to gain

command of the air and carry out a decisive air attack on the

enemy.

Meanwhile, the fortunes of the Italian army continued to

plummet, culminating in the disaster of Caporetto in October

1917, when the Italians lost three hundred thousand men.

Released from prison that same month, Douhet returned to

duty, and, because calamity breeds change, he soon became

central director of aviation at the General Air Commissariat,

where he worked to strengthen Italy’s air arm. He also

continued his close relationship with Caproni, and it is likely

the two had a role in determining the force structure and

philosophy of the new American Air Service.

Shortly after entering the war in April 1917, the United

States sent a mission to Europe headed by Col Raynal Bolling

to decide which aircraft were most suitable for construction in

America. A member of the Bolling team, Maj Edgar Gorrell,

had several talks with Caproni, who persuaded him to

purchase the rights for several hundred of his heavy bombers

for construction in America. Soon after, Gorrell wrote Caproni,

requesting information on German industrial targets for use

in planning Allied bombing missions. Douhet probably helped

Caproni compile this information, since Douhet also was

collecting intelligence on the location of German factories.

Although the Caproni bomber contract was not fulfilled, the

relationship established among these men planted the seeds

for American airpower.

At the same time, Caproni provided Gorrell with a copy of a

polemic written by Nino Salvaneschi, an Italian journalist and

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

friend of Douhet. Titled “Let Us Kill the War, Let Us Aim at the

Heart of the Enemy!” this propaganda pamphlet accused the

Germans of endless atrocities, thereby justifying any and all

actions taken to defeat Germany. Although Germany quite

clearly had attempted to bomb Britain into submission by

zeppelin attacks, the airship could not achieve decisive

results. Now, however, the Allies had large aircraft (not

coincidentally, Capronis) capable of carrying tons of bombs.

These aircraft, termed “battle planes” by Salvaneschi, meant

that “the sky is the new field of combat and death which has

unbarred her blue doors to the combatants.” The purpose of

these battle planes was “to kill the war,” not by destroying the

enemy army but by destroying its “manufactories of arms.”

This in turn would leave the enemy with insufficient strength

to carry on the war.

Gorrell was quite taken with Salvaneschi’s piece and

distributed numerous copies of it within the American Air

Service. Over the months that followed, Gorrell wrote a

remarkably farsighted memo on the desirability and feasibility

of strategic bombing. Perhaps not surprisingly, strong

similarities existed among Gorrell’s memo, Salvaneschi’s

piece, and the ideas then being expounded by Douhet.

In June 1918 Douhet retired from the army, disgusted with

the inefficiency and conservatism of his superiors, and

returned to writing. Soon after the armistice, he became upset

with the government for not dealing adequately with veterans

of the war. He therefore started Duty, a newspaper that dealt

largely with domestic, economic, and political issues. In this

position, he learned that the government had launched an

official investigation into the battle of Caporetto. The report

concluded that defeat resulted from deficiencies in organization

and leadership, many of which Douhet had noted. The retired

colonel therefore petitioned to have his court-martial

reexamined. When the judges perceived the accuracy of his

criticisms and predictions, they decided that Douhet had

indeed been primarily interested in the safety of his

country—not in personal gain. The verdict was overturned in

November 1920, and he was promoted to general.

Rather than returning to active duty, Douhet continued his

literary efforts. In 1921 he completed his most famous work,

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The Command of the Air, published under War Department

auspices—an indication of how completely his reputation had

been restored. During this same period, Douhet became a

supporter of the Fascist party and Benito Mussolini, even

participating in the “March on Rome” in October 1922. When

Mussolini assumed power soon after, he endorsed Douhet’s

ideas and appointed him commissioner of aviation. Douhet

was unhappy as a bureaucrat, however, hoping to be

appointed as chief of the air force. The offer was not

forthcoming, so after only a few months, the general retired a

second time to devote himself to writing.

This he did for the next eight years, publishing dozens of

essays and articles on airpower, as well as several novels and

plays. Unfortunately, few of his many works have been

translated into English. Indeed, fully one-half of the first

edition of The Command of the Air, comprising a lengthy

appendix discussing the principles of flight and technical

details of aircraft and seaplane construction, has never been

translated and remains largely forgotten.

Giulio Douhet died

of a heart attack on 15 February 1930, while tending his

garden at Ceschina, near Rome.

Douhet was profoundly affected by the trench warfare of

World War I. Like most of his generation, he was appalled by

the carnage and feared that such a catastrophe would recur.

He believed that wars were no longer fought between armies

but between whole peoples. All the resources of a country—

human, material, and psychological—would focus on the war

effort. Whereas Napoléon sometimes gained victory with a

single battle, the effort now required a series of battles and a

series of armies. Indeed, the nation would have to be

exhausted before it would admit defeat. But reaching this point

became increasingly more difficult in an age of industrialization,

when factories could produce the implements of war in a

seemingly inexhaustible supply.

What made the attritional war of 1914–18 more horrifying

was advancing technology—specifically the machine gun—

that gave an overwhelming advantage to the defender. Defense

behind prepared positions had always possessed inherent

benefits, so an attacker required a preponderance of force to

ensure success—usually at least a three-to-one advantage.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

The world war proved to Douhet that new technology required

greater superiority for an attack to succeed (surely a

misnomer if it meant the slaughter of thousands). Although

convinced that technology had granted the defense a

permanent ascendancy in land warfare, he argued,

paradoxically, that although technology had caused the

trench stalemate, technology—in the form of the airplane—

would end it. Only aircraft could overcome the fundamental

problem of a prolonged war of attrition caused by mass armies

equipped with modern weapons.

Douhet argued that airpower was revolutionary because it

operated in the third dimension, unhampered by geography.

Indeed, the weapon was not so revolutionary as the medium of

the air itself, which granted flexibility and initiative. Aircraft

could fly over surface forces, which then became of secondary

importance. If one no longer needed to control the ground,

then the forces used to control it diminished in significance.

Contrary to conditions on the surface, Douhet continued, the

aerial offense was stronger than the aerial defense because

the vastness of the sky made defense against the airplane

virtually impossible. In Douhet’s formulation, the speed of

aircraft relative to ground forces plus the ubiquity of aircraft—

the ability to be in so many places in a short period of time—

equaled offensive power.

Writing before the advent of radar, he argued that a

defender’s inability to know the exact time and location of an

attack gave an enormous advantage to the offense, virtually

assuring tactical surprise. On the other hand, defense

required a huge air fleet because each protected point needed

an air contingent at least the size of the attacking enemy. This

situation was precisely the opposite of the one on the ground,

because it meant that successful air defense required the

preponderance of force, leading Douhet to term the airplane

“the offensive weapon par excellence.”

Just as Douhet discounted the possibility of aerial

interception, so too did he dismiss ground-based air defenses.

Further, he deemed antiaircraft guns wasteful because they

seldom hit anything. Douhet sarcastically conceded that

ground fire might down some aircraft, much like muskets shot

in the air might occasionally hit a swallow, but it was not a

MEILINGER

serious deterrent to air attack. People who believed that

artillery was an effective counter to the airplane “had confused

aircraft with snails.” Douhet stated flatly, “I am against air

defense because it detracts means from the Air Force . . . I am

against it because I am absolutely convinced that . . . it

cannot achieve its aim.”

Thus, in Douhet’s eyes, the best

defense—indeed, the only defense—was a good offense. For

the same reason, he eschewed an air reserve. All aircraft were

committed; holding forces in reserve exemplified the outdated

and defensive thinking of surface commanders. The speed and

range of aircraft created their own reserve because they were

able to react quickly and engage in different locations long

before surface forces could move there.

These beliefs regarding the nature of modern war and the

inherent characteristics of the airplane led Douhet to a theory

of war based on the dominance of airpower. His most

fundamental precept

was that an air force must achieve

command of the air—air supremacy in today’s parlance.

Without it, land and sea operations—even air operations—

were doomed. Moreover, a country that lost control of its

airspace had to endure whatever air attacks an enemy chose

to carry out. Command of the air meant victory.

Because predicting the specific time and place of an air

attack was virtually impossible, Douhet saw little chance of an

air battle occurring. He reasoned that a stronger air force

would be foolish to seek out its weaker enemy in the air.

Rather, it should carry out the more lucrative task of bombing

the enemy’s airfields and aircraft industry—“destroying the

eggs in their nest.” The weaker force also had no incentive to

seek an air engagement that would likely lead to its

destruction. The only hope for the weaker side lay in striking

even more violently at an enemy’s homeland. Douhet thus

envisioned a rather peculiar scenario in which opposing air

forces studiously ignored each other while flying past to

destroy the other’s airfields and factories—something akin to

“mutual assured destruction” without nuclear weapons. He

realized, however, that achieving aerial dominance was not an

end in itself but an enabler that allowed airpower to conduct

its primary task of reducing an enemy’s will and capability to

wage war.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

The objective of war had always been to impose one’s will on

the enemy by breaking the latter’s will to resist. This, in fact,

happened to Germany, Austria, and Russia in the Great

War—their armies were still largely intact in the fall of 1918,

but the will of these nations to continue the fight had

dissolved. In Douhet’s view, airpower could break a people’s

will by destroying or neutralizing a country’s “vital centers”—

those elements of society, government, military, and industrial

structure essential to the functioning of the state. Because of

their value—as well as their immobility and vulnerability—

these centers were protected by fortresses and armies. It was

therefore necessary to defeat these armies and reduce these

fortresses to expose the soft, inner core. Once disarmed, a

country would then usually surrender rather than suffer the

humiliation of an enemy occupation.

Over time, many people began to equate destruction of the

army with the objective of war, rather than merely as a means

to an end. The Great War demonstrated that such a goal could

have catastrophic consequences. Douhet reminded his

readers that the true objective in war was the enemy’s will,

and only aircraft could strike it directly, overflying and

ignoring the surface conflict below. In short, aircraft could

obviate the bloody first step of destroying the enemy army,

which now became superfluous.

Douhet was perhaps the first person to realize that the key

to airpower was targeting, because although aircraft could

strike virtually anything, they should not attempt to strike

everything. One had to identify the most important objectives

and hit them most forcefully. Choosing the proper targets

would not be an easy task and would require great insight; in

this area, air commanders would prove their ability. Because the

choice of targets would depend on a number of circumstances—

economic, military, political, and psychological—it would be

variable. But Douhet identified five basic target systems as the

vital centers of a modern country: industry, transportation

infrastructure, communication nodes, government buildings,

and the will of the people.

To Douhet, this last category was the most important,

because the total wars of the new industrialized age were no

longer a contest between armed foes: all people were

MEILINGER

combatants—women and men alike—and their collective will

would have to be broken. Douhet bluntly stated that one

could do this most effectively by urban bombing, which would

terrorize the population. But that is precisely why it would have

such great effect: “Normal life could not be carried on in this

constant nightmare of imminent death and destruction.”

“The War of 19—,” which described a fictional war between

Germany and a French-Belgian alliance, Douhet had German

bombers striking cities immediately after the outbreak of war

to make a “moral impression” on the population.

Significantly, Douhet implied that one might not need such

terror bombing because gaining command of the air would be

so psychologically devastating that destruction of vital centers

would be unnecessary. The side that lost control of its own

airspace would realize what was in store and surrender rather

than face devastation. Thus, war would become so horrible it

would be humanizing, a paradox which generated in Douhet a

strange ambivalence about the righteousness of airpower that

he never fully resolved. Also of interest is his emphasis on the

importance of gaining command of the air, which implied that

this effort was comparable to clashes between opposing

armies, wherein a decisive battle meant victory in the war:

“Once a nation has been conquered in the air it may be

subjected to such moral torture that it would be obliged to cry

‘Enough’ before the war could be decided upon the surface”

(emphasis in original).

In other words, he came close to

identifying the enemy air force as the key vital center. In a

sense, therefore, Douhet also stressed the need for a decisive

counterforce battle, as did the land-war theorists he so

decried.

Douhet did not advocate that aircraft attack or assist

surface forces. The strength of airpower lay in its use as a

strategic weapon, not a tactical one. He did concede, however,

that the air campaign might take six days or six months,

“depending on the intensity of the offensive and the

staunchness of the people’s hearts.” This meant that although

command of the air and the subsequent devastation of a

country’s vital centers would probably produce victory,

airpower might still need to defeat the enemy’s ground forces

if surrender were not immediately forthcoming. If all else

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

failed, ground troops would occupy enemy territory. To

Douhet, this last option would seldom be necessary; even the

need to defeat the surface forces was unlikely.

In reality, this

prediction has yet to come true, because defeat of an army

has a psychological as well as a physical effect. Now, as then,

a country is generally unwilling to yield if its ground forces are

still intact. The Persian Gulf War of 1991 seemed to indicate

that, for psychological reasons, defeating the Iraqi army was

still necessary, but in this case airpower was able to do so

with incomparably greater efficiency and at lower risk than by

using ground forces.

Because Douhet thought air attacks on a country’s vital

centers were of primary importance, he saw little use for

“auxiliary aviation” (pursuit or attack aircraft). His ideas on

this subject grew more radical over time. In the first edition of

The Command of the Air (1921), he recognized the utility of

auxiliary aviation. However, in the second edition (1927),

Douhet went much further, stating that he had been

deliberately mild in his earlier edition so as not to cause too

much consternation, but now he had to be completely honest.

He maintained that, in truth, auxiliary aviation was “useless,

superfluous and harmful”

and was merely a collection of

airplanes—it was not airpower. Convinced that an army or

navy without control of the air above it was an army or navy

about to be destroyed, he termed command of the air essential—

the key strategic objective. After achieving command of the

air, aircraft could assist in any tactical operations still in

progress on the surface. But diverting assets from the

strategic air battle to support surface operations was folly. If

one lost command of the air, one lost the war, regardless of

the situation on the surface.

One must remember that Douhet was formulating a theory

of war applicable to Italy—a country of modest resources,

powerful neighbors, and mountainous northern borders.

believed it relatively easy to defend the mountain passes—as

indeed Austria had done in the Great War. Certainly, auxiliary

aviation would prove useful in that defense, but to what end?

Victory on the surface was prohibitively expensive, if not

impossible. Italy would do well to hold on the ground and

attack in the air. Douhet admitted, however, that a country

MEILINGER

with great resources—such as the United States—could afford

to build both a strategic and an auxiliary air force.

To implement his ideas, Douhet called for an independent

air force (IAF). Airpower divorced from army and navy control

was essential because it could not be the “Cinderella of the

family,” dependent on the generosity of older sisters,

but

must see to its own needs. Even the most conservative soldier

and sailor recognized how essential aircraft had become to

their operations. Although denying that airpower could be a

decisive factor in war, they realized that victory was unlikely

without it. To Douhet, this realization was dangerous if it

meant that surface commanders could demand airpower,

under their control, to support tactical operations. In this

circumstance, the aviation defense budget would suffer a fatal

split between independent and auxiliary airpower—a situation

that would help no one.

The IAF would consist largely of “bombardment units” and

“combat units,” the former comprising long-range, heavy-

load-carrying aircraft of moderate speed. Although Douhet

considered interception of a bomber force unlikely, he

admitted the possibility of such an eventuality and therefore

called for “combat units” or escort aircraft. With approximately

the same performance characteristics as the bombers, these

escorts would carry machine guns to ward off enemy

interceptors. Notably, because he did not anticipate the actual

occurrence of an air battle, he claimed that one would not

really require such defensive armaments, but he included

them as a comfort to aircrew morale.

The only other aircraft Douhet thought necessary was a

fast, long-range reconnaissance plane to fly over enemy

territory, photographing potential targets. One needed

reconnaissance for effective targeting, not only to pinpoint

objectives but also to determine the effectiveness of air attacks

on those objectives. In the revised edition of The Command of

the Air, Douhet combined the functions of bombardment and

escort into one aircraft—the battle plane, which he envisioned

flying en masse towards an enemy’s vital centers carrying

both bombs and defensive machine guns.

Significantly, unlike many other writers of the period who

tended to glorify air warfare—especially the role of the fighter

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

pilot—Douhet took a decidedly nonromantic view. No passages

in his writings speak of the exhilaration of flight, the conquest

of nature by man and machine, or the near-mystical

experiences of people who have become unfettered by the

tyranny of geography. He did not compare pilots to modern

knights—bold, chivalrous, and dashing—but portrayed aviators

simply as determined and stoic professionals who went about

their deadly business in an unremarkable way. And this

business was indeed a deadly one.

Because most attacks would be on area targets, Douhet did

not believe that bombing accuracy was especially important: if

targets were so small as to require high accuracy, then they

were probably not worthwhile targets. Aircraft conducting

these area attacks would use a mixture of high-explosive,

incendiary, and gas or biological (aerochemical) bombs. The

explosives would produce rubble; the incendiaries would start

fires in the rubble; and the aerochemical bombs would

prevent firefighters from extinguishing the blaze. In The

Command of the Air, Douhet states only that aircraft would

use these bombs “in the correct proportions,” but in “The War

of 19—” German battle planes carry bomb loads in the ratio of

one explosive to three incendiary to six aerochemical bombs.

Douhet thus recognized that a combination of different types

of weapons can produce a greater result than can any single

weapon. Of note, during World War II, Allied bombers often

carried a mix of both high-explosive and incendiary bombs to

achieve the results suggested by Douhet.

The general also insisted that air attacks be carried out en

masse. In the air, as on the surface, piecemeal attacks were

counterproductive. His emphasis on mass in the air—one

remembers his call for 20,000 aircraft in 1917—was every bit

as pronounced as that of surface generals of the late war. Of

equal importance was the rapidity of these mass strikes. The

speed and range of aircraft provided the flexibility to strike

several targets simultaneously, which would cause paralysis

and collapse. Air strikes would occur so rapidly and massively

over a wide area that the collective will of a country would

simply disintegrate. In today’s parlance, Douhet was referring

to “parallel operations”—the ability to operate simultaneously

against several different target sets at both the strategic and

MEILINGER

tactical levels. Several decades would pass before the accuracy

and effectiveness of aircraft and their weapons would allow

such parallel operations, but the principle Douhet outlined in

1921 was certainly viable.

Because defense against air attack was impossible, Douhet

also stressed the need for an air fleet in-being to attack

immediately and relentlessly once hostilities began. Unlike

surface forces that could have weeks or even months to

prepare, airpower would have no time to mobilize in future

wars. A country not ready for war would lose command of the

air and, with it, the war itself. Indeed, an unstated conclusion

of this position is that airpower would be particularly effective

at “first strike” or preventive war. If mobilization were not a

factor in air warfare and if air defense were impossible, then

obviously the country that struck first would enjoy an

enormous, almost insurmountable, advantage. Assuming

Douhet’s formulation, therefore, in times of crisis one would

tend to use the air weapon precipitously. Thus—even more so

than in the era before the Great War, when mobilization was

tantamount to a declaration of war—the inexorable, almost

inevitable, nature of air attack might mean that the slightest

twitch in times of crisis could lead to catastrophe. The air

weapon, by its nature, sported a hair trigger.

Douhet recognized that the strength of a country’s air force

was integrally related to the condition of its civil aviation

industry; indeed, he viewed military air as even more

dependent on the civil sector than either land or sea power.

Douhet saw a strong and symbiotic relationship among an air

force, the aviation industry, the government, and a country’s

commercial vitality.

He argued that the government must

subsidize and support civil aviation in three general ways. First,

it should establish air routes consisting of airports, emergency

landing fields, radio and signal beacons, and weather stations.

Second, it must fund research and development—aircraft and

their special high-performance engines were too expensive to

expect industry to assume the financial burden for their

development. Third, Douhet believed that civil airliners should

be capable of performing military missions. He envisioned

airliners with the same specifications as battle planes—and

thus able to augment the air force in war.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

This idea has some validity. Although complete commonality

has not been possible, the technological relationship between

civil and military aircraft has always been close because

scientific advances often benefit both sectors. During the

1930s, commercial designs like the Boeing 247, Lockheed

“Vega,” and Douglas DC-3 led military aircraft development.

Even today, it is no coincidence that Boeing and Lockheed

airliners closely resemble Air Force tankers and cargo aircraft.

Even so, the increasing complexity demanded of military aircraft

is making this decades-old technological marriage tenuous.

Finally, Douhet expected civil aviation to establish an

“airmindedness” among the population. Not only must a pool

of pilots and aircraft mechanics be trained for war, but events

like air shows and demonstration flights would educate people

to the importance of aviation and the economic, social, and

military benefits it could bestow. The people must think of

themselves as an airpower nation.

In evaluating the writings of Douhet, one must note the

existence of three incarnations of the theorist who wrote about

airpower over a 20-year period. The first was a relatively

young man, fascinated by machines and gadgets, who

witnessed heavier-than-air flight in 1908 and began dreaming

about its possibilities. Over the next four years, he sketched

an outline of the importance of aircraft and ways for using

them in war. By the time Italy had entered World War I,

Douhet had already decided upon the basic thrust of this

theory: war had become total and stagnated, and airpower

would provide the antidote. It would do this by taking the

offensive at the outset of war and by bombing the enemy

country’s vital centers. The world war merely provided more

detail and specificity to his theories. The stalemate and horror

of land warfare was even worse than he—or anyone else—had

imagined. The few and fairly weak attempts at strategic

bombing seemed to provide disproportionately large results.

Douhet therefore expanded upon his earlier ideas, threw in a

few examples from the war, and produced the first edition of

The Command of the Air in 1921.

The response to his work was fairly muted. Perhaps

because of Europe’s inevitable revulsion to war in the wake of

the armistice or because of the great turmoil occasioned by

MEILINGER

the rise of Mussolini and the Fascist state, Douhet’s book

caused little stir initially. During the six years after the

publication of his book, the “second theorist” continued to

think and write, out of the public eye, and in the process his

radicalism grew. The result was the second edition of The

Command of the Air, which, as we have seen, was more

extreme than the first. The revised work reduced the role of

the army and navy but increased the importance of strategic

airpower. As a consequence, the utility of auxiliary aviation

became nil. Finally, Douhet placed even greater faith in the

ability of the bomber to penetrate enemy airspace and destroy

targets. Escorts were unnecessary. Unlike the first edition, the

1927 version of The Command of the Air had a noisy reception.

The third Douhet spent the last three years of his life

reacting to the firestorm created by his revised work. Because

of his reputation and personality, as well as the primitive state

of aviation even into the mid-1920s, ignoring Douhet had been

easy. Clearly, his superiors—even those involved with aviation

or sympathetic to it—had not taken him too seriously. As a

consequence, his writings up to 1927 had generated little

debate within his profession. After that date, however, such

was not the case. Mussolini clearly approved of airpower; new

airmen like Italo Balbo were becoming national heroes and

gaining international reputations; and the aircraft themselves

were becoming increasingly capable. The ideas of Douhet thus

posed a threat to the proponents of land and sea power, whom

he was constantly attacking.

Not used to defending himself from incessant and virulent

attack, Douhet for the first time had to engage in an

intelligent, albeit heated, debate with his military peers.

Nonetheless, given the gusto with which he responded to his

critics between 1927 and 1930, largely through the pages of

Rivista Aeronautica, he certainly seemed to enjoy the

controversy. What effect did this long overdue dialogue have

on his theories? The impact was mixed. On the one hand, it

forced him to clearly define terms like command of the air, and

this clarification enhanced his theory.

On the other hand,

however, it drove him to dig in his heels even more adamantly

regarding the dominance of airpower over surface warfare.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

The increased radicalization of Douhet’s ideas, spurred by

the heated debate in professional military journals,

culminated in his last work, “The War of 19—,” written in the

last months of his life but not published until soon after his

death. In many ways, this piece combined and magnified

Douhet’s most extreme positions. The entire war lasts less

than two days, and dozens of major cities lie in ashes. The

battle planes of the victorious Germans suffer enormous

losses, but succeeding waves continue and are unstoppable.

The morale of the civilian population quickly collapses, and

the political leadership sues for peace, while the land forces of

the belligerents have barely even begun their mobilization and

assembly. The war of the future is therefore rapid, violent,

relatively bloodless (compared to the Great War), and

dominated completely by airpower. This vision—almost

hopeful and utopian in some respects—would dominate

airpower theory for the next decade. It is therefore imperative

at this point to examine more closely Douhet’s assumptions

and conclusions, many of which, quite simply, were wrong.

Douhet initiated a fundamental debate, never resolved, over

whether airpower is unique and revolutionary or whether it is

just another arrow in a soldier’s or sailor’s quiver—and thus

evolutionary. Debate hinges on the alleged decisiveness of

airpower.

Can airpower be decisive in war? Perhaps the answer

depends on the definition of that term. Some people use it to

imply that airpower can (or cannot) win wars independently of

other arms. But no service is likely to win a war alone in the

modern age, so that definition is not useful; moreover, few

airmen would make such a claim. Others define decisiveness

in terms of destruction of an enemy force or the occupation of

territory. Douhet argued that these results were not the

objects of war and were often irrelevant. Trafalgar did not end

the Napoleonic wars, and although Hannibal occupied most of

Italy for a decade and destroyed several Roman armies, he still

lost the war.

A more useful meaning of the term entails identifying the

force predominant in achieving the desired goal. If that goal

includes the quarantine of a belligerent, as in the Cuban

missile crisis of 1961, then sea power will dominate. If, on the

MEILINGER

other hand, the goal is to topple a dictator and restore

democracy, as in Panama, then ground forces will dominate.

But in other instances, such as the Persian Gulf War,

airpower is dominant. In terms of this meaning, Douhet

believed passionately that airpower could be decisive in war

and thus revolutionary. He did, however, stumble in several

key respects.

One of Douhet’s more glaring errors was his overestimation

of the psychological effects of bombing. He believed that

people would panic in the face of a determined air attack. To a

great extent, however, one can excuse Douhet for this mistake

since he had little empirical evidence to draw upon—and the

available evidence was quite supportive. For example, in 1925

military theorist Basil H. Liddell Hart commented on the

psychological effect of German bombing attacks on Britain in

World War I:

Witnesses of the earlier air attacks before our defence was organized,

will not be disposed to underestimate the panic and disturbance that

would result from a concentrated blow dealt by a superior air fleet.

Who that saw it will ever forget the nightly sight of the population of a

great industrial and shipping town, such as Hull, streaming out into

the fields on the first sound of the alarm signals? Women, children,

babies in arms, spending night after night huddled in sodden fields,

shivering under a bitter winter sky.

Douhet had read of such panic during the war and noted it

in his diaries. Clearly, these reports made a deep impression

on him. In truth, one could find many such descriptions in

the literature of the time, and even Stanley Baldwin, former

British prime minister, proclaimed glumly in 1932 that “the

bomber would always get through.”

People clearly believed

such warnings: during the Munich crisis of 1938, fully

one-third of the population of Paris evacuated the city to avoid

a possible German air assault.

The problem with such

apocalyptic predictions was that they failed to address

whether morale was even a relevant issue in a tightly

organized police state—as were Germany and Japan during

World War II. In addition, the dire predictions of Douhet and

others erred by underestimating the resiliency of human

beings in the face of adversity. Civilian morale did not break in

World War II with anywhere near the rapidity or finality

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

predicted by Douhet: cities were not inhabited by mere rabble

who would collapse at the first application of pressure.

Perhaps, as one observer noted, Douhet’s theories assumed

wars occurring between the democratic countries of Europe,

whose governments are responsive to the wishes of the

population. However, such is not generally the case in a

dictatorship, whose leaders may ignore the desires of the people;

indeed, the state police may prevent the people from making

their wishes known. In such a circumstance, the morale of the

population, even if affected by aerial bombardment, may be

irrelevant to the despot. Similarly, a country in the throes of

civil war may not be responsive to any government, or a

government may have little control over its population. In such

situations, the moral effect of bombing would be negligible—or,

at least, would not operate using the mechanism envisioned

by Douhet.

Similarly, Douhet exaggerated the physical effects of aerial

bombs, but in this case he should have known better. He

postulated absurdly uniform and effective bombing—no duds,

no misses, no overlap, no difference in the composition and

construction of targets struck. In fact, he seemed to assume

that all wars occurred in clear weather and that all pilots and

bombardiers—and their equipment—performed flawlessly. For

example, he stated that a 100-kilogram bomb (220 pounds)

would destroy anything within a 50-meter diameter; that is, a

target 500 meters in diameter would require 10 tons of

explosives. Because aircraft of the day could carry two tons, one

needed five aircraft to effect this destruction. Magnanimously,

Douhet doubled that number and claimed that 10 aircraft

would “destroy entirely everything that exists upon an area of

500 meters diameter.”

Such calculations were simplistic in the extreme. For

example, a circle that size has an area of approximately .19

square kilometers. London was about one thousand times as

large at that time (about 75 square miles or 196 square

kilometers). Thus, even using Douhet’s hopelessly optimistic

figures for bomb effectiveness, one would have needed 10,000

tons of high explosives to level London—or a force of five

thousand aircraft. Even had such an air fleet been available, it

MEILINGER

would not necessarily have produced the results expected by

Douhet.

One historian has noted that in the first six months of

Operation Barbarossa in 1941, the Soviet Union lost 40

percent of its population, 63 percent of its coal, 58 percent of

its steel, 68 percent of its pig iron, 60 percent of its aluminum,

38 percent of its grain, 95 percent of its ball bearings, and 99

percent of its rolled, nonferrous metals.

If a strategic

bombing force had attained those staggering statistics, they

would have been the envy of any air commander. But of

course the Soviet Union not only did not collapse, it went on

to defeat Germany. Modern nations had a toughness and

resiliency undreamed of by Douhet.

Douhet also proposed that aerochemical bombs be

employed with the high explosives, thinking they would be

especially effective against urban targets. Gen Nicholas N.

Golovine noted, however, that based on wartime experience,

one needed 25 grams of poison gas to “put out of action” one

square meter. London, for example, would have required

5,750 tons of poison material “for an effective gassing.”

Adding to the tonnage of high explosives noted above,

including an appropriate number of escort aircraft, and

assuming some attrition of the striking force, an attack on

London of the destructive magnitude envisioned by Douhet

would have required nearly 20,000 aircraft. Yet, “The War of

19—” lasts only 36 hours because more than two dozen of the

major cities in France and Belgium have been reduced to

ashes—and by only fifteen hundred aircraft using bombs of a

mere 50 kilograms, a size so small as to be virtually useless.

Although repeatedly claiming that his methods were

scientific and mathematically precise, it is nonetheless true

that for a trained engineer, Douhet’s mathematical and

technical gaffes—as well as his sophomoric attempts to

estimate bomb damage “scientifically”—are baffling. Where is

the empirical evidence supporting his assertions regarding the

effectiveness of high explosives against reinforced structures?

He had none. One gains little comfort from realizing he was

not alone in these errors.

Unfortunately, this attempt to

imbue airpower with a false “scientism” has never been fully

overcome. Airpower theorists seem to have a peculiar

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

penchant for devising technological solutions for what are

often very human problems.

To make matters worse, Douhet then stated breezily that in

order to achieve optimal bomb dispersion, crews should be

trained to “scatter their bombs” in a “uniform fashion.”

Nothing more clearly exposes a key flaw in Douhet’s theories.

He was out of touch with the details and showed no

understanding of the tactics needed to implement those

concepts. Apparently, Douhet was not an aviator; consequently,

he frequently made serious missteps, such as this bizarre

comment about scattering bombs uniformly, even in the heat of

combat.

Moreover, Douhet had an irritating tendency to exaggerate

his prophetic powers. In The Command of the Air, he quotes at

length from a piece he published in 1910, in which he predicts

the coming dominance of the airplane. However, other pieces

he wrote during that same period were far more conservative.

As noted above, his official report on the Libyan War was

strongly muted, dealing mostly with organizational and

technical matters. In addition, in 1910 he published an article

titled “The Possibilities of Aerial Navigation” that was similarly

unremarkable. Douhet sang the praises of the airplane, but

stopped far short of calling for an independent air arm or even

emphasizing the role of strategic bombing in future wars.

Instead, he stressed the reconnaissance and tactical aspects

of aircraft and their importance in battle.

Thus, Douhet’s

need to backdate his airpower theories to well before World

War I gives us an interesting insight into his personality. Being

an early air theorist was not enough—he had to be the first.

Douhet was also guilty of virtually ignoring the air battle

required to attain command of the air. Because the airplane’s

inherent attributes of speed and range granted it tactical

surprise, he believed that one could achieve command of the

air without a fight. (In “The War of 19—,” the air battle lasts a

mere three hours.) A tension in war has always existed

between the strategies of annihilation and attrition. The latter

definitely characterized land warfare in World War I. Airpower

has promised annihilation but generally provided attrition.

Although Douhet stated that airpower would eliminate the

counterforce battle, it was still necessary in World War II—but

MEILINGER

the trenches had moved to 20,000 feet. Nearly 80,000 Royal

Air Force (RAF) crew members and a like number of

Americans were lost in the air battle over Germany. Indeed,

that battle revealed that meeting the Luftwaffe in the air was

wiser than attacking the German aircraft and engine factories.

In effect, Allied bombers became the bait that brought the

Luftwaffe’s planes—and pilots—into the air, where they could

be destroyed. One reason Douhet discounted the air battle

was that few had occurred on a major scale in the Italo-

Austrian front during the war.

Possibly, Douhet ignored the air battle because admitting

its likelihood would contradict one of his main tenets—that

airpower eliminated the counterforce battle. Towards the end

of his life, he began to modify these views. In “The War of

19—,” the German battle planes suffer horrendous losses—

100 percent of the attacking force is shot down by enemy

pursuit in the initial waves—but succeeding waves press on

and ultimately achieve victory.

In other words, Douhet

conceded that defense was possible, at least tactically.

Certainly, a fuller exploration of the distinction between

tactical and strategic air superiority and ways of achieving

such superiority would have been useful.

The Battle of Britain refuted Douhet’s premise that the

weaker air force must assume an ever more violent offense

because defense is futile. In that battle, radar stripped away

the airplane’s surprise. One would do well to remember,

however, that this battle of 1940 has been the only clear-cut

defensive air victory in history.

Today, electronic warfare—

the jamming of communications and radars, and especially

stealth technology—has tilted the balance back in favor of the

aircraft as an offensive weapon for countries that have

invested in such technology. The Persian Gulf War presented

a situation predicted by Douhet: attacking aircraft (F-117

stealth bombers) arrived over targets unannounced, destroyed

those targets, and then departed with impunity, all because

they had achieved tactical surprise.

The Italian theorist also erred in foreseeing only total war,

perhaps because his view was colored by a conflict that

seemingly had no rational objectives. The political scientist

Bernard Brodie accused him of failing to understand that war

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

must follow policy, but this misses the mark.

Rather,

Douhet expected that future wars would be just as inane as

the Great War. More cynic than realist, he was profoundly

skeptical of human nature and rejected arguments that war

could be carefully guided or finely tuned to reflect political

will: “War . . . is a kind of irrepressible convulsion, during

which it seems to lose or suspend every human sense; and it

[humanity] appears to be invaded by a devastating and

destructive fury.”

Fortunately, he was not completely

correct; World War II was not as devoid of clear objectives as

was the Great War. Moreover, limited wars like those in Korea

and Vietnam have become the norm in the second half of this

century, and in many of these wars—as against the Vietcong for

example—airpower, as he envisioned it, is largely inappropriate.

Douhet denigrated limitations imposed by law and morality

and continued to advocate aerochemical attacks on cities,

even after Italy had ratified the Geneva Protocol of 1925 that

prohibited them. This too showed Douhet’s pessimistic view of

human nature. He was certain that total war would rationalize

any type of activity, stating, “He is a fool if not a patricide who

would acquiesce in his country’s defeat rather than go against

those formal agreements which do not limit the right to kill

and destroy, but simply the ways of killing and destroying.

The limitations applied to the so-called inhuman and

atrocious means of war are nothing but international

demagogic hypocrisies.”

Given the world war hecatomb, it is not surprising that

Douhet was so pessimistic. But as horrendous as was the

destruction in World War II, none of the belligerents resorted

to gas warfare, although most possessed the means to do so.

Moreover, since 1945 several conventions have been held

regarding the law of war and have proposed a variety of

rulings. Most of these limitations are contained in the Geneva

Protocols of 1977, and although the United States rejected them,

it still follows their basic thrust.

This was the case in

Operation Desert Storm, when coalition airmen went to great

lengths to restrict the types of targets struck and weapons

employed so as to minimize civilian casualties and collateral

damage. Now that precision bombing has become more routine,

such scrupulous targeting likely will become standard practice.

MEILINGER

Another example of Douhet’s shortsightedness was his

failure to forecast advances in surface technology. Despite

saying that everything in this world undergoes improvement,

he foresaw no evolution in surface weapons and claimed that

ground war had reached perpetual equilibrium. Thus, he

ignored the development of tanks and armored doctrine,

which played a major role in restoring mobility to the

battlefield. Tanks, which were used by most of the major

belligerents during the war and which underwent significant

improvement in the decades that followed, are not even

mentioned in The Command of the Air. Significantly, however,

the French army in “The War of 19—” does possess a strong

tank contingent; but France loses the war before they can ever

be put to use.

Obviously, Douhet is making a point. The surface stalemate

of the Great War was certainly very real and had an enormous

psychological impact on the people who fought in it, but one

must ask what happened to the Giulio Douhet who wrote so

presciently concerning the potential of ground-force

mechanization in his early career. A skeptic might ask

whether such ideas would have undermined his theories

regarding the primacy of airpower.

Also of note is the fact

that Douhet took pains to single out small-caliber machine

guns as contributors to the trench stalemate of World War I.

He did not mention the enormous and continually growing

use of large-caliber artillery, which also played a major role in

the stalemate. This is a curious omission, especially from an

artillery officer. One possible explanation is that Douhet was

reluctant to call attention to a weapon whose explosive impact

bore at least some resemblance to that of an aerial bomb. He

did not want anyone to think of airpower as flying artillery.

Douhet also missed the mark on air defense. Despite the

existence of a counter to air attack, he insisted that

antiaircraft fire and interceptors were ineffective and would

remain so. Moreover, Douhet denied to defensive airpower the

same flexibility, speed, and ability to mass that he granted the

offense. Even before the invention of radar, this attitude is not

understandable. As early as 1917, the British had established

a sophisticated system of air defense, consisting of multiple

“spotting stations” connected by telephone to a central

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

headquarters in London. Telephones tied this headquarters to

various airfields housing interceptor squadrons. These

airfields, in turn, maintained contact with their airborne

aircraft via wireless. The system was relatively effective, as

Douhet must have known.

In one of his more memorable

and maladroit comments, Douhet mused, “Nothing man can

do on the surface of the earth can interfere with a plane in

flight, moving freely in the third dimension.”

Once again,

one searches for the lieutenant who began his career as an

artillery officer. He must have known that Allied gunners shot

down more than one thousand German aircraft during the

war and that because of improvements in fusing, the number

of rounds fired to achieve a hit fell by one-half between 1915

and 1918.

He should have expected continued improvements

in air defenses, yet he ignored them.

One must note that Douhet predicated his argument

regarding the inherently offensive nature of the airplane on

the belief that only aircraft could stop other aircraft. Given the

vastness of the sky, this position has some merit, though not

as much as Douhet claimed. It has even less merit, however, if

one admits that antiaircraft guns can also be effective against

air attack. In such an instance, the numerical advantage

gained by an attacker achieving tactical surprise and avoiding

airborne interception quickly evaporates. Theoretically, if

antiaircraft guns are extremely effective, interceptor aircraft

are not even necessary for a successful defense.

Moreover, Douhet seemed to assume that in order for a

defense to be effective, it must stop all of an attacker’s

aircraft. World War II proved that this was far from the case.

Even in those instances in which the defense—using both

interceptors and antiaircraft guns—was able to shoot down

“only” 20 percent of an attacking bomber force, the effect on

the attacker was nearly catastrophic. As the American strikes

on Schweinfurt in the fall of 1943 showed, such loss rates

were not simply unacceptable but were well within the

capabilities of a defender to achieve. In truth, although

Douhet—like many of his contemporaries—vilified the

generals of the Great War for foolishly falling into a “cult of the

offensive,” the Italian air theorist followed much the same

MEILINGER

path. In this sense at least, Douhet was philosophically at one

with the surface generals he so roundly criticized.

Somewhat surprisingly, Douhet did not adequately address

the issue of objectives, even though he recognized their

importance and saw targeting as the most important task of

the air commander. In the exasperated words of Bernard

Brodie, “How could one who had so little idea of what it is

necessary to hit be quite so sure of the tremendous results

which would inevitably follow from the hitting?”

Although

Douhet mentions general target sets, nowhere does he

undertake a systematic examination of what would be

necessary to dismember a country’s industrial system. This

omission may partly be a result of his belief that the will of the

people was a target of such overwhelming importance that

elaborating on the other vital centers was unnecessary.

In addition, disassembling these centers was not nearly as

simple as Douhet suggested. For one thing, aircraft cannot

operate at will, anytime or anyplace. Rather, many limits may

be imposed on airpower: political restraints and goals, range,

national boundaries, darkness, weather, the electromagnetic

spectrum—even the duration of the war itself can significantly

affect target selection. Yet, Douhet believed that because

aircraft operated in the third dimension, they had no limits

and that they could quickly and effectively attack all targets.

This interpretation is too facile. Targets are not destroyed

simply because they are attacked, and merely identifying

targets to strike is no substitute for a coherent air strategy.

Most surprisingly, Douhet is not alone in this shallow

thinking. None of the classic airpower thinkers—Billy Mitchell,

Hugh Trenchard, John Slessor, Alexander de Seversky, and so

forth—ever went beyond the most fundamental stages of

attempting to identify the key vital centers of a country.

Moreover, they simply do not discuss the question of which

specific target sets within those vital centers—industries,

transportation nodes, and command and control facilities—

were most important and what the order of priority was for

striking them. The theorists at the Air Corps Tactical School at

Maxwell Field, Alabama, in the 1930s made some initial

inquiries in this area and quickly concluded that just as

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

targeting is the key to airpower, so is intelligence the key to

targeting.

Unfortunately, although military intelligence organizations

had existed in some form for centuries, the information they

gathered was generally of the type needed at the tactical level:

the number of enemy troops, their location, the capabilities of

their weapons, the location of their supply depots, and so

forth. Air war now required fundamentally different types of

intelligence regarding a country’s industrial and economic

structure and potential. Because intelligence agencies did not

yet exist that could provide this type of information, Douhet

and others were left with vague and simplistic platitudes.

Failing to identify and seriously address the vital connection

between targeting and intelligence was a serious oversight.

It took Desert Storm to furnish the third pillar of this trio:

the key to intelligence in modern war is the ability to assess

the results of an air campaign on a complex system. Given the

interdependent and linked nature of modern societies,

neutralizing a certain target does not necessarily mean that

one achieves a strategic gain or that it was the one intended.

In addition, the pace of air war has now become so rapid that

near-real-time intelligence has become essential. Moreover,

precision weapons demand precision intelligence: if one can

now strike a specific office in a large military headquarters,

then one needs to know the correct office.

Another example of Douhet’s exaggeration is his attitude

towards the army and navy. Although Douhet paid lip service

to the other arms, he saw little use for them, and his tendency

to move from the dominance of airpower to its omnipotence

grew. Because he did not expect surface forces to be decisive, he

gave little thought to their future development, organization, or

employment. In the defense department, he envisioned that

surface forces would have degenerated into impotence—

merely serving to guard Italy’s mountain passes and harbors.

Douhet’s thinking therefore became dangerously one-

dimensional.

Finally, he failed to see the importance of history—of

looking to the past to illuminate the present. In this regard, he

was in the same position as the nuclear theorists following

World War II. Because little empirical evidence existed upon

MEILINGER

which to base a model of how one could use nuclear weapons

in war, their theories became intellectual exercises that relied

on the force of logic. Similarly, Douhet chose to ignore what

little evidence did exist from World War I: “The experience of

the past is of no value at all. On the contrary, it has a negative

value since it tends to mislead us.”

He took this position not

because he believed that history was useless, but because it

provided the wrong lessons for airpower. Paradoxically,

however, at the same time he denigrated the lessons of the

Great War, he built a theory of airpower based on that war’s

repeating itself. The result was a curious mixture of past and

future, with no apparent anchor in either dimension.

Using World War II as a test of Douhet’s theories, most

critics found them wanting. Detractors noted that the war

proved him wrong on many counts: the land war did not

stagnate; a prolonged and deadly air battle was necessary to

gain command of the air; civilian morale did not collapse; no

one employed aerochemical bombs; and auxiliary aviation

(tactical airpower) proved enormously valuable. Defenders of

Douhet see a different picture: command of the air did in fact

mean the difference between victory and defeat; the German

and Japanese war economies were devastated; and although

not destroyed, civilian morale was severely damaged by

bombardment. Moreover, advocates maintain that Douhet’s

theories were never given a fair test because the basic tenet of

his war-fighting philosophy—hold on the ground while

attacking in the air—was never carried out, resulting in a

diversion of effort that detracted from the potency of the air

offensive.

The arguments of these advocates are not credible. Millions

of tons of bombs were dropped over a period of six years—a

scale far in excess of anything imagined by Douhet—but the

results did not fulfill his prophecies. (One should remember,

however, that Douhet’s theories presumed the use of gas

bombs. It is impossible to say whether or not their use would

have made a significant difference in the results of the air

campaigns waged by Germany, Japan, Britain, and the United

States. Nonetheless, it is useful to remember the extreme

anxiety, bordering on panic, that occurred in Israel during the

Persian Gulf War, when the Israelis feared that Iraqi Scud

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

missiles had chemical warheads. Who would have thought

that a country as inured to warfare and the threat of terrorist

attacks as Israel would react in such a fashion?)

A seemingly more reasonable approach maintained that

atomic weapons vindicated Douhet; after all, an invasion of

Japan proper was unnecessary, and the only battle of the

home islands was the one conducted by American B-29s.

Atomic weapons seemed to grant new relevance to Douhet

because a handful of bombs could now devastate a country,

as he had predicted.

Such arguments may be even less

credible than the claims that Douhet did not receive a fair test

in World War II. If the only circumstance that makes Douhet

relevant is nuclear holocaust, then he is totally irrelevant.

Given the limited wars of the postwar era, especially

Vietnam, Douhet’s ideas on airpower seemed best confined to

the dustbin of history. This has now changed because the

thawing of the cold war and the collapse of the Warsaw Pact,

coupled with the decreased presence of forward-deployed

American troops, have put a premium on the ability to project

power over great distances. This requirement is a natural

characteristic of airpower, and the efficacy of the air weapon

was never demonstrated more clearly than in the Persian Gulf

War. For decades, airmen described airpower with terms like

furious, relentless, overwhelming, and so forth, but to a great

extent those were just words, because the technology did not

exist to make them true. But the air war in the Gulf finally

lived up to the prophecies of the past seven decades.

One of Douhet’s ideas that has become increasingly relevant

is his call for a single department of defense. Douhet

advocated such an organization as early as 1908, when he

wrote a stinging essay titled “The Knot of Our Military

Question,” which criticized the lack of cooperation between

the Italian army and navy. He suggested the establishment of

a single ministry of defense headed by a civilian. At the same

time, he called for a military chief of staff to coordinate the

combat operations of the services.

His superiors ignored the

proposal, but he would return to the idea later.

In The Command of the Air, he enlarged his defense ministry

to include an air force, but the services were still united under

a single civilian head, and military operations were

MEILINGER

coordinated by a chief of staff. Douhet’s rationale was not

based on economic efficiency but military necessity. One could

not subdivide war by medium—air, land, and sea. It was a

whole, and only people who understood the use of military

forces in all three mediums could understand war: “There are

experts of land, sea and air warfare. But as yet there are no

experts of warfare. And warfare is a single entity, having a

single purpose.”

He therefore proposed a national war

college to educate soldiers, sailors, and airmen in the overall

conduct of war.

Douhet also perceptively noted the tension between

separateness and joint action between the services. His call

for a unified defense department on the one hand and an air

force which dominated that defense department on the other

was not inconsistent. Service cooperation did not mean

equality. Merely dividing the defense budget into three equal

parts would be dangerous if the roles played by those parts

were not equal. Hard choices had to be made, and to Douhet

the logic was inescapable. Since land and sea forces could not

survive in the face of air attack, it was folly to pretend that

those arms were the decisive forces in war and should be

supported by air. The opposite was true. Airpower was now

the key arm, and armies and navies must support it.

Although Douhet was the first and most noteworthy of the

early airpower theorists, the extent of his influence is

debatable. Largely because he wrote in a language not shared

by many military thinkers—a circumstance exacerbated by

the fact that he deliberately confined his writing to the

professional journals of his own country—Douhet initially was

not well known outside his native land. The British, for

example, may have heard of his ideas, but the first article to

appear in the official journal of the Royal Air Force was not

published until 1933.

The Command of the Air was never

required reading at the RAF Staff College between the wars,

and one historian states flatly that Douhet had no influence in

Britain prior to World War II.

The situation in France was somewhat different. French

airmen were followers of aviation developments in Italy, and in

1933 the magazine Les Ailes published a partial translation of

The Command of the Air. French air leaders, specifically

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Generals Tulasne and Armengaud, were receptive to his

ideas.

In 1935, Col P. Vauthier wrote an analysis of Douhet’s

theories titled La Doctrine de Guerre du General Douhet, which

further elucidated the Italian’s theories and disseminated

them to a wider audience. In fact, the accounts of Douhet that

began appearing in British and American periodicals about

this time likely were based on the French works rather than

the original Italian.

German military leaders were even more receptive to new

ideas than were the French. Because of their failure in the

Great War, German military leaders made a point of closely

monitoring foreign developments. Although The Command of

the Air was not published in German until 1935, it appears

that Hitler was initially taken with Douhet’s ideas: he

appreciated the terroristic aspects of his air bombardment

theory, made evident at the time of the Munich crisis in 1938.

Douhet’s influence did not extend to the Luftwaffe as a whole,

however, and the official doctrine with which it entered the

war focused on army cooperation.

Douhet had his earliest and greatest influence in America,

but even then it was not great. In 1922 the Italian air attaché

wrote about The Command of the Air in Aviation magazine,

and Billy Mitchell later admitted that he had met with Douhet

during a trip to Europe in 1922. About that same time—

perhaps even as a result of that meeting—a translation of

exerpts from The Command of the Air made its way into Air

Service files, and in 1923 a longer translation circulated at Air

Service headquarters. One historian claims that Mitchell

heavily “borrowed from” this translation, and it in turn formed

the basis of early Air Service Tactical School texts that dealt

with strategic bombardment.

This claim is questionable, but

by the mid-1930s, articles discussing Douhet began to appear

in American military publications, and a translation of the

second edition of The Command of the Air circulated around

the Air Corps in 1933.

In sum, European and American airmen apparently had

become well aware of Douhet’s writings in the decade prior to

World War II. Because many people in many places were

attempting to come to grips with the new air weapon, drawing

clear lines of influence among them becomes virtually

MEILINGER

impossible. That many of the ideas percolating throughout the

various air forces were quite similar to those expounded by

the Italian air general does not mean those ideas were based

on Douhet. What is clear, however, is that by the end of World

War II—and as a result of the massive strategic bombing

campaigns conducted throughout—the theories of Douhet

were commonplace. This notoriety became even greater in the

decade that followed, given the emergence of nuclear weapons

delivered by airpower. Although equating Douhet solely with

the destruction of cities and their populations is simplistic and

incomplete, his name has nonetheless become synonymous

with a particular version of air warfare.

Giulio Douhet has generated intense and partisan debate

over the past seven decades. Undoubtedly, he had many

things wrong, but he also had many things right. World War II

and Desert Storm proved the accuracy of his fundamental

premise—that command of the air is crucial to success in a

conventional war. Despite Douhet’s many theoretical

deficiencies, the scope and audacity of his work point to a man

of great intellect. Considering that it took over two thousand

years of warfare on land and sea to produce Henri de Jomini,

Carl von Clausewitz, and Alfred Thayer Mahan, we should not

be overly critical of the airman who began writing a theory of

air war scarcely one decade after the invention of the airplane.

Notes

1. Frank J. Cappelluti, “The Life and Thought of Giulio Douhet” (PhD

diss., Rutgers University, 1967), 3–7, 10. Incidentally, Caserta is the

present location of the Italian air force academy.

2. Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Sheila Fischer (Rome:

Rivista Aeronautica, 1958), from the introduction by Gen Celso Ranieri, ix.

The Italian air force considers this the official translation of Douhet’s major

works; I have therefore used it where possible. Unfortunately, this version

does not contain complete translations of “Probable Aspects of Future War”

or “The War of 19—,” which are included in the Ferrari translation of 1942,

cited in note 29 below.

3. Douhet (Fischer translation), 22.

4. Cappelluti, 66.

5. Douhet (Fischer translation), x.

6. The Origin of Air Warfare, 2d ed., trans. Renalto D’Orlando (Rome:

Historical Office of the Italian Air Force, 1961), passim; and D. J.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Fitzsimmons, “The Origins of Air Warfare,” Air Pictorial, December 1972,

482–85.

7. The Origin of Air Warfare, 214–16.

8. Douhet (Fischer translation), 123.

9. Cappelluti, 69; K. Booth, “History or Logic as Approaches to Strategy,”

RUSI [Royal United Services Institute] Journal 117 (September 1972): 35;

and Claudio Segrè, “Douhet in Italy: Prophet without Honor?” Aerospace

Historian 26 (June 1979): 71.

10. Cappelluti, 70, 84.

11. Douhet (Fischer translation), x.

12. Cappelluti, 90. These diaries were published in 1920 and 1922.

13. Ibid., 109.

14. Ibid., 127.

15. Ibid., 133; Thomas Mahoney, “Doctrine of Ruthlessness,” Popular

Aviation, April 1940, 36; and John Whittam, The Politics of the Italian Army,

1861–1918 (London: Croom, Helm, 1977), 201.

16. Cappelluti, 129.

17. Douhet (Fischer translation), xi; and Cappelluti, 138. In late October

1918, a few weeks before the armistice, the Allies did indeed form an

interallied air force, commanded by Gen Hugh Trenchard of the Royal Air

Force; the IAF’s mission was to take the war to Germany via strategic

bombing of its vital centers.

18. Caproni’s diary, December 1917. Translated portions of this diary

plus the correspondence between Douhet and Caproni and between

Caproni and Gorrell are located in the US Air Force Historical Research

Agency at Maxwell AFB, Alabama, file 168.661. See also J. L. Atkinson,

“Italian Influence on the Origins of the American Concept of Strategic

Bombardment,” The Air Power Historian 5 (July 1957): 141–49; and William

G. Key, “Some Papers of Count Caproni de Taliedo: Controversy in the

Making?” Pegasus, January 1956 (supplement), 1–20. Atkinson and Key

argue that Caproni was the mouthpiece of Douhet.

19. Nino Salvaneschi, “Let Us Kill the War, Let Us Aim at the Heart of

the Enemy!” Milan, 1917. A copy is located in the US Air Force Historical

Research Agency, file 168.661-129, pages 24, 47, 62.

20. For the contents of the Gorrell memo, see Maurer Maurer, ed., The

U.S. Air Service in World War I, vol. 2 (Washington, D.C.: Government

Printing Office, 1978), 141–51.

21. Cappelluti, 155–58.

22. Translations of Douhet’s works have been sporadic at best. Key

items that have not been translated into English include the 93-page

appendix to the first edition of The Command of the Air noted in the text, his

war diary, “The Army of the Air” (an essay written in 1927), and his novels

on air warfare. In addition, “Recapitulation”—a collection of Douhet’s letters

to the editor of Rivista Aeronautica, written between 1927 and 1930 and

published in the Dino Ferrari translation of 1942—includes only Douhet’s

MEILINGER

responses, not the critical letters from Italian airmen, soldiers, and sailors

to which he was responding.

23. Douhet (Fischer translation), 13.

24. Ibid., 144. Douhet recognized a distinction between air defense and

protection from air attack: one cannot stop the rain, but one can carry an

umbrella to avoid being soaked. Nonetheless, he believed that civil defense

actions such as underground shelters and evacuation plans were of little

use. The people must expect bombardment and endure its horror. Ibid.,

198.

25. I use the term precept rather than principle because Douhet rejected

the latter term. In his view, common sense should prevail in war.

Unfortunately, when a concept was elevated to the status of a “principle,” it

too often became a dogmatic assertion divorced from common sense.

Airpower required new thinking and the rejection of dogmatic assertions

applicable only to a bygone age.

26. The Department of Defense’s current definition for air superiority

reads, “That degree of dominance in the air battle of one force over another

which permits the conduct of operations by the former and its related land,

sea and air forces at a given time and place without prohibitive interference

by the opposing force.” Air supremacy is defined as “that degree of air

superiority wherein the opposing air force is incapable of effective

interference.” Joint Pub 1-02, Department of Defense Dictionary of Military

and Associated Terms, 23 March 1994. Douhet’s concept of command of the

air is closer to our notion of air supremacy.

27. Douhet (Fischer translation), 47–48. In a memo written in 1916,

Douhet was a bit more specific, listing the following as potential targets:

“railroad junctions, arsenals, ports, warehouses, factories, industrial

centers, banks, ministries, etc.” Cappelluti, 107.

28. Douhet (Fischer translation), 48.

29. Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Dino Ferrari (1942;

reprint, Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1983), 367–68.

Although the editors have added a brief introduction, the pagination of the

essays themselves remains the same as in the original.

30. Douhet (Fischer translation), 171.

31. Ibid., 83–84.

32. Ibid., 86.

33. There is little indication Douhet attempted to spread his ideas on

airpower outside Italy. He wrote virtually all of his works for Italian

magazines and journals—he was not a propagandist in the mold of Billy

Mitchell. Although he probably attempted to influence the Bolling

Commission during World War I, he did so to enlist the United States as a

useful ally and partner in the war against the Central Powers.

34. Douhet’s reference to the United States is significant and is

exemplified today by our Army’s helicopter fleet, one of the largest air forces

in the world with more than six thousand aircraft. Its sole mission is to

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

support ground operations. Douhet would not have dreamed of diverting so

many resources to such a mission.

35. Douhet (Ferrari translation), 229.

36. Douhet envisioned “combat units” flying low over enemy defenses to

draw fire so that their positions could be identified and then destroyed. This

procedure is similar to that of the “Wild Weasels” in the Persian Gulf War:

F-4G aircraft carrying antiradiation missiles flew ostentatiously over Iraqi

territory, hoping to attract the attention of ground-defense radars. When

the Iraqis turned on these radars to track the Weasels, those aircraft

launched missiles that homed on the source of the radar beam.

37. During World War II, some B-17s were modified to carry extra armor

and machine guns. These aircraft, YB-40s, were then mixed in with the

bomber formations striking Germany. However, these modified battle

escorts were too heavy to keep up with the bomber stream after the

bomb-release point, so the experiment was discontinued. By contrast, the

small size of the air-to-air missiles carried by today’s F-15E—the modern

equivalent of the battle plane—allows a potent defensive capability that

does not diminish the plane’s offensive punch.

38. Douhet (Fischer translation), 34; and idem (Ferrari translation), 347.

39. This concept is echoed in Secretary of the Air Force Donald B. Rice,

An Aerospace Nation (Washington, D.C.: Department of the Air Force, 1990).

40. Civilian aircraft were perhaps most effectively used in the Persian

Gulf War as cargo aircraft—an application not envisioned by Douhet.

Activation of the Civil Reserve Air Fleet brought over three hundred

commercial airliners under military control, and these aircraft moved over

four hundred thousand personnel and 95,000 tons of cargo to the Middle

East—representing 64 percent of the passengers and 27 percent of all cargo

moved by air.

41. Douhet (Ferrari translation), 220.

42. Basil H. Liddell Hart, Paris, or the Future of War (New York: Dutton,

1925), 39. As late as 1937, Air Chief Marshal (ACM) Hugh Dowding,

commander of RAF Fighter Command, stated that bombing attacks on

London would cause such panic that defeat could occur “in a fortnight or

less.” ACM Sir Hugh Dowding, “Employment of the Fighter Command in

Home Defence,” Naval War College Review 45 (Spring 1992): 36 (reprint of

1937 lecture to the RAF Staff College).

43. Eugene M. Emme, ed., The Impact of Air Power (Princeton, N.J.: Van

Nostrand, 1959), 51–52. See also “War in the Air and Disarmament,” The

American Review of Reviews, March 1925, 308–10; and H. de Watteville,

“Armies of the Air,” The Nineteenth Century and After, October 1934,

353–68. For an overview of popular literature on this subject, see I. F.

Clarke, Voices Prophesying War, 1763–1984 (London: Oxford University

Press, 1966).

44. George H. Quester, Deterrence before Hiroshima, rev. ed. (New

Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 1986), 98.

MEILINGER

45. The best studies on the effects of morale bombing are the US

Strategic Bombing Survey, Report no. 64b, “The Effects of Strategic

Bombing on German Morale” (1947); Fred C. Iklé, The Social Impact of Bomb

Destruction (Norman, Okla.: University of Oklahoma Press, 1958); and

Irving L. Janis, Air War and Emotional Stress (New York: McGraw-Hill,

1951).

46. “What Lessons from Air Warfare?” U.S. Air Services, April 1938, 7–8.

This editorial argues that the civil war in Spain was simply not a condition

anticipated by Douhet.

47. Douhet (Fischer translation), 17.

48. Barry H. Steiner, Bernard Brodie and the Foundations of American

Nuclear Strategy (Lawrence, Kans.: University Press of Kansas, 1991), 94.

49. Lt Gen N. N. Golovine, “Air Strategy,” Royal Air Force Quarterly 7

(April 1936): 169–72. Golovine was a Russian expatriate who had served in

World War I. Douhet gave no estimates on the amount of incendiary bombs

needed to burn a target. They had not been used extensively during the

war, so there was little experience on which to base calculations. Gen Billy

Mitchell, in his 1922 manual “Notes on the Multi-Motored Bombardment

Group” (page 81), estimated that only 30 tons of gas were required to render

an area of one square mile “uninhabitable.” That’s about one-third the

amount suggested by Golovine.

50. For example, one US Navy officer stated in 1923 that “there is

scarcely a city in America which could not be destroyed, together with every

living person therein, within, say, three days of the declaration of war.”

“Airplanes, and General Slaughter, in the Next War,” Literary Digest, 17

November 1923, 61. Amusingly, the first page of this article has a picture of

the hapless Barling Bomber with the caption “A few of these could wipe out

a city.” Likewise, in 1920 the chief of the aircraft armament division in the

US Army declared that a one-hundred-pound bomb would destroy a small

railroad station or warehouse, and a one-thousand-pound bomb would

completely demolish a large factory. William A. Borden, “Air Bombing of

Industrial Plants,” Army Ordnance, November–December 1920, 122.

51. Douhet (Fischer translation), 185.

52. Lee Kennett, A History of Strategic Bombing (New York: Scribner’s,

1982), 55. Kennett states that Douhet’s name does not appear on the lists

of licensed Italian pilots through 1918. One should know, however, that

when Douhet took command of the Aviation Battalion in 1913, he was

already 43 years of age—too old to take on the arduous task of learning to

fly the dangerous and flimsy aircraft of the day. On the other hand, Douhet

worked closely with Caproni in developing an aircraft stabilization device

and an aerial camera, as well as designing a special bomb that was

flight-tested in 1912. Although he may not have been a pilot, Douhet

understood many of the technical problems of flight. Cappelluti, 59;

Caproni diary, March 1913; and Lee Kennett, The First Air War: 1914–1918

(New York: Free Press, 1991), 37.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

53. Giulio Douhet, “Le Possibilite dell’ aereonavigazione,” Rivista delle

Comunicazioni, August 1910, 758–71. I am indebted to my colleague, Lt Col

Peter R. Faber, for translating this article for me.

54. Besides making it clear in “The War of 19—” that one should not be

in the first plane of the first wave, Douhet also tantalizes his readers by

referring to 180 “explorer” aircraft in the German air force. These were

high-speed pursuit planes whose mission “had not been exactly

determined.” They encounter French pursuits during the war but play no

significant role. Why were they even mentioned? Douhet (Ferrari

translation), 342, 383.

55. Douhet would no doubt have maintained that the Germans bungled

the operation by shifting to urban attacks before they had achieved

command of the air—a violation of his most cardinal precept.

56. Bernard Brodie, Strategy in the Missile Age (Princeton, N.J.:

Princeton University Press, 1959), 37.

57. Cappelluti, 80.

58. Douhet (Ferrari translation), 181.

59. Although poison gas was not used in World War II, the Italians did

employ it against Ethiopian civilians in 1935. In a sense, therefore, Douhet

was correct in maintaining that humanitarian impulses would have little

braking effect on a country; it would seem that fear of retaliation prevented

the use of gas in World War II.

60. W. Hays Parks, “Air War and the Law of War,” The Air Force Law

Review 32 (1990): 1–226.

61. An exception to his technological myopia is Douhet’s enthusiasm for

submarines, which he saw as dominating surface fleets as aircraft would

dominate armies. Indeed, there are some similarities between aircraft and

submarines—including their stealth characteristics.

62. Maj Gen E. B. Ashmore, Air Defence (London: Longman’s, Green,

1929), 93–94. Ashmore was the chief of the London Air Defence Area during

the war.

63. Douhet (Ferrari translation), 9.

64. Kenneth P. Werrell, Archie, Flak, AAA, and SAM: A Short Operational

History of Ground-Based Air Defense (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University

Press, December 1988), 1–2. Golovine states that the improvements in

antiaircraft defenses in World War I were even more dramatic: in 1916 it

took 11,000 shells to bring down a plane; in late 1918 it required only

fifteen hundred. Golovine, 170.

65. Bernard Brodie, “The Heritage of Douhet,” Air University Quarterly

Review 6 (Summer 1963): 122.

66. Douhet (Fischer translation), 132.

67. This is the thesis of Brodie, Strategy in the Missile Age and “The

Heritage of Douhet”; Cappelluti; Louis A. Sigaud, Air Power and Unification:

Douhet’s Principles of Warfare and Their Application to the United States

(Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Service Publishing Co., 1949); Lt Col Joseph L.

Dickman, “Douhet and the Future,” Air University Quarterly Review 2

MEILINGER

(Summer 1948): 3–15; and Cy Caldwell, “The Return of General Douhet,”

Aero Digest, July 1949, 36–37, 90–92.

68. Cappelluti, 18–22.

69. Douhet (Fischer translation), 187.

70. [Brigadier General Tulasne], “The Air Doctrine of General Douhet,”

Royal Air Force Quarterly 4 (April 1933): 164–67.

71. Robin Higham, The Military Intellectuals in Britain, 1918–1939 (New

Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1966), 257–59. On the other

hand, one historian has seen strong similarities between Douhet’s work and

the early writings of J. F. C. Fuller; he therefore speculates that Douhet

may have had a significant, though indirect, influence on the RAF. Brereton

Greenhous, “A Speculation on Giulio Douhet and the English Connection,”

in La Figura E L’Opera Di Giulio Douhet, ed. Aniello Gentile (Italy: Società di

Storia Patria, 1988), 41–51.

72. De Watteville, 360–63.

73. Horst Boog, “Douhet and German Politics: Air Doctrine and Air

Operations, 1933–1945,” in La Figura E L’Opera Di Giulio Douhet, 81–107.

74. Raymond R. Flugel, “United States Air Power Doctrine: A Study of

the Influence of William Mitchell and Giulio Douhet at the Air Corps

Tactical School, 1921–1935” (PhD diss., University of Oklahoma, 1966).

Flugel’s methodology is to compare the text of The Command of the Air with

some of Mitchell’s writings and with those in the Tactical School texts. The

words and phrases are quite similar. Flugel then reveals that a translation

was available at Headquarters Air Service as early as 1923. This is quite a

revelation. However, Flugel erred mightily: instead of using the 1923

translation, which presumably Mitchell would have used, he compared

quotations from the Ferrari translation of 1942. Because the two versions

have significant differences, Flugel’s charges of plagiarism remain

unproven.

75. This was the translation done by Dorothy Benedict with the

assistance of Capt George Kenney. It is based on the French translation in

Les Ailes of 1933 and can be found in the US Air Force Historical Research

Agency, file 168.6005-18. For other writings about Douhet at the time, see

Col Charles DeF Chandler, “Air Warfare Doctrine of General Douhet,” U.S.

Air Services, May 1933, 10–13; “Air Warfare Trends,” U.S. Air Services,

August 1933, 8–9; L. E. O. Charlton, War from the Air: Past, Present, Future

(London: Thomas Nelson, 1935); and “Air Warfare,” Royal Air Force

Quarterly 7 (April 1936): 152–68.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Chapter 2

Trenchard, Slessor, and Royal Air Force

Doctrine before World War II

Col Phillip S. Meilinger

British airmen believed in the efficacy of strategic airpower

almost from the inception of the airplane, perhaps because

Britain was a traditional sea power. Naval war is in many

respects economic war; although battles occur, the primary

objective is generally to apply pressure on a country’s

commerce and economy to force a change in policy. To an

extent, airpower flows from the same basic premise. Airmen

argued, however, that the new medium could apply such

pressure far more comprehensively, directly, and quickly. The

catastrophic experience of the Great War confirmed for Royal

Air Force (RAF) leaders that traditional methods of warfare no

longer served a useful purpose. If war were to be at all viable,

it had to be fought in a more rational fashion and not require

the destruction of an entire generation. British airmen

returned to the basics.

The object of war was to force an enemy to bend to one’s

will, accomplished by breaking either his will or his capability

to fight. Armies were generally condemned to concentrate on

the latter by seeking battle. Hugh Trenchard, the first chief of

the RAF and its commander from 1919 to 1930, focused

instead on the “will” portion of that equation. Trenchard’s

influence on the RAF cannot be overestimated. The near

genius he brought to the task, despite his notoriously poor

communicative skills, was crucial. Trenchard believed that the

airplane was an inherently strategic weapon, unmatched in its

ability to shatter the will of an enemy country. Yet, he could

not erase the long British tradition of economic warfare. The

result was a unique blend—an airpower theory that advocated

attacks designed to break the morale of factory workers by

targeting enemy industry and, by extension, the population as

a whole. Trenchard’s instinctive beliefs on this subject found

form in the official doctrine manuals of the RAF. In turn, this

doctrine was taught and institutionalized at the RAF Staff

College, where most of the officers who would lead their

service in World War II were educated.

The most intellectually gifted man in this group, John

“Jack” Slessor, had worked on Trenchard’s staff in the late

1920s, and he understood airpower as well as anyone in the

RAF. After attending the RAF Staff College, he spent three

years instructing at the British Army Staff College. Combining

his knowledge of aviation with the distinctive perspective of

the army, he produced a brilliant book, Air Power and

Armies—perhaps the best treatise on airpower theory written

in English before World War II. This chapter traces the

evolution of RAF doctrine between the wars, highlighting the

special contributions of Hugh Trenchard and John Slessor.

Britain , like all other belligerents, entered the Great War

with a small number of rudimentary aircraft but little or no

doctrine on how to employ them effectively. Over the course of

the next few years, the RAF, which became a separate service

in 1918, grew to be the largest and most effective air arm in the

world. Although airpower played a peripheral role throughout

the conflict, its potential captivated the imagination of the

public, politicians, and military thinkers. They were particularly

enthusiastic over one particular aspect of airpower’s many roles

and purposes—strategic bombing. The actual experiences of the

bomber forces—scanty though they were—constituted a source

of debate for the next two decades.

In World War I, Germany waged the first systematic

strategic air campaign in history. Beginning in early 1915,

rigid airships—zeppelins—began making the long nighttime

journey from their sheds on the North Sea to drop bombs on

military and industrial targets in Great Britain. At first, they

conducted these attacks with impunity. But the British soon

cobbled together fighter planes, artillery, and searchlights into

a makeshift air defense system,

which was reasonably

effective: the last great zeppelin attack of the war occurred on

19 October 1917, when five out of 11 airships went down.

The Germans thereafter concentrated on large, multiengined

aircraft—Gothas and later Giants—that were faster and more

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

maneuverable than the airships and thus considerably more

difficult to intercept and shoot down.

It is difficult to exaggerate the fear, bordering on panic, that

these bombing strikes caused among the British population

and its government—for the next two decades. Because

Britain had remained sheltered behind its impassable moat

for centuries, this fear proved worse than it would have been

for a country that had no such tradition of invulnerability. The

psychological effect of losing this shield was enormous. As a

consequence, the government appointed a well-known

general, Jan Smuts of South Africa, to study the problem.

Assisting him in this task was the commanding general of the

Royal Flying Corps (RFC), Lt Gen David Henderson, a strong

advocate of bombardment.

Smuts turned in two reports—one, a fairly straightforward

plan for a well-organized and capable defensive network

centered on London, and the other, a more theoretical

treatise. In the latter, Smuts called for a separate air force

that combined the units of the fleet (the Royal Naval Air

Service [RNAS]) and the army (the RFC) into a single

command. In words cited by airmen ever since, Smuts

prophesied that “the day may not be far off when aerial

operations with their devastation of enemy lands and

destruction of industrial and populous centers on a vast scale

may become the principal operations of war, to which the

older forms of military and naval operations may become

secondary and subordinate.”

Although officials had talked since the beginning of the war

of combining the army and navy air arms into a single unit in

the interests of efficiency and standardization, the German air

attacks and the resultant recommendations of the Smuts

report served as decisive catalysts. The RAF was established

on 1 April 1918, charged with preventing further German

incursions, while retaliating against Germany. Lord

Rothermere assumed the new position of air minister, with

Henderson his deputy. Maj Gen Hugh Trenchard, Henderson’s

subordinate as commanding general of RFC units in France,

became chief of the Air Staff (CAS). The new arrangement

proved unsatisfactory, however. By all accounts, Lord

Rothermere was a difficult and erratic personality who

MEILINGER

understood little about airpower. Neither Henderson nor

Trenchard could work with him effectively (although no one

ever accused Trenchard of being easy to get along with). After

continual and sterile strife, all three men resigned within a

fortnight in April 1918. Rothermere and Henderson then

disappeared from the military aviation scene. Sir William Weir

became the new air minister, and Maj Gen Frederick Sykes

the new CAS.

After a somewhat unseemly display of petulance, Trenchard

was returned to France in May, only this time as commander

of the newly created Independent Force (a rather unfortunate

name).

Sykes, a proponent of strategic airpower, pushed this

organization, which contained a contingent of bomber

squadrons pulled from other units in France. It was designed

to carry the war to Germany both day and night. In one sense,

this move was quite a demotion for Trenchard (he now

commanded barely 10 percent of the British air units in

France), but in another sense, it forced him to concentrate on

the mission of strategic bombing—an effort that would have

significant, long-term consequences.

Early in the war, Trenchard’s thoughts on airpower had

begun to coalesce into the form they would take so forcefully

in the interwar years. In a memo of September 1916, he wrote

that the aeroplane was an inherently offensive weapon:

“Owing to the unlimited space in the air, the difficulty one

machine has in seeing another, the accidents of wind and

cloud, it is impossible for aeroplanes, however skillful and

vigilant their pilots, however powerful their engines, however

mobile their machines, and however numerous their

formations, to prevent hostile aircraft from crossing the line if

they have the initiative and determination to do so.”

This basic concept would remain a recurring theme among

air theorists up to the present, but Trenchard’s emphasis

contained a unique single-mindedness bordering on stubborn-

ness. Because the aeroplane was an offensive weapon, one

had to guide it “by a policy of relentless and incessant

offensiveness”:

the deeper that British planes flew into

German territory, the better—regardless of losses incurred or

physical damage caused. Trenchard believed that the act of

the offensive was essential because it granted a “moral

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

superiority” to the attackers. This attitude—the aerial

equivalent of French Plan XVII—explains not only why Field

Marshal Douglas Haig thought so highly of Trenchard, but

also why he acquired the reputation as a stubborn and

uncaring commander who needlessly threw away the lives of

his men in a vicious battle of attrition every bit as deadly as

the one conducted on the surface.

Obviously, the question of precisely how one should use

aircraft offensively behind German lines was crucial.

Trenchard argued that, first, one had to attack enemy airfields

to keep the Germans out of the sky and thus ensure air

superiority for the Allies. Like his successors, Trenchard

realized the essentiality of air superiority for the successful

conduct of military operations.

Beyond that, the general

insisted that air operations be conducted in conjunction with

the ground effort. The situation for the British army

throughout the war was precarious, and Trenchard realized

the importance of the air arm’s protecting the fragile forces of

Haig. Consequently, he envisioned an air campaign focusing

on what today we would term “interdiction” targets: railroad

marshaling yards, bridges, supply depots, and road networks

that provided men and material for the front. As he phrased it,

“I desire to emphasize that operations conducted by bombing

squadrons cannot be isolated from other work in the air, and

are inseparable from the operations of the Army as a whole. . . .

If an offensive is being undertaken on the ground, the work of

bombing machines should be timed and co-ordinated so as to

produce the maximum effect on the enemy.”

In addition, Trenchard foresaw possibilities of more

overarching value for strategic bombing and singled out

several industries as particularly important: iron and coal

mines, steel mills, chemical production facilities, explosive

factories, miscellaneous armament industries, aero engines

and magneto works, submarine and shipbuilding works, large

gun foundries, and engine repair shops. Significantly, he

selected many of these targets on the basis of their large size

and easy identification; blast furnaces, for example, had

one-hundred-foot towers, and their fiery ovens could be seen

for many miles at night.

The problems of navigation and target

MEILINGER

identification hinted at here would continue for the next

several decades.

In his official report soon after the war, Trenchard reiterated

his previous stance that the aerial needs of the British army

in France had had first priority, but after his air forces met

those needs, the bombing of Germany became “a necessity.”

Its objective was to achieve “the breakdown of the German

army in Germany, its government, and the crippling of its

sources of supply.” Recognizing that he had insufficient forces

to collapse the German industry, he nonetheless attempted to

hit as many different factories as possible as often as possible,

so that no one felt secure anywhere within range of his

bombers. Using a subjective and unprovable statistic that

earned him much (largely deserved) ridicule, Trenchard stated

that the psychological effects of bombing outweighed the

material effects at a ratio of 20 to one.

During its short life,

the Independent Force flew all of its missions against targets

with military significance.

Thus, one must understand that

Trenchard did not advocate the bombing of German

population centers with the intention of causing a popular

revolt (the concept put forward by his contemporary in Italy,

Gen Giulio Douhet). Rather, Trenchard implied that the act of

bombardment in general—and the destruction of selected

German factories in particular—would have a devastating

effect on the morale of the workers and, by extension, the

German people as a whole. He had seen such effects in Britain

as a result of German air attacks and was profoundly

influenced by them. He would articulate this concept more

clearly in the years leading up to World War II.

Some critics later argued that Trenchard’s enthusiasm for

strategic bombing did not develop until after the war. Further,

they maintained that during the war, he remained an

implacable foe not only of strategic bombing but also of a

separate RAF and the Independent Force that it spawned.

These accusations are inaccurate. In October 1917 Trenchard

proposed the combination of the RNAS and the RFC into a

single service under an air secretary and an air chief of staff.

The following month, he stated that “long distance bombing . . .

ought to be vigorously developed as part and parcel of the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Royal Flying Corps.” He repeated this call for a strategic air

offensive in a memo of June 1918.

Trenchard was aware, however, of the difficulties

experienced by British aircraft manufacturers. Airplane losses

in France were so high that production could not keep pace.

He did not wish to deprive combat units of machines in order

to establish the new strategic air force. Frederick Sykes

argued that a “margin” of excess aircraft produced by the

manufacturers would allow formation of the Independent

Force without hurting the combat situation on the western

front. Trenchard disagreed that such a margin existed.

Therefore, one can better understand his reluctance to

assume command of the Independent Force by recalling his

devotion to Haig and the British army.

In 1918 ground forces were paramount, and Trenchard

neither advocated nor approved of air operations divorced

from the ground situation. In addition, as Trenchard himself

later maintained, his bombers had neither the range nor the

mass to carry out effective strategic strikes (barely one-third of

the Independent Force missions struck targets in Germany).

Consequently, he objected to dividing up limited air resources,

some for army operations, some for fleet defense, and still

others for long-range bombing: “I believe the air is one.”

perceived an evolutionary path for airpower and recognized

the folly of moving too far too quickly.

Trenchard was not unusual in this regard. In America, Billy

Mitchell, Ben Foulois, and Hap Arnold all made similar

intellectual journeys from skepticism to advocacy. The fact

that Trenchard refused to accept the exaggerated claims of

men like Sykes and Smuts was more a sign of measured

maturity than of fickleness.

After a victorious war effort, the military forces of democracies

typically do not simply demobilize—they disintegrate. For

example, by March 1919 the RAF had dropped from a force of

some 22,000 aircraft and over 240,000 personnel to only 28

understrength squadrons (about two hundred planes) manned

by fewer than 30,000 people. The plight of the RAF seemed

especially wobbly when Prime Minister David Lloyd George

decided in early 1919 to combine the Ministry of War and

Ministry of Air into a single unit. Fortunately for the RAF, the

MEILINGER

man chosen to head this combined ministry—and presumably

oversee the demise of the infant RAF—was Winston Churchill.

A former army officer who had headed the Admiralty during

the first year of the war, Churchill nonetheless possessed an

unusually flexible mind that remained open on the question of

airpower. He did not, however, get on well with Frederick

Sykes, who exacerbated matters by submitting a plan shortly

after the armistice that called for an enormous air force—fully

154 squadrons, exclusive of training units—deployed

through-out the empire. In a war-weary Britain strapped for

funds, such a proposal was fanciful at best and irresponsible

at worst.

Sykes, therefore, was nudged into retirement, and

Trenchard—who had served with Churchill in India many

years before—was brought back as CAS. More than any other

factor, this decision saved the RAF as a separate service.

Trenchard has had many detractors, but few would deny

his ability as a bureaucratic infighter. Given the weakness

and unsettled nature of his service; his relatively junior rank;

his lack of a strong faction in Parliament, the press, or the

public; and his notoriously poor writing and public speaking

skills; his ability to get his way with the government and the

other services was remarkable.

When the government slashes funds, interservice rivalries

tend to flare as the military arms begin to scramble for an

adequate share of a severely shrinking budget—as was the

case in postwar Britain. Determining who threw the first

punch is difficult, but relations between Trenchard and his

service counterparts—Field Marshal Henry Wilson and Adm

David Beatty—were stormy, bordering on rude. Wilson and

Beatty made no secret of their desire to disband the RAF and

restore its airplanes (few though they were) to the army and

fleet from whence they came. For his part, Trenchard fought

back by noting the high cost in sterling and lives of traditional

war making, costs dramatically reduced through airpower.

For example, one Air Ministry pamphlet suggested the

existence of “certain responsibilities at present assigned to the

Navy and Army which the Air Force is already technically

capable of undertaking, and for which it may be found

economical in the near future to substitute to a greater or

lesser extent air units for military or naval units” (emphasis in

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

original).

When the army and navy continued to push to

disband the RAF in the interests of economy, the CAS

responded in a wonderfully Trenchardesque style: “The Field

Marshal wishes to lay axe to the roots, as by doing so he

thinks he may the easier obtain the fruit. What is wanted in

order that the maximum amount of fruit may be got for our

money is a severe pruning of the overhead fruitless branches

of some of the neighboring trees which are at present

crowding out the younger and more productive growth and

thereby preventing its vigorous expansion to full maturity.”

Given the increasingly heated verbal and bureaucratic

sparring, it is surprising that Trenchard was able to win a

major concession from Beatty and Wilson in late 1921.

Catching them off guard and appealing to their sense of fair

play, Trenchard convinced them to cease attacking his service

for one year while he attempted to organize his fledgling

command and make their struggle a more equal one.

The

two men later regretted their decision, because Trenchard

used that time to solidify his power, establish the RAF on a

strong organizational and administrative footing, and devise a

use for the air weapon that would ensure its survival as a

separate service—air control of colonial territories.

Administering the world’s largest empire was an expensive

and labor-intensive enterprise, each colony requiring a

garrison of sufficient size to maintain peace and order. In the

aftermath of the war, such an expense caused consternation

in the British government. In mid-1919, therefore, Trenchard

suggested to Churchill that the RAF be given the opportunity

to subdue a festering uprising in Somaliland. Churchill

agreed. The results were dramatic: the RAF chased the rebel

ringleader, “the mad mullah,” out of the area and pacified

Somaliland at a cost of £77,000 rather than the £6 million it

would have cost for the two army divisions originally planned.

As a consequence, the demand for air control grew quickly,

and over the next decade the RAF deployed—with varying

degrees of success—to Iraq, Afghanistan, India, Aden, Trans-

jordan, Palestine, Egypt, and Sudan.

The strategy employed

in these campaigns involved patrolling the disputed areas,

flying political representatives around to the various tribes to

discuss problems and devise solutions, issuing ultimatums to

MEILINGER

recalcitrants if persuasion failed, and as a last resort,

bombing selected rebel targets to compel compliance. To be

sure, these air operations were neither grand nor glorious, but

they kept the RAF alive while it sought a more suitable foe.

This foe seemed to present itself in 1922, when continual

arguments between Britain and France over occupation

policy, trade, and colonial issues bubbled to the surface. For

centuries, these two countries had been bitter rivals, and

more recent cooperation had not yet hardened into goodwill

and a meeting of the minds. Displeasure with France turned

to concern when the government received an intelligence

report that showed a great and growing superiority in French

air strength. France allegedly had an air force of 123

squadrons comprised of 1,090 aircraft and planned to expand

to 220 squadrons of over two thousand aircraft—nearly 10

times the size of the RAF. To make matters worse, 20 of the

RAF’s 28 squadrons were stationed overseas, leaving a mere

two fighter squadrons to defend the British Isles.

Studies done by the RAF speculated that if half the

projected French air force struck London, it could deliver one

hundred tons of bombs in the first 24 hours, 75 tons in the

second 24 hours, and 50 tons each day thereafter. Using the

experience of the German air attacks on London during the

Great War as a guide, Britain could expect to suffer an

average of 50 casualties for each ton of bombs dropped (17

killed and 33 wounded). That is, French air strikes would

cause over 20,000 casualties in the first week of war. A

maximum effort by the French would double those figures.

Although British leaders did not seriously believe that war

with France would occur, they were concerned that the

capability of their own air force had fallen so far so quickly. In

addition, they realized that such military weakness could have

other negative effects. During the Ruhr crisis of 1922, Harold

Balfour stated, “Mere fear of war in quite conceivable

circumstances greatly weakens British diplomacy and may

put temptation in the way of French statesmen that they

would find it hard to resist.”

As one might expect, Trenchard

encouraged such thinking, but as one observer put it,

“Trenchard exploited the government’s fears but he did not

create them.”

As a consequence, Parliament moved to

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

expand the RAF by adding 52 squadrons by 1928, specifically

designated for the air defense of Great Britain . Fiscal realities

would prevent the realization of this force, but its prospect

caused the RAF to begin thinking seriously about how best to

employ such a sizable air force.

Trenchard’s views on the importance of strategic airpower

had solidified since the war, due to several factors: Britain no

longer maintained an army in Flanders dependent on

airpower for its survival; aircraft capabilities had increased;

and the RAF needed a separate mission if it intended to

remain a separate service. The possibility of a genuine

Continental menace helped to crystallize Trenchard’s thoughts

on that separate mission. One finds commendable his

flexibility of mind in shifting so quickly and effectively from

one strategic scenario to another.

Trenchard carried three main beliefs with him from the war:

air superiority was an essential prerequisite to military

success; airpower was an inherently offensive weapon; and

although its material effects were great, airpower’s

psychological effects were far greater. In a speech on 13 April

1923, he fleshed out these ideas: “In the next great war with a

European nation the forces engaged must first fight for aerial

superiority and when that has been gained they will use their

power to destroy the morale of the Nation and vitally damage

the organized armaments for supplies for the Armies and

Navies.” He then expanded on the importance of the morale

factor: war was a contest between the “moral tenacity” of two

countries, and “if we could bomb the enemy more intensely

and more continually than he could bomb us the result might

be an early offer of peace.” Significantly, Trenchard did not

claim that an air campaign by itself would bring victory in war

against a major European foe; rather, it would create the

conditions necessary “in which our Army can advance and

occupy his territory.”

Regarding the belief that airpower was essentially offensive,

the CAS used the example of a football match: a team may not

lose if it spends all its efforts defending its own goal, but it

certainly will not win. In air war the offense—not the

defense—was the stronger form of war. He did concede,

however, that some form of defense (interceptors and

MEILINGER

antiaircraft guns) could be useful “for the morale of our own

people.” In a typical bit of British sangfroid, Trenchard

commented, “Nothing is more annoying than to be attacked by

a weapon which you have no means of hitting back at.”

practical terms, this meant as many bombers as possible and

as few fighters as necessary.

The ratio eventually arrived at was two to one. Thus, of the

52 squadrons designated for “home defense,” fully 35 were to

be bombardment.

Interestingly, this force ratio seemingly

caused little debate at the time or, indeed, throughout most of

the interwar period. Unlike the situation in the American Air

Corps, where fighter advocates like Claire Chennault argued

vociferously for reduced emphasis on the bomber, no such

open debate occurred in the RAF. Not until the late 1930s and

the ascendance of Hugh Dowding at Fighter Command did

anyone seriously question Trenchard’s fundamental principles

regarding force structure.

The real key to the concept of strategic airpower espoused

by Trenchard was the selection of targets. By this time, he had

changed his views on the desirability of attacking enemy

airfields in an effort to gain air superiority. During the war,

the Independent Force had directed fully 40 percent of its

strikes against airfields, but these attacks had slight effect. As

a result, he now envisioned a great air battle taking place

between opposing air forces. When one side gained the upper

hand, it would then concentrate on paralyzing the enemy

nation and breaking its morale.

Precisely how did he expect the morale of an enemy to

break? Like most airmen, he was frustratingly vague on this

issue. Airpower was simply too new, and one sensed rather

than understood the possibilities it offered to wage war in a

fashion previously impossible. At its worst, such vagueness

took the form of an address by Trenchard in October 1928:

“The objectives to be attacked will be centres which are

essential for the continuance of the enemy’s resistance. They

will vary frequently and the air forces will be directed against

the one which at the moment is the best for air attack.”

another instance, he maintained that air attack would “induce

the enemy Government, by pressure from the population, to

sue for peace, in exactly the same way as starvation by

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

blockading the country would enforce the Government to sue for

peace.”

When pushed for specificity, he referred to “centres of

communication” such as roads, rail lines, telephone exchanges,

and munitions factories.

Because Trenchard typically proved inadequate at expressing

his strongly held beliefs regarding targeting, he left it to his staff

officers—his “English merchants”—to translate his rumblings

into prose. In addition, he relied on two other avenues to

formalize and institutionalize his beliefs on airpower: RAF

doctrine manuals and the Royal Air Force Staff College.

In July 1922 the RAF published its first doctrine manual, CD

22—titled simply Operations. To a great extent, CD 22 echoed

the ideas Trenchard had expounded since 1917, noting that

air forces must cooperate with surface forces because often

the objective of a campaign was “the destruction of the

enemy’s main forces.” It also stressed the importance of

morale in war and the idea that victory occurred when one

imposed so much pressure on the people they would “force

their government to sue for peace.” Regarding the importance

of air superiority, it argued that other targets were subsidiary

and that one should not attempt them until one had inflicted

“a serious reverse” on the enemy air force.

The issue of which targets would most effectively achieve

the anticipated moral effects was, as usual, unstated,

although it did refer to naval bases, munitions factories, and

railway junctions.

The manual did, however, point out that

bombing attacks were to be carried out in accordance with

international law. Attacking “legitimate objectives” in

populated areas was permissible, although one must take “all

reasonable precautions” to spare hospitals and other

privileged buildings.

This issue became the subject of much

contention in the years ahead.

Although air policing remained a major RAF mission

between the wars, the service did not want to hang its

doctrinal hat on this mission since it garnered no glory and

generated little force structure. CD 22 contained a chapter

titled “Aircraft in Warfare against an Uncivilized Enemy” but

clearly considered such operations of far less importance than

conventional air warfare. The long-term effects of such air

control operations on RAF thinking were mixed.

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Operations remained official doctrine until July 1928, when

it was superseded by AP 1300, Royal Air Force War Manual, a

more sophisticated effort that discussed air strategy in a

broader sense, yet reduced administrative and organizational

material. Many of its arguments were the same as those in

Operations: war was largely a psychological effort; airpower

was an inherently offensive weapon; airpower would serve as

part of a joint force in which all the services worked together

to attain the government’s objectives; at times, the most

effective use of airpower was to defeat the enemy’s army; and

air superiority was crucial to military success.

The first major change concerned the sequence of the air

superiority battle. Instead of directing that one resist all

distractions until one decisively defeated the enemy air force,

AP 1300 regarded the strategic bombing campaign as primary

and the air superiority battle as a diversion.

This reversal

from previous doctrine no doubt reflected a desire to avoid the

counterforce battle. The Great War had degenerated into a

bloody slugfest between opposing forces; airpower was

supposed to eliminate—not perpetuate—that intermediate

step to victory.

The most important aspect of AP 1300 was the extent to

which it discussed the rationale behind strategic bombing and

the selection of targets. The choice of bombing objectives

depended on five factors: the nature of the war and the

enemy; the general war plan of the government; diplomatic

considerations; the range of the bombers; and the strength of

the enemy air defenses. As a general rule, the manual opined

that “objectives should be selected the bombardment of which

will have the greatest effect in weakening the enemy

resistance and his power to continue war.”

In some cases, this meant attacking the “vital centres” of an

enemy country rather than assisting armies and navies

directly. Vital areas included organized systems of production,

supply, communications, and transportation: “If these are

exposed to air attack, the continual interruption, delay and

organization of the activities of these vital centres by

sustained air bombardment will usually be the most effective

contribution which can be made by air power towards

breaking down the enemy’s resistance.”

Interestingly, the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

manual also noted that one needed in-depth understanding of

an enemy country. Although AP 1300 did not use the term

economic intelligence, that is precisely what it meant. Such

intelligence, hitherto unnecessary in warfare, now became

essential.

One should note that AP 1300 never referred to the

bombing of population centers, suggesting targets of a military

nature only. Yet, it repeated the decade-old adage that victory

in war resulted from the collapse of civilian morale. How could

one break the will of the people without bombing them? The

formulation supplied by the Air Staff writers asserted that the

bombing of industrial centers would destroy the factories that

employed the workers. Loss of work would have a shattering

effect on the work force—presumably due to dislocation and

loss of salary—that would cascade throughout society.

Through this interesting though questionable logic, AP 1300

clearly advocated a strategy fundamentally different than that

proposed by theorists such as Douhet, who deliberately

targeted the population. Although both formulations sought a

collapse of morale that would lead to a change in government

policy, the methods of achieving that collapse differed, subtly

though clearly.

Unquestionably, the RAF was sensitive about the issue of

targeting morale. People outside the service did not understand

the nuances of bombing theory noted above, and the RAF

frequently had to defend itself against charges of making war

on women and children. Because air control operations in the

Middle East were especially misconstrued as bloody and

remorseless attacks against defenseless natives, the RAF

produced studies showing that far fewer people died, on both

sides, in air operations than in traditional pacification efforts

carried out by ground troops. For example, an examination of

colonial campaigns between 1897 and 1923 indicates that

over five thousand British soldiers lost their lives at a cost of

nearly eight hundred tribesmen. Since the arrival of the RAF,

however, friendly casualties numbered a mere dozen men,

while native losses hovered between 30 and 40 killed.

Moreover, one report illustrated the point by quoting from a

1920 British army directive to its troops in Mesopotamia:

“Villages will be razed to the ground and all woodwork

MEILINGER

removed. Pressure will be brought on the inhabitants by

cutting off water power and by destroying water lifts; efforts to

carry out cultivation will be interfered with, and the

systematic collection of supplies of all kinds beyond our actual

requirements will be carried out, the area being cleared of the

necessities of life.”

This was hardly a policy of moderation.

Not content to criticize air control as immoral, some people

charged that air bombardment in general was indiscriminate

and in violation of international laws regarding the immunity

of noncombatants. Repeatedly, RAF leaders decried any such

intention. In a strongly worded and lengthy memo to the other

service chiefs, Trenchard rejected claims that the RAF was

intent on population bombing. Attacking legitimate objectives

in populated areas was inevitable, and “writers on war of every

nation have accepted it as axiomatic” that such targets can be

struck. Terror bombing was “illegitimate,” but it was a

different matter “to terrorise munitions workers (men and

women) into absenting themselves from work . . . through fear

of air attack upon the factory or dock concerned.” Trenchard’s

memo angrily concluded, “I emphatically do not advocate

indiscriminate bombardment, and I think that air action will

be far less indiscriminate and far less brutal and will obtain

its end with far fewer casualties than either naval blockade, a

naval bombardment, or sieges, or when military formations

are hurled against the enemies’ strongest points protected by

barbed wire and covered by mass artillery and machine guns.”

Another senior air leader, Air Commodore Edgar

Ludlow-Hewitt, stated flatly that population bombing

amounted to “sheer unintelligent frightfulness based on the

same kind of false doctrine which, in common with all

attempts to win by terrorising civilians, has ended in failure. It

is a senseless, inhuman method of warfare which I believe will

never succeed against any nation of stamina and spirit.”

Wing Commander Arthur Tedder (later Marshal of the Royal

Air Force Lord Tedder) similarly argued, “Terrorising of enemy

people as a whole by indiscriminate bombing does not comply

with principles of concentration. It is morally indefensible,

politically inexpedient and militarily ineffective.”

One must note that the RAF opposed bombing other than

legitimate military targets not merely for humanitarian

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

reasons. Public opinion played a significant role, as did the

purely practical matter of urban bombing’s inefficiency.

Because gas warfare had been outlawed in 1925, the amount

of high explosive necessary to cause significant damage to a

major city was enormous. Given the modest size of the RAF

and its bomber aircraft, pilots would do better to drop their

payloads on specific targets. Moreover, Britain felt particularly

vulnerable to air attack because its key center of gravity was,

unquestionably, London. The concentration of political,

financial, social, and industrial power in the London area

made it the most valuable target in the country. Worse, its

proximity to the English Channel put it within easy striking

range of air bases on the Continent. The fear of a “bolt from

the blue” against London preoccupied British political and

military leaders from the early 1920s on.

In 1932 former prime minister Stanley Baldwin made his

glum prediction that the bomber would always get through.

He added his pessimistic assessment that the only way to

prevent the destruction of one’s cities was to bomb an enemy’s

even more viciously (Trenchard’s maxim that the best defense

is a good offense). In reality, Baldwin advocated no such thing.

In fact, the week following this comment, he proposed at the

Geneva Disarmament Conference the abolition of aerial

bombardment. Obviously, he made this offer as much for

strategic reasons as for humanitarian: because of the unusual

vulnerability of Britain to air attack, it had more to gain from

such a prohibition.

The point to note, however, is that

British political and military leaders had little incentive to

push for a city-busting air strategy; in fact, they advocated

precisely the opposite.

The other method of articulating and then disseminating

airpower concepts throughout the RAF involved the Staff

College at Andover. Soon after the war, Trenchard realized

that in a fundamental sense the RAF would stand or fall,

based on how well it was run. As a separate service, it quickly

had to develop the capability of organizing and administering

its own affairs. As a consequence, he established three major

schools in the first three years of peace: a technical school at

Halton to train “aircraftmen” in specific mechanical skills; a

cadet college at Cranwell, similar to Sandhurst, for educating

MEILINGER

young officers; and a staff college at Andover, like the army’s

at Camberley, to teach midcareer officers staff skills as well as

give them a higher understanding of war. Trenchard referred

to Andover, opened in 1922, as “the cradle of our brain.”

At the Staff College, a small faculty (originally five officers,

all of whom later attained flag rank) presented lectures each

morning, which the students (generally around 30 each year)

then discussed in seminar. Reading requirements were not

heavy, and students usually received a detailed outline of

each lecture to help them prepare. Guest speakers from

government, business, or other military services lectured

frequently, usually in the evenings. Tactical air exercises were

common, and each student had to write an essay on his

experiences, the best of which were published each year and

distributed throughout the RAF . Most of them dealt with air

operations in the Great War. As time went on, more students

wrote of air control activities in the Middle East. Further, the

faculty and staff had at their disposal a handful of aircraft for

refresher practice.

In keeping with the RAF’s need for competent staff officers

who could work effectively in a joint environment, the

curriculum—especially in the early years—emphasized adminis-

trative duties, tactics, and the missions and capabilities of the

other services. For example, in the second class (1923–24)

only about two weeks of the entire year’s curriculum were

devoted to air strategy.

Interestingly, however, the Staff

College’s first commandant, Air Commodore Robert

Brooke-Popham, taught these lessons himself, thus lending

consider- able prestige to the subject and setting a precedent

for all succeeding commandants prior to the war.

Brooke-Popham had been a successful combat commander

in France, so his reputation and seniority gave credibility to

Andover. Although some of his ideas seem a bit bizarre today,

his views on airpower were well thought out and compelling.

In his first lecture, the commandant argued that due to

industrialization, the growth of democracy, and trade unionism,

people as a whole were now more directly affected by war.

Just as important, they were more able than in the past to

influence or even stop a war via the vote or a strike. As a

result, “it is now the will power of the enemy nation that has

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

to be broken, and to do this is the object of any country that

goes to war.”

The first step in this process was to win air

superiority. Unlike CD 22, which implied that this was an end

in itself, Brooke-Popham cautioned that gaining control of the

air was useful only in that it allowed an air attack on the vital

centers. Because neutralization of such centers brought

victory, air leaders should not lose sight of their true goal.

These vital centers would vary, depending on the enemy—they

might even be the armed forces—but the ultimate objective

was to break the will of the enemy.

Regarding how one might best affect that will, the

commandant took a slightly different view from the official

line. If government policy called for bombing a town, he stated

that “we must faithfully carry out any decision of our

Government in the matter, even if such decisions be

repugnant to our own private conceptions of morality.” Such a

“we must all be good soldiers” approach offered a dangerous

loophole, quickly entered: “This being so, we must study how

best to utilize such forms of violence.”

Air Commodore

Ludlow-Hewitt, Brooke-Popham’s successor as commandant,

echoed that sentiment: “War is a wild beast which when

uncaged is soon out of control and running amuck. . . . Let us

abolish war if we can, but so long as war is possible then we

must face all that war entails.”

Such a view can easily

become a self-fulfilling prophecy—preparing for the worst

because it may occur can help make it occur.

Ludlow-Hewitt’s lectures on air strategy during his tenure

as commandant were quite good. For example, he too realized

that air superiority was essential, but one would have to fight

for it. However, bringing the enemy to battle was difficult,

because one could not fix the enemy in the sky as was the

case on the ground. He therefore argued that one had to “find

some way of drawing the enemy to some spot chosen by us.”

The obvious method used to coax the enemy into battle

entailed “threaten[ing] something vital to his security.”

Significantly, the Allies used this very “bait” technique in 1944

to bring the Luftwaffe to battle by attacking German aircraft

factories and oil refineries.

The air commodore also went into some depth on the

subject of targeting. Noting that the key areas of an enemy

MEILINGER

country would vary with circumstances, Ludlow-Hewitt

nonetheless identified three major target sets in a modern,

industrialized country: (1) the system of commerce, industry,

and distribution—including food, munitions, ore deposits, and

coal supplies; (2) communications, including not only land

systems but also port facilities and harbors; and (3) industrial

workers. The latter were particularly important: “If their

morale can be tampered with or can be depleted—if their

security can be endangered—their work will fall off in quantity

and quality.”

Paralleling the RAF doctrine manuals,

Ludlow-Hewitt maintained that one could more likely achieve

the collapse of morale “by crippling his industries, delaying

his railways and stopping his ports than by spraying the

whole population with bombs.” He quickly noted, however,

that the success of the air offensive resulted from selecting the

proper targets, which in turn required a special intelligence

that established an enemy’s habits of life, mentality, political

system, economic apparatus, communications systems,

commodities flow, and so forth.

Unfortunately, although

other air leaders echoed his calls for a robust intelligence

network attuned to the needs of air warfare, little was done to

establish it prior to the war.

Through the interwar years, other people at the Staff College

addressed the issue of breaking the enemy’s will. Arthur

Tedder, an instructor in the early 1930s, noted the effect that

one might expect from air strikes on industry: “Men driven off

their tools, clerical staffs from their offices, work decelerated

and finally stopped. Material ruined and operations interrupted.

Consequent delay, and final complete dislocation and

disorganization of systems attacked. Spread of panic.

Bombardment of one area likely to stop work in others.”

This

was an air strategy of paralysis—not obliteration.

One should also note that the RAF carried out a number of

major exercises during the interwar years, the first of which

occurred in 1927. Others were held most years thereafter until

World War II. The scenarios for these exercises were ostensibly

defensive in nature—enemy countries like “Southland,” “Red

Colony,” and “Caledonia” were set to attack, usually London.

The air-defense-observer network, controllers, fighter

squadrons, and searchlight units received a thorough

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

workout, as well as the bomber units. In general terms, the

purpose of the bombing strikes was “to break enemy national

resistance by intensive air bombardment of the vital points in

the economic and industrial systems.” More specifically, the

targets designated for these bombing units were military

objectives that required precise application of force: the “seat

of government,” airfields, munitions factories, docks, arms

depots, chemical industries, and power stations.

One of Trenchard’s bright young protégés who later attained

high rank was Jack Slessor, also one of the more articulate

and thoughtful airpower theorists. Unlike Douhet, Trenchard,

and Billy Mitchell, who had begun their careers as army

officers, Slessor started off as a flyer in 1915. One might wish

to speculate on how the lack of army experience during his

formative military years—and the backlash it seemed to incur

in many airmen—affected his outlook on airpower. During the

war, Slessor flew air defense in England, while also seeing

combat in the Middle East (where he was wounded) and in

France. Between 1931 and 1934, he was an instructor at the

Army Staff College at Camberley. His seminal work, Air Power

and Armies, is a collection of his lectures there, edited and

compiled a few years later while he was stationed in India.

In assessing this book, one must remember, first, his

audience at Camberley and, second, his admonitions—repeated

throughout—that he is writing about a war in which the

British army has already committed itself to a land campaign.

Slessor acknowledged that a primary function of airpower is

strategic bombing, but he intended to discuss how airpower

could complement surface operations. Indeed, he chastened

his readers that “no attitude could be more vain or irritating in

its effects than to claim that the next great war—if and when it

comes—will be decided in the air, and in the air alone.”

Readers of Air Power and Armies are struck by the fact that

Slessor bases his arguments not only on logic—the method

employed by most air theorists—but also on history. Noting

that history enables commanders and staff officers “to be wise

before the event,” he relies heavily on the history of war,

concentrating especially on the Great War and airpower’s role

in it. Most airmen of that era disdained history, perhaps

because it seemed to teach the wrong lessons for airpower.

MEILINGER

Responding to this tendency, Slessor wrote, “If there is one

attitude more dangerous than to assume that a future war will

be just like the last one, it is to imagine that it will be so

utterly different that we can ignore all the lessons of the last

one.”

One of the lessons of that war, as indeed of those in

the past four centuries, was that Britain had to maintain a

balance of power in Europe. Specifically, the security of the

country demanded that the low countries remain in safe

hands—an issue worth fighting for.

Slessor believed that the character of war had changed

dramatically. Unlike Douhet, he believed that trench

stalemate was over. The advent of the tank and airplane

meant that the static warfare of the western front was an

aberration. In the future, small maneuver armies would

dominate war. Clearly, his tour at Camberley had kept him

abreast of the latest developments in mechanized warfare.

addition—and not surprisingly—Slessor believed that airpower

would play a key, perhaps dominant, role in future war. He

saw it as the third revolution in warfare, behind gunpowder

and machine guns. However, air was the most important

development: although the first two allowed more efficient

killing on the battlefield, “AIR may stop men or their supplies

arriving at the battle-field at all” (emphasis in original).

fact, he saw airpower as the antidote to modern weapons of

surface warfare.

In keeping with the book’s focus of assuming a land

campaign, airpower’s role was “to assist and co-operate with

the army in the defeat of the enemy’s army, and of such air

forces as may be co-operating with it.”

As will soon become

clear, this translated into attacking the communications and

supply lines of the enemy forces—interdiction—rather than

conducting strategic air strikes against the enemy’s vital

centers. The first requirement for assisting the army, however,

was obtaining air superiority, because without it, ground

operations would fail. In fact, Slessor hinted that achieving air

superiority may of itself cause the enemy to surrender, “but

these are not the conditions which it is the object of this work

to examine.”

He realized, however, that air supremacy over

an entire theater was unlikely and unnecessary due to the

immensity of space. He therefore stressed the need for local

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

air superiority, but even this was difficult and required

constant maintenance. Air superiority was not a phase; it

required persistence.

Slessor also emphasized that winning the air superiority

campaign demanded initiative. Here he echoed the views of

his mentor, Trenchard, by noting the importance of morale.

One did not achieve victory by waiting for the enemy but by

striking first and hard.

Slessor did not advocate the

bombing of airfields, which he considered ineffective and at

best a temporary nuisance; nor did he see much utility in air

patrols. Such activities might prove useful, but the primary

means of destroying the enemy air force remained air combat.

One must bring the enemy air force to battle, but this could

be difficult. Unlike armies that had to fight in order to achieve

their objective of defeating the enemy army or preventing it

from overrunning their country, air forces could avoid battle

yet still bomb a country’s vital centers.

Thus, one need not choose between air superiority and

bombardment—one could wage both campaigns simultaneously.

This ability to conduct parallel—not merely sequential—

combat operations was one of the factors that differentiated

airpower from surface forces. Even so, Slessor remained

ambivalent about the air superiority campaign, arguing on the

one hand that it was necessary but on the other that one

should not see it as an end in itself. A line, fine though it

might be, clearly existed between aggressively waging the

battle for air superiority while also avoiding its distractions in

order to conduct a more lucrative bombing

Slessor posited a war in which the British army had

deployed to the Continent to secure the low countries from a

hostile power. The initial stages of that joint campaign were

therefore symbiotic: the army and navy secured a foothold and

established air bases, and the air force then protected the

surface forces from enemy attack. That done, one could carry

out a strategic air campaign against the enemy’s vital

centers.

Unfortunately, Slessor declined to discuss the

details of such an air campaign. Instead, he concentrated on

the preliminary joint campaign, largely because he believed

that airpower would not stop a major land assault by itself

and that hitting strategic targets would not take effect quickly

MEILINGER

enough to prevent the British army from being overwhelmed.

Therefore, air, land, and sea commanders had to cooperate to

stop and perhaps drive back an enemy offensive.

Nonetheless, Slessor’s general comments regarding a

strategic air campaign are interesting. He had difficulty

identifying the most lucrative targets; indeed, he recognized

that most countries had several centers of gravity that might

change over time. Unlike some theorists, he carefully avoided

equating strategic bombing with a mechanistic destruction of

target sets. One need not always obliterate the objective;

rather, neutralization for a specific time period could be

satisfactory. He used the example of a man’s windpipe: it was

not necessary to sever it; simply interrupting it for a few

minutes would achieve the same result.

Further, Slessor lent only tepid support to morale bombing.

Although he appreciated the importance of psychological

pressure, he saw the reduction of industrial capacity as both

more practical and more quantifiable. Also stressing the need

for industrial intelligence, he called for detailed technical

expertise to ensure effective targeting. In this regard, he was

obviously hinting at the concept then under consideration by

the American Air Corps—the analysis of industrial systems to

identify weak points or “bottlenecks.” In truth, these brief

insights into strategic air warfare are intriguing. It is

interesting to speculate on what type of book Slessor would

have written had he instructed at Andover rather than

Camberley.

But we must be content with the book Slessor did write. In

it, he focused on the theater—what we now call the

operational level of war—arguing that the neutralization of key

nodes at that level would prevent effective operations. He

decried people who advocated using airpower as “flying

artillery.” It was not a battlefield weapon; rather, he believed

that one should attack the enemy repeatedly, as far from the

battlefield as possible. In this regard, Slessor envisioned

airpower as the key element in sealing off the enemy’s forces

and strangling them into submission. In short, he promoted

interdiction as the primary air mission of air forces

cooperating in a land campaign. In this regard he tended to

favor supply interdiction (material and equipment) over force

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

interdiction (troops and combat vehicles), maintaining that

movement by rail and road was virtually impossible in

daylight for the side that had lost air superiority. One

probably could not cut off all supplies and communications

but could severely curtail them.

Moreover, as with strategic air warfare, he argued that the

goal should be paralysis—not destruction.

Significantly,

Slessor recognized that truly effective interdiction required

cooperation between air and ground units. He even opined

that some occasions required the detailing of ground forces to

support the air effort—a heretical belief among most ground

officers at the time. Finally, he argued that airpower must be

commanded and directed by an airman who was equal in

authority to the ground commander. These two individuals

and their staffs would collaborate in the design and

implementation of the theater commander’s overall plan.

Notably, he speculated that the theater commander could be

an airman.

Although Slessor cautioned against extensive use of

airpower in a tactical role, he did offer some guidelines for

occasions requiring such operations. The first requirement

was air superiority—as was the case with all air missions.

Second, even more than in interdiction operations, the air and

ground commanders had to coordinate their efforts closely—if

possible, their headquarters should be collocated. Because of

the proximity of friendly troops, one could not tolerate

mistakes. After careful planning, one could use airpower

tactically in three different situations: in attack to facilitate a

breakthrough; in pursuit to turn victory into rout; and in

defense to prevent an enemy breakthrough on the ground.

Slessor’s later career and writings make clear that he was

an advocate of strategic airpower. (One arrives at the same

conclusion after examining his attitude towards Trenchard, as

revealed in Air Power and Armies.) Indeed, several hints

dropped throughout his book suggest that he wanted to write

about strategic airpower. The fact that his army audience

would have none of it, however, compelled him to write a book

that assumed a land campaign. Air Power and Armies stands

as perhaps the best treatment of this subject written in

English before World War II.

MEILINGER

The book features several notable aspects: his detailed

discussion of air superiority—what it is, how one gains it, and

when one needs to maintain it; his emphasis on the need for

specialized air intelligence; and his detailed discussion of an

army’s center of gravity—its supply lines. Slessor argued that

one wasted airpower by using it merely as a tactical weapon

when cooperating in a land campaign; rather, airpower should

concentrate on the disruption, destruction, and neutralization

of enemy armaments and supplies—interdiction. Given his

penetrating examination—despite his fairly convoluted

prose—it is most unfortunate that Slessor did not write a

companion volume on strategic air war. (His many writings

after World War II are concerned primarily with nuclear

deterrence and the situation in Europe.)

In a sense, Slessor’s masterful volume served as a transition

between the RAF of the post–World War I era and the RAF of

the pre–World War II era. The rise of Nazi Germany, “the

ultimate potential enemy,” forced air leaders to begin planning

for a genuine military threat, not just an inconvenient

diplomatic nuisance as in the decade previously. As a

consequence, the RAF went through a period of frenzied

planning and expansion that would last the remainder of the

decade. Although the Air Ministry and the government tended

to focus on these various expansion schemes—fertile fields for

historians—the operational RAF went about its business of

thinking through the matter of war fighting. This effort

culminated in a new edition of AP 1300 written during peace

but published soon after the outbreak of war.

The new manual again stressed national will as the key to

war: “A nation is defeated when its people or Government no

longer retain their will to prosecute their war aim.”

Several

factors buttressed this will: the armed forces, manpower, the

economic system, and finances. The purpose of military forces

was, therefore, to defeat enemy forces in battle, starve the

people into submission through blockade, or instill a sense of

“war weariness” in them by disrupting their normal lives—

considered the true path to victory for airpower. As before, the

method advanced to effect this disruption was bombing the

enemy industrial and economic infrastructure, such as public

utilities, food and fuel supplies, transportation networks, and

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

communications. Hopefully, the destruction of such targets

would cause “a general undermining of the whole populace,

even to the extent of destroying the nation’s will to continue

the struggle.”

One notes the muted hope that bombing

would make a bloody land campaign unnecessary.

AP 1300 also increased its emphasis on air defense, finally

acknowledging the necessity and even desirability of both

active and passive measures. In truth, this trend had been in

motion for some years, largely imposed on the RAF from

without. The argument that the best defense was a good

offense fell out of favor as the Luftwaffe grew increasingly

powerful from 1935 onwards. Intelligence predictions regarding

the size of the German air force—and worse, its superior

production rate—forced Britain to reevaluate its air strategy.

At the same time, however, the British economy remained

depressed and unable to keep pace with German expansion.

In 1937 Thomas Inskip was appointed minister for the

coordination of defense, with guidance to check the rising

defense budget. Although often vilified for his stringent fiscal

policy in the face of a looming German threat, Inskip did

reorient military aircraft production. Three fighters could be

built for every bomber, so—given the possibilities offered by

the new communications warning net and especially the

dramatic breakthroughs in the field of radar—Inskip gave

priority to the production of fighter aircraft.

The notion that

bombers could strike virtually anywhere, anytime, from any

direction, and achieve tactical surprise was no longer viable:

bombers could be detected, intercepted, and stopped. The new

fighter planes on the horizon, the Hurricane and Spitfire—fast,

maneuverable, and heavily armed—promised to tip the

balance of the air battle once again against the bomber. As a

consequence, strong air defenses combined with hundreds of

new fighters were in place in England by 1940: Air Chief

Marshal Hugh Dowding’s Fighter Command was ready for the

Battle of Britain . The new war manual belatedly ratified these

developments.

As in previous manuals, AP 1300 took pains to stress that

although the civilian populace was more involved than ever in

the business of war, it was not, as such, a legitimate target.

Consequently, the manual rejected area bombing: “All air

MEILINGER

bombardment aims to hit a particular target,” and in every

case “the bombing crew must be given an exact target and it

must be impressed upon them that it is their task to hit and

cause material damage to that target.”

Nonetheless, even if

“the people” were not targets, “the workers” most certainly

were, because they put weapons in the hands of soldiers and

because they had a decisive grip on the actions of political

leaders. The point in attacking certain industries was thus not

only to destroy the tools with which the enemy waged war, but

to instill such fear in the people making the tools that they

simply refused to show up for work. Hence, one should attack

factories when the maximum number of workers are present.

This scrupulous regard for precise targeting of specific

military objectives was not just for public consumption. The

air targets committee in the Air Ministry looked closely at

potential target sets in Germany and prepared an extensive

list of suitable possibilities—specific military objectives such

as oil, gas, electricity, chemicals, explosives, nonferrous

metals, ferro alloys, the aircraft industry, iron and steel, roller

bearings, raw materials, transportation, and optical glass.

Seemingly, foodstuffs constituted an exception to this list, but

they were a traditional objective of naval blockade and thus

well established as a legitimate target in international law.

In addition, a classified study written in 1938 by the Air

Staff and endorsed by Air Commodore Slessor (now director of

plans), spelled out RAF bombing policy. The document noted

that no internationally agreed-upon laws regarding air warfare

existed—conferences convened since the turn of the century

had failed to reach agreement. Consequently, air warfare

tended to follow the same rules as did war at sea (which were

much less restrictive than those for land warfare). The key

legal tenet guiding air leaders forbade the deliberate bombing

of civilian populations: “A direct attack upon an enemy civil

population . . . is a course of action which no British Air Staff

would recommend and which no British Cabinet would

sanction.”

The Air Staff, however, worried that other countries did

not share Britain’s traditional respect for law. Specifically,

one could hardly rely upon Nazi Germany, which had driven

“a coach and four through half a dozen international

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

obligations,” to keep its word regarding the largely unwritten

rules of air bombardment. Britain must, therefore, maintain a

defensive and offensive air capability that would prove

effective, regardless of laws and agreements: “Expediency too

often governs military policy and actions in war.”

This

parting caveat was prophetic because expediency did in fact

later shape British bombing policy. But it seems clear that the

RAF leadership going into the war had drawn a clear line

regarding the issue. One should also note that at the same

time, lectures at Andover followed the line described above

almost exactly.

This policy carried over into the war.

The week before Germany invaded Poland, the CAS sent a

letter to Bomber Command stating RAF policy in the clearest

of terms: “We should not initiate air action against other than

purely military objectives in the narrowest sense of the word,

i.e., Navy, Army and Air Forces and establishments, and that

as far as possible we should confine it to objectives on which

attack will not involve loss of civil life.”

During the campaign

in France the following year, the CAS reiterated this policy in

a classified message to all RAF commanders: the intentional

bombing of civilian populations as such was illegal. One must

identify the objectives in advance, attack with “reasonable

care” to avoid undue loss of civilian lives in the vicinity of the

target, and observe the provisions of international law.

The CAS then elaborated on the thorny subject of what

precisely constituted a “military objective,” listing military

forces; works; fortifications; barracks; depots; supply dumps;

shipyards and factories engaged in the manufacture,

assembly, or repair of military material, equipment, or

supplies. Also included were power stations, oil refineries, and

storage installations, as well as lines of communications and

transportation serving military purposes. Following the

provisions of international law regarding land warfare, the

directive concluded that “provided the principles set out above

are observed [regarding the prohibition of deliberately

bombing the population] other objectives, the destruction of

which is an immediate military necessity, may be attacked for

particular reasons.”

To be sure, the motives for such restraint were not

completely noble. Years of fiscal stringency had left the RAF

MEILINGER

with a small and marginally capable force. Although up to the

task of air control, it lacked the mass and sophistication

required to mount a strategic air campaign against a major

power. The bewildering variety of expansion schemes that

began in the mid-1930s as a result of Luftwaffe growth only

confused matters in the short term by adding the requirement

for simultaneous growth and training in new equipment. As a

consequence, despite 20 years of doctrine that emphasized the

primacy of offensive airpower, the RAF found itself woefully

unprepared to conduct such operations once war broke out.

The RAF therefore was unwilling to throw the first stone when

it believed that the Luftwaffe had a larger supply of bricks

near at hand.

In addition, Britain—already acutely aware of

the necessity of maintaining the friendship and moral support

of the United States—knew that indiscriminate bombing would

quickly sour such relations.

Nonetheless, RAF doctrine and

policy throughout the interwar years—indeed, for the first year

of the war—consistently stressed the principle of avoiding

civilian noncombatants while concentrating on enemy

industry. Unfortunately, the propensity of RAF thinkers to

link this industrial targeting strategy with the morale of the

enemy nation caused untold confusion to outside observers

then and since.

There is a tendency to read the history of Bomber Command

in World War II backwards from Dresden in 1945 to Hugh

Trenchard in 1919. Because Air Chief Marshal Arthur Harris

carried out a ruthless and single-minded strategy of urban

area bombing and because he was a protégé of Trenchard,

many historians have seen a direct linkage between 1929,

when Trenchard retired, and the assumption of command by

Harris in 1942.

This connection seems plausible because

the common term tying them together was morale bombing.

Actually, the similarity is apparent rather than real.

Although RAF policy in the first year of the war followed the

guidelines noted above, the pressure of war soon forced

changes. France, indeed most of Europe, was now part of

Hitler’s empire; the British army had been thrown off the

Continent at Dunkirk—leaving its heavy machinery behind;

Axis forces were moving rapidly across North Africa; German

submarines were sinking British shipping in the Atlantic at an

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

alarming pace; London was suffering through the blitz; and

British bombers had suffered such heavy losses in daylight

that they had been driven to the relative safety of the night. In

short, Britain was alone, outnumbered, outgunned, and

desperate.

The choice of Arthur Harris to lead Bomber Command in

this dark period was pivotal. Like Trenchard, he was

single-minded in his determination. Seeing no alternative,

Harris initiated an urban bombing campaign against

Germany’s major cities, aiming to destroy German morale by

targeting residential areas where the workers lived. The

abysmal accuracy of Bomber Command at night would have

produced such area attacks anyway—intentional or not. Like

Trenchard in World War I, Harris persisted in this

strategy—even when greater accuracy became possible in

1944—with a stubbornness that earned him criticism by the

end of the war. Peace and the revelation of the destruction

leveled on Germany only exacerbated this feeling. As a result,

Trenchard and prewar RAF leaders have been tarred with the

urban bombing brush, although inaccurately.

Trenchard and his successors viewed the collapse of enemy

morale as the ultimate goal, but the mechanism used to

achieve that goal was the destruction or disruption of enemy

industry—a legitimate military target under the laws of war.

This belief was consistently reflected in the RAF’s doctrine

manuals, in the courses at the Staff College that its most

promising officers attended, in the major exercises the RAF

conducted in the 1920s and 1930s, and in the prewar

guidance of its senior leaders.

RAF doctrine, which expanded and codified Trenchard’s

beliefs, thus constituted a unique strain of airpower theory

that combined key concepts of the other two major schools of

strategic bombing in the interwar years—those of Douhet and

the instructors at the Air Corps Tactical School (ACTS) at

Maxwell Field, Alabama. Douhet also believed that the

ultimate objective in war was to destroy enemy morale, but he

preached that one should do this by bombing the people

directly with gas and incendiaries. But the officers at ACTS

chose to concentrate on breaking the capability of the enemy

MEILINGER

to wage war, implementing this strategy by targeting the

industrial infrastructure.

Quite simply, the RAF combined these two approaches,

choosing the Douhetian objective of morale and the ACTS

industrial targeting scheme. None of these three airpower

theories proved completely accurate in World War II. One

must remember, however, that the airplane was in its infancy

and that there was very little experience upon which to base a

theory of airpower. Airmen thus did the best they could,

examining the history of warfare and of airpower in the Great

War, calling upon their own aviation experience, and—most of

all—relying on their own logic and imagination, unconstrained

by temporary technological limitations.

The RAF thinker who emerges from the interwar years

looking most prescient is Jack Slessor. His major study,

though perhaps limited by external factors rather than his

own beliefs, is the most balanced and judicious of all the

treatises written about the new air weapon. The hope of air

advocates that land and sea forces would play but a minor

role in future war was, of course, not borne out, but Slessor

barely hinted at that possibility. Instead, he presumed a major

land war with a Continental power. In such a scenario,

airpower was, at best, primus inter pares. Given the

adolescent state of British airpower, this vision of future war

was quite realistic. Even so, Slessor built his ideas on the

shoulders of the man he respected and admired so deeply—

Hugh Trenchard, the man who sustained his service in its bleak

period after the Great War, presented a theory of strategic

airpower that identified enemy morale as the key target, and

then institutionalized those ideas through a series of doctrinal

manuals. These precepts were subsequently taught and refined

at another of Trenchard’s creations—the RAF Staff College.

Termed “the father of the RAF,” Trenchard deserved this title,

not only administratively and organizationally but also

philosophically.

Notes

1. Interestingly, Lt John C. Slessor flew the first nighttime interception

mission on 13 October 1915. He saw the zeppelin but never maneuvered

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

close enough to attack it. Marshal of the RAF Sir John Slessor, The Central

Blue: Recollections and Reflections (London: Cassell, 1956), 10–14.

2. The German navy lost 53 of 73 airships built during the war, and the

army lost 26 of 52. Approximately 49 percent of all aircrews assigned to

airships were lost during the war—the worst casualty rate of any branch,

including infantry. Peter Fritzsche, A Nation of Fliers: German Aviation and

the Popular Imagination (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press,

1992), 50.

3. Lt Gen Jan C. Smuts, “The Second Report of the Prime Minister’s

Committee on Air Organisation and Home Defence against Air Raids,” 17

August 1917, as quoted in Eugene M. Emme, ed., The Impact of Air Power

(Princeton, N.J.: Van Nostrand, 1959), 35.

4. There are many accounts of these squabbles, and none of the

principals emerge looking either statesmanlike or dignified. See especially

H. Montgomery Hyde, British Air Policy between the Wars, 1918–1939

(London: Heinemann, 1976); Andrew Boyle, Trenchard: Man of Vision

(London: Collins, 1962); and Frederick Sykes, From Many Angles (London:

George Harrap, 1942).

5. “Future Policy in the Air,” 22 September 1916, Trenchard Papers,

RAF Hendon, England, file CI/14. This memo was later published as a

Royal Flying Corps pamphlet titled “Offence versus Defence in the Air,”

October 1917; a copy is located in Brooke-Popham Papers, Liddell Hart

Archives, King’s College, London, file IX/5/4.

6. Ibid.

7. Brig Gen Sefton Brancker, the deputy director of military aeronautics,

made an astounding comment in this regard in a letter to Trenchard in

September 1916: “I rather enjoy hearing of our casualties as I am perfectly

certain in my own mind that the Germans lose at least half as much again

as we do.” Malcolm Cooper, The Birth of Independent Air Power (London:

Allen & Unwin, 1986), 75.

8. “A Review of the Principles Adopted by the Royal Flying Corps since

the Battle of the Somme,” RFC pamphlet, 23 August 1917, Brooke-Popham

Papers, Liddell Hart Archives, King’s College, London, file IX/3/2.

9. “Long Distance Bombing,” 28 November 1917, Trenchard Papers, RAF

Hendon, England, file I/9.

10. “The Scientific and Methodical Attack of Vital Industries,” 26 May

1918. This document is in the same file as the “Long Distance Bombing”

memo noted above but is a fragment of a larger, unspecified document and

is of a later date; see also “Memorandum on the Tactics to be Adopted in

Bombing the Industrial Centres of Germany,” 23 June 1918, Trenchard

Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file I/10/4.

11. “Bombing Germany: General Trenchard’s Report of Operations of

British Airmen against German Cities,” The New York Times Current

History, April 1919, 152. Although a strategy of a geographically dispersed

campaign appears to violate the principle of mass, Trenchard believed that

MEILINGER

his forces were too small to cause catastrophic damage in any event, so

opting for a psychological effect seemed wiser.

12. A list of all 350 strategic bombing missions conducted by the

Independent Force and its predecessors between October 1917 and the

armistice, excluding aerodrome attacks, is contained in H. A. Jones, The

War in the Air: Being the Story of the Part Played in the Great War by the

Royal Air Force, vol. 7, Appendices (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1937), 42–84.

13. “Memorandum on Future Air Organisation, Fighting Policy, and

Requirements in Personnel and Material,” 2 October 1917, Trenchard

Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file CI/14; “Long Distance Bombing”; and

“On the Bombing of Germany,” 23 June 1918, Trenchard Papers, RAF

Hendon, England, file I/9.

14. Transcript of interview between Trenchard and H. A. Jones, 11 April

1934, Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 8/179. This rationale is

also developed at some length in John C. Slessor, These Remain: A Personal

Anthology (London: Michael Joseph, 1969), 80–85.

15. Sykes, 558–61; and P. R. C. Groves, Behind the Smoke Screen

(London: Faber & Faber, 1934), 253–59. Groves was the RAF’s director of

flying operations under Sykes in 1919.

16. “The Future of the Air Force in National and Imperial Defence,” Air

Ministry pamphlet, March 1921, Brooke-Popham Papers, Liddell Hart

Archives, King’s College, London, file IX/5/11, 13–14. One should also note

that throughout most of the interwar period, the RAF received less than 20

percent of the defense budget.

17. Hugh Trenchard, memorandum to Henry Wilson, ca. 1920, Public

Records Office, Kew, London, file AIR 8/2.

18. Boyle, 348–51; B. McL Ranft, ed., The Beatty Papers, vol. 2, 1916–

1927 (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1993), 84; and Malcolm Smith, British Air

Strategy between the Wars (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 23. Naval air

was generally slighted while it was part of the RAF, and the Admiralty

complained that its legitimate aviation needs were not being met. It

therefore insisted that naval aircraft be returned to fleet control, which

indeed occurred in 1937.

19. “Notes on the History of the Employment of Air Power,” August

1935, Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 10/1367. For accounts

of these operations, see David E. Omissi, Air Power and Colonial Control:

The Royal Air Force, 1919–1939 (New York: Saint Martin’s, 1990); and Philip

A. Towle, Pilots and Rebels: The Use of Aircraft in Unconventional Warfare,

1919–1988 (London: Brassey’s, 1989). The surprising success of these

operations possibly fueled even further the RAF belief in the psychological

effects of bombing.

20. “Minutes of Meetings and Memoranda of Sub-Committee on the

Continental Air Menace,” December 1921–March 1922, Public Records

Office, Kew, England, file AIR 8/39.

21. “Staff Notes on Enemy Air Attack on Defended Zones in Great

Britain,” 28 May 1924, Trenchard Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

CII/3/177–227. On average, the German attacks had caused 65 casualties

per ton of bombs dropped in “crowded areas” and four casualties in

“sparse” areas. The RAF used the compromise figure of 50.

22. As quoted by Air Vice Marshal A. S. Barratt in “Air Policy and

Strategy,” Staff College lecture, 14 February 1938, RAF Hendon, England,

“16th Staff Course” file.

23. John Ferris, “The Theory of a ‘French Menace,’ Anglo-French

Relations and the British Home Defence Air Force,” Journal of Strategic

Studies 10 (March 1987): 66.

24. Hugh Trenchard, “Buxton Speech,” 13 April 1923, Trenchard

Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file II/5/1–57.

25. Hugh Trenchard, “Speech at Cambridge University,” 29 April 1925,

Trenchard Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file CII/3/177–227. The Air Staff

reviewed the threat from antiaircraft and concluded blithely that it was

insignificant. Based on experience in the war, guns expended over 11,000

shells to down a single aircraft. Not only did that rate wear out an average

of two gun barrels but if one added the cost of ground crews, lights, and so

forth, each downed plane cost the defender over £50,000. Moreover, the Air

Staff saw no improvements in artillery since the war, and increased aircraft

speed and altitude capability would compensate for any improvements in

the future. “Notes on Anti-Aircraft Gunnery,” November 1926, Trenchard

Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file CII/3/177–227.

26. “CAS Conference Minutes,” 10 July 1923, Public Records Office,

Kew, England, file AIR 2/1267; and “Air Staff Memo No. 11A,” March 1924,

Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 8/71.

27. Hugh Trenchard, “Notes for Address by CAS to the Imperial Defence

College on the War Aim of an Air Force,” 9 October 1928, Trenchard Papers,

RAF Hendon, England, file CII/4/1–47.

28. Hugh Trenchard, memorandum for the record [1923], Trenchard

Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file CII/19/1.

29. Hugh Trenchard, “The Employment of the Home Defence Air Force,”

3 February 1928, Trenchard Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file

CII/4/1–47.

30. Another, less formal, avenue for disseminating ideas on airpower

was through professional journals such as RUSI [Royal United Services

Institute] Journal and RAF Quarterly . However, it is difficult to determine if

RAF officers, especially senior leaders, ever read such journals. For a useful

overview of this secondary source, see Robin Higham, The Military

Intellectuals in Britain, 1918–1939 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers, 1966).

31. RAF Manual CD 22, Operations, July 1922, Public Records Office,

Kew, England, file AIR 10/1197, 5.

32. Ibid., 57.

33. Ibid., 58.

34. RAF Manual AP 1300, Royal Air Force War Manual, July 1928,

Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 10/1910, chap. 7. One should

also note that the manual’s cover stated that no reference would be made to

MEILINGER

the use of gas in war due to international “engagements” on the subject to

which Britain had subscribed.

35. Ibid., chap. 8.

36. Ibid.

37. Ibid.

38. “The Fallacies of ‘Inhumanity’ and ‘Rancour,’ ” Staff College lecture,

n.d., Bottomley Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B2244; see also “Air

Control: The Other Point of View,” Staff College lecture, May 1931,

Bottomley Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B2241; and “Psychological

Effects of Air Bombardment on Semi-Civilized Peoples,” 7 February 1924,

Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 8/71.

39. Hugh Trenchard, “The War Object of an Air Force,” 2 May 1928,

Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 9/8. A slightly different

version of this memo is found in the Trenchard Papers, RAF Hendon,

England, file CII/4/1–47.

40. Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, “Direct Air Action,” Staff College lecture, n.d.,

Bottomley Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B2274. Ludlow-Hewitt was

the commander in chief of RAF Bomber Command at the outbreak of World

War II.

41. Arthur Tedder, “Aim in Air Warfare,” Staff College lecture, n.d.,

Tedder Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B270.

42. This is the major theme of Uri Bialer’s The Shadow of the Bomber:

The Fear of Air Attack and British Politics, 1932–1939 (London: Royal

Historical Society, 1980).

43. One of the great surprises of RAF historiography is that the role of

the Staff College in doctrine formulation and education is scarcely

mentioned. The paucity of records probably explains this gap. Only

scattered documents and lectures remain, and no official history exists.

Allan D. English, however, has written a useful article (based on his

master’s thesis), “The RAF Staff College and the Evolution of British

Strategic Bombing Policy, 1922–1929,” Journal of Strategic Studies 16

(September 1993): 408–31. For a good overview, see Wing Commander R. A.

Mason, “The Royal Air Force Staff College, 1922–1972,” unpublished

manuscript in Staff College library, RAF Bracknell, England, 1972.

44. Mason, 9–12.

45. As noted above, the records of the Staff College (most are located in

the archives at RAF Hendon, England) are spotty. However, files for each

year contain a syllabus covering the entire program and an assortment of

lectures that were presented. In truth, the “archivist” seems to have used

no discernable system in determining which lectures to preserve; rather, he

evidently chucked whatever he found into the file. Nonetheless, reviewing

the files for each year gives one a reasonable insight into the curriculum in

general and the treatment of some individual subjects in particular.

46. Not all of the commandants’ lectures remain, but based on those

extant, the best are those of Air Marshals Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt (1927–30)

and Robert Brooke-Popham (1922–26).

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

47. Brooke-Popham had a large library of military history and theory

(over six hundred volumes), which he donated to the Staff College when he

left. He was an old-fashioned gentleman, and in 1922 he told his students,

“I hope I shall not be accused of harping too much on the question of

horses. I know there are good men who don’t hunt and bad men who do,

but I am certain that every man is improved by hunting or even by keeping

a horse and riding it.” Mason, 6.

48. Robert Brooke-Popham, “The Nature of War,” Staff College lecture, 6

May 1925, Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 69/6.

49. Robert Brooke-Popham, “Policy and Strategy,” Staff College lecture,

6 May 1925, Public Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 69/6.

50. Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, “The Object in Warfare,” Staff College lecture,

1928, Bottomley Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B2274.

51. Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, “Air Warfare,” Staff College lecture, 1928,

Bottomley Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B2274.

52. Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, “Direct Air Action,” Staff College lecture, 1928,

Bottomley Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B2274.

53. Ibid.

54. Arthur Tedder, “The War Aim of the Air Force,” Staff College lecture,

1934, Tedder Papers, RAF Hendon, England, file B270.

55. “Report on Air Exercises, 1932,” Public Records Office, Kew,

England, file AIR 10/1523. For exercises from other years, see also 1929,

AIR 20/157; 1931, AIR 9/64; 1932, AIR 20/172; 1934, AIR 2/1398; and

1935, AIR 9/64. For an overview of several of these exercises, see Scot

Robertson, The Development of RAF Strategic Bombing Doctrine, 1919–1939

(Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 1995).

56. Wing Commander John C. Slessor, Air Power and Armies (Oxford:

Oxford University Press, 1936), 214.

57. Ibid., x.

58. Slessor was awarded the Royal United Services Institute gold medal

for his essay “Combustion Engines in the British Army,” RUSI Journal 82

(August 1937): 463–84.

59. Slessor, Air Power and Armies, 200.

60. Ibid., 1. One finds further evidence of his broad view of joint

operations in his essay “The Co-Ordination of the Future Services,” RUSI

Journal 76 (November 1931): 752–55.

61. Slessor, Air Power and Armies, 28.

62. In today’s parlance, Slessor was advocating “offensive counterair

operations” versus the more passive “defensive counterair operations.”

63. Slessor, Air Power and Armies, 3.

64. This emphasis on paralysis sounds similar to the sort of thing then

being advocated by J. F. C. Fuller and B. H. Liddell Hart. More than likely,

Slessor was well acquainted with their ideas, based on his tour at

Camberley.

65. RAF Manual AP 1300, Royal Air Force War Manual, February 1940,

Public Records Office, Kew, England, file 10/2311, I/10.

MEILINGER

66. Ibid., VIII/12.

67. Sean Greenwood, “‘Caligula’s Horse’ Revisited: Sir Thomas Inskip as

Minister for the Co-Ordination of Defence, 1936–1939,” Journal of Strategic

Studies 17 (June 1994): 17–38.

68. AP 1300, February 1940, included a new chapter titled “The

Strategic Air Defensive”; Smith, 188–91; and Wesley K. Wark, The Ultimate

Enemy: British Intelligence and Nazi Germany, 1933–1939 (Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 1986), 35–58.

69. AP 1300, February 1940, VIII/39.

70. “Air Targets Intelligence, Germany: Vulnerability to Air Attack and

Lists of Most Important Targets,” September 1939, Public Records Office,

Kew, England, file AIR 20/284.

71. “The Restriction of Air Warfare,” 14 January 1938, Public Records

Office, Kew, England, file AIR 9/84, 22.

72. Ibid., 14; see also Slessor’s memo of 9 September 1938, Public

Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 2/3222.

73. H. A. Smith, “International Law,” Staff College lecture, 19 June

1939, RAF Hendon, England, “17th Staff Course” file.

74. Cyril Newall to Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, letter, 23 August 1939, Public

Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 75/8.

75. Message, CAS, to all air officers commanding, 4 June 1940, Public

Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 8/283.

76. Ibid.

77. The sorry state of Bomber Command at the beginning of World War

II is well documented in Neville Jones, The Beginnings of Strategic Air Power:

A History of the British Bombing Force, 1923–39 (London: Frank Cass,

1987).

78. John Slessor, memorandum to CAS, 9 September 1938, Public

Records Office, Kew, England, file AIR 2/3222.

79. For this interpretation, see Neville Jones, cited above; Anthony

Verrier, The Bomber Offensive (New York: Macmillan, 1968); Barry Powers,

Strategy without Slide Rule (London: Croom Helm, 1976); Max Hastings,

Bomber Command (New York: Dial Press, 1979); Malcolm Smith, British Air

Strategy between the Wars (Oxford: Clarendon, 1984); and Alan J. Levine,

The Strategic Bombing of Germany, 1940–1945 (Westport, Conn.: Praeger,

1992).

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Chapter 3

Molding Airpower Convictions:

Development and Legacy of William

Mitchell’s Strategic Thought

Lt Col Mark A. Clodfelter

To many of his adversaries, Brig Gen William “Billy”

Mitchell was a renegade chasing a will-o’-the-wisp; to many of

his admirers, he was a brilliant theorist whose notion of an

independent air force guaranteed America’s national security.

The real Mitchell lay somewhere in between. Intensely

self-centered and supremely confident, he was consumed by

his beliefs, and his zeal ultimately cost him his career.

Nonetheless, his message became a beacon for American

airmen who endorsed service autonomy and proclaimed that

airpower could achieve decisive results in war. More than any

other individual, he was responsible for molding the airpower

convictions that would serve as the doctrinal cornerstones of

the United States Air Force.

Perhaps Mitchell’s most lasting contribution to the

development of American airpower was his welding the notion

of air force autonomy to a progressive view of “independent”

air operations, such as strategic bombing, that aimed to

achieve independent results rather than simply support land

or sea forces. He proclaimed that bombers could win wars by

destroying an enemy nation’s war-making capability and will

to fight, and that doing so would yield a victory that was

quicker and cheaper than one obtained by surface forces. The

key to obtaining victory through airpower lay in establishing

an autonomous air force, free of control by surface

commanders and led by airmen possessing special expertise.

Those airmen determined an enemy state’s vulnerabilities and

then massed bombers against those weaknesses.

For Mitchell, these ideas developed gradually, as a result of

his World War I experience and the relationships he

established with British air marshal Sir Hugh Trenchard and,

to a lesser extent, with the Italian general Giulio Douhet.

Mitchell emerged from the war with considerable experience as

a pilot and a combat air commander, which greatly enhanced

his stature among the coterie of air officers who adopted his

beliefs and continued his fight for service independence after

he left the military in early 1926. By the time he retired, he

had left an indelible mark on the people who not only would

lead the crusade for independence, but also would serve as the

leaders of the new United States Air Force.

Mitchell was an apt choice to serve as the messiah of

American airpower. Brimming with confidence in any

situation, he could charm most audiences, often by relying on

his fluent French or his expert polo. Yet, his overwhelming

self-assurance did not stem entirely from expertise. Mitchell

was a driven man, a man on a mission, a man with little time

to waste. He wrote his mother in December 1919 that he was

“practically the only one that can bring about a betterment of

our national defense at this time” and noted with pride in his

diary on Christmas eve five years later, “Supposed to be a

half-holiday, but I worked hard all day in the office

nevertheless.”

People who interfered with his promotion of

airpower—or his boundless ego—incurred his wrath. “Mitchell

tried to convert his opponents by killing them first,” observed

his wartime colleague, Hugh Trenchard.

During the war,

Mitchell’s vanity produced bitter and largely unnecessary

clashes with fellow airmen Benjamin “Benny” Foulois and

Edgar “Nap” Gorrell, both of whom, he believed, had snubbed

him after obtaining high Air Service positions.

Mitchell’s birth in 1879 into the cream of American society

contributed to his exaggerated view of his own self-worth. (He

was born in Nice, France, where his parents were

vacationing.) With a US senator for a father and a grandfather

who had been a banker and railroad tycoon, he possessed ties

to leaders in both government and industry. Moreover, his

father’s service in the Civil War produced in Billy a martial

spirit that manifested itself in 1898, when war with Spain

erupted. Mitchell, only 18, enlisted as a private in his father’s

old regiment, but almost immediately the senator’s

connections secured him a commission in the Signal Corps.

Arriving in Cuba in time to witness the surrender of the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Spanish garrison, Mitchell remained in occupation duty for

seven months before transferring to the Philippines. Service in

the islands, America’s first major overseas possession, proved

intensely interesting and exciting for the young lieutenant.

Letters to his family describe with verve the exotic jungle duty,

chasing rebels and pacifying the countryside. Given special

attention are various hunting and fishing expeditions,

firefights with “marauders,” and a nasty bout of malaria.

Clearly, Mitchell relished the strenuous, outdoor life of an

Army officer on remote duty.

After a brief visit to China during the Boxer Rebellion, as

well as stops in Japan, India, and Europe, Mitchell returned

to Washington. In July 1901, Brig Gen Adolphus Greely, chief

of the Signal Corps, then posted the 20-year-old officer to

Alaska, which was at that point largely uninhabited

wilderness, but the Army sought to tie it closer to the lower

states via telegraph. Mitchell’s task was to string the

necessary lines across this vast area. He later wrote of these

experiences in an account that is both exciting and

insightful.

Alaska was a wild, open, forbidding, and

unexplored country. Billy obviously delighted in the challenge

of building a signal system in the dead of winter, when the

temperature often dipped to 70 degrees below zero—a

challenge that others had attempted unsuccessfully. The odd

characters he met and lived with during the two years spent

in the north laying two thousand miles of telegraph wire make

for enjoyable reading.

More importantly, Mitchell’s Alaska writings give insights

into his personality. Although his tours in the tropics and the

arctic seem to stand in stark contrast, in actuality they

present a similar portrait. The Billy Mitchell that emerges from

these early years is a restless, tireless, and self-confident man

who welcomed responsibility. Solitude did not bother him. On

the other hand, those assignments also fostered, by necessity,

a sense of independence. Isolated from his superiors for weeks

at a time, Mitchell learned to follow his own counsel and be

his own boss. This proclivity for independent action would

become one of his most prominent and troublesome traits.

During his last few months in Alaska, Mitchell began

studying a subject that was creating a stir within the Signal

CLODFELTER

Corps—aviation. He learned the fundamentals of the new field

quickly, and in 1905, while an instructor at Fort Leavenworth,

Kansas, Captain Mitchell wrote a field manual dealing with

communications for the Army. Although most of the manual

was a pedestrian description of Signal Corps organization and

equipment, the author noted the growing importance of balloons

in the corps. The Germans, he wrote, had a significant balloon

section attached to their army that could provide valuable

reconnaissance information, via photography, to ground

commanders. He then offered that rigid airships—dirigibles—

were under development and were far more capable than

tethered balloons. Besides simple reconnaissance work over

the front lines, they could drop explosives on fortifications and

even scout for the Navy. He concluded with a rather

remarkable prophecy: “Conflicts no doubt will be carried on in

the future in the air, on the surface of the earth and water, and

under the earth and water.”

Written barely a year after the

Wright brothers’ first flight, this statement presaged Mitchell’s

views on air and submarine warfare in the decades ahead.

Mitchell’s Signal Corps service both hindered and helped

his future aviation career. On the one hand, signals

officers—especially those like Mitchell, who had not attended

West Point—seldom rose to high rank in the Army and were

treated with far less deference than were officers from the

combat arms of infantry, cavalry, and artillery. As a result,

brother officers could dismiss Mitchell as a dilettante and

refuse to take his ideas on warfare seriously. On the other

hand, the close association with technology—the Signal Corps

was a leader in this area within the Army—was of great

importance to the new field of aviation. This technical bent

manifested itself in Mitchell’s later predictions regarding such

exotic innovations as cruise missiles, glide bombs, jet

propulsion, supersonic flight, and space travel. Although such

prophecies often earned wry smiles at the time, he was proven

correct in a surprisingly short period of time.

Mitchell’s main focus, however, did not immediately turn to

visions of airpower. After assignments once again in Cuba and

the Philippines, in 1912, at age 32, he became the youngest

officer on the Army’s General Staff. As the lone Signal Corps

representative, he was responsible for appraising its fledgling

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

aviation—which consisted of four aircraft in various states of

repair. To gain insight, he called upon Lt Henry H. “Hap”

Arnold, an instructor pilot at the Signal Corps’s aviation

school at College Park, Maryland.

The two established a close

friendship that endured until Mitchell’s death in 1936, and

their ties would have significant consequences for the

development of American airpower. Arnold testified on

Mitchell’s behalf at his 1925 court-martial and would be

“banished” to Fort Riley, Kansas, for continuing to spout

Mitchell’s beliefs after the hearing; as the commanding general

of the Army Air Forces during World War II, he would remain

committed to Mitchell’s notions. Initially, however, Arnold

provided aviation expertise to Mitchell, who had not yet

learned to fly.

Nonetheless, at this stage, Mitchell was not yet sold on the

efficacy of aviation. In 1913, when Cong. James Hay proposed

a bill that would have created an “air corps” equivalent in

stature to the infantry, cavalry, or artillery, Mitchell balked.

He reviewed the proposal and determined that aviation was

essential to Signal Corps reconnaissance and communication.

“The offensive value of this thing has yet to be proved,” he

concluded.

Yet, Mitchell was intrigued by aviation, and the outbreak of

war in Europe heightened his interest in the airplane’s

military potential. After finishing his General Staff assignment

in June 1916, he became deputy head of the Signal Corps

Aviation Section and was promoted to major. He then took

advantage of a provision in the National Defense Act of 1916

that lifted the ban on flight training for servicemen over 30

(Mitchell was 36). From September 1916 to January 1917, he

paid a dollar a minute for 1,470 minutes of off-duty flying

instruction at the Curtiss Aviation School in Newport News,

Virginia.

Mitchell’s flying “expertise” likely caused the War

Department to send him to Europe as an aeronautical

observer,

and he arrived in Paris four days after America’s

declaration of war on the Central Powers. Two weeks later, he

spent 10 days at the front lines observing the progress of

French general Robert Nivelle’s disastrous offensive and

visiting French aviation units. He recalled his thoughts after

first viewing the deadlock of trench warfare from the air:

CLODFELTER

A very significant thing to me was that we could cross the lines of

these contending armies in a few minutes in our airplane, whereas the

armies had been locked in the struggle, immovable, powerless to

advance, for three years. To even stick one’s head over the top of a

trench invited death. This whole area over which the Germans and

French battled was not more than sixty miles across. It was as though

they kept knocking their heads against a stone wall, until their brains

were dashed out. They got nowhere, as far as ending the war was

concerned.

In May, Mitchell visited the headquarters of Maj Gen Hugh

Trenchard, commander in the field of Britain ’s Royal Flying

Corps (RFC). Mitchell arrived abruptly, wearing an

extravagant uniform that he had designed himself, but his

unbridled exuberance persuaded the general, who was

“decided in manner and very direct in speech,” to give him a

three-day dose of RFC operations and Trenchard philosophy.

Mitchell was particularly impressed by Trenchard’s

commitment to a single, unified air command that would

allow him to “hurl a mass of aviation at any one locality

needing attack.” For the British air leader, a tightly controlled,

continuous aerial offensive was the key to success, and

assigning air units to individual ground commanders for defense

was a mistake. Trenchard highlighted the RFC’s General

Headquarters (GHQ) Brigade, a force designed to destroy the

German army’s means of supply and reinforcement but which

possessed too few aircraft to do so in the spring of 1917. He

argued that airpower should attack as far as possible into the

enemy’s country, noting that the development of new

airplanes with greater ranges would make Berlin a viable

target. He did not, however, contend during his first encounter

with Mitchell that the quickest way to defeat the German army

was through an air offensive aimed at the German nation.

Although some officers in the RFC called for a “radical air

strategy” against the German homeland, he remained focused

on using airpower to defeat the German army on the western

front. Nonetheless, Mitchell emerged from his initial contact

with Trenchard profoundly affected by the general’s insights

and convinced that an aerial offensive was a key to winning

the war.

As a result of observing Allied operations, Mitchell proposed

dividing the air contingent of the American Expeditionary

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Force (AEF) into categories of “tactical” and “strategical”

aviation. He made his proposal to Gen John J. Pershing’s

chief of staff, Brig Gen James G. Harbord, who arrived in

France with the commanding general in mid-June 1917.

“Tactical” aviation would consist of squadrons attached to

divisions, corps, or armies and would operate as any other

combat arm. In contrast, “strategical” aviation “would be

bombardment and pursuit formations and would have an

independent mission very much as independent cavalry used

to have. . . . They would be used to carry the war well into the

enemy’s country.”

This mission, he insisted, could have “a

greater influence on the ultimate decision of the war than any

other arm.”

Soon after receiving Mitchell’s plan, Pershing selected a

board of officers to determine the proper composition for AEF

aviation. Because Mitchell was the senior American aviator in

Europe, the general made him chief of the newly created Air

Service, which had replaced the Signal Corps as the Army’s

air organization in the AEF.

Mitchell’s appointment did not,

however, guarantee his proposal’s acceptance. On 11 July,

Pershing outlined a comprehensive plan for AEF organization

that authorized 59 squadrons of tactical aircraft for service

with the field armies. The plan made no mention of an

independent force for “strategical” operations.

Pershing’s failure to approve the proposal caused Mitchell to

redouble his efforts. In August 1917 he asked the AEF’s

intelligence branch to provide information on strategic targets

in Germany and later received a list of industrial targets in the

Ruhr from the French.

His staff also explored in more detail

the possibilities of bombing Germany. His officers performed

this activity in relative splendor, for Mitchell chose the

Château de Chamrandes, a magnificent hunting lodge built by

Louis XV, as his headquarters.

He was always flamboyant.

One of his more capable staff officers was Nap Gorrell, a

26-year-old major whom Mitchell had selected to head the Air

Service Technical Section. Gorrell directed the effort that

ultimately produced the first American plan for a strategic air

campaign. This plan would reflect Mitchell’s ideas, gleaned

largely from Trenchard, about airpower’s potential to destroy

the German army’s means to fight.

CLODFELTER

By the time Gorrell completed the plan in November 1917,

Mitchell’s focus had changed from strategic air warfare to that

designed to provide the Army with direct support. In October

Mitchell, now a colonel, left Chamrandes to become Air

Service commander in the Zone of the Advance. The

remainder of his assignments before the war ended—chief of

Air Service, First Army; chief of Air Service, I Corps; chief of

Air Service, 1st Brigade; once again chief of Air Service, First

Army; and finally, chief of Air Service, Army Group—would

also require him to provide direct air support to Army

movements on the western front. Although after the war

Mitchell would berate Pershing’s staff for “trying to handle

aviation as an auxiliary of some of the other branches, instead

of an independent fighting arm,”

such criticisms during the

conflict were infrequent.

In February 1918, as chief of Air Service, I Corps, he argued

that the first mission of offensive airpower must be the

destruction of the enemy’s air force. Thereafter, bombing

operations

should be essentially tactical in their nature and directed against

active enemy units in the field which will have a direct bearing on

operations during this Spring and Summer, rather than a piece-meal

attack against large factory sites and things of that nature. The

factories, if completely destroyed, would undoubtedly have a very

far-reaching effect, but to completely demolish them is a tremendously

difficult thing, and, furthermore, even if they were ruined, their effect

would not be felt for a long period of time (possibly a year) upon the

fighting of their army.

“The Air Service of an army is one of its offensive arms,” he

stated after taking command in the Zone of the Advance:

“Alone it cannot bring about a decision. It therefore helps the

other arms in their appointed missions.”

Near the end of the

war, Mitchell demonstrated his ability to manage a large

operation by massing fifteen hundred Allied aircraft, most

supplied by the French and British, to back Pershing’s drive

at Saint-Mihiel. Tactically, the operation was a great success

and added enormously to Mitchell’s confidence and reputation

within the Air Service.

Mitchell displayed strategic creativity as well. In October

1918, he proposed to Pershing that Handley Page bombers

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

drop the 1st Infantry Division by parachute behind German

lines at Metz. Simultaneously, the Allies would attack along

the front, catching the Germans in a deadly vise. Mitchell

stated that the British bombers could easily carry 10 to 15

soldiers each and could later parachute supplies to them.

Afterwards, he claimed that Pershing tentatively approved the

plan, but the war ended before it could be implemented.

Although Pershing was probably not as sanguine about the

plan’s prospects as Mitchell believed, the idea was highly

original. Further, it indicated that Mitchell’s airpower

emphasis remained on the land battle.

Once assured of a continued American advance on the

ground, however, Mitchell’s focus returned to the possibilities

of strategic bombing. As long as the Army’s progress remained

uncertain, he devoted his full energies to providing it with

immediate air support. Of course, Mitchell’s ego had much to

do with his pragmatic approach to airpower—he craved a

combat command, and the only combat air commands

available were those attached to Army headquarters. Still, by

the summer of 1918, he realized that America’s major

contribution to the Allied advance would be made by the

ground echelons of the AEF and that air support could

enhance their impact.

Had the war continued into 1919, Mitchell, assured of a

continuing American advance on the ground, planned an

aerial assault against the interior of Germany. “I was sure that

if the war lasted, air power would decide it,” he wrote after the

armistice.

According to his memoirs, he planned to combine

incendiary attacks with poison gas to destroy crops, forests,

and livestock. This air offensive, he mused, “would have

caused untold sufferings and forced a German surrender.”

Yet, the likelihood of Mitchell’s vision becoming reality was

remote. On 4 November 1918, Secretary of War Newton D.

Baker told Gen Peyton March, Army chief of staff, to notify the

Air Service that the United States would not conduct any

bombing that “has as its objective, promiscuous bombing

upon industry, commerce, or population, in enemy countries

disassociated from obvious military needs to be served by

such action.”

Moreover, in early January 1919, Mitchell

revealed that his notion of strategic bombing had come to

CLODFELTER

resemble Gorrell’s plan for bombing key German war

industries. In a treatise entitled “Tactical Application of

Military Aeronautics,” he argued that the main value of

bombardment would come from “hitting an enemy’s great

nerve centers at the very beginning of the war so as to

paralyze them to the greatest extent possible.”

That the war ended before American bombers had the

chance to bomb German soil proved significant. Production

deficiencies had prevented the first squadron of American

night bombers from arriving at the front until 9 November

1918. Since manufacturing problems had stymied the dream

of defeating Germany through American airpower, the dream

endured intact. Mitchell, Gorrell, and other Air Service officers

could speculate about the probable effect that a bomber

offensive would have had on the outcome of the war and could

blame the lack of aircraft as a reason why the offensive never

materialized. Such difficulties could be overcome. Air officers

now were aware of Gorrell’s postwar admonition that “money

and men could not make an air program over night,”

and

they would make amends.

For Mitchell, the prospects of applying airpower independently,

rather than in support of the Army, gradually merged with the

notion of an air force separate from Army control. In July

1918, he insisted that the chief of the Air Service, rather than

the Army’s General Staff, should direct the Air Service’s GHQ

Reserve, the name given to the phantom force of bombers that

never materialized. He based his argument on the need for

unity of command, which would allow the Air Service chief to

concentrate all available airpower in a critical area for

maximum impact. His plea went unheeded.

In June, Pershing’s chief of staff, Maj Gen James W.

McAndrew, admonished air officers who stressed “independent”

air operations: “It is therefore directed that these officers be

warned against any idea of independence and that they be

taught from the beginning that their efforts must be closely

coordinated with those of the remainder of the Air Service and

those of the ground army.”

Mitchell believed that such

nonflyers had little appreciation for the airplane’s unique

capabilities, and he bemoaned their efforts to restrict aviation

to battlefield support. He stated that Army officers—with the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

sole exception of Maj Gen Hunter Liggett, who had commanded

First Army—did not know what airpower meant.

The independent streak noted in Mitchell’s early career

manifested itself in France in his dealings with his superior,

Brig Gen Benny Foulois, one of the Army’s first and most

accomplished pilots—indeed, the Wright brothers themselves

had taught him to fly in 1909. While Mitchell served on the

General Staff in 1916, Foulois led the 1st Aero Squadron on

the Mexican border in pursuit of the bandit Pancho Villa. Yet,

when Foulois arrived in France in November 1917 to take

charge of American air operations, Mitchell—who had been in

place for six months and thus felt he should be granted

seniority—was outraged and did not try to hide his feelings. In

his memoirs, he referred to Foulois as a “nonflyer” and

“carpetbagger” who imposed his authority without taking into

consideration Mitchell’s experience in the theater. Mitchell,

though, had learned to fly barely two years previously and still

required the services of another pilot whenever he took to the

air. For his part, Foulois was dismayed by Mitchell’s reaction

and in June 1918 wrote Pershing of Mitchell’s “hostile and

insubordinate attitude,” adding that his actions were

“extremely childish” and “entirely unbecoming of an officer of

his age, rank and experience.”

Pershing grew weary of such sniping and directed his old

friend and West Point classmate, Maj Gen Mason Patrick, to

command the Air Service. Although Patrick was an engineer

and knew little of aviation matters, Pershing selected him for

his leadership and managerial ability. The commanding

general’s guidance was succinct: there were some fine people

down there in the air arm, but they were “running around in

circles.” He wanted Patrick to make them go straight.

This

episode was not the last time Mitchell’s strong personality

would cause problems. Most unfortunately, it put him at odds

with an airman, Foulois, who was as devoted to the cause of

airpower as Mitchell himself.

In the aftermath of the Great War, Mitchell began to refine

his ideas on airpower. His views were intimately tied to the

concept of an independent air force, and they also displayed

the vestiges of progressivism that remained in postwar

America.

Far more ambitious than his muckraker

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predecessors, Mitchell aimed to reform the most violent of

man’s activities—war. Rifled artillery, the machine gun, and

poison gas had made war an endless nightmare that killed

millions, as typified by the unremitting fury of the western

front. Technology was the demon responsible for the

slaughter, but, Mitchell believed, technology was also the key

to salvation. The bomber would be the instrument of change.

Not only would it prevent a naval force from attacking the

United States—as he attempted to demonstrate by sinking the

German battleship Ostfriesland with Air Service bombers off

the Virginia Capes in July 1921—it would obviate trench

warfare, achieving a victory that was quicker, cheaper, and

hence more humane than one gained by ground combat. The

wartime application of airpower would, Mitchell contended,

“result in a diminished loss of life and treasure and will thus

be a distinct benefit to civilization.”

His unabashed faith that airpower had altered the nature of

war caused him to demand an air force separate from Army or

Navy control, to guarantee its proper use. Moreover, this

separate air force had to be commanded by an airman. In

1925 he testified before the Morrow Board that “the one thing

that has been definitely proved in all flying services is that a

man must be an airman to handle air power. In every instance

of which I have known or heard the result of placing other

than air officers in charge of air power has ended in failure.”

Mitchell’s belief that air warfare was unique complemented his

conviction that only a distinctive class of combatants could

wage it. He often referred to a “community of airmen” and the

“air-going people” who thought and acted differently than their

earthbound counterparts.

His vision was one of aerial knights

engaged in a chivalrous contest and supported by the

population at large. This romantic notion was both incongruous

and appealing after the horrors of trench warfare.

Much like the muckrakers who preceded him, Mitchell took

his case directly to the American public: “Changes in military

systems come about only through the pressure of public

opinion or disaster in war.”

In his mind, surface officers

were too conservative and hidebound to make the changes

necessary to wage modern war. As a consequence, Mitchell

aimed for the American people to compel the country’s

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

political leadership to create an independent air force. Many of

his writings appeared in the popular press—not the

professional military journals—because his intended audience

was not the officer corps. In the aftermath of the “War to End

All Wars,” however, he found that his message could not

persuade a populace beset by isolationism. Still, his

progressive notions endured among airmen and provided the

foundations for the bombing doctrine they developed during

the interwar years.

After the armistice, Mitchell began his airpower crusade in

earnest. Although a recognized war hero—he had won the

Distinguished Service Cross and the Distinguished Service

Medal, as well as several foreign decorations—his quick

tongue and steadfast beliefs prevented him from commanding

the Air Service. He therefore had to settle for assistant chief,

which, significantly, carried with it a brigadier general’s rank.

Most officers had risen rapidly to high rank during the war,

only to sink just as quickly to their “permanent” rank after the

war ended and demobilization began. Foulois, for example,

reverted to major, and Major General Patrick to the rank of

colonel. Mitchell was, therefore, extremely fortunate to keep

his star. Nonetheless, he stubbornly refused to cater to his Air

Service chief, Maj Gen Charles T. Menoher, an infantryman

who had led the 42d “Rainbow” Division in World War I.

Despite Menoher’s warning, Mitchell illicitly published his

report of the 1921 Ostfriesland sinking. In the resulting power

struggle, Menoher resigned in protest, left the Air Service, and

returned to the infantry (later he would be promoted to

lieutenant general).

Menoher’s successor was Mason Patrick, who was promoted

back to major general and once again called to keep the

rambunctious Mitchell in line. A wise choice, Patrick learned

to fly at age 60 to enhance his standing with his subordinates

and to display his mettle. Upon assuming command, he

notified Mitchell that he would be chief in deed as well as

name. When Mitchell responded with an offer of resignation,

Patrick told him that the offer would be accepted. Mitchell

reconsidered.

Patrick realized his deputy’s brilliance and

even came to share his views on an independent air force, but

he did not appreciate Mitchell’s unorthodox methods of

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pursuing his goal. Cleverly, Patrick sent Mitchell to inspect

European air forces to prevent him from disrupting the

Washington Naval Conference of 1922. During this visit, he

met and exchanged ideas with leading European airmen,

including Giulio Douhet in Italy. When he returned to

Washington and began making noise again, Patrick

dispatched him to the Pacific in early 1924 on a similar

mission.

During his Pacific trip—a “honeymoon” with his new wife,

Elizabeth—Mitchell visited the Philippines, Dutch East Indies,

Siam, India, China, Korea, and Japan. Throughout, he was

intrigued by the role airpower would no doubt play should the

United States have to fight in that part of the world. Japan

loomed as a possible enemy, and the American Embassy in

Tokyo told him that he could not visit the country in an

official capacity. He and his wife traveled extensively as

“tourists,” however, and his observations on the Japanese

typified the American racism prevalent at the time:

The policy of the United States and, in fact, all of the white countries

having their shores washed by the waters of the Pacific Ocean, is to

keep their soil, their institutions, and their manner of living free from

the ownership, the dominion, and the customs of the Orientals who

people the western shores of this the greatest of all oceans. . . .

Eventually in their search for existence the white and yellow races will

be brought into armed conflict to determine which shall prevail.

Mitchell added his thoughts about airpower’s role in a

future Pacific war to his account of the journey. He believed

that the value of aircraft carriers was practically nil “because

not only can they not operate efficiently on the high seas but

even if they could they cannot place sufficient aircraft in the

air at one time to insure a concentrated operation.”

thought that land-based aircraft were the key to dominating

Pacific island groups and might enable the Japanese to

launch a surprise attack on American forces in the Hawaiian

Islands. Mitchell contended that only an opposing air force

could stop such an aerial assault. Other defensive measures,

like cannon and barrage balloons, acted “only to give a false

sense of security very much [like] what the ostrich must feel

when he hides his head in the sand.”

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Despite his comment regarding the limited value of aircraft

carriers, Mitchell was ambivalent on the subject. The only

American carrier then in commission was the converted collier

Langley, a poor excuse for a symbol of maritime might. The

idea behind the Langley was another matter. Initially, Mitchell

was much taken by the prospect of putting aircraft aboard

ships that traveled with the fleet. Indeed, he believed that

their presence was essential, theorizing that vessels of all sizes

were hopelessly vulnerable to air attack. Because only aircraft

could defeat other aircraft, the defensive solution was

self-evident. “Airplane carriers,” as he called them, were the

means to provide a moveable cloak of air superiority over the

fleet. Once carrier aircraft won “command of the air,” they

could then be used to attack enemy vessels. He speculated

that this climactic air battle would occur as much as two

hundred miles from the floating bases, “where hostile gun fire

would play no part whatsoever, and where [our] own navy

would run no risk.”

Mitchell maintained this stance for

several years, even arguing at his court-martial in 1925 that

the Navy should build carriers that were large enough to carry

one hundred bombers or one hundred pursuit aircraft . His

published articles reiterated this suggestion, even hailing the

building of the carriers Lexington and Saratoga as a step

forward for naval aviation.

This attitude soon changed.

By 1928 Mitchell had completely turned his back on

airplane carriers, now seeing them as little more than

expensive floating targets, “so vulnerable that even a small

bomb will put them out of business.” In fact, the carrier was

not only helpless, it was actually harmful because it gave an

illusion of progress where none actually existed: “The Naval

Airplane Carrier is merely an EXPENSIVE AND USELESS

LUXURY used principally as propaganda by the Naval Services

to cover up the fact that they have NO adequate defense

against aircraft” (emphasis in original), he argued in 1928.

Two years later, Mitchell derided the carriers as merely a

“delusion” of the “Navyists” who were attempting to save their

service with outmoded schemes.

Why the change of heart? In part, Mitchell had decided that

the solution to the air defense of the fleet rested with airships.

With an optimism that was totally unfounded, he envisioned

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dirigibles as capable of traveling thousands of miles, in all

kinds of weather, while also serving as airborne platforms for

pursuit aircraft. Although some airships had launched and

recovered pursuit planes, the idea was a technological dead

end. Both the Army and Navy were out of the airship business

by the mid-1930s.

Perhaps Mitchell hoped that Congress would establish a

unified air force including both Army and Navy air. He had

called for such an organization since 1919. The model for this

scheme existed in Britain , where the Royal Air Force maintained

control of naval aviation, even that deployed at sea on aircraft

carriers. In an article written in 1920, Mitchell called for

“floating airdromes” under air force control, which would protect

the American coast. This development would make airpower the

first line of American defense rather than naval power.

As time passed, Mitchell realized that an independent air

force would not appear quickly and that the creation of big

carriers like the Lexington and Saratoga posed a threat to

unification. The Navy was becoming self-sufficient in airpower.

Hence, he felt the need to denigrate carriers, portraying them

as expensive, vulnerable, and ineffective. His efforts were futile

and, paradoxically, gave a healthy boost to naval aviation by

alerting the admiralty to the need for air superiority over the

fleet. General Menoher’s comment at the time of the

Ostfriesland sinking—“I guess maybe the navy will get its

airplane carriers now”—had become an ironic prophecy.

Although Mitchell’s foreign visits expanded his airpower ideas,

the trips failed to curb his penchant for seeking public support

for his notions. He was certain that the Army leadership would

never endorse his desire for air force autonomy because his

beliefs clashed with the Army’s traditional views on airpower’s

“proper” role in war; thus, he appealed to the American

populace. He understood full well the Army’s desire to guarantee

that it received adequate air support for its ground forces—he

had provided that backing in France during the war, and he did

not dismiss the need for it afterwards. Indeed, in his writings

immediately after the war, he stressed the importance not only

of supporting the other services but also of deliberately using

airpower to attack enemy forces directly.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

In other words, Mitchell was arguing that even with the

advent of the airplane, wars were still won the old-fashioned

way—by destroying armies and navies. Only now, the airplane

made that task easier and less costly. Thus, in 1921 he

advocated a balanced air force, one that consisted largely of

pursuit (60 percent) with the remainder evenly divided

between bombardment and attack.

This early emphasis on

the primacy of pursuit distinguished him from his

contemporaries Trenchard and Douhet. Soon, however,

Mitchell abandoned this position, calling instead for an air

force based largely on bombardment.

One reason for Mitchell’s shift towards the bomber was the

realization that auxiliary airpower offered meager prospects for

overcoming the murderous technology of modern land

warfare—or for justifying an autonomous air force. As long as

ground advance remained the primary means to achieve victory

(and Army leaders had little incentive to change that emphasis),

the bomber’s ability to revamp war remained limited. “Should a

War take place on the ground between two industrial nations in

the future,” Mitchell wrote in 1926, “it can only end in absolute

ruin, if the same methods that the ground armies have followed

before should be resorted to.”

In contrast, independently

applied airpower presented an opportunity to decide a war by

avoiding stalemate and slaughter.

Mitchell maintained that airpower could defeat a nation by

paralyzing its “vital centers” and thus its ability to continue

hostilities. Those centers included great cities where people

lived, factories, raw materials, foodstuffs, supplies, and modes

of transportation.

All were essential to wage modern war,

and all were vulnerable to air attack. Moreover, many of the

targets were fragile, and wrecking them promised a rapid

victory. Mitchell asserted that

air forces will attack centers of production of all kinds, means of

transportation, agricultural areas, ports and shipping; not so much

the people themselves. They will destroy the means of making war,

because now we cannot cut a limb out of a tree, pick a stone from a

hill and make it our principal weapon. Today to make war we must

have great metal and chemical factories that have to stay in one place,

take months to build, and, if destroyed, cannot be replaced in the

usual length of a modern war.

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Only an air force possessed the means to attack vital

centers without first confronting enemy surface forces, and

destroying those centers would eliminate the need to advance

through enemy territory on the ground. “The influence of air

power on the ability of one nation to impress its will on

another in an armed conflict will be decisive,” he insisted.

Like many Army officers of his time, Mitchell could recite

Clausewitz’s dictum on the objective of war, but he did so with

a parochial twist. Airpower would wreck an enemy’s will to

fight by destroying his capability to resist, and the essence of

that capability was not the army or navy but the nation’s

industrial and agricultural underpinnings. Eliminating

industrial production “would deprive armies, air forces and

navies . . . of their means of maintenance.”

Airpower also

offered the chance to directly attack the will to fight. Mitchell

equated the will of a nation to the will of its populace, but he

vacillated about the propriety of bombing civilians. On the one

hand, he called for attacks on “the places where people live

and carry on their daily lives” to discourage their “desire to

renew the combat at a later date,” advocated burning

Japanese metropolitan areas in the event of a war with Japan,

and noted that poison gas could be used to contaminate water

supplies and spur evacuations from cities. On the other hand,

in a bombing manual that he wrote in 1922 for Air Service

officers, he argued that attacking a factory was ethical only if

its workers received “sufficient warning that the center will be

destroyed” and that “in rare instances Bombardment aviation

will be required to act as an arm of reprisal.”

The dominant theme emerging from these discussions was

not the desire to attack civilians directly but the desire to

sever the populace from the sources of production. “It may be

necessary to intimidate the civilian population in a certain

area to force them to discontinue something which is having a

direct bearing on the outcome of the conflict,” Mitchell

observed in his bombing manual. Achieving that goal might

cause some civilian deaths, but the number would pale

compared to the deaths produced by a ground war between

industrialized powers. Moreover, once bombed, civilians were

unlikely to continue supporting the war effort. “In the future,

the mere threat of bombing a town by an air force will cause it

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

to be evacuated and all work in munitions and supply

factories to be stopped,” he asserted.

In Mitchell’s eyes,

civilian will was exceedingly fragile, and its collapse would

cause a corresponding loss in war-making capability. In

addition, one did not have to attack civilians directly to

produce a direct impact on an enemy’s will to fight.

Although adamant about the fragile nature of civilian will,

Mitchell was less than explicit about how breaking it would

translate into a rapid peace. His vision of such air attacks was

apocalyptic in the extreme:

Tardy ones claw and clutch and scramble, clambering on top of those

who have fallen. Before long there is a yelling, fighting mass of

humanity. . . . Attacking planes, leaving New York a heap of dead and

smoldering ashes, had proceeded safely to other strategic points where

they duplicated their bloody triumph. . . . Gases produced by a

conflagration in a city such as New York, would fill the subways and

all places below ground in short order.

He thus thought that air raids would trigger evacuations of

hundreds of thousands of people from great cities. Those

refugees would not be able to obtain adequate food or shelter,

and their plight would cause a war to end. “There is only one

alternative and that is surrender,” he wrote in 1930. “It is a

quick way of deciding a war and really much more humane

than the present methods of blowing people to bits by cannon

projectiles or butchering them with bayonets.”

Yet, Mitchell

neglected to say whether “surrender” would occur because the

government of the battered nation was sympathetic to the

plight of its people, because it feared overthrow by an irate

populace, or because it had in fact been displaced by a new

regime demanding peace.

In many of his futuristic examples, he depicted the United

States as the country undergoing air attack, so the

presumption was that surrender would stem from a

sympathetic government. Mitchell claimed that America’s

“strategical heart” consisted of the manufacturing complexes

within a triangle formed by Chicago, Boston, and the

Chesapeake Bay, and that destroying those centers and their

transportation links would not only wreck industrial

productivity but also lead to widespread starvation if the

nation chose not to capitulate.

In such projections,

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war-making capability ceased once bombs destroyed vital

industries and agricultural areas, or once civilians left the

factories and fields. Mitchell dismissed stockpiles of materiel,

especially food,

and he also rejected reserves of morale. He

bestowed on the governments under attack a degree of

rationality that ignored the war aims of the enemy and the

possibility that the population would willingly suffer to avoid

capitulation. His examples intimated that all industrial powers

were alike—and that all resembled his view of the United

States. He thus overlooked crucial distinctions between

nations—and the types of wars they fought—that would

directly affect bombing’s ability to achieve a rapid victory.

For Mitchell, the key prerequisite for achieving victory

through airpower was to win control of the sky. In his first

book, he stated that neither navies nor armies could operate

effectively “until the air forces have first obtained a decision

against the opposing air force.” He was convinced that the

first battles of a future war would be air battles and that the

nation which won them was “practically certain to win the

whole war.”

In this emphasis on the importance of the air

battle, Mitchell mirrored his contemporary in Italy, Giulio

Douhet. Mitchell later stated that he had “frequent

conversations” with Douhet during his visit to Italy in 1922; at

any rate, he was well acquainted with Douhet’s confidant—the

aircraft designer and manufacturer Gianni Caproni—and

received a synopsis of Douhet’s classic book The Command of

the Air in late 1922.

Much of Mitchell’s and Douhet’s writing was remarkably

similar.

Both agreed that “nothing can stop the attack of

aircraft except other aircraft” and that after achieving air

supremacy, an enemy’s vital centers—a term used by both

men—could be wrecked at will.

They differed, however,

about how best to achieve air control. For Douhet, the best

method was to destroy the enemy air force on the ground,

either at its bases or before it left factory assembly lines.

Mitchell argued that air combat was also a suitable means

and that attacking a critical vital center would compel the

hostile air force to take to the air in defense, where it could be

overcome.

Both thought that escort fighters for bombers

were essential to ward off the enemy’s fighters, although

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

Douhet advocated an air force based on a single type of

aircraft—a bomber bristling with machine guns that he

dubbed the “battle plane” in his 1927 revision to The

Command of the Air.

Like Mitchell, Douhet argued that an independent air force

built around the bomber was the cheapest and most efficient

means to defend his nation. Unlike his American counterpart,

Douhet had to consider that his country was susceptible to air

attack. The Italian asserted that a defending air force could

not protect all of a nation’s vital centers, because the defender

could never be certain what centers the attacker would choose

to strike. His answer was to attack first, with as much airpower

as possible, and destroy the enemy’s ability to retaliate in kind.

Once enemy bombers took to the air against an unknown target,

attempting to stop them was probably futile.

Mitchell realized that advancing technology would ultimately

overcome the limitation on range that protected the United

States from air attack by a European or Asiatic power. Under his

guidance, Air Service colonel Townsend F. Dodd in April 1919

prepared a study evaluating the need for a separate air force. It

concluded that “the moment that [an] aircraft reaches that stage

of development which will permit one ton of bombs to be carried

from the nearest point of a possible enemy’s territory to our

commercial and industrial centers, and to return to the starting

point, then national safety requires the maintenance of an

efficient air force adapted for acting against the possible enemy’s

interior.”

By the time that transoceanic flight had been

perfected, Mitchell aimed to make Americans an “air-going

people,” ready to conduct “war at a distance” through a

Department of Aeronautics equal in status to Army and Navy

Departments in a single Department of National Defense.

Mitchell tried to transform the American populace into

airpower advocates by emphasizing the progressive notions of

order and efficiency. Not only could an autonomous air force

protect the United States and achieve an independent victory

in war, he insisted that it could do so more cheaply—and

more effectively—than either the Army or the Navy. Yet, the

Air Service could not perform an independent mission,

Mitchell argued, as long as the Army controlled it. Because

the Army divided air units among its various corps and

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divisions to assure that they received adequate air support, air

units had a meager chance of being massed together for a

long-range, independent mission in which Army commanders

had little interest. “To leave aviation essentially under the

dominance and direction of another department is to

absolutely strangle its development, because it will be looked

on by them merely as an auxiliary and not as a principal

thing,” he protested in December 1919.

At the same time, Mitchell provoked the Navy’s ire with his

persistent claims that the sea service provided minimum

defense for a maximum price tag. In 1922 he contended that

an average battleship cost roughly $45 million to build and

equip, while bombers cost $20,000 each. Thus, the nation

could build either one battleship or two thousand bombers—

each of which could sink a battleship!

Mitchell’s argument

omitted a great deal, such as the rapid rate of obsolescence of

aircraft compared to capital ships and the high costs of

training aircrews and building air bases, but its simplistic

logic touched a receptive chord in many Americans.

Economy was not the only issue, as Mitchell noted the

mood of isolationism taking root throughout the country. He

titled his book Winged Defense, not Winged Offense, and tried

to show that aircraft could also be instruments of peace. He

wrote that one could use airplanes to spray agricultural crops,

serve as sentinels along the borders to prevent unlawful entry,

patrol the national forests for fires, perform geological

mapping, and carry the mail.

Transportation was the

essence of civilization, he claimed, and the future of

transportation belonged to the airplane. At the same time,

one should foster the symbiotic relationship between

military and civilian aviation. Every pilot and every aviation

mechanic in America was an important national asset; in

peace or in war, they served the country. This coterie of

airmen was an essential element of airpower. To Mitchell,

airpower was not merely a collection of airplanes or even of

airmen. It also included the aircraft and engine industries and

the entire air transportation system, which consisted of

airfields, airways, meteorological stations, weather forecasters,

supply depots, and radio navigation aids. All were necessary to

have real airpower, and Mitchell emphatically called for its

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

100

development—subsidized by the government, if necessary, as

was the case with the railroad system in the previous

century.

In many respects, Mitchell’s aeronautical ideas echoed the

maritime beliefs of Alfred Thayer Mahan—an ironic bit of

theoretical affinity, given Mitchell’s virulent antipathy towards

the Navy. Sea power, to Mahan, consisted of certain funda-

mentals: favorable geography, a strong technological base,

popular support, and government sustenance. Those ideas

applied equally to Mitchell’s views on airpower. America’s vast

size and global involvement, the creative genius of its citizens

(after all, the airplane was invented by two bicycle makers from

Ohio), the call for the public to become “air-minded,” and

financial support from the government were all underpinnings of

aeronautical strength. At the same time, Mahan’s emphasis on

sea power’s commercial aspects and the tie between economic

growth and national vigor paralleled Mitchell’s call for the

commercial use of airplanes. Airpower was far more than simply

firebombs and high explosives.

Yet, like sea power, the essence of airpower was its combat

application. Both Mahan and Mitchell called for an aggressive,

offensive application of force to gain control of their medium.

For Mahan, a climactic struggle between battleships would

produce control of the sea, which would permit the victorious

navy to control commerce and obtain natural resources. For

Mitchell, control of the sky would come from an air battle or

the destruction of the enemy’s airpower on the ground (either

by bombing airfields or aircraft factories). After achieving

command of the air, Mitchell’s air force would then wreck an

enemy nation’s vital centers and destroy the enemy’s

capability and will to keep fighting.

Mitchell frequently flaunted his airpower notions before

Congress, and those ideas ultimately led to his banishment

from his post as assistant chief of the Air Service. In

December 1924, Rep. Julian Lampert, chairman of the House

Military Affairs Committee, began hearings in response to Rep.

John F. Curry’s bill for a unified aviation service. Mitchell

testified extensively at the hearings, making some of his most

inflammatory accusations. “All the organization that we have

in this country really now is for the protection of vested

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101

interests against aviation,” he told the committee. He added

that some individuals testifying for the government had

showed “a woeful ignorance . . . and in some cases possibly a

falsification of evidence, with the evident intent to confuse

Congress.” When asked by Secretary of War John W. Weeks to

elaborate on his testimony in writing, Mitchell declined to

provide specifics and added additional charges. He berated the

Navy for the conduct of its bombing tests, remarking that it

“actually tried to prevent our sinking the Ostfriesland.”

Mitchell had recently angered Secretary Weeks by publishing

an explosive series of aviation articles, unreviewed by the War

Department, in The Saturday Evening Post. The confronta-

tional testimony following on the heels of those articles caused

Weeks to shun Mitchell’s reappointment as assistant chief of the

Air Service when it came up for renewal in March 1925.

At the

end of the month, Mitchell reverted to his permanent grade of

colonel and was transferred to Fort Sam Houston in San

Antonio, Texas, as aviation officer for the Army’s VIII Corps Area.

Mitchell, however, had no intention of remaining dormant in

Texas. In August 1925 he published Winged Defense, which

expanded many of the arguments that he had made in The

Saturday Evening Post articles. Although stressing the

importance of an independent air force built around the bomber,

the book continued the attack on Army and Navy leaders who

opposed such an organization.

It also contained cartoons

lampooning Secretary Weeks, who at the time of publication had

become seriously ill. Mitchell had been unaware that the

cartoons would be published in the book, and on 4 September

he received a letter from Elizabeth, who was in Detroit with their

infant daughter. His wife was greatly distressed about the

appearance of the cartoons and contended that no one would

believe that Mitchell had not approved them. “I don’t very well

see how they can avoid court-martialing you now, my

sweet—but I’m sorry it will have to be over something sort of

cheap like those cartoons,” she lamented.

Mitchell’s receipt of his wife’s letter coincided with the crash of

the Navy dirigible Shenandoah in an Ohio thunderstorm and

perhaps influenced his decision to make the Navy disaster his

personal Rubicon. On 5 September 1925 he told San Antonio

newsmen in a press release dripping with anger, frustration,

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102

and sarcasm that the airship crash, as well as other

deficiencies in the Army and Navy air arms, resulted from the

“incompetency, criminal negligence, and almost treasonable

administration of the National Defense by the Navy and War

Departments.”

Two weeks later he was court-martialed.

For Mitchell, the trial and the “Morrow Board,” which

preceded it, were anticlimaxes. Enraged, President Calvin

Coolidge, who called Mitchell a “God-d——d disturbing liar,”

proffered the court-martial charges himself. In addition,

Coolidge summoned friend and J. P. Morgan banker Dwight

Morrow to conduct a formal investigation of American aviation

that would undercut the publicity of Mitchell’s trial.

The

president directed Morrow to produce a report by the end of

November, but Morrow’s hearing concluded on 15 October, 13

days before the start of the court-martial. Mitchell testified

before the Morrow Board but chose to read long passages of

Winged Defense rather than engage in the verbal sparring at

which he excelled. The board’s concluding report, as expected,

did not endorse an independent air force. But if Mitchell’s

appearance before Morrow was lackluster, his performance

during his court-martial the following month was even worse.

The trial began on 28 October with the prosecution reading

into the record the statement Mitchell had made to the press

after the Shenandoah crash. It was lengthier and far more

vitriolic than the newspaper accounts had indicated.

Nonetheless, Mitchell pleaded not guilty. The heart of the trial

focused on Mitchell’s testimony and his cross-examination.

Mitchell’s attorney, Cong. Frank Reid, had been out of a

courtroom for too long and was not inspiring. The

prosecution, on the other hand, was most impressive. Maj

Allen Gullion began his attack by taking Mitchell’s statement

apart, line by line. Although Mitchell had openly criticized the

Navy for its handling of aviation matters, as well as its

wasteful emphasis on the surface fleet, Gullion’s questioning

made it clear that Mitchell knew very little about naval

technology, organization, doctrine, or tactics. For example,

though claiming expertise in airship design—after all, his

comments on the Shenandoah crash had precipitated the

entire crisis—Mitchell admitted he had never flown on an

airship and had seen them up close only on a handful of

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103

occasions. Finally, under incessant pressure, Mitchell was

even forced to concede that his lengthy diatribe to the press

contained “no facts at all”—only opinions. Sarcastically,

Gullion commented that it was necessary to distinguish

between “opinion and imagination” and led Mitchell through a

series of questions regarding Air Service accident rates, flying

hours, equipment costs, and training requirements, most of

which the defendant was unable to answer. Yet, Mitchell had

claimed that airpower was in disastrous straits. Where were

the facts to substantiate the charges of treason and

incompetence? Overall, it was a dismal performance.

Mitchell had obtained the forum he sought, but the results

were certainly not what he had intended. One historian

argues that Mitchell sincerely thought he would be found not

guilty. Yet, when one remembers how intemperately he

savaged the Army hierarchy, calling into question its motives,

competence, integrity, and patriotism—and bearing in mind

that part of that hierarchy sat in judgment of him—Mitchell’s

hubris in thinking he would be forgiven is a bit

breathtaking.

His persistent and provocative explosions were

simply too much. The verdict shocked no one but Mitchell

himself. Found guilty on 17 December—ironically, the 22d

anniversary of the Wright brothers’ first powered flight at Kitty

Hawk—he retired from the service on 1 February 1926 to

continue his crusade, sans uniform.

Although newspapers gave the court-martial proceedings

extensive coverage, no outcry for an independent air force

erupted following the verdict. The Morrow Board, which had

received testimony from an array of civilian and military

aviation specialists, had indeed diminished interest in the

court-martial. Winged Defense sold only forty-five hundred

copies between August 1925 and January 1926, during the

peak of sensationalism.

Although Mitchell received many

letters in that span echoing the support of the “great mass of

the common people of America,”

few individuals were willing

to back his cause with a demand for legislation.

Mitchell’s confidant Hap Arnold, then an Air Service major,

later speculated on why the American people failed to act on

Mitchell’s recommendations: “The public enthusiasm . . . was

not for air power—it was for Billy.”

Flamboyant, intrepid,

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104

and cocksure, Mitchell appealed to New Era America. His

message, though, struck an uncertain chord. His argument

that bombers could now defend the nation more efficiently

than battleships seemed to make sense, as did his assertion

that bombers could defeat an enemy without the need for a

ground invasion. Yet, questions remained. Defend against

whom? Whom would airpower defeat? The Morrow Board’s

conclusion, “We do not consider . . . that air power . . . has yet

demonstrated its value—certainly not in a country situated as

ours —for independent operations of such a character as to

justify the organization of a separate department” (emphasis

added),

reflected the key concerns held by the bulk of the

American populace regarding Mitchell’s ideas.

In 1925 the

public realized that no enemy threatened the United States and

that airplanes could not yet routinely cross the Atlantic or

Pacific Oceans. The mood would endure for more than a decade.

The failure of the American public to respond directly to

Mitchell’s outcry did not mean that the issue of air autonomy

disappeared, but it did mean that the steps taken during the

interwar years would be incremental. National boards and

committees continued to study the issue of how best to

organize Army aviation. The Air Corps Act of July 1926

changed the Air Service’s name to the Air Corps and provided

an assistant secretary of war for air and special representation

on the War Department’s General Staff. It also authorized an

Air Corps of 20,000 men and eighteen hundred aircraft, but

Congress failed to fund the expansion.

The Great Depression further slowed Air Corps growth.

From 1927 to 1931, Air Corps annual budgets ranged from

$25–30 million; in 1934 appropriations fell to $12 million for

the year; in 1938 to $3.5 million.

Manpower, which averaged

fifteen hundred officers and 15,000 enlisted men during the

first three Depression years, stood at only 17,000 men and

seventeen hundred officers as late as 1939.

Aircraft totaled

1,619 in 1933, of which 442 were obsolete or nonstandard.

Still, the recommendation of the 1934 aviation board chaired

by former secretary of war Newton Baker led to the creation of

a GHQ Air Force, containing all Air Corps combat units, in the

spring of 1935. Although the airpower comprising the GHQ

Air Force was never significant—in 1939 it owned just 14

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105

four-engined B-17 bombers—it nonetheless was one step

closer towards Mitchell’s progressive vision of an autonomous

air force capable of achieving an independent victory.

Establishment of the GHQ Air Force did not indicate that

either the nation or the Army had accepted Mitchell’s airpower

ideology. The Baker Board’s final report cautioned that “the

ideas that aviation, acting alone, can control the sea lanes, or

defend the coast, or produce decisive results in any other

general mission contemplated under our policy are all visionary,

as is the idea that a very large and independent air force is

necessary to defend our country against air attack.”

The

primary bomber assigned to the GHQ Air Force’s three air wings

at the end of the decade was the Douglas B-18 “Bolo,” a

dual-engined aircraft designed for short-range interdiction or

battlefield support. The War Department ordered 217 B-18s in

1935 over the objections of the Air Corps, which had endorsed

the B-17.

To most General Staff officers, airpower meant preventing

enemy aircraft from attacking friendly troops or using friendly

aircraft to attack enemy troops and supplies near the

battlefield. It did not mean achieving victory from the sky—a

proposition that many Army leaders viewed with thinly veiled

scorn. Mitchell’s public outcries led many Army officers to

reject future proposals for air force autonomy out of hand.

Arnold remarked that “they seemed to set their mouths

tighter, draw more into their shell, and, if anything, take even

a narrower point of view of aviation as an offensive power in

warfare.”

Army brigadier general Charles E. Kilbourne, chief

of the General Staff’s War Plans Division, critiqued Mitchell’s

impact on Army leadership in harsher terms. In 1934

Kilbourne remarked that “for many years the General Staff of

the Army has suffered a feeling of disgust amounting at times

to nausea over statements publicly made by General William

Mitchell and those who followed his lead.”

Undoubtedly, Mitchell became more radical in his theories

in the decade after World War I. Postwar budget cuts drove

the services towards a bitter parochialism as they fought for a

dwindling share of the defense dollar. Largely as a

consequence, by 1920 Mitchell was attacking the Navy, and

the climactic tests that sank the battleships in 1921 and

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

106

again in 1923 convinced him he was right. In his vision of the

future, the surface fleet would largely disappear, and the

submarine would take its place as the symbol of maritime

strength. Mitchell’s attacks on the Army, muted at first,

accelerated after his court-martial, and he incessantly accused

the top generals of conservatism and shortsightedness. In a

typically nasty fashion, he commented at one point that “we

must relegate armies and navies to a place in the glass case of

a dusty museum, which contains examples of the dinosaur, the

mammoth, and the cave bear.”

The animosity became mutual.

Although Mitchell may have repelled many Army and Navy

officers, most airmen gravitated to his message, if not his

methodology.

The coterie of “believers” who surrounded him

during his tenure as assistant chief of the Air Service—Hap

Arnold, Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, William Sherman, Herbert

Dargue, Robert Olds, Kenneth Walker, Harold Lee George, and

Ira C. Eaker—were not only future leaders of the Air Corps but

also future theorists. Together, they refined Mitchell’s notions

and conveyed them throughout the close-knit community of

airmen, and they found their audience receptive. Strong ties

bonded the small number of aviators—the dangers of flying,

even in peacetime, made the Air Service responsible for almost

50 percent of the Army’s active duty deaths between 1921 and

1924.

Airmen realized as well that advancing in rank was

tenuous as long as the Army controlled promotion lists, given

the fact that most Army leaders viewed the air weapon as an

auxiliary feature of a ground force. After Arnold and Dargue

received reprimands in 1926 for sending congressmen

proautonomy literature, most airmen adopted a stoic posture

that reflected Mitchell’s ideas, but they hesitated to speak

those thoughts too loudly outside their clan.

Air chiefs also absorbed Mitchell’s notions. Mason Patrick,

who initially shunned Mitchell’s ideas on Air Service

autonomy and regarded him as “a spoiled brat,”

submitted a

study to the War Department in December 1924 advocating “a

united air force” that would place “all of the component air

units, and possibly all aeronautical development under one

responsible and directing head.” As for its wartime usage,

Patrick asserted that “we should gather our air forces together

under one air commander and strike at the strategic points of

CLODFELTER

107

our enemy—cripple him even before our ground forces come

into contact.”

Patrick’s successors as chief of the Air

Corps—James E. Fechet, Benny Foulois, Oscar Westover, and

Hap Arnold—were equally committed to Mitchell’s goal of an

independent air force and shared his faith that airpower could

win wars (although Foulois had no love lost for Mitchell

personally). Maj Gen Frank Andrews, who commanded the

GHQ Air Force from 1935–39, was an airpower disciple who

relentlessly spouted Mitchellese to both the War Department

and the public and, like Mitchell, was banished to Fort Sam

Houston. Aside from Andrews and the outspoken Foulois,

however, air leaders chose to restrain their advocacy. Most

worked to improve relations with the War Department while

securing high-visibility peacetime missions that stressed

airpower’s ability to defend the nation. Although Mitchell the

prophet remained uppermost in their minds, so too did

Mitchell the martyr.

Mitchell’s prophecy not only endured among air leaders but

also was the fundamental underpinning of the Air Corps

Tactical School—the focal point of American airpower study

during the interwar years. Mitchell had been instrumental in

founding the school, and his bombing manual served as a

textbook.

Many of the school’s officer-instructors were his

protégés. Sherman, Dargue, George, Olds, and Walker—the

latter two had served as Mitchell’s aides—filled key positions

on the faculty, and all promoted Mitchell’s vision of

independent airpower founded on the bomber.

Mitchell’s progressive vision of airpower applied against an

enemy’s war-making capability and will to resist will likely

endure among American airmen. Perhaps Mitchell, had he

lived to see the modern age of limited war, would have

recanted his increasingly bold assertions regarding airpower’s

ability to achieve a cheap, quick victory. Still, Mitchell remains

America’s foremost airpower prophet. His vision included the

development of precision-guided munitions, remotely piloted

vehicles, stealth aircraft , and drop tanks, as well as the

creation of the Federal Aeronautics Administration and the

Department of Defense. Yet, his most enduring legacy remains

his views on the value of an independent air force, capable of

waging and winning an independent air campaign against an

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

108

enemy nation. For the United States Air Force, this doctrinal

cornerstone may prove impossible to replace.

Notes

1. Diary of William Mitchell, 24 December 1924, Mitchell Papers, Library of

Congress, Washington, D.C. Quoted in Alfred H. Hurley, Billy Mitchell:

Crusader for Air Power, rev. ed. (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press,

1975), 50.

2. Quoted in Andrew Boyle, Trenchard (London: Collins, 1962), 472.

3. Mitchell had outranked Foulois, an ex-enlisted man, before the war,

so when Gen John J. Pershing elevated him to chief of the Air Service in

November 1917, Mitchell was furious. His dislike of Foulois endured long

after the war. Gorrell had become chief of the Air Service’s Technical

Section because of Mitchell’s recommendation, but the friendship between

the two disappeared once Gorrell joined Pershing’s staff and began

no-notice inspections of Mitchell’s squadrons. See John F. Shiner, Foulois

and the U.S. Army Air Corps, 1931–1935 (Washington, D.C.: Office of Air

Force History, 1983), 9–11; and William Mitchell to Benjamin Foulois,

letter, 19 July 1918, Mitchell Papers, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

4. Ruth Mitchell, My Brother Bill: The Life of General “Billy” Mitchell (New

York: Harcourt, Brace, 1953), 45–59.

5. An unpublished manuscript of these events by Mitchell exists, and

Ruth’s book draws heavily from it (pages 60–175). A microfilm copy of the

entire manuscript is located in the Air University Library, Maxwell AFB, Ala.

For an overview, see Mitchell’s “Building the Alaskan Telegraph System,”

National Geographic 15 (September 1904): 357–62.

6. Capt William Mitchell, “Field Signal Communications” (Fort

Leavenworth, Kans.: Infantry and Cavalry School, Department of Military

Art, May 1905), 21.

7. Hearings before the President’s Aircraft Board, September 1925

[hereinafter Morrow Board hearings] (Washington, D.C.: Government

Printing Office, 1925), 600; William Mitchell, “Airplanes in National

Defense,” The American, May 1927, 40; idem, “Future Flying,” Liberty, 8

June 1929, 15–27; and idem, “The Next War in the Air,” Popular Mechanics,

February 1935, 163–65.

8. Henry H. Arnold, Global Mission (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1949),

37–38.

9. Quoted in Hurley, 17. One should note that when he was reminded of

this opinion at his court-martial, he retorted, “I never made a worse

statement.” The United States v. Colonel William Mitchell, court-martial

transcript, Washington, D.C., October–December 1925, 1607. Microfilm

copy in Air Force Academy Library, Colorado Springs, Colo.

10. Bill given to Maj William Mitchell from the Atlantic Coast

Aeronautical Station of the Curtiss Aviation School, Newport News, Va., 1

March 1917, Mitchell Papers, General Correspondence, 1907–1917, Library

CLODFELTER

109

of Congress, Washington, D.C. Mitchell tried to bill the government for his

training, but the Treasury comptroller ruled that individual payments made

to civilian flying schools were not refundable.

11. Hurley, 21.

12. William Mitchell, Memoirs of World War I: From Start to Finish of Our

Greatest War (New York: Random House, 1960), 59. Parts of these memoirs

were serialized by Liberty magazine in 1928. This memoir is based on the

diaries Mitchell kept during the war. Regrettably, those diaries are now lost,

so one must read this work with caution.

13. Mitchell, Memoirs, 103–11; Isaac D. Levine, Mitchell: Pioneer of Air

Power, rev. ed. (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1958), 94–97; Hurley,

25–27; and John H. Morrow Jr., The Great War in the Air: Military Aviation from

1909 to 1921 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), 271.

14. Maj W. Mitchell, memorandum to chief of staff, AEF, 13 June 1917.

Quoted in I. B. Holley, Ideas and Weapons (New Haven, Conn.: Yale

University Press, 1953), 47.

15. Maj W. Mitchell, memorandum to chief of staff, AEF, 13 June 1917.

Extract in Maurer Maurer, ed., The US Air Service in World War I, vol. 2

(Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1979), 108.

16. In the United States, however, the Signal Corps maintained control

over its Aviation Section.

17. Hurley, 32.

18. Mitchell, Memoirs, 153–54, 157. Mitchell used the château to inspire

his staff to converse in French, which he encouraged to enhance Allied

cooperation.

19. Maurer, vol. 2, 141–51.

20. Mitchell, Memoirs, 146.

21. Chief of Air Service, I Army Corps, memorandum to commanding

general, I Army Corps, 16 February 1918, Mitchell Papers, General

Correspondence, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

22. Hurley, 32; and Robert Frank Futrell, Ideas, Concepts, Doctrine:

Basic Thinking in the United States Air Force, vol. 1, 1907–1960 (Maxwell

AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, December 1989), 22.

23. Mitchell, Memoirs, 268; “Planned to Drop Americans from Sky in

Hun Rear,” New York Herald, 8 March 1919, 2; and William Mitchell,

“Wiping Danger from the Sky,” Liberty, 24 June 1933, 17–18. In Notes on

the Multi-Motored Bombardment Group, Day and Night, a tactical manual

that Mitchell wrote for his troops in 1922, he also suggested parachuting

commandos behind enemy lines to blow up key installations such as

ammunition dumps.

24. Quoted in Levine, 148.

25. Quoted in ibid., 147.

26. Quoted in Hurley, 37.

27. Brig Gen William Mitchell, “Tactical Application of Military

Aeronautics,” 5 January 1919, 3, US Air Force Historical Research Agency

[hereinafter AFHRA], Maxwell AFB, Ala., file 167.4-1.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

110

28. Edgar S. Gorrell, “Early History of the Strategical Section,” in

Maurer, vol. 2, 157.

29. Maj Gen J. W. McAndrew, endorsement to chief of Air Service, 18

June 1918, in Maurer, vol. 2, 192.

30. DeWitt S. Copp, A Few Great Captains: The Men and Events That

Shaped the Development of U.S. Air Power (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday,

1980), 24.

31. Mitchell, Memoirs, 165, 177, 185, 205; and Benjamin Foulois to

John J. Pershing, letter, subject: Relief of Col William Mitchell, 4 June

1918, AFHRA, file 168.68-5.

32. Maj Gen Mason M. Patrick, The United States in the Air (Garden City,

N.Y.: Doubleday, 1928), 16.

33. On the nature of progressivism and its lingering impact in the

1920s, see Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform: From Bryan to F.D.R.

(New York: Knopf, 1968), 5, 91–93, 131–72, 270–326; Robert H. Wiebe, The

Search for Order (New York: Hill & Wang, 1967), 286–302; Arthur M.

Schlesinger Jr., The Age of Roosevelt: The Crisis of the Old Order (Boston:

Houghton Mifflin, 1957), 72–89; and Arthur S. Link, “Not So Tired,” in

Arthur Mann, ed., The Progressive Era: Liberal Renaissance or Liberal

Failure (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1963), 105–19. Mitchell,

who continually voiced progressive notions, used the term directly in the

foreword to his book Winged Defense: “The time has come when aviation

must be developed for aviation’s sake and not as an auxiliary to other

existing branches [of the service]. Unless the progressive elements in our

makeup are availed of, we will fall behind in the world’s development.”

William Mitchell, Winged Defense (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1925), x.

34. William Mitchell, “Aeronautical Era,” The Saturday Evening Post, 20

December 1924, 99. Mitchell repeats this message in Winged Defense, 16,

and Skyways (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1930), 262.

35. Morrow Board hearings, 599.

36. “General Mitchell’s Daring Speech,” Aviation, 29 October 1924,

1160; and William Mitchell, “It’s a Thousand to One You Can’t Fly,” Liberty,

2 January 1926, 20–22.

37. William Mitchell, “Neither Armies Nor Navies Can Exist Unless the

Air Is Controlled over Them,” U.S. Air Services, May 1925, 18.

38. Patrick, 86–88.

39. William Mitchell, “Strategical Aspect of the Pacific Problem,” 1924, 1,

Mitchell Papers, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

40. Ibid., 15.

41. Ibid., 18.

42. William Mitchell, Our Air Force: The Key to National Defense (New

York: Dutton, 1921), 168.

43. The United States v. Colonel William Mitchell, 1419; and William

Mitchell, “Colonel Mitchell Explains His Plan,” Liberty, 21 November 1925, 10.

44. William Mitchell, “Look Out Below!” Collier’s, 21 April 1928, 42.

45. Mitchell, Skyways, 268.

CLODFELTER

111

46. William Mitchell, “Our Army’s Air Service,” Review of Reviews,

September 1920, 288; and idem, “Aviation over the Water,” Review of

Reviews, October 1920, 394.

47. Levine, 257. For the argument that Mitchell was to some extent the

father of naval aviation, see Samuel F. Wells, “William Mitchell and the

Ostfriesland: A Study in Military Reform,” The Historian 26 (November

1963): 538–62.

48. Mitchell, Our Air Force, 15, 37.

49. William Mitchell, draft of War Memoirs, 3, Mitchell Papers, Diaries,

May 1917–February 1919, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

50. Mitchell, Memoirs, 2; idem, Skyways, 253; and idem, “Our Problem

of National Defense,” Outlook, 23 January 1929, 124.

51. Mitchell, “Aeronautical Era,” 99–103; see also idem, Winged Defense,

16–17.

52. Mitchell, Winged Defense, 214.

53. Mitchell, “Aeronautical Era,” 3.

54. Mitchell, Winged Defense, 126–27; Hurley, 87; and William Mitchell,

Notes on the Multi-Motored Bombardment Group, Day and Night, 76, 81,

93–94.

55. Mitchell, “Aeronautical Era,” 3.

56. William Mitchell, “When the Air Raiders Come,” Collier’s, 1 May

1926, 8.

57. Mitchell, Skyways, 63.

58. William Mitchell, memorandum to Major General Patrick, 10 May

1923, Mitchell Papers, General Correspondence, Library of Congress,

Washington, D.C.; and Thomas H. Greer, The Development of Air Doctrine in

the Army Air Arm, 1917–1941 (Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History,

1955), 57. By 1925 Mitchell had substituted Bangor, Maine, for Boston as

the apex of his triangle. See Mitchell, Winged Defense, 184.

59. Mitchell, Notes on the Multi-Motored Bombardment Group, Day and

Night, 94.

60. Mitchell, Our Air Force, xix.

61. Hurley, 74–77.

62. Douhet observed that “victory smiles upon those who anticipate the

changes in the character of war, not upon those who wait to adapt

themselves after the changes occur,” while Mitchell noted that “victory

always comes to that country which has made a proper estimate of the

equipment and methods that can be used in modern ways.” See Giulio

Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Dino Ferrari (1942; reprint,

Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1983), 30; and Mitchell,

Winged Defense, 127.

63. Mitchell, Winged Defense, xiv, 9; and Douhet, 25, 54–55.

64. Douhet, 34.

65. Mitchell, Winged Defense, 9–10.

66. Douhet, 18, 52–55.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

112

67. Col Townsend F. Dodd, “Recommendations Concerning the

Establishment of a ‘Department of Aeronautics,’ ” 17 April 1919, 19,

Mitchell Papers, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

68. Mitchell, Winged Defense, xvii–xix, 6, 11–17.

69. William Mitchell, “Why We Need a Department of the Air,” 21

December 1919, Mitchell Papers, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

70. Mitchell, Notes on the Multi-Motored Bombardment Group, Day and

Night, 72.

71. Mitchell, Our Air Force, 153–55; and idem, Winged Defense, 77–96.

72. “General Mitchell on the Aero Show,” Aircraft Journal, 13 March

1920, 14; and “General Mitchell on Aeronautical Progress,” Aviation, 12

February 1923, 187.

73. Adjutant General, memorandum to the chief of Air Service, 7

February 1925, with attached memorandum from William Mitchell to chief

of Air Service, 2 March 1925; and W. G. Kilner, memorandum to General

Mitchell, 30 January 1925, with attached memorandum from Mitchell to

chief of Air Service, 5 February 1925, Mitchell Papers, General

Correspondence, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

74. Weeks did not mince his rationale to President Calvin Coolidge. The

secretary remarked, “General Mitchell’s course has been so lawless, so

contrary to the building up of an efficient organization, so lacking in

reasonable team work, so indicative of a personal desire for publicity at the

expense of everyone with whom he is associated that his actions render him

unfit for a high administrative position such as he now occupies.” See John

W. Weeks to Calvin Coolidge, letter, 4 March 1925, Mitchell Papers, General

Correspondence, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

75. “The personnel of these permanent establishments often tend to

become uniformed office holders instead of public servants entirely engaged in

furthering the betterment of their nation.” See Mitchell, Winged Defense, 136.

76. Elizabeth Mitchell to William Mitchell, letter, 2 September 1925,

Mitchell Papers, General Correspondence, Library of Congress, Washington,

D.C. One should also note that Mitchell took his wife’s concerns to heart. In

his explosive press release of 5 September, he specifically referred to the

cartoons in Winged Defense and publicly apologized to Secretary Weeks for

any disrespect they may have implied. The United States v. Colonel William

Mitchell, 23.

77. Quoted in Hurley, 101.

78. Quoted in Eugene M. Emme, “The American Dimension,” in Alfred F.

Hurley and Robert C. Ehrhart, eds., Air Power and Warfare: Proceedings of

the Eighth Military History Symposium, USAF Academy, 1978 (Washington,

D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1979), 67.

79. Ibid.

80. See The United States v. Colonel William Mitchell, 1449–61 for

Mitchell’s particularly ineffectual testimony regarding naval operations. His

entire testimony runs from pages 1401 to 1612. Of interest, three members

of the court were challenged by the defense and dismissed: Maj Gen Charles

CLODFELTER

113

P. Summerall, Maj Gen Fred W. Sladen, and Brig Gen Albert J. Bowley. One

who remained was Brig Gen Douglas MacArthur, an old friend of Mitchell’s

since childhood; in fact, MacArthur had dated Mitchell’s sister at one point.

81. Michael L. Grumelli, “Trial of Faith: The Dissent and Court-Martial

of Billy Mitchell” (PhD diss., Rutgers University, 1991), 262.

82. Hurley, 108.

83. See, for instance, Harvey F. Trumbore to Gen William Mitchell,

letter, 27 January 1926; Elverton H. Wicks to Colonel Mitchell, letter, 31

December 1925; and Horace C. Carlisle to Colonel and Mrs. Mitchell, letter,

21 December 1925, Mitchell Papers, General Correspondence, Library of

Congress, Washington, D.C.

84. Arnold, 158–59.

85. Quoted in Futrell, vol. 1, 48.

86. Ira C. Eaker, “Maj. Gen. James E. Fechet: Chief of the Air Corps,

1927–1931,” Air Force Magazine, September 1978, 96; Jeffery S.

Underwood, The Wings of Democracy: The Influence of Air Power on the

Roosevelt Administration, 1933–1941 (College Station, Tex.: Texas A&M

University Press, 1991), 30–31; and Emme, 72.

87. Eaker, 96; and James Parton, “The Thirty-One Year Gestation of the

Independent Air Force,” Aerospace Historian 34 (September 1987): 153.

88. Futrell, vol. 1, 67.

89. Quoted in ibid., 70–71.

90. Arnold, 122.

91. Quoted in Shiner, 51.

92. William Mitchell, “Airplanes in National Defense,” Annals of the

American Academy, May 1927, 42.

93. Jeffery Underwood maintains in The Wings of Democracy that the

failure of Mitchell’s controversial public appeals to produce an independent

air force caused his successors—with the notable exception of Air Corps

chief Benjamin Foulois—to work “within the system” to secure their goal.

While this was certainly true of many airmen, Maj Gen Frank Andrews, the

commander of GHQ Air Force, and his chief of staff Col Hugh Knerr

sometimes resorted to controversial publicity when they thought it would

further the cause of an independent air force.

94. Mitchell, Winged Defense, 220. See also Ronald Schaffer, Wings of

Judgment: American Bombing in World War II (New York: Oxford University

Press, 1985), 17–18.

95. Quoted in Parton, 152.

96. Maj Gen Mason Patrick, memorandum to the War Department

adjutant general, subject: Reorganization of the Air Forces for National

Defense, 19 December 1924, Mitchell Papers, Library of Congress,

Washington, D.C.

97. Maj Gen Clayton Bissell, transcript of oral history interview by Brig

Gen George W. Goddard, 22 February 1966, 8–10, AFHRA, file

K239.0512-987; and Hurley, 128.

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Chapter 4

The Influence of Aviation on the

Evolution of American Naval Thought

Dr. David R. Mets

The cast of mind of the officer corps of the US Navy is

sometimes deemed Neanderthal, sometimes progressive, and,

less often, radical. This chapter revisits the history of recent

naval theory and doctrine to evaluate this perception and the

impact of the coming of aviation on the general attitudes of

the naval profession in America from the beginning of flight to

the end of World War II. Previous chapters have all dealt with

the impact of World War I on the theory of airpower, usually

in a Continental war context. They went on to study its

development in the interwar period. This chapter briefly looks

at naval thought at the onset of aviation, which serves as a

baseline. It continues with changes brought on by World War I

and interwar evolution, and thence to the impact of World War

II on the Navy’s outlook.

In large part, naval air theory was

formed in the decade after the great carriers USS Lexington

and USS Saratoga came on-line at the end of 1927. That is

precisely the decade in which the thinking at the Air Corps

Tactical School was in its most formative phase—and that is

the subject of another chapter.

The examination of each era starts with the general

worldview and then considers the ways in which naval officers

believed that international conflicts could be settled. It then

discusses the general attitude on the proper objectives of a

navy in the process, the standard methods employed in naval

warfare, and changing views on the ideal organization of

forces for war and their employment in international conflict.

The study closes with an estimate of the state of naval

thinking in all those categories as the nation approached the

reorganization of its national security structure in the late

1940s. Hopefully, comparing that state with the initial one will

115

yield some additional insight into the impact of aviation on

naval thinking.

Naval Attitudes at the

Onset of the Age of Flight

The collective attitude of the mainstream of the Navy at the

dawn of aviation was fairly well developed. The service was

thoroughly convinced that the world was made up of

nation-states and that conflict of one sort or another was

natural among them. The premise of Clausewitz—that war

was an instrument of state policy—was well understood and

accepted. In the words of Commander Patrick N. L. Bellinger,

who graduated from Annapolis in 1907 and the Naval War

College in 1925, “War is a political action. . . . Even when

armies and fleets are not employed, their existence and the

possibility of their use constantly influence the action of

governments. They are instruments of statecraft. The policy of

countries must necessarily be controlled by their

governments, and strategy from the naval and military point

of view, must be subservient to policy.”

However much one identified the thought of Alfred Thayer

Mahan with that of Henri de Jomini (if that is supposed to

mean that the adherents look upon war as a science that has

natural laws that always apply and that there exists an

eternal validity to principles of war), plenty of officers

understood fog and friction. There were repeated assertions

that both doctrine and any statement of principles were no

more than guides—certainly not invariable rules that one

could not violate. The officer corps was thoroughly familiar

with Mahan (for some, both the man and his works—Mahan

had been Adm William A. Moffett’s skipper when Moffett

served aboard the USS Chicago in the 1890s).

Furthermore, it

was convinced that, for the United States at least, command

of the sea remained the primary objective and that its

exploitation could come later, through blockade or invasion.

For Mahan and most of his followers, the fundamental method

for achieving command was offensive—seeking out the enemy

main battle fleet and destroying it.

Significantly, they gave a

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116

great deal more attention to achieving command of the sea

than to exploiting it.

The officer corps was coming out of a period of very rapid

technological advance. It had witnessed the coming of

torpedoes, submarines, and destroyers—all of which had been

touted as revolutionary and none of which, in the collective

mind, had turned out that way.

The necessity for

decentralized command, initiative among junior and midlevel

commanders, and doctrine that tended to create a common

vocabulary and outlook was widely accepted.

Methods of Conflict Resolution

Little questioned was the idea that command of the sea

would be won in a single great clash between the main battle

lines and that all other elements would necessarily play an

auxiliary role. Notwithstanding Clausewitz’s assertion that, in

land warfare at least, the defensive was the stronger form of

war, the Navy (and Army and Marine Corps as well) probably

voiced an overwhelming preference for the offensive in both

strategy and tactics.

Doubtless, the civilian attitude in

isolationist America in the wake of the mayhem of World War I

made it impolitic to dwell on this stance in public.

Practically all officers were graduates of the Naval Academy,

and the bulk of the seniormost officers had been through the

Naval War College—and on the eve of World War I, some of the

juniors were well indoctrinated through correspondence

courses.

There was a rather strong commitment to the idea

that both study and practical experience were vital to

understanding naval war. On the eve of the first air war, both

the United States Naval Institute and its publishing organ,

Proceedings, were more than a generation old. Senior and

middling officers took a real interest in this journal as a forum

for professional discourse—Mahan and Stephen B. Luce, the

founder of the Naval War College, were both well published in

its pages. The Naval Academy was one of America’s first and

leading engineering schools; still, the historical approach to

the study of war and sea power was common—even before

Mahan.

No one questioned the idea that the Navy constituted

the first line of defense.

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Ideal Organization for War

The effectiveness of the bureau organization was often

debated, and the notion that the planning and operations

functions should remain paramount and governed by a

professional naval officer was very strong. Previously divided

into line and engineering categories, a division that had

caused much difficulty, the officers of the Navy found

themselves reunified, first in the curriculum at the Naval

Academy and then on the line of the Navy—both before 1900.

Strong sentiment favored avoiding such divisions.

At the beginning of the era of flight, then, the US Navy’s

officer corps tended to consider the world as being made up of

nation-states—always in conflict, sometimes at war, and never

recognizing any superior authority. Achieving command of the

sea remained the first objective for naval forces; that done, a

variety of naval measures could help in realizing the nation’s

goals ashore. As yet, little thought existed about radical

changes in the relationship of the Navy to the rest of the US

national security structure. Most thinking held that one

should be a naval officer first and a deck or engineering officer

second—that the officer corps should be a monolithic whole.

Even Lt Commander Henry Mustin himself argued before

World War I that to be competent as a naval aviator, an officer

would need a comprehensive knowledge of the duties of the

surface mariner. Because acquiring that knowledge took so

long, he believed that trainees for aviation must come from the

line of the Navy.

Though, in time, Mustin would argue

otherwise, the organizational implication of his belief was that

one should refrain from further attempts at specialized corps

(notwithstanding the continued existence of the Marine

Corps)—despite the fact that the fleet itself was organized

along functional lines according to ship type. Some members

of the officer corps felt that the bureau chiefs were too

independent and that the creation of the office of Chief of

Naval Operations (CNO) was a good thing. As for the

employment of navies, the consensus was that decision would

come through a great sea battle between battleships and that

all other vessels and organizations existed to support the main

battle line.

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Evolution of American Naval Air

Thinking before Pearl Harbor

Naval aviators had experimented with aviation in combat

against Mexico even before World War I.

Pilots had made

landings and takeoffs from ships as well, and people harbored

serious questions about whether the main air effort would lie

with airships (lighter-than-air), flying boats, or shipborne

airplanes.

The Navy had substantial experience with

aviation in World War I, both in overwater antisubmarine

patrol and land combat on the western front. None of that was

part of major fleet action in open ocean. Henry Mustin, one of

the first wave of Navy flyers, was only one of many men who

brought back perceptions of air war from Europe.

As with

the Army’s Air Service, however, one could draw no definitive

inferences because technology was still in its infancy, and

none of the exploits even approached being decisive.

Only

the Battle of Jutland resembled the Mahanian great battle,

but because of its indecisiveness, its implications remained

unclear.

Aviation played little role in that battle, and its

impact on the antisubmarine war was significant but not

decisive. Aircraft forced submarines to remain submerged

and, by closing the Strait of Dover, imposed the long trip

around Scotland on them. The consequent reduction of the

time on station lowered the number of U-boats in the German

navy.

At the end of the war, Britain ’s Royal Navy did possess

three aircraft carriers, but the US Navy had none. The brief

American participation and the preoccupation of Europeans

with the agony of the land war left little time to do much

development work in naval aviation or to reach definitive

conclusions.

Largely because of the institutional culture, aviation affected

the thinking of the Navy in an evolutionary, rather than a

revolutionary, way. This statement does not suggest that the

technology of naval warfare evolved on a steady, smooth

curve—only that thought about the use of the Navy as a whole

to help achieve national objectives changed in a gradual way,

with neither long periods of stagnation nor obvious

discontinuities. On the other hand, as suggested by Dr. Gary

Weir, scientific and technological innovation—dependent in

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part on sudden inspirations by inventors and scientists—

probably can be characterized more as a sawtooth process

with a generally progressive trend.

Certainly, the general

outlook was not radical; yet, it is also probably fair to say that

insofar as strategic thinking was concerned, neither was it

reactionary. The line officers of the Navy may have been

reluctant to shed the ideas proven in the past, but they had

adjusted to the coming of steam and armor and (with the

British navy) had led the world in the development of modern

gunnery and fire control.

In part, external pressures forced the line officers of the

Navy to accept change. One factor was the Five Power Treaty

of 1922, which drove the Navy to embrace aircraft carriers

more rapidly than it might otherwise have done.

A second

was the implicit threat that if the Navy itself did not move

smartly into the era of flight, then the upstart Air Service and,

later, the Air Corps would gather maritime aviation unto

itself.

As yet, only a few officers, such as Adm William Sims

and Adm William Fullam, questioned whether the carrier or

the battleship would be the capital ship of the future—a

question that remained open until after Pearl Harbor.

Methods of Conflict Resolution

One sees a sample of the cast of mind of the earliest crop of

aviators in a lecture delivered by Commander Patrick Bellinger

at the Naval War College in the summer of 1924. He allowed

that naval aviation had other roles, such as cooperation with

the Army in coast defense, but clearly his concentration

remained on aviation as an adjunct to the fleet.

Despite the presence of many skeptical mossbacks not

disposed to change, some naval officers did not need external

prods to revise their thinking—Sims and Moffett for

example.

However, notions that one might bypass the great

sea battle through a direct air attack on the enemy’s

economic, cultural, and moral fabric appeared infrequently

among their published and unpublished writings.

Such interpretations appeared only because the writer (e.g.,

Capt George Westervelt in 1917 and Adm William Pratt in

1926) questioned the morality of such operations and the

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validity of Douhet’s notion that attacks on civilian morale

would be humane because they would end the war quickly

and thereby eliminate the danger of another misery in the

trenches. Westervelt, even in 1917, showed considerable

insight in suggesting that in the short term, the German

attacks may have had military value in that they diverted very

considerable military potential from the fighting front for the

largely futile defense of London. In the long term, however, he

speculated that Germany might come to regret it. He thought

the attacks might even toughen British civilian morale on the

one hand and, on the other, act as a stimulus for greater and

more destructive reprisals on the Germans by British and

French air forces.

At the end of World War I, the General Board of the Navy—

made up of a group of the service’s seniormost officers,

necessarily nonaviators at that time—advised the secretary on

fundamental issues affecting the life of the organization. In

1919, before Billy Mitchell’s bombing tests, the board held

formal hearings and explicitly advised the secretary that the

integration of aviation into the fleet was of the highest

priority.

Further, one should not infer that all the logic was on the

side of the aviators and that the “gun club” was irrational in

its arguments.

Had the flying boat proven practical in timely

reconnaissance and spotting support in midocean areas in the

1920s, it might have been a better solution to the air problem

than either catapult-launched or carrier-launched aircraft.

Indeed, flying-boat technology was much more mature than

that of the other craft, and aircraft operated from catapults or

platforms atop turrets probably would have reduced the fields

of fire as well as the volume and rate of fire of the main

armament. (Although aerial observation would radically

enhance the accuracy of fire, more might be lost than gained.)

Moreover, it was hard to imagine ever developing the means of

recovering such catapulted aircraft without stopping the

ship—clearly suicidal in the presence of enemy surface ships

or submarines.

On the other hand, if one accepted the assumption that the

decision in war would come through use of the battleship

fleet’s guns, then the provision of aerial spotting through

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aircraft carriers, which could recover their “birds” while under

way, would introduce another whole class of ships to the Navy

line. This would come at a time when funding and manning

were insufficient to take care of the requirements that already

existed. Flying boats, featuring long range and a developed

technology, could provide both scouting and spotting without

that new line of ships (and one could greatly expand their

areas of coverage by the use of tenders easily converted from

ships already in the Navy). The flying boats, in fact, had just

achieved enormous prestige by crossing the Atlantic in 1919.

They did not inhibit the execution of the primary mission of

the battleships and did not compete for funds and people

nearly as much as carrier planes and their required ships.

Numerous aviators would support that reasoning. Bellinger,

one of the most prominent, clearly was not skeptical of the

value of shipboard aviation. He did not see much of a future

for kite balloons or nonrigid airships, but he saw great value

in shipboard aircraft supporting the battle line once air forces

had achieved command of the air. Still, in 1924, he perceived

enormous potential in the development of long-range flying

boats.

Moreover, notwithstanding the great promise and

glamour of the initial operations of the Saratoga and

Lexington, those operations involved many difficulties, and

their security with the fleet posed constraints on the offensive

preferences of the commanders.

Many people made similar arguments in favor of airships.

Thus, the thinking of the gun club was not nearly as

Neanderthal as it might appear to observers looking back from

the post–Pearl Harbor period. The common flaw to that

thinking was that if a force had no carrier aircraft , an enemy

with carrier planes could deny the use of the air over the

battle area to the former’s catapult airplanes, flying boats, and

lighter-than-air craft—and thus could produce an enormous

advantage for his own battle fleet. Decisiveness would arise

from the fact that the side with air superiority would be able

to take its enemy under concentrated, accurate fire at long

ranges and during impaired visibility while the other side

could not.

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Worldview: Continuity and Change

From about 1906, we considered the Japanese a potential

enemy, though continuing some war games with a

Japanese-British enemy alliance until well after World War I.

After the demise of German admiral Alfred von Tirpitz’s fleet at

Scapa Flow, both the games and the thinking increasingly

concentrated on a Pacific war against Japan—although we did

not completely discount war against the British.

Capt Yates

Stirling Jr. provided us with a near-classical statement in

Mahanian terms. In an article published in 1925, he painted a

worldview in which seafaring capitalist nations had to have

overseas trade to survive; to do that, they had to protect that

trade with navies; those navies would have to have battleships

to command the sea or part of it; and only Japan and Great

Britain were in the game. Although Stirling more clearly

identified Japan as a potential enemy, he plainly asserted that

competition with Great Britain was inevitable and that only the

statesmanlike work of the Washington treaties promised to

contain that competition.

In post–World War II terms, all of

this constituted a “realist” worldview.

From the early 1920s, the war-college games and fleet

maneuvers came to feature surprise air attacks on Pearl

Harbor and the Panama Canal, but the ultimate decision

would always arise from a great clash between the main

surface fleets. Even the aviators, whose first task was to kill

the enemy carriers, gave at least lip service to the idea that

the final decision would come from the great gun battle. The

bomb-carrying capability of carrier aircraft in the 1920s and

early 1930s was so limited that many aviators understood

that the chances of decisive attacks on armored vessels were

strictly limited; not until the late 1930s could dive-bombers

employ one-thousand-pound weapons at significant distances.

Until late in the game, then, many aviators were persuaded

that the gun battle might indeed be decisive.

Organizing for War

Creation of the office of the CNO in 1915 improved naval

organization. Gradually, the traditional power of the bureau

chiefs declined, relative to that of the CNO. Some flyers, such

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as Henry Mustin , called for the creation of a separate aviation

corps;

however, other flyers and most of the nonflyers were

against it, notwithstanding the Marine Corps precedent. This

attitude resulted in part from lingering bad memories about

the nineteenth-century dichotomy between line officers and

engineering officers, as well as a feeling that such a move

would play into the hands of the Air Service’s Billy Mitchell

and his followers. The aviators were satisfied, at least to some

extent, with the foundation of the Bureau of Aeronautics in

1921. Some of the senior officers of the Navy had opposed the

congressional proposal for the bureau, but in large part the

heat generated by Mitchell changed their minds.

Its first

chief, Rear Adm William Moffett, was not a pilot, but he went

immediately to Pensacola, Florida, and completed the

observers’ course there. Popular among the flyers, he was also

a successful battleship commander; had served once on a

ship whose skipper was Mahan himself, as noted above; and

had attended the Naval War College while Mahan was

assigned there.

From the outset, under Moffett’s guidance, the appearance

of a new bureau—in fact, a superbureau—complicated the

internal organization of airpower. Moffett did not confine his

activities to technical and procurement functions, as did the

other bureau chiefs. He cast a wider net—including personnel

issues such as assignment policy and promotions for aviators.

This brought him into conflict with the other bureaus—

especially with the Bureau of Navigation, which had

traditionally managed personnel policy for all naval officers.

This tension continued, growing all the way up through and

beyond the tenure of Rear Adm John Towers at the helm of

the Bureau of Aeronautics well into World War II.

From the earliest days, military men in all the services

began groping for a way to properly integrate aviation into the

national security force structure. As it turned out, the Army

flyers would choose a more or less independent path that

resulted in the creation of the US Air Force in 1947. The

Navy’s flyers and almost all of its sailors favored integrating

airpower with sea power. One such sailor, Rear Adm Nathan

C. Twining, wrote to Capt Henry Mustin in 1919, stating

tentatively that he felt airpower should be kept in the Army

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and Navy. He saw some possibilities in distant air raiding but

thought that should be part of the mission of the land army.

He argued, however, that the most urgent task of all was

developing aviation’s capabilities in spotting and scouting.

Six years later, Capt George Westervelt, then manager of the

Naval Aircraft Factory in Philadelphia (though not an aviator

himself), expressed a similar idea with no sugar coating or

hedging:

They [the aviators] are in the Navy, of the Navy, and wish to remain

there. They firmly believe that the air arm is an inherent portion of the

Navy; that, as a Naval air arm, it is helpless without the Navy, and

that the Navy would be helpless without it. In imagination many of

them, doubtless, project themselves into the future and see the time

when the air arm of the Navy will be its paramount arm, and when the

surface ships will get their orders from the Commander-in-Chief flying

above them, but they still see these combined elements of their

country’s power as the Navy, and themselves as officers of the Navy.

Westervelt had visited Britain during World War I, and,

undoubtedly, the Royal Navy was an influence on him and the

entire US Navy—as it always had been. The story about the

influence of the Royal Air Force (RAF) on US Army aviators is

well known. Mitchell’s visits with Hugh Trenchard during

World War I are well documented.

Perhaps less well known

is the negative impact of the RAF on the US Navy. The British

integrated their naval and land-based airpower into a separate

air force in 1918 and kept it so organized up to 1937. From

1918 forward, it was an article of faith in the US Navy that

that decision had been a mistake and proof that an

independent air force would be bad for the United States.

Without arguing the virtues of the Spitfire, Fighter Command,

Taranto, and victory over the Bismarck and the U-boats, it is

clear that the stout opposition to the idea in the US Navy had

its origins long before the RAF could possibly have had the

deadly effects attributed to it. To cite one example, in

testifying to the General Board of the Navy on 23 August

1918, Commander H. C. Dinger asserted, “Personally, I don’t

see how there could be any argument. They [the British] must

have both Naval and Army aviation. Of course these are only

my personal views. The amalgamation in England seems to

have had a very bad effect.”

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In the wake of the commissioning of the Langley (CV-1) in

the early 1920s, articles in Proceedings, as well as Naval War

College papers and lectures, paid increasing attention to the

implications of aviation.

This increased sharply after the

great ships Saratoga (CV-3) and Lexington (CV-2) came on-line

late in 1927. No doubt, Navy people endlessly fought and

refought the Battle of Jutland on the game boards at Newport

and in the pages of Proceedings, but they also wrote many

articles on aviation as well.

Proper Naval Objectives in War

Even in the articles on aviation, usually the climax came in

a big gun duel. Analogous to the Army experience on the

western front, the most strident demand for a capability to

command the air came from the most committed surface

gunners. It became clear to battleship captains that aerial

spotting so enhanced the power of the big gun that any

admiral who lost that spotting capability found himself at a

huge disadvantage.

The corollary to that principle, as on the

western front, was that one had to make every effort to protect

free use of the air over the battle and to deny it to the enemy.

Thus, hardly anyone in any of the services needed much

persuasion that command of the air remained a paramount

consideration. In 1926, Admiral Pratt himself argued that it

was a primary function of naval aviation.

Although in the 1930s, mainstream thought seldom

wavered from the idea that the primary and final instrument

of victory would be the battleship, it held that Japan would

refuse battle until the combat power of the US Navy had been

diminished by projecting itself all the way across the central

Pacific. Most strategic thinkers felt that the Navy could

minimize this weakening if the US offensive went across the

central (instead of the north or south) Pacific, invading and

building up island bases as it went (as opposed to making one

giant leap that would force the Japanese navy to come out

and fight for the sea when the Americans arrived in the

vicinity of the Philippines). Carrier airpower would always be a

scarce commodity. In those days, people deemed land-based

airpower a formidable threat. Without air bases to protect the

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126

line of communications and naval bases to attenuate the

erosion of sea power as it projected further across the Pacific,

the defeat of the Japanese fleet on the other side remained

improbable.

In all of this, aviation had two main functions. First, it

would enhance the effectiveness of the cruisers and destroyers

of the scouting fleet through reconnaissance. Second, it would

enhance the effectiveness of the battle fleet through

conducting reconnaissance, spotting the fall of shot, and

defending against the enemy’s carrier airpower (usually

through sinking or disabling enemy carriers.)

Sometimes,

aircraft might attack battleships, but usually they sought to

slow them down so that the plodding American battleships

could catch up with the speedier Japanese dreadnoughts to

administer decisive blows with their guns.

Not long before

his death, Admiral Moffett spoke of using offensive carrier

aircraft in exactly that way to facilitate the great sea battle.

Even up to the eve of World War II, aviators who delivered

lectures at the Naval War College on the uses of airpower were

clearly reluctant to claim too much for airplanes versus

battleships.

To a large degree, students of the intellectual history of any

military force must grapple with an eternal problem: was the

glass half full or half empty? Much of the final judgment

necessarily resides in the eye of the beholder. Charles Melhorn

and Curtis Utz have demonstrated that declared policy and

doctrine do not always match the undeclared worldview of the

decision makers of any organization.

To some extent, the

articulation of official doctrine inevitably lags. Sometimes,

acquisition policies indicate the difference between declared

doctrine and the undeclared vision of the future. They both

show that the Navy did make progress in aviation between the

armistice and Pearl Harbor—in fact, there were almost as many

carriers as battleships under construction on 7 December 1941.

Those “flattops” under construction were close to double the size

of the USS Ranger—the first American carrier designed as such

from the keel up.

The task force idea developed well before the onset of war,

having its genesis even before the initial “fleet problems” of the

late 1920s, in which the Saratoga and Lexington participated.

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In the late 1930s, the deck loads of carriers had changed

substantially in an offensive direction before they were thrust

into battle. Thus, naval aviators of the period and their

earliest biographers and historians possibly exaggerated the

weight of US Navy conservatism for a number of reasons.

One was physical: dive-bombers in 1930 could not carry

bombs big enough to penetrate battleship armor far enough to

threaten the enemy battle line; by the end of the decade, they

could.

Clark Reynolds, long a leader in the history of naval

aviation, provides a recent sample of the “half empty” part of the

metaphor: “The rigid conservatism of the so-called Gun Club of

battleship admirals stood in his [Moffett’s] way at every turn.”

Clearly, “rigid conservatism” can be in the eye of the beholder;

Moffett himself had been a first-class battleship captain .

On the eve of war, then, the worldview of the naval officer corps

had not changed much from the realist perception of the

international environment held at the beginning of World War I.

Few people in the Navy felt that the initial objective ought to

be anything other than command of the sea, which would

yield the capability for exploitation in a variety of ways, such

as invasion or blockade. Nor did they lend much support to

the idea of bypassing sea battles, blockades, or invasions in

favor of a direct attack on the morale or industrial vital targets

of an enemy.

Sentiment remained strongly opposed to a separate air

force—and strongly in favor of the Navy’s having its own air

arm. Mitchell had not persuaded many people in the sea

services of the desirability of a unified department of defense.

As regards internal organization, war at sea involving the use

of aircraft required a task organization that put ships with

varying functions under a single commander and that sought

to achieve a specific goal. Everyone agreed that aircraft were a

major asset in sea warfare but differed on the question of their

employment—whether in auxiliary or independent roles, or

both. Those favoring the offensive role for aircraft argued that

the aircraft carrier would be the capital ship in the future and

that all other elements of sea power should train and organize

to support the air arm.

As to employment in battle, aircraft would first assure air

superiority—ideally by sinking enemy carriers—and then

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provide reconnaissance, as well as spotting and damaging

battleships to slow them down for the great sea battle, to be

concluded by our own battleships. This vision of surface

sailors received decreasing favor from aviators as the interwar

period wore on. For the most “advanced” aviators, aircraft

would win command of the sea by sinking enemy carriers, and

then the air arm would turn to exploitation through mining or

supporting an invasion.

The Test of War: The Pacific Campaigns

How did the experience of World War II modify this cast of

mind? The war did nothing to change the worldview of the line

officers of the Navy—as with the leaders of all the other

services, they were very much of the realist persuasion. It also

did little to change the perception that command of the sea

was the first goal, but the means of achieving it went through

a transformation.

Pearl Harbor confirmed the Mitchell tests of 1921—that

aircraft could sink unmoving, undefended dreadnoughts. The

destruction by land-based airpower of the Prince of Wales and

the Repulse—both capital ships and both under way—had a

far greater psychological impact on both the Navy and the

American public. This, combined with the fact that precious

few battleships remained with which to test the old notions in

combat, led to the rapid acceptance of the carrier task force as

the principal instrument of sea power.

Objectives

Notwithstanding the fact that implementation in war

differed from that envisioned, the preferred strategy of the

Navy remained the same. Air battles instead of battleships

won command of the sea, but the central Pacific thrust with

island hopping and base development remained the strategy.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff did not have the power or the

inclination to force the Navy into another choice—or to

persuade Douglas MacArthur in the Southwest Pacific Area to

join the Navy’s strategy. It worked rather as planned,

with

the remnants of the Japanese fleet coming out to fight the

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final battles west of the Mariana Islands in the summer of

1944, and then again during the invasion of Leyte in

October.

The aviators had wound up pushing for a great sea battle at

the time of the Marianas, and Adm Raymond Spruance, the

surface sailor, deemed his primary mission the protection of

the amphibious operation and not the destruction of what

remained of the Japanese fleet. Similarly, the main criticism

of Adm William Halsey came from the surface sailors who

thought he should have been tied to the landing forces at

Leyte rather than seeking the destruction of the Japanese

carriers—in a decoy role, as it turned out.

In a larger sense,

though, one may infer that practically everyone involved

remained persuaded that Mahan was right when he

reasserted that he who commands the sea commands the

world. In the words of Paul M. Kennedy,

The Second World War saw the full arrival and exploitation of this

revolutionary (air) weapon and the fulfillment of the prophecies of

Douhet, Mitchell, Trenchard and the others that aircraft were vital to

achieve dominance over land and sea theatres. As such, this did not

invalidate Mahan’s doctrine that command of the sea meant control of

those ‘broad highways,’ the lines of communication between homeland

and overseas ports; but it did spell the end of the navy’s claim to a

monopoly role in preserving such sea masteries. And the Admiralty’s

established belief that a fleet of battleships provided the ultimate force

to control the ocean seaways was made to look more old-fashioned

than ever—and very erroneous and dangerous.

The naval officer corps remained committed to the idea of

exploitation through blockade rather than invasion, but it

was overruled, and amphibious planning was under way

when nuclear weapons came along to precipitate Japanese

surrender.

Even earlier, on the eve of World War II, the aviators among

the naval leaders were beginning to rattle the gates to high

command. However, tension had existed throughout the

conflict between them and the old guard. Some of the

principal decision makers like Ernest King and William Halsey

did have wings, even pilot wings, but most of them had gone

through flying school as senior officers and had never served

as crew members at the squadron level. They were deemed

Johnny-come-latelies to the flying business and therefore

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130

unable to understand air war as well as the pioneers—the

chief one of whom had been at the head of the Bureau of

Aeronautics when war came: John Towers. He aspired to high

operational command throughout the war but was kept from

it, mostly by Admiral King himself. Of the early aviators, only

Marc Mitscher made it to such a level as a task force

commander under the Fifth Fleet. Meanwhile, Halsey the

Johnny-come-lately, Adm Chester Nimitz the submariner, and

Spruance the cruiser sailor, had been sent by King to

implement the important decisions of the Pacific war—most of

which were made by the CNO himself.

The Postwar Attitude Adjustment

It is probably fair to assert that the naval officer corps

emerged from World War II with much the same worldview of

international politics as it had held before 1914. Clearly, the

“Wilsonian dream” had proven a mirage and many officers, if

not most, were skeptical that the “one world” envisioned in the

United Nations would fare any better. The substantial

skepticism toward disarmament and arms control of the

interwar period remained.

Methods of Conflict Resolution

The line officers of the Navy came out of the war with a

strong notion that the carrier battles and the island invasions

had been decisive and that the Navy remained the first line of

defense, despite growing doubts on the latter point among

Army airmen, Congress, and the public. As a corollary, the

carrier admirals believed they would have to govern the Navy.

They would never completely dominate the apex of the

hierarchy, but they were well on the road to becoming the

most equal among equals.

Not until the fighting concluded

did King and Nimitz send Towers to his seagoing command to

take over the Fifth Fleet from Spruance, who replaced Nimitz

in command at Pearl Harbor but soon moved on to the Naval

War College. Towers then came to Pearl Harbor to take charge,

as commander in chief of Pacific Command, the principal

striking arm of the Navy.

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Naval aviators were coming of age in 1945, and at the Navy’s

moment of glory, a substantial part of it agreed that carrier

aviation was and would continue to be the core strength of the

service, notwithstanding the fact that no naval threat existed

anywhere in the world. Further, the United States Strategic

Bombing Survey concluded that the submarine in its

unrestricted, independent campaign against Japanese maritime

traffic, combined with strategic bombing of the home islands,

had been decisive. This use of the submarine had not been

formally articulated in interwar naval theory and in fact had

been rejected by US diplomats at the Washington Conference of

1921–22 as a morally illegitimate use of the weapon. (As noted

above, though, officers playing enemy commanders had explored

the idea in war games and informally during the periodic

Submarine Officers’ Conference.)

Too, naval leaders came away with the impression that the

B-29s had not been very cooperative in supporting either the

Okinawa operations or the mining campaign.

They viewed the

bombing of the Japanese homeland as a waste of time, even

though their carrier admirals also had targeted the airframe and

engine industries in Japan at the end of the war. Increasingly in

the last two years of the war, Navy flyers found their targets

ashore. Traditionally, in the abstract at least, the very purpose

of gaining command of the sea was to influence events ashore.

Attention given to the possible use of airpower directly against

the sources of enemy power was minimal in the Navy prior to

1941. As the war neared its end, however—especially after

command of Twentieth Air Force in the Pacific was kept out of

the hands of the theater commanders—naval line officers gave a

great deal more thought to the idea of strategic bombing.

Organization for War

Increasingly, naval officers voiced their concerns about the

morality of strategic bombing because of the harm to civilians,

notwithstanding the harm done by blockade. In addition, the

war made it clear that command of the air was a prerequisite

in strategic as well as tactical operations—but it was difficult

or impossible to achieve in the former because of the long

ranges involved. Until escort aircraft could fly all the way to

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132

the target, the bomber could not get through—or so the

argument went in naval circles.

The implications of the

coming of nuclear weapons were as yet little explored, and the

result of all these factors left the naval officer corps in a state

of flux—without a clear vision of its future and its purpose for

one of the rare times in the twentieth century. This situation

led to an institutional identity crisis that remained unresolved

until a decade had passed.

One problem for the Navy was that it had complete

command of the sea, and nobody could challenge it. What

could it use that command for? The new potential adversary

was the Soviet Union, but it had no surface navy. Nor did it

have any significant dependency on overseas raw materials or

food vulnerable to blockade.

The idea of an amphibious

landing against the whole Eurasian world island was

preposterous—and both Napoléon and Hitler had made the

idea more so in any event. The United States was coming out

of two decades of serious deficit spending, and Billy Mitchell’s

idea of getting the job done with one air force instead of a

two-ocean navy—especially an air force equipped with nuclear

weapons—was highly attractive to President Truman, the

Congress, and the public in general. Doing this in a unified

department of defense would eliminate much duplication and

make available more ample funds for domestic purposes.

Attempts to resolve the dilemma were made in the

Unification Act of 1947 and the Key West and Newport

conferences of the following year. However, they really did not

achieve much. Back in the days of Billy Mitchell, most of the

Navy’s officer corps had been dead set against a single military

department containing all the services. But during World War

II, some senior officers thought that unification might have

some merit. Admiral Nimitz was one of them, but toward the

end of the war, he and the rest of the mariners closed ranks

against it.

Led by James V. Forrestal, the tactics entailed

avoiding a head-on attack on the issues of unification and a

separate air force because support for them was too strong—

indeed, the president himself favored unification. Thus, the

approach was to limit the function of a secretary of defense to

powers of “coordination,” avoid opposing a separate air force

directly, but try to constrain its functions as much as

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possible. Especially important as a goal was assuring the

Marine Corps and the Navy of their own air arms, completely

independent of any autonomous air force.

Minority opinions inside the Navy (e.g., that of Adm Dan

Gallery) proposed that since all the old visions were obsolete,

the Navy ought to take over the Air Force’s strategic bombing

role because the Navy could do it better.

The legislation had

emerged rather as envisioned by Forrestal, but neither that

nor the subsequent Key West and Newport “agreements”

calmed the waters. Perhaps the subsequent B-36 debate was

a manifestation of the insecurity of naval leaders, and the

main outlines of a more stable Navy worldview and vision for

its future started to take shape only later as a result of the

Korean War and the reversal of the decline of defense

spending. Also having an effect were the march of technology

that resulted in the miniaturization of nuclear weapons; the

Soviet acquisition of nuclear technology; the coming of the

nuclear submarines; and the submarine launched ballistic

missile (SLBM).

The Navy’s internal organizational issues had largely been

laid to rest. The powers of the CNO had been further

consolidated under the wartime leader, Admiral King, when he

was appointed to that office and at the same time retained the

title of commander in chief of the US fleet. The flyers had

become firmly integrated into the upper ranks of the Navy,

and little agitation remained for a separate naval air corps.

Visions of Employment in War

The vision to emerge in the mid-1950s held that the United

States could exploit its command of the seas with a revised

naval role—one that had both a strategic and conventional

dimension. The Navy could use its carriers as it had in the

Korean War—for power projection ashore. They would have

nuclear weapons, not to take over the strategic bombing

mission, but to facilitate the maritime campaign by targeting

against Soviet submarine bases and the like.

The SLBM would give new life to the underwater arm of the

Navy, even in the absence of a potential enemy with a

significant surface naval or merchant marine dependency. It

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134

had the beauty of being perfectly suited to the second-strike

deterrent role the United States valued. That is, Polaris missile

boats were invulnerable enough to ride out the first strike, yet

their accuracy was not deemed sufficient to threaten a first

strike themselves—thus they added to deterrent stability.

Further, the great transfer of submarine technology, doctrine,

and equipment from Germany to the Soviet Union at the end

of World War II—combined with the contemporaneous change

in antisubmarine warfare (ASW) technique—assured the

future of the attack-boat portion of the submarine force.

Thenceforward, one of the chief antisubmarine weapons would

be submarines. The line officers’ preference for the offensive

again received expression in the notion of attacking the Soviet

underwater forces well forward: in their home waters with

ASW submarines and at their bases with naval air forces,

soon to be armed with nuclear weapons.

By the late 1950s, the reappearance of the naval nuclear

camel’s nose under the Air Force’s strategic tent was not as

threatening as it had been in Admiral Gallery’s version of the

late 1940s. The new conception called for a strategic triad, two

legs of which would belong to the Air Force (ICBMs and heavy

bombers) and all of which were vital to deterrence and nuclear

stability. The Air Force, moreover, was no longer the new kid

on the block and therefore had more confidence in its own

role.

The Navy’s new vision proved remarkably durable, and

recent writings from Maritime Strategy to From the Sea

are

really little more than a change in emphasis.

Impact of Aviation on Naval Air Thought

Aviation had not really changed the worldview of most of the

Navy’s officers corps by 1947. In a generic way, the primary

objective of navies remained command of the sea, although

not much of a challenge to the hegemony of the US Navy

existed at that point. Exploitation through mining and

blockade came out of the war with new prestige, at least to

seamen. Even though the Navy had little enthusiasm for the

invasion of Japan, the success of amphibious operations

across the Pacific reaffirmed that mode as another way of

exploiting command of the sea. On the eve of the unification

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debate, such support as had existed for either a separate air

force or a unified defense department was much diminished

among officers who had fought the war in the Pacific and in

Washington. Internally, the task method of organization had

the prestige of success in recent combat behind it.

The most significant change in naval thought had come in

the employment of naval forces to achieve command of the

sea. Battleships and other surface vessels found themselves

largely relegated to supporting roles—as antiaircraft platforms

in carrier task forces and as fire-support platforms for

amphibious task forces. The aircraft carrier had become the

capital ship in command of sea operations—and that change

was widely accepted by Navy people. They also gave more

thought to the value and limitations of strategic bombing,

mostly the latter. Notwithstanding the conclusions of the US

Strategic Bombing Survey, the idea that one could coerce

nations without first defeating their armies and navies did not

receive wide support within the Navy. The survey emphasized

the great value of the submarine campaign in the Pacific war,

but, clearly, the prestige of the air arm overshadowed that of

the submariners.

In the end, then, aviation apparently integrated itself into

the Navy and its thinking, mostly in the realm of method

rather than objective. The environment for military conflict

remained similar in many ways, and nation-states still

responded most clearly to coercion by military force. The naval

vision still largely maintained that one first had to apply force

to the armed forces of an adversary, and only later directly to

the territory or other values after achieving command of the

sea, the air, and the land approaches. At sea, the method of

applying that force had changed, in that the carrier had

become the capital ship, and the rest were to lend support.

This implied that the postwar reorganization should not

change our national security structure radically and that the

Navy should certainly retain its own air arm. Even though

naval aviators had risen to commanding heights of the sea

service, the opposition of surface sailors was not as

reactionary as sometimes pictured. Further, it seems fair to

picture the intellectual style of the Navy as tending neither

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136

toward the reactionary nor the radical—but an evolutionary or

progressive cast of mind.

Notes

1. I agree with Carl Builder that the personification of institutions

entails serious limitations and that there can be no all-inclusive “Navy

mind” any more than a “military mind.” Thus, any insight emerging from

this chapter can be no more than a tendency or an approximation—if that

much. Acknowledgment is particularly important in this case. Although I

graduated from the Naval Academy and before that, had an aviation rating

in the enlisted Navy, all that was more than 40 years ago, and I have had

little to do with naval history or naval aviation since then.

I have received very important assistance for this chapter from

distinguished experts in the field of naval history. Dr. Gary Weir set up a

discussion seminar for an early draft of this work at the Washington Navy

Yard in October 1994. Among the historians in that group were Dr. Jeffrey

Barlow and Curtis Utz, and the session was a most productive one for me.

Barlow’s book and Utz’s thesis were important aids. I also received

significant insights from Dr. Clark Reynolds of the College of Charleston

and Dr. William Trimble of Auburn University, the biographers of Admirals

Towers and Moffett, respectively. Their work went far beyond mere

professional courtesy. Dr. Evelyn Cherpak, head of the Naval Historical

Collection at the Naval War College, not only was expert and most

cooperative in optimizing my research effort at Newport but also read an

early draft of this work and rendered significant assistance. Ms. Alice S.

Creighton and Ms. Mary Rose Catalfamo were also most impressive in

maximizing the effect of the research time I had available at the Special

Collections Division of the Nimitz Library at the US Naval Academy.

Other important readers who helped were my colleagues—Prof Dennis

Drew, Dr. Hal Winton, and Col Rob Owen—Dr. Alexander Cochran and Rear

Adm William T. Pendley, as well as Dr. Mark R. Shulman; Commander Joe

Tarlton, USN, Retired; Frank Uhlig; and Col Barry Watts, USAF, Retired.

The original idea for the chapter was largely that of my boss, Col Phillip S.

Meilinger, the former dean of the School of Advanced Airpower Studies and

the general editor of this book. His support was generous and essential to

the project.

2. Commander P. N. L. Bellinger, USN, “Policy” (thesis, Naval War

College, 1925), in Naval War College History Collection [hereinafter NWC

History Collection], Newport, R.I.

3. William F. Trimble, Admiral William A. Moffett: Architect of Naval

Aviation (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), 29–30.

4. Charles M. Melhorn, Two-Block Fox: The Rise of the Aircraft Carrier,

1911–1929 (Annapolis: US Naval Institute [hereinafter USNI] Press, 1974),

22–23; Kenneth J. Hagan, This People’s Navy: The Making of American Sea

Power (New York: Free Press, 1991), xi–xii; and Clark G. Reynolds, “The US

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Fleet-in-Being Strategy of 1942,” The Journal of Military History 58 (January

1994): 107–18. Reynolds explains that even in the fleet-in-being strategies,

the British and US approaches emphasized the preference for offensive

applications.

5. Capt George C. Westervelt, USN, “Statement of Captain G. C.

Westervelt (CC) U.S.N. before President’s Aviation Commission” (Morrow

Board, 1925), copy in E. E. Wilson Papers, Special Collections, box 22,

Nimitz Library, US Naval Academy, Annapolis, Md. [hereinafter USNA

Special Collections].

6. One among many who held this opinion was John Towers, one of the

Navy’s original aviators, who later explained that the carrier was weak

defensively, which made it inherently an offensive weapon. See John

Towers, “The Influence of Aircraft on Naval Strategy and Tactics” (thesis,

Naval War College, 7 May 1934), Record Group 13, NWC History Collection.

Six years later, he was still arguing in terms that Mahan himself would not

have found objectionable. In “Naval Aviation Policy and the Bureau of

Aeronautics,” Aero Digest 36 (February 1940): 34–38, he states that US

well-being depends on free use of the seas, that a navy must command the

essential part of the sea (achieved through offensive operations against the

enemy naval fleet), and that aviation exists primarily to support those

offensive operations. For an equally clear preference by another of the early

flyers, see P. N. L. Bellinger, “Lecture Delivered by Commander P. N. L.

Bellinger, Aviation, 1 Aug 1924,” 12, in NWC History Collection.

7. William S. Sims, “Cheer Up!! There Is No Naval War College,” 1916,

Sims Papers, box 74, Library of Congress.

8. Robert Seager II, Alfred Thayer Mahan: The Man and His Letters

(Annapolis, Md.: USNI Press, 1977), 347. Mahan was only one of the most

prominent officer-historians; he reached the presidency of the American

Historical Association in 1902, after his many historical writings on the

history of sea power had achieved worldwide notice. See also Philip A.

Crowl, “Alfred Thayer Mahan: The Naval Historian,” in Peter Paret, ed.,

Makers of Modern Strategy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,

1986), 444–54.

The USNI itself was established in the 1870s, as was its journal

Proceedings, which from the earliest times contained many articles of a

historical nature. See Philip A. Crowl, “Education versus Training at the

Naval War College: 1884–1972,” Naval War College Review 26

(November–December 1973): 2–10. Carl H. Builder in The Masks of War:

American Military Styles in Strategy and Analysis (Baltimore, Md.: Johns

Hopkins University Press, 1989), 18, also argues that the Navy, above the

other services, values tradition; I suppose that has some affinity for a

historical approach to things. See also Commodore Stephen B. Luce, USN,

“War Schools,” USNI Proceedings 9 (1883): 633–57; and Rear Adm W. V.

Pratt, USN, “The Naval War College,” USNI Proceedings 53 (September

1927): 937–47.

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9. See William E. Simons, Liberal Education in the Service Academies

(New York: Columbia University Press, 1965), 52–53, on the line-engineer

controversy at the Naval Academy.

10. Trimble, 4, 7, 67; and Capt Mark Bristol, USN, Office of Naval

Aeronautics, Washington, D.C., to secretary of the Navy, letter, subject:

Proposed Program, 16 August 1915, Henry Mustin Papers, box 7, Library of

Congress.

11. Lt Commander Henry C. Mustin, USN, “The Naval Aeroplane,” ca.

1915, Mustin Papers, box 6, Library of Congress.

12. Commanding Officer [Henry Mustin], US Navy Aeronautic Station,

Pensacola, Fla., to Office of Aeronautics, letter, 28 June 1914, Mustin

Papers, box 7, Library of Congress. In this letter, Mustin makes technical

recommendations based on naval air experience on the Vera Cruz

expedition. See also director of naval aeronautics to Chief of Naval

Operations, “Annual Report on Aeronautics,” 19 January 1916, Mustin

Papers, box 7, Library of Congress.

13. Melhorn, 8–16, 27–35. For pre–World War I explorations of these

issues, see Capt (later Adm) Mark L. Bristol, director of naval aeronautics,

to Chief of Naval Operations, “Annual Report on Aeronautics,” 19 January

1916; and Lt Commander Kenneth Whiting, USN, aboard the USS Seattle,

to commander, destroyer force, letter, 16 March 1917, Whiting Papers,

USNA Special Collections.

14. Capt Henry C. Mustin, USN, to the secretary of the Navy, report,

“Aviation Organization in Great Britain, France and Italy,” 25 August 1919,

in Mustin Papers, box 3, Library of Congress.

15. Rear Adm William S. Sims to Chief of Naval Operations, letter,

subject: United Air Service, 1 February 1921, Sims Papers, NWC History

Collection; Capt T. T. Craven, “Naval Aviation,” USNI Proceedings 46

(January 1920): 181–91; idem, “Naval Aviation and a United Air Service,”

USNI Proceedings 47 (March 1921): 307–21; idem, “Aviation,” lecture, 5

August 1919, NWC History Collection; Commander D. E. Cummings, “Use

of Aircraft in Naval Warfare,” USNI Proceedings 47 (November 1921):

1678–688; Capt Nathan C. Twining, USN, to Capt Henry C. Mustin, USN,

San Pedro, Calif., letter, 24 December 1919, Mustin Papers, box 9, Library

of Congress; Mustin, “Aviation Organization”; and USN General Board to

the secretary of the Navy, report, “Future Policy Governing Development of

Air Service for the United States Navy,” 23 June 1919, Mustin Papers, box

7, Library of Congress.

16. In “Technology, Culture, and the Modern Battleship,” Naval War

College Review 45 (Autumn 1992): 83, Jon Testuro Sumida argues

persuasively that weapons systems can have important results without

winning great battles—as with the British fleet in World War I.

17. As Admiral Nimitz himself testified, Jutland was studied up one side

and down the other in the aftermath of World War I. See Commander

Chester W. Nimitz, “Thesis on Tactics” (thesis, Naval War College, 28 April

1923), NWC History Collection. For interesting contemporary views from

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outside the naval establishment on the implications of Jutland, especially

the bombing tests of the 1920s, see Maj William C. Sherman’s chapter on

the future of naval aviation in his Air Warfare (New York: Ronald Press,

1926), in which he argues that the war provided even less of a historical

database for speculations on the future of naval aviation than was true for

Army airpower. For a contemporary notion that keeping submarines

submerged rather than damaging them was the most important

contribution of aviation, see Capt C. Gilbert More, Royal Navy, “Aviation

Abroad,” testimony, in US Navy General Board, “Proceedings of the General

Board,” 23 May 1918, Record Group 80, reel 12, M1493, 1918, National

Archives, Washington, D.C. See also Kenneth Hagan and Mark Shulman,

“Putting Naval before History,” Naval History 9 (September/October 1995):

24–29.

18. Director of naval aeronautics to Chief of Naval Operations, “Annual

Report on Aeronautics,” 19 January 1916, Mustin Papers, box 7, Library of

Congress.

19. Gary E. Weir, Naval Historical Center, Washington Navy Yard,

Washington, D.C., interviewed by author, 6 October 1994.

20. Gerald E. Wheeler, Admiral William Veazie Pratt, US Navy

(Washington, D.C.: Department of the Navy, 1974), 193–201; Ernest

Andrade Jr., “United States Naval Policy in the Disarmament Era,

1921–1937” (PhD diss., Michigan State University, 1966), 1–12; Thomas H.

Buckley, “The United States and the Washington Conference, 1921–1922”

(PhD diss., University of Indiana, 1961), 19–21, 130; and Stephen Roskill,

Naval Policy between the Wars, vol. 1, The Period of Anglo-American

Antagonism, 1919–1929 (New York: Walker, 1968), 310. Writing at the time

of the Vietnam War, Rear Adm Dan V. Gallery was only one of many people

who looked askance at arms control but who nonetheless thought that the

Five Power Treaty helped push carrier development along. See unpublished

article, Gallery Papers, box 31, USNA Special Collections.

21. Capt T. T. Craven, USN, “Aviation,” lecture, 5 August 1919, page 20,

NWC History Collection. In this lecture, Craven reported that he understood

that the Royal Navy had lost its aviation to the RAF precisely because it had

not moved vigorously to develop it itself. The same idea is one of the themes

of Alfred F. Hurley in Billy Mitchell: Crusader for Air Power (Bloomington,

Ind.: Indiana University Press, 1964, 1975), viii, wherein he suggests that

Mitchell was an important catalyst for progress in naval aviation. See also

Gerald E. Wheeler, “Mitchell, Moffett, and Air Power,” The Airpower

Historian 8 (April 1961): 79–87; Melhorn, 56, 57; Capt N. E. Irwin,

testimony, page 177, 5 March 1919, in US Navy General Board, “GB

Proceedings 80,” reel 13, M1493, 1919, National Archives; and William M.

McBride, “Challenging a Strategic Paradigm: Aviation and the US Navy

Special Policy Board of 1924,” The Journal of Strategic Studies 14 (February

1991): 74–75.

22. Bellinger lecture, 2.

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23. For information on Sims, see, among many others, Wheeler, William

Veazie Pratt, 149; Hagan, This People’s Navy, 255–58; David F. Trask,

“William Snowden Sims: The Victory Ashore,” in James C. Bradford, ed.,

Admirals of the New Steel Navy: Makers of the American Naval Tradition,

1880–1930 (Annapolis: USNI Press, 1990); and Elting E. Morison, Admiral

Sims and the Modern American Navy (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1942). For

information on Moffett, see Trimble; Thomas C. Hone, “Navy Air Leadership:

Rear Admiral William A. Moffett as Chief of the Bureau of Aeronautics,” in

Wayne Thompson, ed., Air Leadership (Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force

History, 1986), 83–113; and Clark G. Reynolds, “William A. Moffett: Steward

of the Air Revolution,” in Bradford, 374–87. Lesser known was Rear Adm

William Freeland Fullam, whose papers are in the Library of Congress, as

are those of Admiral Sims. Moffett’s papers are at the Naval Academy

(microfilm copy at USAF Historical Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, Ala.).

For a seminal piece on the subject, see Stephen Peter Rosen, “New Ways of

War: Understanding Military Innovation,” International Security 13 (Summer

1988): 135–67; and especially his Winning the Next War: Innovation and the

Modern Military (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1991), 58–70, 76–80,

130–47, 234–50.

24. As Melhorn shows, the US Navy observers in Britain during World

War I were aware of the German zeppelin operations, both against the Royal

Navy and against London, and Mitchell and others brought the idea for

such operations before the Navy’s General Board and the rest of the Navy

right after the war. See Melhorn, 35, 40. One of the others was Maj B. L.

Smith, USMC, and Commander Kenneth Whiting himself. See testimony,

page 991, in US Navy General Board, “GB Proceedings 80,” reel 12, M1493,

1918, National Archives; and testimony, page 1951, 10 March 1919, in US

Navy General Board, “GB Proceedings 80,” reel 13, M1493, 1919, National

Archives, respectively.

In a report on a trip to Europe that same year, Capt Henry Mustin

discussed Italian ideas on strategic bombing and British experience with a

separate air force. See “Aviation Organization in Great Britain, France, and

Italy,” 25 August 1919; and Capt Henry Mustin, “Abstracts of Interviews

Held with Authorities in Great Britain, France and Italy,” report, 1 October

1919, Mustin Papers, box 3, Library of Congress, which gives the views of

Hugh Trenchard and Sir David Beatty.

Two years earlier, Capt George Westervelt, USN, kept a diary of his trip to

England, in which he speaks of the relative invulnerability of the Germans

bombing London and their “barbarity” in doing so. See “Off to War,” diary,

page 27, E. E. Wilson Papers, box 22, USNA Special Collections; and Adm

William V. Pratt, USN, “Some Aspects of Our Air Policy: An Argument from

the Viewpoint of American Principles and of the Law,” February 1926,

Record Group 4, NWC History Collection.

The staff presentations at the Naval War College increasingly included

allusions to the possibility of air attack against enemy industry or civilian

morale—or the possibility of such attacks on the United States—as

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independent air missions, but the emphasis was on airpower as an integral

element of naval power. See “The Employment of Aviation in Naval Warfare,”

staff presentation, Naval War College, September 1937, Record Group 4,

NWC History Collection; and “The Employment of Aviation in Naval

Warfare,” staff presentation, Naval War College, September 1940, Record

Group 4, NWC History Collection. One suspects that the contemporary

experience with airpower in the Spanish Civil War and Ethiopia provided

the stimulus for those remarks.

25. Jeffrey G. Barlow, The Revolt of the Admirals (Washington, D.C.:

Center for Naval History, 1994), 3; see also US Navy General Board, “GB

Proceedings 80,” reel 13, M1493, 1919, National Archives, wherein we

clearly see the impossibility of determining how much of the enthusiasm of

the General Board for aviation arises from progressive analysis and how

much from Mitchell’s efforts, even at this early date. For the formal report of

the board, see Adm Charles J. Badger, USN, senior member present,

General Board of the Navy, to the secretary of the Navy, report, “Future

Policy Governing Development of Air Service for the United States Navy,” 23

June 1919, General Board no. 449, Mustin Papers, box 7, Library of

Congress.

26. In 1909 Sims himself argued that hitting a moving ship from a

considerable height was an impractical proposition; in 1921 he reversed

himself to argue that bombing from a considerable height could result in

devastating hits on moving ships and that “this [the lethal area about a

target vessel] could not easily be missed by a well-trained pilot.” William

Sims to “Turner,” Norfolk, Va., letter, 19 June 1909, Sims Papers, box 47,

Library of Congress; and William Sims to Vice Adm Mark Kerr, Royal Navy,

London, letter, 29 September 1921, Sims Papers, box 47, Library of

Congress. As it turned out, his first prediction in 1909 was the more

accurate, for it was most difficult to hit a moving ship in the Pacific War

from altitude, and most of the damage was done by torpedoes and

dive-bombers (and kamikazes), all of which had to come too close to the

vessels for comfort. See also Commander Logan Cresap’s testimony, 23

September 1918, page 1074, in US Navy General Board, “GB Proceedings

80,” reel 13, M1493, 1918, National Archives; and William M. McBride,

“Challenging a Strategic Paradigm: Aviation and the US Navy Special Policy

Board of 1924,” The Journal of Strategic Studies 14 (March 1991): 72–89; as

well as an aviator’s description of these things in Commander P. N. L.

Bellinger, USN, “Tactics” (thesis, Naval War College, 9 May 1925), NWC

History Collection; or a submariner’s conception in Nimitz, “Thesis on

Tactics.”

27. For a good source on some of this evolution, see Adm William H.

Standley, “Naval Aviation, an Evolution of Naval Gunfire,” USNI Proceedings

78 (February 1952): 251–55.

28. Bellinger, “Aviation,” 4, 6–7, 13–15; see also Standley, 251–55.

29. Francis L. Keith, “Steps toward Naval Readiness: An Examination of

United States Fleet Problems” (College Park, Md.: University of Maryland,

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1976), 29–30 (copy provided to author by Curtis Utz, Defense Intelligence

Agency).

30. Melhorn, 9, 21–54. For a discussion of the decisiveness of air

superiority in connection with spotting for the battle line and the associated

techniques, see [Henry Mustin?] “The Use of Airplanes for Observation of

Fire of the Battle Line” (1920?), Mustin Papers, box 8, Library of Congress.

Rear Adm J. K. Taussig, USN, “The Case for the Big Capital Ship,” USNI

Proceedings 66 (July 1940): 929–40, gives an articulate argument for the

orthodox view on the eve of Pearl Harbor. For an excellent shorter

summary, see Norman Friedman, US Aircraft Carriers: An Illustrated Design

History (Annapolis: USNI Press, 1983), 8–9. For early views on the subject,

see George C. Westervelt, “Aviation Situation Abroad,” page 240, testimony

to the General Board, in US Navy General Board, “GB Proceedings 80,” reel

11, M1493, 1917, National Archives.

31. George Baer, One Hundred Years of Sea Power: The U.S. Navy,

1890–1990 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1994), 90.

32. Melhorn, 24–25; and Baer, 93, 120.

33. Capt Yates Stirling Jr., USN, “Some Fundamentals of Sea Power,”

USNI Proceedings 51 (June 1925): 889–918.

34. On war gaming against the Japanese, see Commander James A.

Barber Jr., USN, “The School of Naval Warfare,” Naval War College Review

21 (April 1969): 19–96; Lt Commander Thomas B. Buell, USN, “Admiral

Raymond A. Spruance and the Naval War College,” part 1, “Preparing for

World War II,” in Naval War College Review 23 (March 1971): 30–51; Crowl,

“Education versus Training at the Naval War College,” 2–10; Edward S.

Miller, War Plan Orange: The US Strategy to Defeat Japan, 1897–1945

(Annapolis: USNI Press, 1991); and Rear Adm William S. Sims, USN, “The

United States Naval War College,” USNI Proceedings 45 (September 1919):

1485–493.

On maneuvers, see Archibald D. Turnbull and Clifford L. Lord, History of

United States Naval Aviation (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press,

1949), 270–81; Keith; Rear Adm John D. Hayes, USN, Retired, “Admiral

Joseph Mason Reeves, USN,” Naval War College Review 23 (November

1970): 54–55; and Eugene E. Wilson, “The Navy’s First Carrier Task Force,”

USNI Proceedings 76 (February 1950): 159–69.

For a view that submarines and aircraft would undermine the position of

the battleship although command of the sea remained a paramount

consideration, see Rear Adm W. F. Fullam, USN, Retired, “Statement of

Rear Admiral W. F. Fullam . . . to the Aircraft Investigating Committee of

Congress,” draft, 1924, Fullam Papers, box 7, Library of Congress. In a

1977 interview, page 31, USNA Special Collections, Adm John Thach

recollects that he had participated in mock attacks on Panama on his first

cruise in the Saratoga, in about 1931. In “The Influence of Aircraft on Naval

Strategy and Tactics” (thesis, Naval War College, 7 May 1934), page 3,

Record Group 13, NWC History Collection, Capt John H. Towers, USN,

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remarked that “one should in the beginning of his study definitely eliminate

from his mind the idea that aircraft will revolutionize naval warfare.”

35. Trimble, 67; Westervelt, in “Statement of Captain G. C. Westervelt,”

also argued in 1925 for the creation of a separate aviation corps within the

Navy—though he was resolutely opposed to any separate air force.

36. Barlow, 4.

37. Trimble, 67–86; Clark G. Reynolds, Admiral John H. Towers: The

Struggle for Naval Air Supremacy (Annapolis: USNI Press, 1991), 176; and

idem, “William A. Moffett,” in Bradford, 374. Theodore Taylor, in The

Magnificent Mitscher (New York: W. W. Norton, 1954), 88–89, shows that

Mitscher shared the harsh feelings on the parts of some aviators toward

their seniors who went to flight training as senior officers, seemingly to

preempt the top commands in naval aviation without having paid their

dues.

38. Reynolds, Towers, 319, 432; and Trimble, 7–8.

39. Rear Adm Nathan C. Twining, USN, USS New Mexico, at San Pedro,

Calif., to Captain Mustin, aboard the USS Aroostook, letter, 24 December

1919, Mustin Papers, box 7, Library of Congress.

40. Westervelt, “Statement of Captain G. C. Westervelt.”

41. Hurley, 24–25.

42. Commander H. C. Dinger, USN, “Aviation Abroad,” testimony, in US

Navy General Board, 23 August 1918, “GB Proceedings 80,” M1493, 1918,

National Archives. In “Aviation Organization in Great Britain, France, and

Italy,” report to the secretary of the Navy, 25 August 1919, Mustin Papers,

box 3, Library of Congress, Capt Henry Mustin, USN, expressed a contrary

view. He remarked on a general tendency toward centralization of the

management of airpower, including naval airpower, in approving terms. He

also cited that the main opposition to the Air Ministry and the RAF in

Britain lay within the ranks of the Royal Navy. See also Commander J. L.

Callan, USNRF, to Capt Henry Mustin, USN, “Memo for Captain Mustin,” 3

July 1919, Mustin Papers, box 3, Library of Congress, which reports on

their visit to the HMS Furious and her captain’s advice urging that the

United States not follow the British example.

43. Vice Adm F. W. Pennoyer Jr., USN, Retired, “Outline of US Carrier

Development, 1911–1942,” draft, 17 December 1968, E. E. Wilson Papers,

binder 7, USNA Special Collections.

44. Lt Commander H. T. Bartlett, USN, “Mission of Aircraft with the

Fleet,” USNI Proceedings 45 (January 1919): 729–41; Craven, “Naval

Aviation,” 181–91; idem, “Naval Aviation and a United Air Service,” USNI

Proceedings 47 (January 1921): 307–21; Commander D. E. Cummings, “The

Air Detachment,” USNI Proceedings 46 (January 1920): 891–94; idem, “Use

of Aircraft in Naval Warfare,” USNI Proceedings 47 (November 1921):

1677–88; Lt Forrest P. Sherman, “Naval Aircraft in International Law,” USNI

Proceedings 51 (October 1925): 258–64; idem, “Air Warfare,” USNI

Proceedings 52 (January 1926): 62–71; idem, “Some Aspects of Carrier and

Cruiser Design,” USNI Proceedings 56 (November 1930): 997–1002; Lt

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DeWitt C. Ramsey, USN, “The Development of Aviation in the Fleet,” USNI

Proceedings 49 (September 1923): 1395–1417; Lt Logan C. Ramsey,

“Aircraft and the Naval Engagement,” USNI Proceedings 56 (August 1930):

679–87; idem, “Bombing versus Torpedo Planes,” USNI Proceedings 57

(November 1931): 1509–15; idem, “Air Power Is Sea Power,” USNI

Proceedings 67 (July 1941): 921–26; Commander H. M. Kieffer, USN,

“Control of the Seas by an Air Department,” USNI Proceedings 51 (October

1925): 2265–70; Rear Adm Bradley A. Fiske (another one of those people

who did not need external prodding), “The Warfare of the Future,” USNI

Proceedings 47 (February 1921): 157–67; Lt Commander H. B. Grow, USN,

“Bombing Tests on the ‘Virginia’ and ‘New Jersey,’ ” USNI Proceedings 49

(January 1923): 1087–98; idem, “Tactical Employment of Naval Aircraft,”

USNI Proceedings 50 (March 1924): 341–51; Commander Jerome C.

Hunsaker, USN, “The Navy’s First Airships,” USNI Proceedings 45 (January

1919): 1347–68; David S. Ingalls, “Naval Aviation Today and in Prospect,”

USNI Proceedings 56 (October 1930): 891–94; Capt A. W. Johnson, USN,

“Aviation in Coast Defense,” USNI Proceedings 51 (September 1925):

1652–66; “Admiral Moffett Claims All Sea Flying for Navy,” Professional

Notes, USNI Proceedings 50 (August 1924): 1364–74; Lt Franklin G.

Percival, USN, Retired, “Elements Contributing to Aerial Superiority,” USNI

Proceedings 57 (April 1931): 437–47; Lt DeWitt C. Ramsey, USN, “The

Development of Aviation in the Fleet,” USNI Proceedings 49 (September

1923): 1395–1417; Capt Yates Stirling Jr., USN (himself a submariner),

“The Place of Aviation in the Organization for War,” USNI Proceedings 52

(June 1926): 1100–10; idem, “Some Fundamentals of Sea Power,” 899–918;

Lt Frank W. Wead, USN, “Naval Aviation Today,” USNI Proceedings 50 (April

1924): 561–74; Henry Woodhouse, “The Torpedoplane: The New Weapon

Which Promises to Revolutionize Naval Tactics,” USNI Proceedings 45

(January 1919): 743–52; and Eugene E. Wilson, “The Navy’s First Carrier

Task Force,” USNI Proceedings 76 (February 1950): 59–69. Although this

listing is not a complete survey, it is certainly massive enough to indicate

that air-mindedness was more than a whim of the editorial staff or the mere

output of a particularly prolific splinter group within the Navy.

45. See Commander Kenneth Whiting, testimony to the General Board,

8 March 1919, page 195, in US Navy General Board, “GB Proceedings 80,”

reel 13, M1493, 1919, National Archives.

46. Melhorn, 37–38; and Bristol letter. Though then in charge of the

Office of Naval Aeronautics, Bristol was not an aviator, and he made the

above analogy explicit two years before the United States entered World War

I. On the general acceptance of the notion of the primary need to command

the air, see Pratt, “Some Aspects of Our Air Policy.” For an example as early

as 27 March 1919, see Commander John Towers and Adm A. G. Winterhalter,

remarks, page 364, in US Navy General Board, “GB Proceedings 80,” reel

14, M1493, 1919, vol. 2, National Archives.

47. Miller; Buell, 40–46; and Louis Morton, “War Plan Orange: Evolution

of a Strategy,” World Politics 11 (October 1958–July 1959): 221–50. For an

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explanation by one of the primary actors, see briefing paper, William A.

Moffett Collection, part 2, item J, USNA Special Collections, probably done

in preparation of the US delegation to the London Naval Conference of

1930. For a contemporary discussion of how it worked in practice, see Adm

John H. Towers, “Strategic Employment of Naval Forces as the Essential

Element of World War II in the Pacific,” draft speech, n.d., Towers Papers,

box 4, Library of Congress. There was some dissent to the idea and to the

generally held preference for the offensive, as in Rear Adm W. F. Fullam,

USN, Retired, “The Passing of Sea Power: And the Dawn of a New Naval Era

in Which Battleships Are Obsolete,” McClure’s, June 1923, Fullam Papers,

box 7, Library of Congress.

48. Bellinger, “Tactics,” 12.

49. Keith, 20, 31; Barlow, 8; and Robert L. O’Connell, Sacred Vessels:

The Cult of the Battleship and the Rise of the U.S. Navy (Boulder, Colo.:

Westview Press, 1991), 301.

50. See briefing paper cited in note 47, above.

51. Elmer B. Potter, Bull Halsey (Annapolis: USNI Press, 1985), 136. See

“The Employment of Aviation in Naval Warfare,” staff presentation, Naval

War College, September 1937, page 44, Record Group 4, NWC History

Collection, which proclaims it “unnecessary to open the controversial

subject.” In his Naval War College thesis of 1934, Capt John H. Towers,

USN, World War II spiritual head of the entire naval aviation community,

remarked that “the generally accepted object of Naval Strategy is to gain

and maintain control of the sea. There may be qualifying phrases, such as

‘in the vital area’ or ‘in the theatre of operations’ etc. The purposes of

gaining and maintaining control are: to stop enemy trade while your own

trade has freedom of movement, to deny overseas operations to the enemy,

and be able to conduct them yourselves. . . . Its [the carrier’s] missions can

and should be varied, dependent upon the character of the operations, but

in the final battle, its primary mission should be support of the battle line”

(page 13). See Record Group 13, Naval History Collection; additional copy in

Towers Papers, box 4, Library of Congress.

52. See Melhorn; and Curtis Utz, “Carrier Aviation Policy and

Procurement” (master’s thesis, University of Maryland, 1989), 2.

53. Keith, 2, 28, 39. For a first-person account of the development of the

task force idea and carrier aviation in general, see Pennoyer.

54. Melhorn; Curtis Alan Utz, “Carrier Aviation Policy and Procurement

in the US Navy, 1936–1940” (master’s thesis, University of Maryland, 1989);

Potter, 137; and Rosen, Winning the Next War, 58.

55. Baer, 143.

56. Reynolds, “William A. Moffett: Steward of the Air Revolution,” 379.

57. Adm Frederick J. Horne, USN, “Kiwanis Club, 27 Oct 38,” draft

speech, Horne Papers, box 2, Library of Congress. In this speech, Horne

renders what I deem a near-classical expression of Navy officers’ general

worldview; it appears to have been prepared for presentation by Admiral

Horne.

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58. Clearly, the idea of independent carrier task forces antedated Pearl

Harbor and the lost battleships, having its genesis in part in the annual

fleet exercises dating from the late 1920s. See Turnbull and Lord; Hayes,

54–55; Reynolds, Towers, 272, 292; idem, “The U.S. Fleet-in-Being Strategy

of 1942,” 109–11; and Paul M. Kennedy, The Rise and Fall of British Naval

Mastery (Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Ashfield, 1976), 305.

59. “It is quite possible that ORANGE resistance will cease when

isolation is complete and before steps to reduce military strength on

ORANGE soil are necessary. In either case the operations imposed upon

BLUE will require a series of bases westward from Oahu, and will require

the BLUE Fleet to advance westward with an enormous train, in order to be

prepared to seize and establish bases.” Nimitz, “Thesis on Tactics,” 35.

60. Baer, 127.

61. Thomas B. Buell, Master of Sea Power: A Biography of Fleet Admiral

Ernest J. King (Boston: Little, Brown, 1980), 182–97, 468–73; E. B. Potter,

Nimitz (Annapolis: USNI Press, 1970), 271; Thomas J. Cutler, “Greatest of

All Sea Battles,” Naval History 8 (September/October 1994): 10–18; Jack

Sweetman, “Leyte Gulf,” USNI Proceedings 120 (October 1994): 56–58; and

Milan N. Vego, “The Sho-1 Plan,” USNI Proceedings 120 (October 1994):

61–63.

62. Kennedy, 303.

63. Buell, “Preparing for World War II,” 45; Potter, Bull Halsey, 346; and

Towers, “Strategic Employment of Naval Forces.”

64. Melhorn, 21; Capt W. D. Puleston, USN, Retired, “The Probable

Effect on American National Defense of the United Nations and the Atomic

Bomb,” USNI Proceedings 72 (August 1946): 1017–29; Chester W. Nimitz,

“The Future Employment of Naval Forces” (a paper expressing the views of

Fleet Admiral Nimitz on the function of naval forces in maintaining the

future security of the United States), 1947, Whitehead Papers, box 648,

Special Collections, National Museum of Naval Aviation, Pensacola, Fla.;

Adm Arthur W. Radford, USN, “Statement of Arthur W. Radford, Admiral

United States Navy, Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet . . . before the Armed

Services Committee of the House of Representatives Investigating the B-36”

[1949], Halsey Papers, box 51, Library of Congress; Adm Raymond A.

Spruance, “Statement by R. A. Spruance, Admiral, US Navy, Retired,

Delivered before the House Armed Services Committee” [1949?], Halsey

Papers, box 51, Library of Congress; and Adm John H. Towers, USN, draft

speech [1951–53], Towers Papers, box 4, Library of Congress.

65. Friedman, 3.

66. Reynolds, Towers, 507–45; “Aircraft Carrier,” staff presentation,

Naval War College, 4 February 1943, Record Group 4, NWC History

Collection; Taylor, 321; and “Fast Carrier Task Force,” staff presentation,

Naval War College, 26 July 1945, page 1, Record Group 4, NWC History

Collection.

67. Thomas B. Buell, The Quiet Warrior: A Biography of Admiral

Raymond A. Spruance (Annapolis: USNI Press, 1987), 385–86; “Statement

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by R. A. Spruance,” 10–11; Potter, Nimitz, 356; and W. D. Lanier Jr.,

“Victory and the B-29s,” USNI Proceedings 72 (December 1946): 1563–567.

68. Barlow, 292.

69. Rear Adm Ralph A. Ofstie, USN, “Statement of Ralph A. Ofstie . . . to

the Armed Services Committee of the House of Representatives,” n.d.,

Halsey Papers, box 51, Library of Congress; Buell, The Quiet Warrior, 350,

353, 354, 367; Potter, Nimitz, 372 (Potter reports that Nimitz also had his

reservations about city bombing); and Steven L. Rearden, History of the

Office of the Secretary of Defense, vol. 1, The Formative Years (Washington,

D.C.: Office of the Secretary of Defense, 1984), 415.

70. Capt Paul R. Schratz, USN, Retired, “The Admirals’ Revolt,” USNI

Proceedings 112 (February 1986): 64–71; Builder, 77–80; Lawrence J. Korb,

“Service Unification: Arena of Fears, Hopes, and Ironies,” USNI Proceedings

104 (May 1978): 170–83; and Rearden, 385–422, are only drops in a sea of

literature on a subject that contains a wide variety of interpretations. Dr.

Jeffrey Barlow, for example, interprets the views of Admirals Nimitz and

Sherman as fairly well articulated and confident in the aftermath of the

Bikini atomic bomb tests. See Barlow, 80.

71. Frank Uhlig Jr., How Navies Fight: The US Navy and Its Allies

(Annapolis: USNI Press, 1994), 286–87.

72. Donald Edward Wilson, “The History of President Truman’s Air

Policy Commission and Its Influence on Air Policy, 1947–1949” (PhD diss.,

University of Denver, 1978); George M. Watson Jr., The Office of the

Secretary of the Air Force (Washington, D.C.: Center for Air Force History,

1993), 35–78; Ofstie; and Friedman, 19–21.

73. Potter, Nimitz, 402.

74. Rear Adm Daniel V. Gallery, USN, Retired, Eight Bells, and All’s Well

(New York: W. W. Norton, 1965), 228–29. The roots of Air Force–Navy/

Marine Corps rivalry far antedate Gallery and even the Mitchell bombing

tests, as shown in the testimony of the pioneer USMC aviator Alfred A.

Cunningham to the General Board on 5 February 1918 with his comment,

“You [the USN] could have the field [an Army Air Service base in wartime

Florida] for the training of these fighting pilots and you won’t have to

depend on the charity of the Army, which is very unpleasant.” See US Navy

General Board, “GB Proceedings 80,” reel 12, M1493, 1918, National

Archives.

75. Gallery, Eight Bells, 217–35; Watson, 35–78; Rearden, 385–422;

George T. Hodermarsky, “Postwar Naval Force Reduction, 1945–50: Impact

on the Next War” (Newport, R.I.: Center for Naval Warfare Studies,

Advanced Research Department, Naval War College, 1990), 1–69 (copy in

Air University Library, Maxwell AFB, Ala.); and Uhlig, 286–87.

76. Buell, Master of Sea Power, 364–66, 374; Reynolds, Towers, 257,

370–71, and chap. 17, “Shaping the New Order of Air-Sea Power after

1945,” 512–59.

77. See “Statement by R. A. Spruance,” 6, wherein he cites the growing

Soviet submarine threat based on technology transferred from Germany as

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the single most serious problem facing the Navy at that time; and

Friedman, 3.

78. Hodermarsky, 1–69; and Friedman, 17.

79. David A. Rosenberg, “American Postwar Air Doctrine and

Organization: The Navy Experience,” in Air Power and Warfare: Proceedings

of the 8th Military History Symposium, United States Air Force Academy,

18–20 Oct, 1978, ed. Alfred F. Hurley and Robert C. Ehrhart (Washington,

D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1979), 245–70; and idem, “Reality and

Responsibility: Power and Process in Making of United States Nuclear

Strategy, 1945–68,” The Journal of Strategic Studies 9 (March 1986): 35–52.

80. Adm James D. Watkins, USN, The Maritime Strategy (Annapolis:

USNI Press, 1986); John J. Mearsheimer, “A Strategic Misstep: The

Maritime Strategy and Deterrence in Europe,” International Security 11 (Fall

1986): 3–57; Sean O’Keefe, “Interview: Be Careful What You Ask For,” USNI

Proceedings 119 (January 1993): 73–76; Gen Carl E. Mundy, USMC,

“Coping with Change: The Department of the Navy and the Future,”

Strategic Review 22 (Winter 1994): 20–24; and Geoffrey Till, “Maritime

Power in the Twenty-First Century,” The Journal of Strategic Studies 17

(March 1994): 176–99.

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Chapter 5

Airpower Thought in Continental Europe

between the Wars

Dr. James S. Corum

One of the most innovative and fruitful periods in the

history of airpower thought was the interwar period in

Continental Europe. By the end of World War I, all the major

powers had acquired considerable experience in aerial warfare.

Most military professionals and civilian politicians were aware

that airpower would remain a vital aspect of military power. The

primary role of this revolutionary new weapon, however,

remained unclear. Would the air force primarily support the

other services, or would it operate independently?

The Continental powers faced the challenge of absorbing

and incorporating the experiences of the world war, the

capabilities of emerging aviation technology, and the

traditional principles of land and naval warfare, to create a

fundamental theory of airpower. They also faced the challenge,

as important as the development of airpower theory, of

applying this theory as practical operational doctrine, ready

for use in planning and directing air operations.

The four major air powers of Continental Europe in the

interwar period were France, Italy, the Soviet Union, and

Germany. This chapter outlines the development of airpower

theory in each nation, paying particular attention to the

interrelationship of theory and doctrine.

France

France in the interwar period provides an excellent example

of how the lack of effective and appropriate air doctrine

reduced a nation from a premier air power at the end of World

War I to a second-rate force at the outbreak of World War II.

Ineffective air performance in 1940 played a decisive role in

the defeat of France. The weakness of l’armée de l’air did not

151

result from a lack of funding or a lack of technological

capability, but from a senior military leadership that had little

understanding of airpower and its capabilities. In the interwar

period, the French produced few original airpower theorists,

and the senior military leadership at first reluctantly listened

to the airpower theories developed in France and later

repudiated them.

At the end of World War I, the French air service was the

second largest air force in the world: 90,000 men and over

thirty-seven hundred aircraft in service on all fronts.

During

the war, the French aircraft industry and aircraft engine

industry led the world in production and technical efficiency.

By 1918 the French had produced the world’s first

supercharged engine as well as the Spad VII and Spad XIII

fighters and the Breguet XIV bomber—the equal of their

German counterparts. By the last year of the war, the French

air force had developed into a superb tactical unit.

In 1918 the primary mission of the French air service was

the support of army ground troops by reconnaissance,

artillery spotting, close air support, and interdiction attacks.

The air service successfully provided close air support to

French and US offensives from June to November 1918. At

this time, the primary targets for French airmen included

German troop reserves, depots, airfields, and rail yards close

to the front.

During the last three months of the war, the

French attempted a strategic air campaign by interdicting rail

shipments of iron ore in the Briey Basin. This campaign had

little effect, considering the effort put into it; indeed, the

French high command judged it a failure.

Despite the premier position of the French air force in the

aftermath of World War I, the French put little effort into

developing and revising airpower doctrine for the force. A

committee of 16 officers wrote the postwar French army

operational regulation—Instruction provisoire sur l’emploi

tactique des grandes unités (1921). Only one of these

officers—Gen Bertrand Pujo (later chief of staff of the air

force)—was an airman. Postwar army operational doctrine

found itself essentially frozen in the tactical methods of 1918,

known as la bataille conduite (methodical battle), which

emphasized advances in slow stages, covered by massive

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artillery support.

In contrast to German army doctrine,

French operational doctrine made little mention of airpower

except in its reconnaissance and observation roles. Though

revised in 1936, the principles of French army doctrine

remained basically unchanged throughout the interwar period.

Prior to 1925, the primary activity of the French air force

was supporting the army’s ground campaigns in Morocco. In

the French air service journal, most discussion concerned the

tactical and support aspects of aviation.

By the mid-1920s,

however, French airmen had begun to chafe in this

subordinate role. As the army’s new Maginot Line devoured a

massive share of appropriations, funds available for air force

modernization shrank. By tradition, French officers were not

encouraged to openly disagree with official operational

doctrine, so airmen sought a means of encouraging the role of

airpower and the independence of the air force by discussing

the concepts of the Italian general Giulio Douhet. The first

discussion of Douhet’s thought appeared in Revue Maritime in

1927.

In the early 1930s, French officers published books

and articles that commented favorably on Douhet’s theories.

An aviation journal, Les Aíles, translated a large part of

Douhet’s The Command of the Air (1921) into French.

Douhet’s stature as a military theorist provided French

airmen with a legitimate means of mobilizing popular and

political support for the creation of an independent air force.

Part of the independence campaign of French airmen was

realized in 1928 with the establishment of the Air Ministry,

which for the first time assured airmen and their views of

limited access to the top defense councils. Although the air

service reported to the Air Ministry in peacetime, in wartime it

remained subordinate to the army. Only in 1933 did the air

force officially become a separate branch of the military. The

service found its independence still limited, however, because

the High Command of the armed forces set objectives and

provided strategic direction for all the armed forces—and the

army dominated the High Command. In the interwar period,

only three generals—Philippe Petain, Maxime Weygand, and

Maurice-Gustave Gamelin—held the Supreme Command. All

were army officers, and none had more than a minimal

understanding of airpower. Army and air force understanding

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of doctrine grew increasingly divergent in this period. By the

early 1930s, Douhet’s tenets had become the predominant

view among air force officers. At the same time, French army

commanders continued to hold the view that the air force

merely supported the infantry.

French airmen enhanced service independence by putting

some of Douhet’s theories into practice. In the early 1930s,

the Air Ministry began the production of several aircraft

models that fit Douhet’s conception of the battle plane:

well-armed, heavy aircraft that could carry out a variety of

roles but whose primary mission remained bombing.

Bombing, combat, and reconnaissance (BCR) aircraft would

carry out reconnaissance and ground attack for the army yet

could carry out strategic bombing attacks as well. Indeed,

some French air force officers openly acknowledged that

designating BCR units as reconnaissance units provided the

only means of building up the bomber force.

Only France

seriously put this aspect of Douhet’s theory into practice. In

this instance, however, the theory failed. Designed for several

missions, BCRs were not particularly effective at any one of

them. The BCR program resulted in a series of thoroughly

mediocre aircraft, many of which were still in service in 1940,

when they served as cannon fodder for German fighters.

The most original of the French interwar air theorists was

Pierre Cot, who served two terms as air minister—from

January 1933 to February 1934 and from January 1936 to

1938. Cot was a socialist member of Parliament and a wartime

pilot who was passionately devoted to airpower. During his

tenure, he attempted to build a modern strategic air force to

match the German Luftwaffe and to create a foundation for

the rearmament of l’armée de l’air. By 1934 the moribund

French air force was far behind the Luftwaffe in technical

development and airpower potential. Cot, however, pushed

numerous other programs in addition to his attempts to

establish a strategic air force, one of the first of which involved

improving the aviation infrastructure, particularly the

navigation and instrumentation capabilities of the air force

and civil aviation.

In the popular Cot, French airmen for the

first time had a champion willing to speak out forcefully and

advocate the need for fundamental reforms.

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Cot’s primary accomplishment during his first term as air

minister was the creation of Plan I—France’s first program for

a comprehensive aerial rearmament. Although Cot

enthusiastically believed in the primacy of strategic bombing,

Plan I featured almost equal numbers of new bombers (474),

fighters (480), and reconnaissance planes (411).

At this time, the French aviation industry comprised

numerous small companies with little capital and largely

unmechanized production methods. In an attempt to create a

modern aviation industry to match Germany’s, Cot argued for

the nationalization and reorganization of the industry. In 1936

the government consolidated small companies into larger

corporations, initially resulting in confusion and a drop in

production but paying off in higher production levels of more

modern aircraft on the eve of World War II. Political

conservatives strongly criticized Cot for nationalizing the

industry, but air force officers supported his action; they

understood that he was motivated not by politics but a desire

to modernize the air force.

During Cot’s second term as air minister (1936–38), he

initiated several fundamental reforms of air doctrine and

organization. Cot and senior air force generals Victor Demain

and Joseph Vuillemin (air force chief of staff from 1938 to

1940) argued that “the air force must be capable of

independent operations, of operations in coordination with the

army and navy, and of air defense of the national territory.”

To further this vision, Cot ordered major organizational

reforms in September 1936. Instead of being divided into

territorial areas and subordinated to the regional army

commanders, the air force comprised three tactical

commands. France’s bomber force was I Air Corps, composed

of nine bomber wings and nine reconnaissance wings. All the

fighters—eight wings—were in II Air Corps, under a single

command. And 26 groups were allocated to the army support

mission under army command.

The two corps would serve

under air force—not local army—command. For the first time,

France had created—albeit with obsolete aircraft—a force

capable of strategic bombing operations.

During his tenure, Cot thoroughly revised the primary

operational doctrine of the air force. Operational regulations of

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1936 included a strategic bombing mission: “The heavy

defensive aircraft [the bomber] has the mission of attacking

targets on the battlefield and enemy lines of communication

as well as strategic enemy centers to the limit of their

range.”

Notably, the French government and High Command

remained so defensively oriented in the mid-1930s that the air

force could create strategic bombing units only by using the

euphemism “heavy defensive aircraft.”

Operational directives of 1937 more specifically required the

targeting of enemy industry: “As an offensive battle, the air

battle has the goal of destroying the primary power of the

enemy by bombing the enemy armed forces as well as

attacking the lines of communication, the facilities that ensure

the mobility of the enemy forces as well as the centers of

production which provide necessary materials to the enemy.”

In addition to the strategic mission, Cot argued for the

necessity of gaining and keeping air superiority: “The mission

of the air force in war is to create conditions so that the sky

can be used for all purposes and to ensure that the enemy’s

ability to use the air for the same purposes is limited.”

At the

same time, Cot attempted to reassure the army that tactical

and support aviation remained the primary missions of the air

force: “Participation in ground operations belongs to the

fundamental missions of the air force. All of the operational

capabilities can be utilized for this purpose.”

One of Cot’s most interesting innovations was the creation

of an experimental airborne force in 1937. The 175-man unit,

called “air force infantry,” participated in the Brittany

maneuvers that year

and showed real promise before

quickly disbanding when Cot was replaced as aviation

minister in 1938. By their very nature, airborne forces are

offensive units. But the air force had little support in the

higher reaches of the dominant army leadership for a program

to create an offensive force and doctrine.

Cot revised the French air force rearmament plans in 1936

to ensure the creation of a modern, effective strategic force.

Unlike his Plan I, Plan II gave top priority to bomber

production (1,339 aircraft) and lowest priority to fighters (756)

and reconnaissance planes (645).

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Reforms of air force doctrine and attempts to modernize the

air force made little impression upon either the thinking of the

French army’s senior officers or the operational doctrine of the

army. In dramatic contrast to British, German, and Soviet

theorists of mechanized warfare, French theorist Lt Col

Charles de Gaulle showed almost no interest in the role

aviation could play in the ground battle. In his controversial

book Vers l’Armée de Métier (1934), de Gaulle argued for a

radical reformation of the French army and creation of a

seven-division armored force that would form the primary

offensive striking power of the army in wartime. Although he

argued for giving tanks a central role in army doctrine, de

Gaulle’s few references to airpower dealt only with

reconnaissance and observation of artillery fire.

The revised French army operational doctrine of 1936

showed little confidence in the air force’s ability to conduct

anything more than pure support operations. Bombing enemy

targets received fourth priority as an airpower mission, behind

reconnaissance, liaison, and air defense.

Although Cot

argued for an aggressive air superiority strategy, the army’s

operational doctrine emphasized the improbability of

achieving air superiority: “Air superiority can only be achieved

on the front lines and then only for limited periods.”

In 1938

Gamelin commented, “The role of aviation is apt to be

exaggerated, and after the early days of war the wastage will

be such that it will more and more be confined to acting as an

accessory to the army.”

After Cot lost his position as air minister in 1938, he wrote

L’Armée de l’Air (1939), which provided a thorough critique of

French air doctrine in the interwar period. Although the

French air force had become nominally independent, airpower

lacked comprehensiveness. For example, the air defense of the

country came under the jurisdiction of three different

ministries. The army’s artillery branch produced and

controlled antiaircraft guns; civil defense came under the

Ministry of the Interior; and fighter defense became the

responsibility of the Air Ministry. Cot criticized such

decentralization, arguing for the unification of all aspects of

airpower under a single command. Neither Cot nor Douhet

commentators P. Vauthier and Camille Rougeron denied the

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importance of support aviation for the army, but the

development of the strategic air force remained their top priority.

The replacement of Cot with Guy LeChambre as air minister

killed any hope for real reform in the air force. LeChambre

disbanded the strategic air force that Cot had tried to create,

and new production plans gave fighter planes top priority.

The paratroop force created by Cot met the same fate, and no

one seemed interested in incorporating antiaircraft defense,

civil defense, and fighter defense under one command. With

the support of the army’s High Command, LeChambre

rescinded some of Cot’s most significant reforms—organizing a

bomber force under air force command and placing all fighters

for home defense under a single command. The bomber and

fighter groups reverted to the direct control of army regional

commanders. General Gamelin insisted that the primary duty

of airpower lay in protecting the army from enemy air

attack,

nullifying previous attempts to instill an offensive

orientation in the French air force.

At the outbreak of World War II, in many respects, French air

doctrine exhibited little change from 1918. Fighter units

defended specific sectors, and air units fell under the

jurisdiction and direct control of army regional commanders.

Although the French air force remained by doctrine an army

support force, few updates of operational doctrine for support

operations had occurred. For most of the interwar period, the

French air force showed little interest in dive-bombers or attack

aviation. The air war in Spain from 1936 to 1939, however, led

to a renaissance in doctrinal thought among French air force

officers. French military journals reported and commented in

great detail on the air operations of both sides in Spain . Between

1937 and 1939, German and Italian use of dive-bombers and

bombers in the interdiction and close air support roles received

favorable coverage on numerous occasions in both Revue de

l’Armée de l’Air and Revue Militaire Générale.

Air force general

Maginel cited the successful use of attack aviation against

ground troops in the Battle of Guadalajara in 1937 as a model of

airpower in support operations.

Unfortunately, this innovative analysis within the officer

corps came too late to enable a revision of tactical support

doctrine throughout the air force. Moreover, the army was

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reluctant to change its methods. Army liaison and command

apparatus for the air force in 1940 had not improved since

1918. When the 1940 campaign began, it took the army six

hours to get a request for air support to the air force.

contrast, German armor divisions could have requests for air

support passed to the Luftwaffe Air Corps headquarters within

minutes—and could obtain the intervention of Stukas or

bombers over the battlefront within an hour.

Army commanders were primarily responsible for the lack of

effective air doctrine in the interwar period. Gamelin, in

particular, showed minimal interest in, and little knowledge of,

military aviation. Much blame, however, resided on the air force

side. In many respects, the interwar French air force culture

resembled a pilots’ club rather than a serious military

organization. The techniques of close air support and army

support were neither clearly thought through nor tested, and

the few attempts airmen made to reform the system were

quickly stymied.

The war in Spain triggered a serious review of airpower

doctrine within the French air force officer corps. Air force

officers reexamined fighter and bomber tactics and the use of

attack aviation. The French air force journal Revue de l’Armée

de l’Air published some of the best analysis of the Spanish air

war. Neither the events of Spain nor the desire of air force

officers to reform air doctrine, however, had any considerable

impact upon General Gamelin or Air Minister LeChambre. An

army-dominated High Command, largely and profoundly

ignorant of the capabilities of modern airpower, frustrated

France’s last chance to develop an effective operational air

doctrine.

Italy

Although Giulio Douhet is virtually the only name generally

associated with interwar Italian aviation, the Italian military

produced other notable aviation theorists whose influence, in

Italy at least, surpassed Douhet’s. The thesis of The Command

of the Air, which urged the development of a strategic air force

that would strike decisively at the enemy’s homeland, might

have found popularity in Europe, but Douhet’s home country by

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no means accepted it uncritically. For a decade and a half,

from the early 1920s to the late 1930s, the Italian air force

journal Rivista Aeronautica witnessed a lively debate between

Douhet and supporters of his strategic bombing theories, and the

advocates of tactical aviation, led by the eloquent general Amedeo

Mecozzi (1892–1971), a decorated airman of World War I.

As a captain in the 1920s, Mecozzi began a literary

campaign opposing the theories of Douhet and advocating

what he termed the primacy of assault aviation—namely, that

aviation was inherently joint and performed at its best in close

air support and interdiction campaigns. In dozens of articles

written in the 1920s and 1930s, he systematically refuted the

theses of Douhet. For example, in contrast to Douhet’s opposition

to air reserve forces, Mecozzi stressed the importance of

maintaining an air reserve for employment during critical

moments of the ground battle, illustrating his principles with

examples from the world war.

In another article, Mecozzi

denied Douhet’s denigration of defending against aerial

bombardment by proposing, in detail, a coordinated air defense

plan for Italy, with fighter groups covering specific zones.

The heart of Mecozzi’s air theories was his proposal for the

organization of the air force into three units: a strategic

bomber force to attack the enemy nation, a naval air force to

oppose the enemy’s navy, and a third force to oppose the

enemy’s army. Of the three forces, the one created to oppose

the enemy army and to support the Italian army would be

primary and, accordingly, would receive the largest share of

aircraft and personnel.

From the time he began his articles

in the 1920s until the outbreak of World War II, Mecozzi’s

concepts gained ever greater popularity within the Italian air

force and military High Command.

Mecozzi’s ideas strongly influenced Air Marshal Italo Balbo,

Italian air minister from 1926 to 1933. Although Balbo often

praised Douhet, unofficial prophet of Italian air doctrine, his

reverence for Douhet was more for show than for real. With his

strong connections to the Fascist Party, Douhet became a

popular figure in Italy, so senior air force officers claimed to

follow Douhet as a display of Fascist correctness. In practice,

though, Balbo tended to uphold the concepts of support and

assault aviation as propounded by Mecozzi. As early as 1929,

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under Balbo’s direction, the Italian air force organized tactical

ground-attack units and practiced maneuvers based upon

Mecozzi’s ideas.

In 1931 the Italian air force established its

first ground-assault group under the command of Colonel

Mecozzi.

By 1935 the Italian Air Ministry had developed and

produced a heavy, single-engined assault aircraft—the Breda

65—with a 1,000 kg bombload, in accordance with Mecozzi’s

theories.

Mecozzi opposed Douhet’s concepts on moral and practical

grounds. On moral grounds, he scathingly referred to

Douhet’s theories as “war against the unarmed.” On a

practical level, Mecozzi viewed Douhet’s strategic bombing

concepts as inappropriate to the kind of war that Italy might

have to fight. Balbo seconded this view in an article on aerial

warfare published in Encyclopaedia Italiana in 1938. He

argued that one could not apply Douhet’s concepts in all

circumstances, providing numerous examples, such as the

colonial war in Ethiopia and the war in Spain, which did not

involve strategic bombing. Nevertheless, aviation had proven

an important, even a decisive, weapon in the support role.

By the time of the Spanish Civil War (1936–39), Mecozzi’s

ideas had largely won over Italian air force officers. In Spain,

the Italian air force made a major contribution to the war and,

in contrast to the Italian ground forces, performed very

credibly. In Spain the air force primarily provided interdiction

bombing, close air support, and antishipping strikes. In all of

these instances, it effectively supported the Italian and

Nationalist ground troops.

In addition to providing aircraft and training to the

Nationalist air force, Italy sent 5,699 air force personnel to

Spain and maintained an air force contingent of 250 aircraft.

Between 1936 and 1939, the Italians sent over 759 aircraft to

Spain.

The Italian air force, like the German, viewed Spain

as a testing ground for doctrine and technology, trying out its

newest aircraft—the Breda 65 fighter-bomber and SM 79

bomber.

The Breda 65 also proved successful as a

dive-bomber, further reinforcing the Italian preference for

ground-attack aviation.

The high point of Italian air

operations in Spain came in 1938, when Italian air force units

attacking en masse in direct support of motorized and

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mechanized Nationalist and Italian army units, enabled the

Nationalist army to make rapid advances across the

Republican Front to the Mediterranean, isolating Catalonia

from the rest of the republic.

The only Douhetian-style strategic bombing executed by the

Italian air force in the Spanish War involved the bombing of

Barcelona in March 1938. Benito Mussolini, perhaps Italy’s

last true believer in Douhetian theory, ordered massive

bombing of Barcelona by the Italian air force, hoping to break

the will of the Catalonian population and swiftly end the war.

Although the bombing produced over two thousand

casualties,

the campaign against Barcelona had precisely

the opposite effect, as the Germans and many Italians had

predicted. Rather than breaking the will of the civilian

population, it angered them and strengthened their will to

resist. After the bombing, the Republican retreat halted, and

the Catalonians held the front with renewed enthusiasm.

Catalonia would not collapse for another year.

By the outbreak of World War II, the Italian air force boasted a

balanced force of bombers and fighters, as well as assault and

reconnaissance aircraft. In Spain the air force had extensively

practiced its primary operational doctrine, as advocated by

Mecozzi, and had found it effective. The poor performance of the

Italian air force during World War II resulted not from poor

doctrine but the incapacity of Italian industry to produce aircraft

and engines that could match those of its opposing air forces,

either in quantity or quality. Even if Italy had made the air force

its top priority and had poured all available resources into

aviation, its financial and technological position still would have

proved too weak to have maintained a first-rate air force by

World War II. Italy, whose best aircraft lacked modern radios,

bombsights, and navigation equipment, provides an example of

a nation whose strategic ambitions far outreached its fairly

limited capabilities.

Soviet Union

In the interwar period, the Soviet Union began with the

weakest air force and aviation industry of the major powers.

From this disadvantageous position, the new Soviet Union

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built a large, relatively effective air force, almost from scratch.

The Soviet military was partial to new ideas and concepts,

including new ways of looking at aerial warfare.

The two leading military theorists of the new Soviet Union in

the interwar period were Gen Mikhail Frunze (1885–1925) and

Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevski (1893–1937). Frunze was a

successful civil war commander who became a leading

theorist of the Soviet military after the civil war. A prolific

writer, he advocated the creation of a highly mobile,

professional army equipped with the most modern weaponry.

In January 1925, Frunze became commissar for national

defense, but later that year Joseph Stalin, fearing Frunze’s

popularity and prestige, had him assassinated. Frunze argued

consistently for the importance of the offense in warfare, and

in his theory of the offense, airpower played a primary role. In

an article in 1923, Frunze claimed that air warfare would

decide the outcome of future conflicts.

Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevski succeeded Frunze as chief of

staff of the army in 1925. Recognized as one of the most

original and influential military theorists of the twentieth

century, Tukhachevski, like Frunze, believed in the

offense—and airpower played a major part in his conception of

modern war. Through the 1920s and 1930s, Tukhachevski

elucidated his theory of the “deep battle,” which dominated

Soviet doctrine until World War II. From the genesis of this

doctrine, airpower played a primary role by preparing the way

for the breakthrough of motorized and mechanized troops and

by supporting the advances of mobile forces deep into enemy

territory. By the early 1930s, these concepts had reached

maturity. For example, the “encounter battle” played a major

role in Tukhachevski’s theory of the deep battle. In 1932 he

stated that the light bomber and ground-attack air units in

support of the field army would prepare the battlefield and

then interdict enemy reserves. Air units belonging to the army

group would then isolate the breakthrough sector and

interdict the enemy’s strategic reserves. Finally, aircraft would

drop airborne forces behind enemy lines to seize headquarters

and supply bases.

Tukhachevski’s most original contribution to airpower

theory was his development of the world’s first airborne forces

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during the early 1930s.

As always, Tukhachevski thought of

aviation not as a subordinate or an independent entity but as

an integral part of a joint force, with the objective of driving

deep into the enemy’s rear with the intention of destroying his

armed forces.

One finds the most complete exposition of Tukhachevski’s

concept of airpower and the deep battle in the Soviet army

field service regulations of 1936, in which the employment of

the air force plays a central role. These regulations specify in

detail the roles of ground-attack aviation, fighter aviation, and

light bombers.

The air force had as its first objective the

annihilation of the enemy air force, which would then free

airpower to act decisively against enemy columns and reserves

in the approach and pursuit phases of the battle.

Another

important aviation mission entailed supporting ground forces

by silencing enemy artillery.

Tukhachevski did not ignore strategic bombing in his

theories. In 1932 he declared that, in the future, independent air

operations, which he defined as strategic bombing and airborne

operations, would prove decisive in war. Tukhachevski predicted

that in the near future, improved aerodynamic design would

enable aircraft to fly fast, at great range, and at high altitude.

Thus, he foresaw that, in a decade or so, strategic bombing,

coupled with airborne drops, could seize the enemy’s rail

systems and paralyze the mobilization of enemy forces, thus

“turning previous operational concepts inside out.”

In the years of the civil war (1918–22), the Red Air Force

functioned purely as a support and auxiliary force for the

army.

Provisional field regulations of 1925 emphasized

support of the ground forces, and in the 1920s most air units

were attached to ground units.

However, the concept of

independent strategic airpower caught the imagination of the

young service’s officers. The most notable early theorist of

Soviet aviation, later chief of staff of the air force, was Gen A.

N. Lapchinsky, who in 1920 wrote a book and series of

articles outlining how strategic bombing would become a

major weapon of modern warfare.

In the early 1920s, at a

time when the Soviets still flew a motley collection of obsolete

aircraft left over from World War I and the civil war,

Lapchinsky laid the theoretical groundwork for the creation of

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what would become the world’s largest strategic air force by

the early 1930s.

The enthusiasm of Soviet air officers for strategic bombing

in the 1920s resulted not so much from a rational analysis of

the capabilities of airpower and aerial technology than from a

feeling that strategic bombing was somehow more “modern.”

One ought to link Bolshevism, the most “modern and scientific”

of all ideologies, to the most up-to-date of all military

methods—specifically strategic bombing. Contemporary German

reports reflect part of the spirit of the time.

In 1925 the German army, as part of a comprehensive

program to develop the Soviet military, as well as build and

test German weapons in the Soviet Union, provided

experienced general staff officers to instruct in the Soviet staff

colleges. Capt Martin Fiebig, an experienced pilot officer,

served as the senior adviser and instructor at the Moscow

Academy for Air Commanders in 1925 and 1926. Part of his

duties included organizing war games for the Soviet air

officers. Fiebig criticized the Soviet officers’ conduct of the war

games, specifically their preference for a strategic bombing

campaign over army support. The small and technologically

backwards Red Air Force of 1925 was in no way suitable for

strategic air war, argued Fiebig, and could carry out only

limited support operations. Fiebig advised the Soviets to

postpone strategic air campaigns until they reached a higher

technological level.

The German air mission to the Soviet Union, which lasted

from 1925 to 1933, served not only to train future senior

officers at the Red Air Force’s General Staff Academy but also

trained regular Soviet pilots and ground crews at the German

training base at Lipetsk. No one knows the exact figures, but

several hundred Soviet air officers came into contact with the

Germans during this period and were strongly influenced by

the ideas of the German air force.

The Germans were not

averse to strategic bombing theory but also emphasized the

fundamentals of cooperation with ground troops at the

operational level.

At enormous sacrifice to the nation under Stalin ’s first five-year

plan, the Red Air Force made tremendous technological strides

in the late 1920s and early 1930s. By 1932 Soviet industry

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was finally able to mass-produce modern aircraft and engines.

At this time, largely under the influence of A. N. Lapchinsky,

the Soviets began building the largest strategic bomber

force—three hundred to four hundred aircraft—in the world,

with the four-engined TB3 bomber as the backbone of the

force.

In 1934–35 the Soviets formed a special heavy bomber

air corps for strategic operations.

Yet, even as the Soviet Union created a strategic bomber force,

mainstream thought within the Red Air Force returned to the

concept of joint air-ground operations, as outlined by Marshal

Tukhachevski. By the mid- to late 1930s, the experience of the

war in Spain came to have a great influence upon the

development of Soviet air thought. Between 1936 and 1939, the

Soviet Union made a major commitment to the support of the

Spanish Republic. The largest component of the Soviet

commitment to Loyalist Spain numbered almost one thousand

pilots and ground crews

and 909 aircraft.

In Spain, although

aircraft attempted some bombing missions against cities in the

early stages of the war, the primary focus of air operations on

both sides took the form of army support operations.

In March 1937 Soviet aircraft and pilots flying for the

Republic during the offensive at Guadalajara won one of

airpower’s most dramatic victories. Between 9 and 21 March

1937, Soviet airpower attacked and pushed a force of 50,000

motorized Italian troops into a rout. Up to 125 Soviet-piloted,

Loyalist aircraft attacked Italian columns in what we today

would term a close interdiction campaign. Italian casualties

included five hundred killed in action, two thousand wounded,

and five hundred taken prisoner. The Soviets destroyed an

estimated one thousand vehicles and 25 artillery pieces. Air

attack inflicted most of the damage and casualties.

The air campaign at Guadalajara in 1937 was the most

decisive example of the use of airpower against ground forces

in the interwar period, and the Soviets, following the Spanish

experience, placed greater emphasis upon ground-attack

tactics. Even General Lapchinsky, writing in 1939, came to

emphasize the tactical and operational aspects of aviation over

strategic air war: “In order to conduct maneuver war, to win

the air-land battles, which begin in the air and end on the

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ground, one must concentrate all air forces at a given time on

a given front.”

Between 1938 and 1941, the Soviets went through several

reorganizations. The large, independent bomber command,

organized in the mid-1930s, was downgraded and reorganized

in 1940.

Bomber forces split into smaller units under the

army regional command, oriented more toward tactical

aviation. The Soviets’ emphasis upon tactical aviation at this

time was not solely a response to the experience in Spain but

also a pragmatic approach to understanding their own

position with respect to technology. The Soviet industry of this

time did not produce the radios, navigation instruments,

sophisticated bombsights, and other technologically advanced

matériel needed for long-distance strategic bombing

campaigns. Creation of simple, rugged aircraft to serve as light

bombers and fighters, however, lay within the capabilities of

Soviet industry. Therefore, on the eve of war, the Soviets

reoriented much of their aircraft production to the building of

assault aircraft and light bombers, as well as fighter planes to

escort them. It was a wise decision.

Purges of the military enacted by Stalin between 1937 and

1939 were an unmitigated disaster for the development of Soviet

air thought, as well as for the military capability of the Soviet

Union. In 1937 Marshal Tukhachevski was arrested and

executed. Gen Ya. I. Alksnis, commander of the Red Air Force

since 1931, also was arrested and executed, and his deputy

disappeared. An estimated 75 percent of Red Air Force officers

vanished between 1937 and 1939. General Lapchinsky, the

strategic theorist, also was arrested and executed. At one stroke,

several of the most original and influential airpower thinkers of

the interwar period disappeared.

Small wonder that the Soviet air force found itself ill prepared

to meet the onslaught of the Wehrmacht in June 1941. Even so,

the fact that a handful of men could begin with the ramshackle

Russian air force of the civil war era and within a decade and a

half turn it into a formidable air force, ranks as one of the great

accomplishments in airpower history. Although Soviet air

doctrine often overreached the capabilities of available

technology, in most respects it was eminently well suited to the

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Soviet nation and, as regards the creation of airborne forces,

was far in advance of that of other countries.

Germany

One can attribute a great part of the success of the

Wehrmacht from 1939 to 1941 to the effective use of airpower.

Of all the Continental nations after World War I, Germany

made the most thorough and comprehensive study of airpower

and, by means of analysis, managed to transform airpower

theory into a highly effective war doctrine by the outbreak of

World War II.

Although the interwar period featured many German

civilian commentators and theorists of airpower, their impact

on military organization and doctrine proved relatively minor.

Airpower thought in Germany remained centered in the army

and, later, in the air force General Staff. After World War I,

with Germany forbidden to have an air force, the army

maintained a shadow Air Staff within the army General Staff.

The enormous body of experience that the Germans had

acquired by 1918 proved advantageous in the creation of

airpower theory in Germany. During World War I, the German

air service had fought every kind of air campaign—tactical,

strategic, and support. The German military contained a large

body of highly experienced air commanders and Air Staff

officers. As early as 1916, the German air service had

acquired a centralized command. In fact, in 1916 the air

service proposed that it become an independent branch of the

armed forces, equal to the navy and the army.

The army

General Staff strongly supported this proposal. Against strong

navy opposition, however, the idea foundered. Certain

principles, nevertheless, were established at this time. For

example, all aviation matters, from aircraft deployment and

production to antiaircraft artillery and civil defense, were

centralized and placed under the control of the air service.

In late 1916, the air service acquired its own General Staff.

The German air service also enjoyed special prestige after the

war. By the close of the campaign in 1918, the air service

found itself the only sufficiently viable fighting force in the

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168

German military capable of mounting an effective resistance to

the Allies.

By the end of the war, the strong performance and relative

success of the German air service in combat assured the

concept of an equal and independent air force within the

German military. In fact, at the beginning of the Versailles

Conference, Hans von Seeckt proposed that Germany be

allowed a significant, independent air force.

Even though the

Versailles Treaty forbade a German air force, consensus held

that when rearmament came—and German officers believed

that it would come again some day—Germany would have an

independent air force. This attitude gave the Germans an

advantage in creating an airpower theory. Secure in the idea

that the military accepted the idea of service independence,

German airmen felt no compunctions about creating theories

and doctrines solely for the purpose of justifying service

independence.

A comprehensive examination of the wartime performance

of the German air service served as the first step in creating a

modern air theory. Beginning in 1919, approximately 130

General Staff officers, air unit commanders, and technical

experts began analyzing every aspect of Germany’s

performance in the air during the world war. Heading this

effort was Lt Col Helmut Wilberg, who served as chief of the

secret Air Staff of the army from 1919 to 1927.

This thorough examination of airpower in 1919–20 formed

the basis for an effective critique of the way Germany had

used airpower during the war and the way it ought to use it in

the future. The first principle derived from the postwar

critique maintained that Germany had made a major mistake

in fighting with a defensive air strategy during World War I.

For most of the war, the Germans had fought a defensive air

war, waiting for Allied pilots to cross their lines and then

engaging them. Although this approach brought relative

success and a kill ratio of approximately three to one over

Allied pilots, the Allies nevertheless gained the initiative and

then maintained air superiority over the battle areas.

By 1920 German airmen had established the principle that

airpower was intrinsically offensive and that the first duty of

the air force in war was to aggressively seek out and win air

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superiority. Air forces would attain air superiority primarily by

attacking the enemy air force on the ground, in its air bases.

Army Regulation 487, Leadership and Battle with Combined

Arms (1921), expressed the new doctrine in strong terms:

“From the beginning [of the war] our forces will strive for air

supremacy. . . . The battle for air superiority is an offensive

one. The enemy’s aviation is to be sought out and attacked

forward of his own troops. The opponent is to be pushed onto

the defensive, and his power and aggressiveness broken by

the destruction of numerous aircraft.”

The postwar study established other principles of airpower

as well. Although it recognized army support aviation, such as

reconnaissance and artillery spotting, as an important

mission, the primary mission of an air force remained

bombing enemy targets. The air force had to attain air

superiority to carry out its primary, offensive bombing

mission. The use of light and heavy bombers was central to

the air force mission. The primary duty of the air force was to

provide interdiction in support of the army, but postwar

German airpower theory left considerable room for the

development of strategic aviation for strategic-level interdiction

m issions.

Along with Helmut Wilberg and his staff, which included

famous air commanders such as Capt Kurt Student, Maj

Hugo Sperrle, and Maj Helmuth Felmy, the most significant

German airpower thinker in the postwar era was Colonel

General von Seeckt, chief of staff of the army from 1919 to

1920 and army commander in chief from 1920 to 1926. Von

Seeckt reoriented the German army according to his own

notions of future warfare, theorizing that the mass armies of

World War I were obsolete and that the next war would be

fought by small but highly trained and highly mobile

professional armies, which would envelop and destroy their

enemies by maneuver. This stance contrasted that of the

Allied armies, who considered firepower more important than

maneuver. Airpower played a central role in von Seeckt’s

theory. Air force missions would gain air superiority and then

so disrupt the enemy mobilization and transport system that

rapidly moving ground forces could encircle and destroy

enemy forces paralyzed by airpower. Von Seeckt wrote that

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170

the war will begin with a simultaneous attack of the air fleets—the

weapon which is the most prepared and the fastest means of attacking

the enemy. Their target is, however, not the major cities or industrial

power, but the enemy air force, and only after its suppression can the

offensive arm be directed toward other targets. . . . It is stressed that

all major troop mobilization centers are worthwhile and easy targets.

The disruption of the personnel and materiel mobilization is a primary

mission of the aerial offensive.

Von Seeckt insisted that the German army become the most

air-minded in the world. Although Germany was disarmed in

the air, von Seeckt ordered that the army keep 180 pilot

officers to provide the core of an Air Staff.

He initiated a

program of secret testing, training, and development of

airpower in the Soviet Union.

German operational

regulations that were developed under von Seeckt between

1921 and 1923 contained extensive discussion of airpower on

both the strategic and tactical levels.

The German army of the interwar period maintained a

thorough study of airpower theories and technologies of other

nations. Writings and speeches of such air leaders as Gen

Billy Mitchell, Air Marshal Hugh Trenchard, and Gen J. F. C.

Fuller were quickly translated and disseminated throughout

the German military.

Douhet, however, received little

attention from German air thinkers in the 1920s.

Wilberg, who had made his reputation in World War I as a

leader in the development of close air support, also led the Air

Staff in developing concepts of strategic air war as early as

1924. That year, the Reichswehr secret Air Staff conducted an

air war game that included a plan for a strategic bombing

campaign against France. The Germans studied French

armaments industry, listing the most vital factories and

installations supporting the French army and air force, and

assigning target priorities. They estimated that the destruction

of 20 to 30 vital factories could severely hamper French

armaments production.

By 1926 postwar studies and air war games conducted by

the General Staff culminated in a comprehensive air doctrine,

expressed as Guidelines for the Operational Air War,

which

described the air force of the future as, essentially, two forces.

One would provide aviation support for the army, including

reconnaissance, artillery spotting, and close air support. The

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171

second, composed of bombers, would provide long-range

strategic bombing missions, as envisioned in the 1924 war

games. For the first time, German doctrine acknowledged the

destruction of the enemy will as an important air force

mission. The German Air Staff in the 1920s, however,

contained few enthusiastic Douhetians.

The German strategic bombing campaign against Britain in

1917 and 1918, especially its technical problems, was still

fresh in the minds of German airmen. Because losses in

aircrew and aircraft far exceeded the results achieved, by May

1918 the Germans had called off the campaign.

In addition

to recognizing the difficulties of a strategic campaign, the

Germans themselves had mounted a fairly effective defense

against Allied strategic bombers.

Unlike Douhet, they had

great respect for defense. German writings of the period

emphasized the necessity of fighter escort for bombers

because no one expected unescorted bombers to get through.

From the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s, the best known

civilian commentator on airpower was Hans Ritter, formerly

an airman and captain on the General Staff; he wrote

numerous books and articles on airpower, many of which

were translated into English.

Ritter’s view of airpower

included strategic bombing, which he emphasized as an

important mission. Ritter, however, reflected the Air Staff’s

view of airpower’s comprehensive nature, writing about all

aspects of airpower, from naval aviation to long-range

bombing to close air support and including civil defense and

flak as important aspects of airpower.

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, under Chiefs of the Air

Staff Hugo Sperrle, Helmuth Felmy, and Wilhelm Wimmer, the

importance of the strategic bombing concept reached its high

point in German airpower theory. With the Nazi assumption of

power in 1933 and rearmament assured, German airmen were

prepared to make strategic bombing a central part of the

doctrine of a reborn air force. Although he was not a pilot

when he became the Luftwaffe’s first chief of staff, Lt Gen

Walter Wever was well informed on airpower and an

outspoken supporter of strategic air war.

Among the first

projects of the reborn air force was the creation of prototype,

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

172

long-range heavy bombers, which received strong support

throughout the Air Staff.

At this point, however, the Germans ran into a technological

wall that affected their perception of the strategic air war. The

prototype four-engined bombers produced in the mid-1930s

proved disappointing. German engine technology was years

away from the development of engines capable of providing the

necessary range and performance. Faced with technological

limitations, as well as the greater difficulty and cost of

building large aircraft, the Germans gave the heavy bomber

project a low priority for development.

Because of the

availability of technology to provide a force of modern medium

bombers, dive-bombers, fighter aircraft, and reconnaissance

planes, the German air force in the mid- to late 1930s

developed as an interdiction and tactical support force, rather

than a long-range strategic force.

In 1934 General Wever directed the writing of the primary

German air doctrine of World War II, with Helmut Wilberg

heading the committee. Luftwaffe Regulation 16, Conduct of

the Air War (1935), provided a more balanced view of airpower

than the 1926 regulation.

Although the regulation still gave

precedence to strategic bombing as a primary mission, it

remained more cautious about the ability of strategic bombers

to damage civilian morale. In fact, the doctrine of 1935 argued

against bombing cities in order to attack civilian populations

on the grounds that, first, it was immoral and, second, it was

likely to backfire and provide the opposite effect,

strengthening civilian resistance and morale rather than

weakening them.

Germans remember General Wever, who died in an air

crash in 1936, for his advocacy of strategic bombing, but his

vision of airpower was far more comprehensive. For example,

he gave the development of close air support aircraft,

particularly the training of liaison teams to cooperate with the

army for air support, a high priority in 1936.

Wever also

oversaw the creation of a paratroop force that would soon

become the largest and most effective airborne force in the

world. First used in the maneuvers of 1937 and 1938, German

paratroops greatly enhanced their reputation by successfully

seizing objectives behind enemy lines.

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173

Because Nazi ideology placed a very high value upon breaking

the enemy’s will and upon conducting propaganda campaigns,

Nazi adherents had considerable affinity for the theories of

Douhet. Gen Erich Ludendorff, a World War I leader and the

Nazis’ chief commentator on military affairs, wrote numerous

articles on his vision of a future war, which included the morale

bombing of civilian populations. His most explicit description of

future air war came in his books The Coming War (1931) and

The Total War (1935).

Nazi ideology, however, had little impact

upon German airpower thinkers of the 1930s. First of all,

Ludendorff was unpopular with the General Staff, and his

prestige had fallen after his poor performance in 1918. Second,

professional airmen’s understanding of the technological

capabilities of airpower ruled out some of the Nazis’ more

far-fetched notions. Nazi enthusiasm for modernity, however,

and the Luftwaffe’s characterization of itself as a new National

Socialist branch of the military—as opposed to the tradition-

bound and noble-dominated army—guaranteed the air force

massive funding and support from the government. In reality,

career military professionals dominated the Luftwaffe, and the

Nazis had minimal ideological influence upon the Luftwaffe and

its doctrine.

From 1936 to 1939, the Luftwaffe sent several hundred

aircraft and 20,000 personnel to Spain to support Gen

Francisco Franco’s Nationalist armies.

Spain had considerable

impact upon the perfection of techniques and tactics of the

Luftwaffe. The lessons of Spain , however, did not lead to any

fundamental changes in German airpower theory or doctrine.

Methods of close air support were perfected during the Spanish

War, in which close air support remained a primary mission of

the air force. Dive-bombing, in development since the late

1920s, was effective, but morale bombing of civilians, as tried by

both sides in the early days of the war and as the Germans

predicted, was not.

By the eve of World War II, the German military had

generally succeeded in translating airpower theory into

effective doctrine and tactics for the use of airpower. The

German air force of 1939 was well organized into effective

tactical air fleets that could carry out both strategic and

tactical missions. The Luftwaffe comprised a bomber-heavy

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

174

force, envisioned since the first days after World War I and

capable of carrying out a wide variety of missions, from

long-range bombing to close air support to the operational use

of paratroops. As the war commenced, however, some serious

failings in German airpower theory and doctrine came to light.

First, enthusiasm for the technique of dive-bombing set the

development of German bomber technology back several

years. Gen Ernst Udet, who took over air force technical

development in 1936, insisted that in the future, all bombers

be designed as dive-bombers. This necessitated the redesign

of excellent aircraft like the Ju-88 and resulted in production

delays.

Second, the German air force and navy failed to

create an effective naval air doctrine in the interwar period.

When the war commenced, the naval air arm had no modern

aircraft capable of long-range antishipping strikes or torpedo

attacks, a major failing in the war against England.

One can characterize German interwar airpower theory as

comprehensive, practical, and well adapted to German strategy

and technology. The greatest failings in translating airpower

theory into doctrine for an effective air force came from a senior

leadership imposed by the Nazi system. The loss of General

Wever in 1936 was a blow from which the Luftwaffe never fully

recovered. Wever had enough prestige within the armed forces to

successfully challenge the ideas of Hermann Göring and Udet.

With the loss of Wever, however, subsequent commanders of the

Luftwaffe, although knowledgeable men, did not possess the

authority required to prevent mistakes such as the appointment

of Udet to the Office of Technical Development. The tenure of

Hans Jeschonneck, an intelligent but flawed young officer

appointed as Luftwaffe chief of staff in 1939, proved disastrous

for German air theory and doctrine as the war progressed.

Infatuated with the concepts of dive-bombing, Jeschonneck

ignored other vital missions of the air force and gave only

minimal priority to important programs such as the buildup of

transport aviation and the strategic bomber program.

Conclusion

During the interwar period, each major Continental air

power experienced a debate between two basic airpower

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theories: (1) that the primary role of air forces envisioned an

independent force carrying out a strategic air campaign

against the enemy homeland and (2) that the primary role of

airpower envisioned a support arm for land and naval forces.

The combination of air/land/naval forces would create a new

synergy on the battlefield.

For the most part, advocates of aviation in the support role

won this debate, although the German position on airpower

fell halfway between the two positions. Generally, the most

important participants in the debate were within the armed

forces. Douhet’s influence waned quickly after he left the Air

Ministry in the early 1920s. Pierre Cot wrote and spoke often

on airpower before and after his tenure as air minister but

had little impact outside of office. Professional German airmen

explicitly rejected the Nazi view of air war as expressed by

Ludendorff in the 1930s. For the most part, the decision to

accept the view of the air force primarily as a support force

came from within the officer corps of the air forces. Italy, the

Soviet Union, and Germany allowed considerable free debate

on theory and doctrine within the air force. Only France

discouraged debate on fundamental military theory.

Each major air power faced unique conditions and

requirements in the process of translating theory into

doctrine. The Germans managed the process most effectively,

primarily due to the tradition of the General Staff. They based

their theory and doctrine upon a thorough analysis of the use

of airpower in World War I and of airpower developments in

other countries. Further, they objectively tested their ideas in

war games and maneuvers. The French, on the other hand,

managed the process least effectively, also due to their

General Staff tradition. Whereas the Germans tolerated debate

among General Staff officers and regarded that body as a

collective organization, the French saw the staff primarily as

assistants to the commander in chief and considered the army

commander’s vision the foundation of theory and doctrine.

The three French army commanders of the interwar period—

Petain , Weygand, and Gamelin —had little interest in the air

force; consequently, doctrine suffered. Germany, the Soviet

Union, and Italy were able to test their respective airpower

theories and doctrines as the primary air combatants in Spain

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

176

from 1936 to 1939. The experience of Spain did not result in

those three countries’ choosing the theory of support aviation

over strategic aviation, since by 1935 advocates of support

aviation were becoming predominant in all three air forces.

Instead, the Spanish War confirmed the air doctrine that the

Germans and Italians had already adopted and provided

further impetus to Soviet advocates of ground-attack aviation.

Notes

1. Charles Christienne and Pierre Lissarague, A History of French Military

Aviation (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1986), 130.

2. Ibid., 127–29.

3. Ibid., 174.

4. For an explanation of the doctrine of methodical battle, see Robert

Doughty, The Seeds of Disaster (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1985).

5. Revue de Aéronautique Militaire covered the air support for the

Moroccan campaign in great detail in 1922–1923. In this period, no articles

on independent air operations appeared.

6. Col P. Vauthier, La Doctrine de Guerre du Général Douhet (Paris:

Berger-Levrault, 1935), 166.

7. For the first significant expression of Douhet’s theories in France, see

Lt Col P. Vauthier, Le Danger Aérien du Pays (Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1930).

8. Frank Cappelluti, “The Life and Thought of Giulio Douhet” (PhD diss.,

Rutgers University, 1967), 230.

9. France’s premier commentators on Douhet were Lieutenant Colonel

Vauthier and navy engineer Camille Rougeron, who wrote numerous

articles on Douhet for Revue de l’Armée de l’Air during the 1930s.

10. Patrick Façon, “Douhet et sa Doctrine à Travers la Litterature

Militaire et Aéronautique Française de l’Entre-Deux-Guerres: une Étude de

Perception,” in La Figura e l’Opera di Giulio Douhet, ed. Caserta-Pozzuoli

(Rome: Societa di Storia Patria, 1988), 109–27.

11. Christienne and Lissarague, 259.

12. Ibid., 259–60. On the role of air doctrine and the BCR aircraft, see J.

Hébrand, Vingt-Cinque Anneés d’Aviation Militaire (1920–1945), vol. 1 (Paris:

Albin Michel, 1946), 135–48.

13. Christienne and Lissarague, 302–4.

14. Thierry Vivier, “Pierre Cot et la Naissance de l’Armée de l’Air: 31

janvier 1933–8 février 1934,” Revue Historique des Armées (December

1990): 108–15.

15. Olaf Groehler, Geschichte des Luftkriegs 1910 bis 1980 (Berlin:

Militärverlag der DDR, 1981), 211.

16. Ibid., 153.

17. Ibid.

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177

18. Ministère de l’Air, Règlement de Manoeuvre de l’Aviation (1936),

para. 53.

19. Ministère de l’Air, Instruction sur l’Emploi Tactique des Grandes

Unités Aériennes (31 March 1937), para. 127.

20. Ibid., para. 126.

21. Ibid., para. 169.

22. P. Buffotot, “La Perception du réarmement allemand par les

organismes de reseignements français de 1936 à 1939,” Revue Historique

des Armées, no. 3 (1979): 173–84.

23. Groehler, 211.

24. Charles de Gaulle, Vers l’Armée de Métier (Paris: 1934), 114.

25. Ministère de la Défense, Instruction sur l’Emploi Tactique des

Grandes Unités , 1936, para. 50.

26. Ibid., para. 298.

27. Adam Adamthwaite, France and the Coming of the Second World War

(London: Frank Cass, 1977), 162.

28. Air rearmament Plan V of 1938 specified production of 1,490

bombers, 2,127 fighters, and 1,081 reconnaissance planes. See Groehler,

211. Guy LeChambre testified to the Aeronautical Commission in February

1938 that “in the initial phase of the war, however, what we’ll need above all

is to put our airspace under lock and key, as we’ve done for our frontiers.”

Martin Alexander, The Republic in Danger: General Maurice Gamelin and the

Politics of French Defense, 1933–1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 1992), 163.

29. Ibid., 155, 165, and 170.

30. In Revue de l’Armée de l’Air, see “La D. C. A. aux opérations de

Bilbao,” January 1938, 80–82; “La Guerre d’Espagne,” June 1938, 689–97;

“Combats aériens en Espagne,” July–August 1939, 424–27; and “L’aviation

dans la battaille d’Aragon,” May–June 1939, 307–12. In Revue Militaire

Générale, see General Armengaud, “La Guerre d’Espagne: La combinaison

des forces de l’air avec les forces navales et avec l’armée de terre,” March

1938, 259–82; and idem, “La Guerre d’Espagne: Technique et tactique des

forces de l’air,” April 1938, 413–49.

31. General Maginel, “L’intervention de l’aviation dans la lutte terrestre,”

Revue Militaire Générale, October 1938, 505–29.

32. William Shirer, The Collapse of the Third Republic (New York: Simon

& Schuster, 1969), 621.

33. See J. Mencarelli, Amedeo Mecozzi (Rome: Ufficio Storico Aeronautica

Militare, 1979).

34. Capt Amedeo Mecozzi, “Il volo rasente e le sue possibilità tattiche,”

Rivista Aeronautica, June 1926, 53–69.

35. Capt Amedeo Mecozzi, “Il compito di contro-aviazione,” Rivista

Aeronautica, March 1926, 58–62.

36. Maj Amedeo Mecozzi, “Le grandi Unità Aviatorie,” Rivista

Aeronautica, March 1929, 533–76.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

178

37. Mecozzi’s concept of the primacy of “assault aviation” (that is,

airpower in direct support of the army and navy) was best outlined in his

“L’aviazione d’assalto,” Rivista Aeronautica, August 1934, 214–85; and his

“Origini e sviluppi dell’aviazione d’assalto,” Rivista Aeronautica, February

1935, 193–201.

38. Claudio Segrè, “Balbo and Douhet: Master and Disciple,” La Figure e

l’Opera di Giulio Douhet, ed. Caserta-Pozzuoli (Rome: Società di Storia

Patria, 1988), 58.

39. Lee Kennett, “Developments to 1939,” in Case Studies in the

Development of Close Air Support, ed. B. J. Cooling (Washington, D.C.:

Office of Air Force History, 1990), 30.

40. Enzo Angelucci, The Rand McNally Encyclopedia of Military Aircraft

(New York: Gallery Books, 1990), 244.

41. Segrè, 57.

42. John Coverdale, Italian Intervention in the Spanish Civil War

(Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1975), 393–96.

43. Gerald Howson, Aircraft of the Spanish Civil War, 1936–39

(Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1990), 63–65 and

270–73.

44. Peter Smith, Dive Bomber! An Illustrated History (Annapolis: US

Naval Institute Press, 1982), 95–97.

45. F. O. Miksche, Blitzkrieg (London: Faber & Faber, 1942), 41, 48–49,

and 80.

46. Coverdale, 347–49.

47. German officers in Spain reported to Berlin that the Italian bombing

of Barcelona was a “mistake,” for it “strengthened [enemy] morale and

unified competing factions—and has even turned some of the

Nationalist-inclined population towards the Republic.” German ambassador

to Spain, report of 24 March 1938 [Akt 551 in Deutschland und der

Spanischen Bürgerkrieg, Akten zur Deutschen Auswärtigen Politik,

1918–1945, series D, vol. 3], 532.

48. Neil Heyman, “NEP and Industrialization to 1928,” in Soviet Aviation

and Air Power, ed. Robin Higham and Jacob Kipp (Boulder, Colo.: Westview

Press, 1977), 35–46, especially 39.

49. Richard E. Simpkin, Deep Battle: The Brainchild of Marshal

Tukhachevskii (London: Brassey’s, 1987), 43.

50. Under Tukhachevski’s direction, the Red Army formed the world’s

first airborne brigade in 1932. See Robert Kilmarx, A History of Soviet Air

Power (New York: Praeger, 1962), 94–95.

51. Simpkin, 200–202.

52. Ibid., 214.

53. Ibid.

54. Ibid., 139.

55. Kenneth Whiting, Soviet Air Power (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University

Press, 1985), 2–4.

56. Heyman, 41.

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57. Ibid. Lapchinsky stated that “the airplane enters the field of military

equipment as a new, independent factor of war—and not just as a support

weapon.” Groehler, 130.

58. Manfred Zeidler, “Luftkriegsdenken und Offizierausbildung an der

Moskauer Zukovskij Akademie im Jahre 1926,” Militärgeschichtliche

Mitteilungen 27 (1980): 127–74, especially 153–54.

59. The best overview of the German-Russian military relationship is

Manfred Zeidler’s Reichswehr und Rote Armee, 1920–1933 (Munich:

Oldenbourg Verlag, 1993). On air force training, see especially 112–17 and

175–88.

60. See Kilmarx, 123.

61. Alexander Boyd, The Soviet Air Force since 1918 (New York: Stein &

Day, 1977), 56.

62. Ibid., 75.

63. Howson, 24 and 303.

64. Richard Hallion, Strike from the Sky: The History of Battlefield Air

Attack, 1911–1945 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press,

1989), 97–102.

65. Ibid., 115.

66. Kilmarx, 123.

67. Kenneth Whiting, “Soviet Aviation and Air Power under Stalin,

1928–1941,” in Soviet Aviation and Air Power, 63.

68. Dr. Klemp, ed., “Die Luftstreitkräfte des Deutschen Reiches”

(Potsdam: Bundesarchiv Militärarchiv, W-10/50845, ca. 1931), 17–32.

69. John Morrow, The Great War in the Air (Washington, D.C.:

Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), 158–60.

70. Ibid., 309–10.

71. Matthew Cooper, The German Air Force, 1922–1945: An Anatomy of

Failure (London: Jones, 1981), 379.

72. James Corum, “The Old Eagle as Phoenix: The Luftstreitkräfte

Creates an Operational Air War Doctrine, 1919–1920,” Air Power History,

Spring 1992, 13–21.

73. From January to September 1918, when the Allies had numerical

superiority in the air, the Luftstreitkräfte shot down 3,732 Allied aircraft for

a loss of 1,099. From Richard Suchenwirth, The Development of the German

Air Force, 1919–1939, USAF Historical Study 160 (New York: Arno Press,

1968), 2.

74. Heeresdienstvorschrift 487, Führung und Gefecht der Verbundenen

Waffen, Teil 1, September 1921, pars. 77 and 314.

75. Hans von Seeckt, Gedanken eines Soldaten (Berlin: Verlag für

Kulturpolitik, 1929), 93–95.

76. See Suchenwirth, 5.

77. The best work on the German air program in Russia is Manfred

Zeidler’s Reichswehr und Rote Armee, 1920–1933 (Munich: R. Oldenbourg

Verlag, 1993).

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180

78. James Corum, The Roots of Blitzkrieg (Lawrence, Kans.: University

Press of Kansas, 1992), 157–59.

79. Bundesarchiv/Militärarchiv Freiburg, file RH 2/2244, Luftschutzübung

1924.

80. Truppenamt (L), Richtlinien für die Führung des operativen

Luftkrieges, May 1926.

81. Raymond Fredette, The Sky on Fire: The First Battle of Britain,

1917–1918 and the Birth of the Royal Air Force (New York: Holt, Rinehart

and Winston, 1966), 196.

82. See Groehler, 81–85, for a survey of German air defense in World

War I; and David Divine, The Broken Wing: A Study in the British Exercise of

Air Power (London: Hutchinson, 1966), 142–43, on the German defense

against British bombing.

83. Ritter’s best known work was Der Luftkrieg (Berlin: F. Koehler

Verlag, 1926).

84. Suchenwirth, 172–73.

85. Edward Homze, Arming the Luftwaffe (Lincoln, Nebr.: University of

Nebraska Press, 1976), 122–24.

86. Luftwaffendienstvorschrift 16, Luftkriegführung, 1935.

87. Ibid., pars. 186–87.

88. Oberbefehlshaber der Luftwaffe, “Bemerkungen des Oberbefehlshaber

der Luftwaffe zur Ausbildung und zu den Übungen im Jahre 1935,” January

1936, US National Archives, German Records, T-177, roll 1.

89. For an account of the 1937/1939 airborne maneuvers, see

“Handstreich aus der Luft: Fallschirminfanterie nimmt Brücken über

X-Fluss,” Der Adler [a Luftwaffe magazine], Heft 2 (1939): 10-1.

90. Erich von Ludendorff, The Coming War (London: Faber & Faber,

1931); and Der totale Krieg (Munich: Ludendorff’s Verlag, 1935).

91. Raymond Proctor, Hitler’s Luftwaffe in the Spanish Civil War

(Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1983), 253.

92. Homze, 164–65 and 229.

93. Richard Suchenwirth, Command and Leadership in the German Air

Force, USAF Historical Study 174 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: USAF Historical

Division, 1969), 225 and 245–46.

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181

Chapter 6

Interwar US Army Aviation and the

Air Corps Tactical School:

Incubators of American Airpower

Lt Col Peter R. Faber

In his History of the Air Corps Tactical School (1931), Capt J.

D. Barker made a now familiar claim: World War I

transformed aviation from a “plaything of sportsmen” into a

powerful instrument of war.

Each belligerent, Barker argued,

ultimately realized that airpower was “a force within itself

[whose] power of destruction would perhaps be the decisive

factor in the outcome of future wars.”

In the case of the

United States, however, Captain Barker was wrong; instead of

consensus, there was confusion and division of opinion over

the utility of airpower.

To early American air leaders and thinkers like William

“Billy” Mitchell, Edgar Gorrell, Thomas Milling, and William

Sherman, airpower was a new and revolutionary way of war.

Capt Robert Webster spoke for a generation of American

airmen when he observed that

air power is not a new weapon of warfare. It cannot be likened to the

rifle, the machine gun, or the cannon. . . . It is a means by which

pressure, through the medium of destruction, may be applied against

vital installations on the surface of the land or the sea, without regard

to the existence of defenses which are tied down to those terrestrial

installations. . . . Air power is not a new weapon—it constitutes a new

force, as separate from land power and sea power as each is separate

from the other. It has created a trimorph or trinity of national defense

which now consists of land power, sea power, and air power.

The air option, in short, offered a unique alternative to the

carnage and futility of attrition warfare, as epitomized by the

“great sausage machine” of World War I. For the first time in

history, hundreds if not thousands of invincible, long-range

bombers would effortlessly leap over an opponent’s

intervening ground defenses and terrorize civilians into

overthrowing their own governments, as Giulio Douhet

183

suggested, or deprive an enemy army the material capacity to

wage war, as advocated by Gianni Caproni and Nino

Salvaneschi.

In either case, the bomber was an apocalyptic

instrument of war qualitatively different from any weapon that

had come before. It could rapidly destroy an entire nation

from the inside out rather than slowly defeat it from the

outside in.

In contrast to the boosterism of interwar airmen, Army and

Navy traditionalists did not believe that the modern bomber

was a revolutionary, war-winning weapon. Its technology, they

argued, was too primitive to match the promises made on its

behalf. Further, bombers could not unilaterally defeat an

enemy nation without the active cooperation of ground and

naval forces; nor could they defeat an opponent quickly (i.e.,

humanely), as also promised. As a result, Army and Navy

leaders argued steadfastly that land-based airpower was

merely an auxiliary tool of war. Gen John J. Pershing, spoke

for the “old guard” when he observed that

an Air Force acting independently can of its own account neither win a

war at the present time, nor, so far as we can tell at any time in the

future. . . . [If] success is to be expected, the military Air Force must

be controlled in the same way, understand the same discipline, and

act in accordance with the Army commander under precisely the same

conditions as the other combat arms.

Navy spokesmen, in turn, repeatedly informed their civilian

counterparts (including the Howell Commission of 1934) that

the primary role of the Air Corps was to operate as an arm of

the Army, and only afterwards to conduct “air operations in

support of or in lieu of naval forces.”

The disagreement over the nature and utility of American

airpower confirms that Captain Barker was wrong—military

traditionalists refused to see the air weapon as “a force within

itself,” either in the waning months of World War I or

afterwards. This conclusion, however, begs another question.

Was the dispute between the regular Army and its

“aeromaniacs” one between equals? On Armistice Day air

enthusiasts might have said “yes.” On that day the Air Service

contained over 190,000 men, 40 percent of whom were

assigned to the American Expeditionary Force (AEF) in

Europe; it controlled 48 airfields and 19 depots within the

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184

continental United States; it owned approximately 11,000

aircraft, seventy-eight hundred of which were trainers; and it

had 10,000 trained pilots.

However, with the end of hostilities

this sizable force disappeared almost overnight. AEF

commanders had expected to mount one final offensive in

1919, but Germany’s “premature” collapse led to a rapid and

bruising demobilization instead.

When the US Congress

promptly rescinded $485 million in uncommitted aviation

funds, the Air Service had no choice other than immediately

stop its ambitious expansion program. It withdrew 91.5

percent of its outstanding manufacturing orders by mid-1919.

During the following year, it sold, transferred, or disposed of

an additional $173.3 million worth of equipment, and it

discharged all but 1,168 officers and 8,428 enlisted men from

its rolls.

(The latter number represented 5 percent of the Air

Service’s peak wartime strength.)

Not surprisingly, senior American airmen like Mason

Patrick and Milling complained bitterly about the Army’s

frantic rush to demobilize. The rapid drawdown, in their

opinion, left the infant Air Service (and its technological base)

in a “chaotic,” “disorganized,” or “tangled state.” The service,

Patrick and Milling claimed, was unable to conduct postwar

tactical training, establish binding policies or needed direction

for local commanders, or retrieve equipment scattered

throughout the United States.

Further, the “deplorable”

military aviation industry had shrunk to 15–20 aircraft plants

and three engine makers who were limping through the

general demobilization by modernizing obsolescent aircraft. (In

1920, for example, the Boeing Company upgraded 111 De

Havilland D.H.4s into D.H.4Bs.)

Demobilization, however, was not the only reason why the

postwar debate over the fate of American airpower began

unequally. The idea of a debate implies that the Air Service

already had a well-reasoned, universal set of principles about

the proper use of airpower, particularly in war. In reality, this

was not true either. After the armistice, the US Army Air

Service not only lacked a coherent, working set of propositions

on the proper use of military aviation, but also lacked a

coherent theory, strategy, and doctrine upon which airmen

could base the future development of American airpower.

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185

other words, the Air Service had yet to codify itself in any

meaningful way; it still awaited the types of Progressivist

reforms that Elihu Root had introduced to the “Old Army” at

the turn of the century.

Because of the above problems, the Air Service was clearly in

a difficult position. Would it survive its own demobilization—

and, by extension, the growing parsimony and isolationism of

postwar America? Would it shape its own intellectual destiny,

ranging from basic operating principles through a working

theory of airpower, or would it remain under the strict control

of the Army’s “old guard,” who largely dismissed airpower as

airborne reconnaissance or artillery? As long as these

questions remained open, the Air Service was vulnerable to

the depredations of Army traditionalists, who responded to

free-thinking airmen like Billy Mitchell with open suspicion, if

not outright hostility. (General Pershing, for example, once

attributed Mitchell’s zealotry to an insidious “Bolshevik

bug.”)

Additionally, a delimited and ill-defined Air Service was

in danger of never realizing what the “dervishes of airpower”

wanted most—coequal status with the Army and Navy and a

doctrine ultimately committed to independent strategic

bombardment against the vital centers of an enemy state.

To resolve the above questions favorably and to ensure that

American airpower realized its full potential, early air leaders

and thinkers such as Mitchell, Patrick, Gorrell, Milling,

Sherman, Benjamin “Benny” Foulois, and Henry “Hap” Arnold

haltingly developed an ad hoc, four-part strategy designed

either to create new roles and missions for the Air Corps or to

steal old responsibilities away from the Army and Navy.

Specifically, the strategy sought to (1) redefine America as an

airpower rather than a maritime nation; (2) demonstrate and

publicize the versatility of airpower in peacetime roles; (3)

create both a corporate Air Corps identity through political

maneuvering and an independent air force through legislation;

and (4) perhaps most importantly, develop a unique theory of

air warfare—unescorted high-altitude precision daylight

bombardment (HAPDB) against the key nodes of an enemy’s

industrial infrastructure. (The development of air theory and

doctrine became the special responsibility of the Air Service

Field Officer’s School [ASFOS, 1920–21], which the Army later

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186

rechristened the Air Service Tactical School [ASTS, 1922–26],

and then the seminal Air Corps Tactical School [ACTS,

1926–40]. The school divided its 20-year existence between

Langley Field, Virginia , and Maxwell Field, Alabama, where it

moved in 1931.)

The airmen’s four-part strategy ultimately worked. Not only

did the Air Service survive as an institution but thanks to

ACTS’s infamous “Bomber Mafia ” and their sympathizers, the

Army’s semiautonomous air arm entered World War II with

the necessary organization, the specific bomber, and the

unique theory/doctrine ultimately used to conduct the most

devastating strategic air campaign in history. To explain how

this happened, this chapter explores how the first three

components of the Air Corps’s ad hoc strategy helped it

survive and then flourish as an interwar institution. In other

words, the chapter broadly (and impressionistically) reviews

how zealous airmen partially succeeded in promoting America

as an airpower rather than a maritime nation, in

demonstrating and publicizing the versatility of airpower in

peacetime roles, and in advocating an increasingly

independent air force through political maneuvering and

legislation. Last, the chapter focuses on the seminal role of

ACTS in the development of a unique theory and doctrine of

American airpower. In particular, it looks at ACTS’s three

distinct theoretical/doctrinal phases and the way they led to

Air War Plans Division, Plan 1 (AWPD-1), America’s first

substantive plan for strategic air warfare.

America: An Airpower or a Maritime Nation?

Although the United States has historically defined itself as

a maritime power, Army airmen like Hap Arnold and Ira Eaker

argued otherwise throughout the interwar years. According to

them, when Wilbur and Orville Wright performed history’s

first controlled flight, they turned Rudyard Kipling’s vision

into reality—“We are at the opening verse of the opening page

of the chapter of endless possibilities.”

Henceforth, America

would be an airpower nation, and it behooved the general

public and the military’s “old guard” to embrace a new world

of time and space.

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187

Within the Air Service and Air Corps, manifestations of

air-mindedness appeared everywhere and in odd ways. Fighter

advocate Earl “Pat” Partridge, for example, taught himself to

type by repeatedly transcribing Winged Warfare, William

Bishop’s inspirational recollection of his experiences as a

fighter ace in World War I.

Walter “Buck” Weaver, a “hard

disciplinarian” who first commanded Maxwell Field (1927–31)

and then ACTS itself (1939–40), invented “Chess Air,” a

three-dimensional chess game with the top board made up

exclusively of aircraft pieces.

Further, at the Primary Flying

School in San Antonio, Texas, one particularly zealous

monitor required the “Dodos” (pilot trainees) at his breakfast

table to wear goggles on the mornings they ate grapefruits

and, when they later performed their appointed rounds, to

bank all turns made while walking (obviously, by holding their

arms straight out from their sides and leaning in the direction

of the turn).

In the public sphere, attempts to promote air-mindedness

were often as silly, but they became more clearheaded with

time. In one especially fertile (yet ambiguous) attempt to

connect Americanism, Babe Ruth, and airpower, the “Sultan

of Swat” tried to catch three baseballs dropped from an

aircraft circling 250 feet overhead. The first two balls knocked

Ruth flat on his back, but on the third try he did manage to

catch the ball.

In contrast, the motive behind the 1920

“bombing” of the Alamo Plaza by Air Service D.H.4Bs was less

opaque. The Air Service clearly equated Army aviation with

Americanism by “bombing” the people below with recruiting

literature.

The air arm’s innumerable flying exhibits for

county fairs (and even picnics) further promoted air-

mindedness in the public, as did Claire Chennault’s Three

Men on a Flying Trapeze—the Air Corps’s first aerial

demonstration team—and Jimmy Doolittle’s repeated victories

in highly visible national air races. (Much to the annoyance of

the Navy, Doolittle won the 1925 Schneider Cup, a race

reserved exclusively for seaplanes!)

However, media-savvy visionaries such as Hap Arnold, who

headed the Air Service Information Office in 1925–26, and Ira

Eaker, who coauthored three books with Arnold, systematized

the spread of “aeromania” in general—and public support for

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188

the Air Corps in particular. As the acknowledged masters of

public relations in the interwar Air Corps, both men spread

air-mindedness with an endless stream of press releases,

interviews, attention-getting flights, newsreel and radio

coverage of special events, and the ability to intertwine the

glamour of Hollywood with the thrill of flying.

Arnold and Eaker also concentrated on spreading

aeromania to the young, who they believed were “keenly alive

to the wonderful future possibilities of aerial navigation.”

From 1926 to 1928, for example, Major Arnold wrote a

six-volume adventure series for the A. L. Burt Company, a

publisher whose tales provided “good, healthy action that

every boy loves.” (Other series printed by Burt included Clair

W. Hayes’s The Boy Allies with the Army, Ensign Robert

Drake’s The Boy Allies with the Navy, and Milton Richards’s

Boys of the Royal Mounted Police.) Arnold’s popular tales

featured a heroic (yet modest) young aviator named Bill Bruce,

whom the airman named after one of his sons.

By providing

an unvarnished yet inspiring collection of stories about a

likable pilot’s adventures in the Air Service, Arnold

accomplished several goals. He created “a favorable and

sympathetic view of Air Service personnel”; he quietly argued

for an expanded and improved air arm; and he dramatized

“values, attitudes, and behaviors” that arguably defined, along

with the Ted Scott series and dozens of other aviation-related

examples, the “national character” of an entire generation of

interwar youth.

Among its other qualities, that confident

character certainly emphasized duty before self, particularly

in a professional Air Corps that fulfilled America’s military

needs first and foremost through the air.

In the 1930s Oscar Westover, who served as chief of the Air

Corps from 1935 to 1938, joined Arnold and Eaker in trying to

turn even more of America’s youth into “airheads,” as one wag

put it.

In particular, they focused their attention on the

Junior Birdmen of America (organized in 1932), the Jimmie

Allen Flying Club, and several other boys’ aeronautic

organizations. (In 1936 the Junior Birdmen of America alone

had 17 wings and close to five hundred thousand members.)

From General Westover’s perspective, the members of these

organizations fulfilled two needs—they acted as coworkers in a

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189

common, air-centered cause and they provided a future reserve

of flying strength for America. (In the last case, Westover

thought it “thrilling” that Junior Birdmen would soon fly

state-of-the-art four-engined aircraft.)

Arnold and Eaker, in

turn, had an additional hope for America’s young aeromaniacs,

and they expressed it in the dedication of a proposed book

(Flying and Your Boy)—“May they grasp the controls with firm

hands and . . . stout hearts to the end that America may lead

the world in the air.”

In other words, the goal of America was

not only to become an airpower nation but—through its

youth—to dominate the sky. (The Air Corps strove to promote

both goals in myriad ways. In one example, it hosted a national

Junior Birdmen event in a balloon hangar at Brooks Field,

Texas, and then provided the attendees tours of Randolph Field,

home of the Air Corps’s Primary Flying School.)

The above examples are hardly exhaustive. They do show,

however, that as part of a loose four-part strategy, members of

the Air Service/Air Corps strenuously promoted the idea that

America was first and foremost an airpower nation. They not

only adopted and applied the idea to themselves but also tried

to indoctrinate the general public—especially America’s youth.

Because of their efforts and the parallel successes of their

civilian counterparts (like Charles Lindbergh, Wiley Post, and

Amelia Earhart), they made significant progress. The Air

Service did inspire a sufficient number of airheads, both in

the public at large and in Congress, to ensure that it survived

the parsimonious budgets of the early 1920s. Then, the Air

Corps slowly but inexorably cultivated public support, not

only for aviation in general but also for its drive for

organizational and doctrinal autonomy. (By 1938 the public’s

support was broad enough that the Southeastern Aviation

Conference, held at the relatively isolated Jefferson Davis

Hotel in Montgomery, Alabama, attracted over two hundred

participants, including such luminaries as Doolittle, Eddie

Rickenbacker, and C. E. Falk, president of Delta Airways.)

The drive for acceptance and autonomy, however, required the

Air Service/Air Corps to do more than merely promote the

redefinition of America as an airpower nation.

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190

The Versatility of Airpower in Peacetime Roles

A skeptic once asked Benjamin Franklin if untethered

balloons had any utility. His rhetorical answer—“What is the

use of a new born babe? It may become a man”—

foreshadowed the thinking of Army aviators in the 1920s and

1930s.

Yes, their immediate goal was to protect the infant

Air Service from the negative effects of rapid demobilization

and from the possible treachery of the War Department’s “old

guard.” However, senior air leaders like Brig Gen Billy

Mitchell, who served as assistant chief of the Air Service from

1919 to 1921, and Maj Gen Mason Patrick, who functioned as

chief of the Air Service/Air Corps from 1921 to 1927, knew

that merely promoting aeromania was not enough.

If Army

aviation were to survive and become a mature, independent

way of war, it needed to create new roles and missions for

itself or seize existing responsibilities from the Army or Navy.

Almost from the beginning, it did both.

Like their postwar counterparts in the Royal Air Force, US

airmen concluded that they needed to demonstrate quickly

the versatility of airpower or perhaps see it ruthlessly starved

of institutional and financial support. As a result, the Air

Service and Air Corps of the 1920s willingly performed a

variety of peacetime roles. In California, for example, Army

airmen became airborne forest rangers who detected and

reported approximately four thousand forest fires from 1919

to 1923. In Oregon, the total acreage destroyed by fire

decreased 62 percent during the first three years of the Army

program there. (This total far exceeded the 27 percent

decrease that occurred in California.)

At roughly the same time, the Air Service sought additional

roles and missions. It patrolled the entire Mexican border to

discourage cattle smugglers, bandits, and illegal border

crossings; it conducted crop-dusting experiments (with

calcium arsenate) to protect cotton and fruit crops from pests;

it dabbled in the aerial seeding of farmland; and it highlighted

the success of Navy aviation in mapping the Mississippi Delta

for a cost of less than $8,000. (The aerial mapping was a

significant feat since over 50 percent of US territory remained

unsurveyed at the time.)

Later, when a devastating flood

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191

destroyed nearly five thousand houses and 2,615 buildings in

Southern Alabama, the Air Corps demonstrated its utility in

yet another arena—disaster relief.

During 15–20 March

1929, aircraft from Maxwell Field flew 346 flights and dropped

27.5 tons of supplies “to distressed thousands in an area

which otherwise would have been inaccessible for days.”

Finally, the Air Service inaugurated and briefly provided

airmail service in 1918. Sixteen years later, the Air Corps

resumed the responsibility when Postmaster General James

A. Farley abruptly suspended the work of civilian contractors.

(The Roosevelt administration suspected that the contractors

had used fraud and collusion to secure their routes from the

Republicans previously in power.) From 19 February until 1

June 1934, the Air Corps struggled mightily to deliver the

mail, but unusually bad weather, limited training and

experience, and inadequate equipment left a number of pilots

dead and the Air Corps’s reputation sullied.

(A potential

problem, however, turned into an advantage when Secretary

of War George Dern appointed the Baker Board to investigate

the Air Corps’s dubious performance. The board concluded

that the Air Corps was ill prepared to carry the mail, but it

partially blamed government parsimony for its limited

success. Ironically then, the Baker Board’s investigation

revived official interest and support for the Air Corps, even

though it had failed to perform as advertised. According to

Benny Foulois, a man who Villa Tinker claimed “had never

been young,” the board’s criticisms shamed President

Franklin D. Roosevelt into releasing impounded research and

development funds and $7 million in Public Works

Administration funds.)

Admittedly, the above demonstrations of versatility were

theatrical and of limited value. They made a modest

contribution to America’s growing commitment to airpower,

but true progress in the dispute over military roles and

missions lay elsewhere. In the case of the Army, the Air Corps

and ACTS concentrated primarily on developing a new role

and mission—unescorted HAPDB by as autonomous an air

force as possible. In the case of the Navy, Army aviators

deliberately (and incrementally) intruded into a long-standing

naval responsibility—offshore continental defense. To

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192

illustrate just how the Air Corps survived and expanded by

appropriating the roles and missions of others, this chapter

now reviews (in broad terms) its intrusion on Navy

prerogatives. (In an era when the Air Corps could not officially

advocate offensive air operations against “nonmilitary” targets,

except within an overarching defensive framework, the issue

was a natural source of friction.)

In its incremental attempt to intrude upon the offshore and

hemispheric defense functions of the Navy—and thus create

an offensive bomber force through the back door—the Air

Corps sought to (1) define a threat, (2) repudiate the Navy’s

ability to answer that threat, and (3) offer a bomber-based

solution. In the first case, Air Corps (i.e., ACTS) strategists

defined the threat as nothing less than an anarchic,

unregulated future. According to Maj Don Wilson, a core

member of ACTS’s infamous Bomber Mafia, worldwide

differences in standards of living and the scramble for

markets (to absorb production surpluses) would inevitably

lead to increased nationalism. Unregulated nationalism would

then compel the United States to prevent any interference

with its policies and to ensure its national defense. In

ensuring its home defense, however, the United States would

have to concentrate on preserving the integrity of the nation

as a whole, given that whole nations (and not just military

forces) waged modern war.

Further, these nations were

exploring new ways to challenge US interests.

According to 1st Lt Kenneth Walker, another seminal ACTS

figure, “The importance assigned to Air Forces by major

European powers, among which may be potential enemies,

leaves no doubt our future enemies will unquestionably rely

greatly, if not primarily, upon the actions of their Air Forces to

bring about the defeat of the United States.”

But what would

an enemy air force specifically attack? Most likely, it would be

the industrial triangle extending from Portland, Maine, to the

Chesapeake Bay to Chicago. Within this triangle lay 75

percent of all US factories, almost all the nation’s steelworks,

most of its coal, and a number of major railroad centers,

including New York, Washington, Pittsburgh, and Cleveland.

In the opinion of Capt Robert Olds, yet another victim of

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193

“bombus fervidus,” a devastating attack on America’s

industrial triangle could unfold in the following way:

A coalition of European and Asiatic powers have declared war on the

United States. Superior naval forces . . . seek a decisive naval

engagement in the vicinity of the Panama Canal. . . . Such actions

draw the U.S. Navy to Caribbean waters, with its naval aviation. Land

forces from the Orient, using Alaska as an advanced base, seek . . . to

establish a salient in the area Washington, Oregon, California and

inland to about Salt Lake City, as a land base for further offensive

operations in U.S. territory. The concentration of the U.S. Army with

its aviation, in the western theatre of operations would be mandatory

to resist the land invasion.

Simultaneously, the mass of the Allied air forces have been flown, or

shipped under submarine and patrol boat convoy, from Ireland to

Newfoundland and are prepared to launch air attacks, from air bases

in eastern Canada, against any targets of their choice in the vital

industrial heart of our country. (Emphasis in original)

The targets of choice, according to Capt Harold Lee George—

doyen of the ACTS Bomber Mafia—would be rail lines,

refineries, electric power systems, and (as a last resort) water

supply systems. By attacking and destroying these objectives,

George argued, an invader would quickly and efficiently

destroy the people’s will to resist—the key to success in

modern war.

George’s emphasis on attacking will was thoroughly

Clausewitzian and familiar. As a pedagogical concept, it

appeared in Influence of Airplanes on Operations in War, a text

first used at the Field Officer’s School in 1920–21. The text

argued that war was “a conflict of human wills, bent and

twisted in the heat of violent emotions”; that aircraft had a

“peculiarly demoralizing influence” on any contest between

moral forces; and that material factors in war (and therefore

targets) only mattered to the extent that they modified an

opponent’s will to resist.

(The text’s logic was obviously

deductive, as was the Bomber Mafia ’s. Robert Webster, for

example, opined the following about human will and

endurance: “There must be some limit to this endurance; it is

not reasonable that a nation can see every resource that it has

for waging war destroyed without realizing the folly of

continued opposition.”)

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If America’s industrial triangle were the ultimate, war-

winning target of an invading force, regardless of how vaguely

defined, what role did the Navy have in continental defense? As

Olds intimated, the Navy would have an ancillary role at best.

America’s primary “center of gravity” was now its industrial

heartland and no longer its sea lanes of communications

(SLOC). The only real threat to this new vulnerability was

airpower, and this belief animated the second part of the Air

Corps’s intrusion on Navy roles and missions—to overtly (and

consistently) question the future utility of the Navy as the prime

defender of the United States.

Perhaps Thomas Milling stated the early Air Corps position

best when he noted that “it needs no great stretch of the

imagination to foresee the time when sea supremacy will rest

entirely in air power.”

Such revisionism partially had its

roots in the Preparedness Movement of World War I, which the

Washington Herald deftly summarized in a later byline as

“Training Is Good. Flying Is Better. Look at the World. It’s All

Mixed Up.”

The concern, as previously noted, was that an

unstable nation-state system, coupled with revolutionary

advances in armaments, guaranteed that future wars would

be so deadly and terrifying that only those who were most

thoroughly prepared would survive.

Therefore, the Army

League of the United States chose as its motto, Let Us Be Safe

Rather Than Sorry. But safe from what? One suggestion

appeared in 1916, when preparedness advocate Alexander

Graham Bell worried that “we may . . . look forward with

certainty to the time that is coming, and indeed is almost now

at hand, when sea power and land power will be secondary to

air power, and that nation which gains control of the air will

practically control the world.”

To the great inventor, the

reason for airpower’s newfound stature was the dirigible,

which he envisioned dropping bombs on the world’s great

cities with impunity.

Billy Mitchell agreed with Bell but was less equivocal. He

argued in one early Tactical School text, Tactical Application of

Military Aeronautics (1919), that air forces, given their

revolutionary technologies and capabilities, would not just

lead to the subordination of navies but to their eventual

extinction. More specifically, navies would not be necessary in

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wars of the future (i.e., M-day wars), in which belligerents

might have enough aircraft to devastate their opponent’s

centers of government, production, and military strength, and

thus end armed conflicts almost before they began.

Charles Menoher, head of the Air Service from 1919 to

1921, also stressed the probability of air-driven, M-day

warfare to the Society of Automotive Engineers on 10 March

1920. To protect against a specific type of M-day scenario—a

seaborne attack against the United States—Menoher expected

continental defense to involve three interrelated (and rapid)

steps: long-range air reconnaissance (against approaching

aircraft and ships); an air superiority battle between opposing

pursuit aircraft; and a rapid, devastating aerial attack against

hostile fleets, in which battleships would be as helpless as

“the armored knight when the firearm was brought against

him.” (In the last case, Menoher pointed out that for the price

of one battleship, the Air Service could field one thousand

bombers to crush a seaborne attack.)

Building on this logic,

Milling argued further that the Air Service (and Air Corps) was

America’s true line of defense against sea-based invasions. If

Mitchell were wrong (i.e., if the Navy had any preventive role

to play at all), the sea service would function merely as an

advanced point or spearhead.

As the interwar period evolved, the challenge to the Navy’s

offshore defense mission only intensified. If America’s security

primarily depended on long-range air defenses, as Air Corps

theorists argued, the Navy would never perform the mission.

The aircraft of forward-deployed aircraft carriers, for example,

would not concentrate on the air defense of the nation but on

meeting the strategic and tactical needs of the fleet. In other

words, the Navy would relegate national air defense to a

secondary role. The true focus of carrier aviation would be to

defeat the enemy fleet or help preserve US forces.

Any focus

on land targets, bomber zealot Robert Webster observed,

would be “entirely a secondary consideration.”

Such alleged

parochialism, however, was not the Navy’s only problem.

A second problem was that modern warships cost too much.

If the Air Corps could defend and control SLOCs just as

effectively as any naval action, its boosters asked, why spend

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huge sums of money on unneeded battleships and aircraft

carriers?

Third, advocates of land-based aviation openly doubted that

naval commanders would risk their carriers in raids against

land objectives, especially in the name of “defensive”

operations. Commanders would have to make a difficult

choice between operating range and vulnerability to land-

based airpower and thus limit the carriers’ performance in

either case.

Finally, airmen believed that naval operations would be

further impaired by international agreements, the growing

scope (and importance) of coalition warfare, the division of

total naval forces into unreinforceable halves (the Pacific and

Atlantic fleets tenuously connected by the vulnerable Panama

Canal), and the inability of naval forces to patrol and reach all

access points in a timely manner.

The Navy fought mightily against the fear mongering of the

Air Corps, and from the standpoint of War Department (i.e.,

Joint Board) directives, it largely succeeded. Throughout the

interwar years, the board’s directives remained helpfully vague

when dealing with areas of overlapping responsibility. But the

Navy was fighting against an eroding tide.

Air-minded

civilian leaders often supported the Air Service’s/Air Corps’s

intrusion on Navy prerogatives. Calvin Coolidge, for example,

decided relatively early in the roles and missions debate that

“our national defense must be supplemented, if not

dominated, by aviation.”

In turn, Lt Gen Robert Lee Bullard,

president of the National Security League and former

commander of AEF’s Second Army, argued that the Navy was

rapidly becoming a mere “escort” to land-based aviation,

which would sweep over land and sea with impunity.

Woven into such sentiments was the assumption that the

US Navy would be “inadequate and impotent” in keeping our

sea lanes open and in denying them to potential enemies. As a

result, enemy states or coalitions could place air bases and

carrier-based aviation close enough to America’s borders to

destroy the great industrial triangle in an M-day attack and

thus indirectly wipe out the American people’s will to resist.

Long-range and land-based airpower, however, offered a

specific solution to sea-based air attacks and invasions, as

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Hap Arnold argued in Airmen and Aircraft (1926), as Mason

Patrick confirmed in The United States in the Air (1928), and

as Millard F. Harmon reiterated while at ACTS in the late

1930s. (Harmon, however, could not decide if the long-range

bomber would “assume parity with the Army and Navy . . . or

absorb them one or both.”)

Ultimately, from the biased

perspective of Air Corps leaders and ACTS strategists, they

had defined a new American center of gravity and abraded the

public’s (and government’s) faith in the Navy to safeguard the

nation from long-range attack. The only step left was for the

Air Corps to cap its intrusion into Navy prerogatives by

incrementally defining (and assuming) a role in continental

and then hemispheric defense.

The Air Corps laid claim to what had been an exclusive

Navy responsibility by systematically redefining and extending

the role of “defensive” air operations—from the waterline of the

United States to hemispheric defense and eventually to the

vital economic centers of enemy states, even if they were

thousands of miles away. The intrusion process, however, was

full of fits and starts. It received a major push in 1925, when

the Air Service Tactical School proposed revisions to the War

Department’s General Order (GO) 20, which determined Joint

Board policy on the relationship between Army and Navy

aircraft. The ASTS commandant, Maj Oscar Westover,

protested innocently that the intent of the school was not to

preach or even suggest who should have particular roles and

missions. But he also noted that the growth of aviation had

brought about an appreciation of what air forces could do and

thus required a “consideration of realignment of the real

agencies making for National Defense.”

Given this

Janus-faced sentiment, it is not surprising that the suggested

ASTS changes to GO 20 deliberately sought to blur the

geographical areas of responsibility between naval and

land-based aviation.

Air Corps leaders subsequently

stressed this ambiguity and increasingly demanded that

land-based aviation should operate from America’s shoreline

up to six hundred miles at sea, depending on the source.

The demands, regardless of how vaguely made, spurred Gen

Douglas MacArthur and Adm William V. Pratt, as heads of

their respective services, to reach a temporary agreement on

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coastal defense in 1931. They seemingly agreed that naval air

forces would exclusively support forces afloat and therefore

enjoy complete freedom of action, while the Army Air Corps

would defend the coasts of the United States and its overseas

possessions. In reality, the agreement was sufficiently vague

that the Navy interpreted the arrangement more broadly than

the Army did. As a result, the Navy continued to expand

land-based naval facilities and develop scout bombers.

The upstart Air Corps’s response was twofold. First, it

repeated Milling’s previous, topsy-turvy complaints: it was the

Navy, by stealing away precious funds for itself, that was

imperiling the creation of a proper air force for national

defense; it was the Navy that was encroaching on the

“prerogatives and proper duties” of the Air Corps; and it was

the Navy that was neglecting its own role of functioning as a

spearhead operating exclusively against enemy fleets.

Second, the Air Corps redoubled its efforts to assume Navy

responsibilities (and more), as illustrated in a 1933

memorandum by George C. Kenney to the assistant

commandant of the Army War College. (Kenney was an

influential ACTS instructor from 1927 to 1931.) Yes, the role

of the Air Corps was to perform coastal defense and thus

provide the Navy complete freedom of action, as specified by

the MacArthur-Pratt Agreement. On the other hand, specific

Air Corps objectives, as suggested by Kenney, were

suspiciously unorthodox. The familiar objective of air

superiority was present, as was the requirement to defend

vital American industrial centers, naval bases, airfields, and

other critical resources. But Kenney also included as an

objective “the location [of] and attack upon hostile vessels,

landing parties, airdromes, troop and supply concentrations

at sea or on land, vital enemy lines of communication and

industrial centers.”

Obviously, the last objective attacked

Navy prerogatives on two levels. First, Kenney not only

extended air operations far out to sea but also defined

attacking “enemy lines of communication and industrial

centers” as a defensive activity. Second, both roles were

implicitly strategic and involved operating aircraft

independently of land and sea forces.

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The Navy’s response to these complaints was to rescind the

MacArthur-Pratt Agreement in 1935.

As a result, the Air

Corps’s ultimate intrusion into the Navy’s domain was not

attributable to mutual cooperation or concessions to its

complaints. Instead, it was attributable to the Air Corps’s

ability to provide a clearly stated alternative to sea-based

national defense, which then attracted the support of a very

powerful friend—President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

But who specifically provided the Air Corps’s blueprint for

national defense in the mid- to late-1930s? Not surprisingly, it

was ACTS and the Air Corps Board (ACB), a group resurrected

by the Baker Board in 1935.

From 1935 to 1940, the

revitalized ACB worked side by side with ACTS at Maxwell

Field. Its members usually included the ACTS commandant

and assistant commandant as ex officio members; a director

of the board, who was usually its senior permanent member

(Col Douglas B. Netherwood, Lt Col Edgar B. Sorensen, and

Col Robert Kauch, for example); and five to eight officers and

civilians who had an almost incestuous working relationship

with ACTS. In the last case, bomber proponent Laurence

Kuter recalled that “the school thought it could get some

things through the chief’s office via the board that it couldn’t

any other way [and that] the board was quite happy to have

that arrangement too.”

As a result of this close association,

for several years ACTS formally scrubbed all ACB reports that

went to the Office of the Chief of the Air Corps (OCAC); the

board ensured that its studies were compatible with the

principles taught at the Tactical School; and the mutual

cooperation between both organizations ensured that they

spoke with one voice, especially when they developed the

theoretical and doctrinal “language” that the Air Corps

increasingly used to claim a role in offshore defense.

In developing the above “language,” the ACB fulfilled a

charter that was both theoretical and practical. On the

theoretical level, its role was to study Air Corps problems and

issues that involved considerable study and research, as

assigned by the chief of the Air Corps under the provisions of

AR 95-20 (9 November 1934).

In 1936 Lt Col R. M. Jones,

General Arnold’s executive officer, highlighted two of these

problems and issues in particular. First, he asked whether the

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Air Corps should pursue large-scale development of costly

four-engined bombers or whether it should invest in

medium-range and therefore cheaper bombers. Second, he

asked what types of missions long-range bombers should

actually perform. (The Air Corps’s two-part answer, as already

suggested, was the B-17 and hemispheric defense,

respectively.)

In the immediate, practical sphere, the ACB’s charter was to

serve as an antidote to the “divide and conquer” strategy the

Army adopted against its aeromaniacs, particularly after the

Drum Board of 1933. In other words, the board’s function—

since it presumably had at least the tacit support of OCAC on

certain issues—was to prevent divergences of opinion between

OCAC and the newly created, semiautonomous General

Headquarters (GHQ) Air Force.

As General Arnold and his

sympathizers insisted, the Air Corps had to spread the

conviction that it was “one single body with a single purpose

common to all its parts” (emphasis in original).

Consequently,

between 1935–42 the Air Corps Board undertook 77 projects, 25

of which recommended common strategies and tactics.

those ACB studies that provided airmen a “language” to assault

Navy prerogatives, arguably the two most important were

ACB-31, The Functions of the Army Air Forces, and ACB-35,

Employment of Aircraft in Defense of the Continental United

States.

The purpose of ACB-31 was to “determine the manner in

which Air Forces may best perform those functions for which

they are, or should be, responsible” (emphasis added).

The

report, although endorsed by ACTS, was sufficiently

controversial that OCAC classified it Confidential and did not

formally approve it until 29 October 1936. (The office copy, for

example, has warnings such as “not to leave the office” and

“do not forward” scrawled and underlined on the title page.)

Six weeks later, on 11 December 1936, General Westover

recommended that the War Department adopt ACB-31 as its

official air policy. Not surprisingly, his recommendation went

unheeded.

The report, although circumspect, challenged the orthodoxy

of the time. It conceded that the primary role of Army Air

Forces (AAF) was to defend US territory, preserve internal

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order, and support ground and naval forces.

However, since

airpower was inherently strategic, it also insisted that the Air

Corps develop, operate, and maintain follow-on air forces for

defensive and possibly offensive strategic operations.

(Why?

Because long-range aviation constituted a new type of force; it

influenced ground and sea action yet operated outside their

domains; and it seriously complicated an opponent’s ability to

wage war.)

Second, the report identified potential target sets

for air bombardment that deliberately obscured the distinction

between tactical, operational, and strategic-level objectives.

The suggested targets included but were not limited to troop

cantonments or concentrations, choke points in lines of

communications, enemy air forces and naval vessels, fuel

storage plants, power grids, munitions and aircraft factories,

and assorted types of refineries.

Last, ACB-31’s definition of

air-based coastal defense was also premeditatedly vague. Yes,

it included protecting shipping in coastal zones, guarding

military and civilian facilities, preventing invasion, and

ensuring the security of vital military and commercial coastal

areas. However, the most effective way that land-based

aviation could accomplish these objectives was to conduct

unrestricted counterair operations against distant

installations or to thwart the creation and use of staging areas

for a continental attack. In either case, the need for long-range

aircraft became “a matter of prime importance.”

In the case of ACB-35, Employment of Aircraft in Defense of

the Continental United States, the Air Corps classified it Secret

and did not release it until 7 May 1939, even though ACB had

finished the original version in late 1935.

Nevertheless, the

report passed from one influential person to another,

especially between those individuals interested in providing

the newly minted GHQ Air Force a shadow doctrine. As a

result, ACB-35 augmented the doctrinal vocabulary provided

by its predecessor. Both reports popularized the concept of a

strategic strike force dedicated to destroying a spectrum of

targets in the name of coastal-continental defense. ACB-35,

however, made an even bigger claim—that the strategic

bomber was the ideal instrument of hemispheric defense and

beyond. The report noted that “the possibility of applying

military force against the vital structure of a nation directly

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and immediately upon the outbreak of hostilities, is a most

important and far reaching development.”

In other words,

the role of airpower was not just supplementary—to attack

hostile forces beyond the reach of the Army or Navy—but to

strike directly against an enemy nation! Its ultimate

responsibility was to

exert the greatest possible influence on the outcome of the entire

campaign, rather than [be] diverted for the purpose of meeting some

immediate emergency of lesser ultimate importance. Aircraft should

never be used against targets appropriate for and within the range of

other weapons unless there are no other objectives suitable for air

attack or the situation demands the concentration of all available

weapons.

Therefore, to support the Monroe Doctrine properly, AAF

needed to perform most of its missions over areas that were

potentially far beyond the operating radius of the Army and

Navy. Yes, the Air Corps had an auxiliary, defensive role, but

in the name of strategic defense, it was incumbent for the

GHQ Air Force to operate under the most favorable

circumstances possible, which meant using bombers to the

fullest extent of their ability and where the opponent was most

vulnerable to attack.

The old areas of responsibility worked

out by the Joint Board and MacArthur-Pratt no longer

applied. An opponent’s most vital targets might now include

land forces, large naval expeditions, or the structure of an

enemy nation.

However, in order to provide long-range

defense and more, ACB-35 insisted that the B-17 make up at

least one-third of the Air Corps’s bomber force and thus

enable it to operate as far as fifteen hundred miles out at sea

or from a particular base. Hap Arnold and others

subsequently used this well-developed paradigm to encroach

on the long-range “defense” mission traditionally dominated

by the Navy. They acted upon the ACB’s recommendations,

but the level of success they experienced against the Navy in

the mid- to late-1930s might not have occurred without a

powerful new ally—Franklin D. Roosevelt.

FDR’s support for long-range aviation, as a defensive and

offensive tool, grew out of mounting international pressures

and successful Air Corps indoctrination, as promoted by

ACB-31 and ACB-35. The international pressures included

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the expiration of the Washington Treaty, the collapse of the

Geneva Disarmament Conference of 1933, growing German

rearmament, Japan’s incursion into Manchuria, and the

Anglo-Italian imbroglio over Ethiopia. Roosevelt concluded

from these developments that he needed long-range military

aviation to project power, deter aggression, and defend US

territory. Thus, on the eve of World War II, the Air Corps had

America’s first true long-range bomber—the B-17; a

semiautonomous striking force—GHQ Air Force; and both new

and expropriated missions.

In other words, the Air Corps of

the late 1930s had the means, the organization, and the

conceptual “language” needed for an overlapping mission with

the Navy. It had survived and codified itself not only by

spreading air-mindedness but also by demonstrating its

versatility in selected roles and missions. However, the air arm

had yet a third part to its ad hoc strategy.

The Army and Its Air Corps:

Political Maneuvering and Legislative Combat

A political and legislative assault by the Air Corps against

its parent service was a third way it sought to survive and

then realize its full potential in the interwar years. Initially,

the assault required airmen to complain loudly and often. If

one is to believe the air enthusiasts of the interwar years,

whether civilian or military, Army traditionalists sought to

thwart them at every turn. Col Benjamin Foulois, for example,

complained to the Morrow Board in 1925 that

a fair, just, willing and sympathetic opportunity for the Air Service to

produce results has never been evidenced, from my experience of the

past 17 years, and I doubt whether results can be obtained in the next

20 years if the Air Service is required to continue its struggle for

existence under General Staff control.

What was the reason for such hostility? Maj Gen Mason

Patrick, while head of the Air Service, argued politely that in

the case of the Army, its leaders were hidebound Neanderthals

who did not realize the full potential of airpower and therefore

took three years to acknowledge they even had an Air

Service.

In turn, Robert Bullard claimed that the directors of

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the older services were “jealously intent upon keeping this

new [aviation] arm subordinate, as an auxiliary, lest they lose

power and prestige.”

And so the explanations and

complaints continued well into the 1930s, when an

anonymous airman refused to share credit or take comfort in

the great strides made by Army aviation: “Although the Air

Corps has escaped from its role as [the] Cinderella of the

Army, it has done so through its own effort alone and is still

subject to the might of its none too appreciative parents.”

These “parents” were, in Hanson Baldwin’s words,

“short-sighted old fogies.” They included the long-suffering

Maj Gen Hugh Drum, whom the “dervishes of airpower”

attacked repeatedly as a thick-witted Army traditionalist who

refused to abandon his early claim that the American

doughboy would forever remain the decisive element in war.

Were Army airmen always right to fear their parent

organization? Was the interwar Army unremittingly hostile

towards its own air arm? The answer to both questions is “no,”

but the questions themselves are moot. For every complaint

about bovine Army generals robbing the Air Service/Air Corps of

its full potential and for every statistic “proving” War

Department and Army parsimony, there are countervailing

examples of substantive financial support and bureaucratic

tolerance. The Air Service/Air Corps was, after all, an

independent branch of the Army that was coequal with other

combat arms. Its military expenditures, as a percentage of total

War Department disbursements, grew from 11.8 percent in

1925 to 28.1 percent in 1939.

(In fact, in only one year

between 1925–39 [1933] did Air Corps outlays fall as a

percentage of War Department spending.) In the bleak

Depression years of 1933–36, the Air Corps still received

$113.21 million in emergency funds, and its chief, as an aviator,

was the highest paid officer in the Regular Army.

Yet, Regular

Army members were not uniformly hostile or jealous. Aviator

Hugh Knerr, for example, attended the Army War College in

1930–31, where the “growing appreciation” of airpower left him

“with no windmills to challenge.”

In turn, Air Force Chief of

Staff Nathan Twining later admitted that “the Army took good

care of us,” while Gen Howell Estes did not recall the Army

treating its airmen as second-class citizens.

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On an objective level, Air Corps complaints about Army

persecution were polemical and wrongly popularized by

sympathetic aviation historians.

(The real problem was that

Congress and the War Department failed repeatedly to

disburse the funds they promised and that the Army and Navy

suffered the same fate as the Air Corps—but their relative

rates of deprivation were worse.) To repeat, however, the point

was moot. Nothing could have placated Milling, Sherman, or

the ACTS Bomber Mafia. Nothing could have minimized their

adversarial approach, which did periodically lapse into

persecution mania. Since the air zealots were “separatists”

and Army traditionalists were “indispensabilists,” they could

only agree to disagree.

But who or what was a “separatist”? According to aviator

Jarred Crabb, it was every man in the Air Corps who “felt as

though they ought to get some bombers, that were able to do

something, and separate from the Army.”

100

Bomber advocate

Haywood Hansell agreed—the air weapon could be decisive

only if it operated outside the tactical restrictions imposed by

surface commanders. It was an “inherently” offensive (i.e.,

strategic) instrument of war that did not fit preexisting

frameworks of land and sea warfare.

101

As a result,

cooperation in air warfare could only mean an intimate liaison

between component parts of an air division—and not with

ground troops or navies.

102

Further, the air division

commander needed to administer independent, strategic

airpower “like an opiate [and] in sufficient quantities to

paralyze an enemy’s activities in sensitive areas at crucial

periods.”

103

This, then, was the separatist’s creed, and it was

the antithesis of the indispensabilist vision of airpower.

As already pointed out, Army traditionalists truly

appreciated military aviation. But like the separatists, they too

had a creed, and it included the principles of economy of force

and unity of command. To Army traditionalists like Drum, the

lesson of World War I was that an army must use all available

means to work as a single unit towards a single objective in

war—victory. In particular, there was only one US Army, and

airpower was an indispensable part of that indissoluble

whole.

104

Yes, the Air Service/Air Corps had limited

autonomy, the indispensabilists admitted, but that was only

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206

right. The air arm was not a war-winning weapon in itself; it

was unable to occupy territory; it was dependent on fixed

bases; and it was unable to conduct continuous and

sustained operations. As a result, it had to be in “full

sympathy” with the Army’s other arms and subsume itself to

the Army’s creed.

105

At the center of that creed was the

infantry, which remained the “queen of the battlefield.”

Because there was no room for accommodation between

Army separatists and indispensabilists, the complaints of

airpower zealots could go only so far. As propagandists, they

could—through mind-numbing repetition—create a climate for

change, but they could not engineer change itself. Thus, to

create a corporate (and independent) identity for themselves,

aviators like Benny Foulois, Hap Arnold, Oscar Westover,

Frank Andrews, and Robert Olds not only protested loudly but

also turned Congress and the War Department into roles and

missions battlegrounds. In other words, they resorted to

legislation or formal boards of inquiry to realize their

separatist vision.

Billy Mitchell spoke for like-minded airmen when he

observed in 1925, “Let the groundman run the ground, let the

waterman run the water, and let the airman run the air.”

106

Mitchell and his sympathizers first hoped to turn this pithy

maxim into reality via legislative means. At a minimum, they

were going to prevent Army and Navy traditionalists from

choking off the Air Service, bulldozing it, or holding it down

“like a stepchild.” In Mitchell’s words, “To leave aeronautics as

an orphan [was to] strangle it before it reache[d] man’s

estate.”

107

Therefore, the only way to save Army aviation,

according to Cong. Charles Curry of California, was to

introduce a bill on 28 July 1919, calling for an independent

Department of Aeronautics. Curry’s air-minded proposal

failed, but it also initiated a multiyear legislative and political

struggle between the Navy and the Army, and between the

Army and its own Air Corps.

108

In 1919–20, for example, no

fewer than eight aviation bills appeared before Congress, all of

which sought to emancipate the Air Service from Army and

Navy domination, either by creating a separate executive

department, as Congressman Curry wanted, or by creating a

Department of National Defense with three coequal parts.

109

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Not surprisingly, postwar demobilization and the implacable

opposition of the War Department doomed all eight bills.

Nevertheless, the failures of 1919–20 did not sour Air Service

“separatists” on the political process. They believed, in the

words of Charles Menoher, that “a great majority” of the

members of Congress were “friendly” to the Air Service.

110

As a

result, air leaders continued to proselytize before

congressional committees. (Foulois alone, for example,

testified 75 times before he became leader of the Air Corps!)

Senior airmen also thought that congressional, War

Department, and Army boards or commissions could

positively define the relationship between military aviation and

the older services. If one believes Maj Guido Perera, however,

these boards of inquiry were frequently hostile towards the

idea of independent airpower. Of the 14 interwar groups that

studied the proper employment of airpower prior to 1934,

Perera claimed that only one—the Lampert Board of

1924–25—recommended the creation of an independent air

force within a Department of National Defense.

111

But was

Perera right? Was there malfeasance or obstructionism afoot?

Were the boards and commissions truly hostile, or did the Air

Corps fail to control the debate properly? Did it let

indispensabilists becloud the issue of independence by

introducing so many details about the needs of the Army and

Navy for auxiliary aviation that no one realized that these

needs did not represent real defense in the air?

112

If one analyzes the findings of individual boards or

commissions, they appear typically hostile to the Air Service/Air

Corps. However, imbedded within a majority of these findings is

a smattering of proseparatist recommendations that, when

added together over time, slowly but inexorably increased the

autonomy of the Air Corps.

113

The seminal Menoher Board, established by Secretary of War

Newton Baker, is a case in point. Its report, dated 27 October

1919, was the first to argue that independent airpower could not

win a war by itself and that unfettered air operations violated

the principle of unity of command. On the other hand, the

report was also the first to stress that the Air Service was an

essential Army combat branch equal in importance to the

infantry, cavalry, and artillery.

114

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At roughly the same time, General Pershing convened the

Dickman Board in Paris on 19 April 1919. The board, which

included Benny Foulois as its president, agreed with the Army

that the primary function of military aviation was observation.

However, it further argued that most of the Air Service should

serve with ground units at the army, corps, and division

levels. The remaining number of aircraft, which might include

up to three brigades of attack, bombardment, and pursuit

aviation, should then form a GHQ reserve that would operate

throughout a battle zone. (General Pershing fought

successfully to prevent the Dickman Board from referring to

the GHQ reserve as a “strategical” force. He did, however,

hope that the concept itself would appear progressive enough

to dampen future agitation by independence-minded airmen.)

In March 1923, the Lassiter Board gave the War

Department its first significant interwar air plan. It advocated

an expandable Air Force based on a 10-year development

program and a $495 million budget. It further elaborated on

the distinction between army-centered air units and GHQ Air

Forces. According to the board, which included airmen Frank

Lahm and Herbert Dargue, it behooved the Army to assign

attack and pursuit aircraft to each of its field armies, while

also providing bombardment and pursuit striking units to a

GHQ reserve.

115

Although Navy opposition prevented this

recommendation from becoming law, it did influence the

thinking of the Lampert and Morrow Boards, both of which

reviewed, yet again, the status of the Air Service in 1925.

The air-minded Lampert Board advocated the creation of a

Department of National Defense, a unified and independent air

force, and the introduction of an assistant secretary for air in

three federal departments—War, Navy, and Commerce.

Congress, however, worried that these recommendations would

further complicate the command and control of the Army air

arm by its parent service. As a result, it enacted into law the

more conservative and yet accommodating suggestions made by

the Morrow Board. Thus, in 1926 the Air Service became the Air

Corps (a change in nomenclature specifically designed to convey

a new level of autonomy for Army aviation); it received formal

representation on the War Department General Staff; and it

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temporarily gained a potential new advocate in the assistant

secretary of war for air affairs.

116

Limited but incremental progress continued with the Drum

Board in 1933, although frustrated airmen now defined a board

of inquiry as something “long, narrow, and wooden.”

117

The

board’s members—including the commandant of the Army War

College, the chief of the coast artillery, and other Army

stalwarts—rejected the idea of an independent Air Corps, but

they did endorse (yet again) the creation of a semiautonomous

GHQ Air Force to conduct independent operations. Conspiracy-

minded airmen like Haywood Hansell rightfully worried that the

proposal was part of a divide-and-conquer strategy by the Army.

If the staffs of OCAC and GHQ Air Force became bureaucratic

rivals, as Army traditionalists hoped, they would quickly

squander their political capital by battling each other rather

than their parent service. (The hope was understandable but

also unfounded. Air Corps leaders successfully prevented the

rivalry from becoming unmanageable.)

Last, in 1934 the Baker Board rejected the Air Corps’s

familiar demands for independence and a substantive role in

national defense, but the rival Howell Commission decided, as

Perera observed, “that the Air Service had now passed beyond

its former position as a useful auxiliary and should in the

future be considered an important means of exerting directly

the will of the Commander-in-Chief.”

118

As a result, the

commission called for a highly mobile GHQ Air Force that

would operate as an “independent striking unit” and not

merely as a strategic reserve. The Army, in the mistaken hope

that the Air Corps would divide itself into pro- and anti-GHQ

factions, finally agreed to the idea.

On 1 March 1935 the semiautonomous GHQ Air Force

became a reality but only after multiple aviation boards and

commissions had sponsored a number of incremental reforms.

This political victory, however, was merely the third

component of a four-part strategy. The remaining part

required the Air Corps to develop a new theory and doctrine of

warfare that maximized the independent use of airpower. The

responsibility to develop this theory and doctrine devolved

almost immediately to the Air Corps Tactical School.

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210

The Air Corps Tactical School:

Incubator of Bombardment Theory and Doctrine

In reality, five organizations contributed to the development

of American air doctrine in the interwar years: the

conservative War Department (including the Army General

Staff), the moderate Office of the Chief of the Air Corps, the

equable GHQ Air Force, the progressive Air Corps Board

(particularly in the mid- to late-1930s), and the radical Air

Corps Tactical School. However, of the five contributors to the

concept of unescorted HAPDB, the most important was ACTS.

It divided its 20-year existence between Langley Field,

Virginia, and Maxwell Field, Alabama, but one can arrange its

theoretical and doctrinal development into roughly three

phases (with some overlap between phases two and three).

From 1920 to 1926 the school established the primacy of

the bomber and developed its core principles of employment.

From 1927 to 1934, the Bomber Mafia developed a uniquely

American way of air warfare—unescorted HAPDB against the

key nodes of an enemy’s industrial-economic infrastructure.

Last, from roughly 1935 to 1940, faculty members not only

formalized their theory into doctrine but also sought to

identify what particular target sets constituted the key

vulnerabilities of an enemy’s industrial-economic system.

Before one reviews these three rough-hewn phases, however,

it is appropriate to provide a brief statistical portrait of ACTS.

Between 1921–40, 1,091 officers graduated from ASFOS/

ASTS/ACTS. The average officer was 39 years old, had 17

years of service, and had consistently received nothing less

than ratings of “excellent” in previous efficiency reports.

Ninety percent of the students were airmen, while the

remaining 10 percent came from the other services or

branches of the Army. Captains comprised the majority of the

attendees (55 percent), while 29 percent were majors.

(Thirty-four percent of the graduates then attended Army

Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth,

Kansas.) Ten percent came from other services or branches of

the Army. Most importantly, however, only 15 percent

graduated from 1921 to 1930, when the school remained

relatively unsophisticated. In contrast, 65 percent of the

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students attended the school from 1936 to 1940, when it

taught a mature, well-established version of HAPDB. Further,

of the 1,091 total graduates, 261 of them became general

officers in World War II. They comprised 80 percent of the

senior leadership in AAF and included 11 out of 13 three-star

generals and all three of the four-star generals then in

service.

119

The point is obvious—an overwhelming number of

wartime Air Force leaders attended ACTS in the interwar

years, and a significant number of them were systematically

indoctrinated in the virtues of unescorted HAPDB against the

key nodes of an opponent’s material infrastructure.

In terms of actual course work, ACTS offered 40 separate

courses in its heyday, and 53 percent of them centered on air

subjects. The five longest courses were Bombardment, Air

Force, Attack Aviation, Combined Arms, and Air Logistics. The

ACTS legacy, as we know it, took shape primarily in the Air

Force, Bombardment, and Combined Arms courses, which

comprised roughly 10 percent of the curriculum and employed

roughly 15–25 percent of the faculty. Within each course, the

faculty relied on a variety of teaching methods, including

lectures, discussions, quizzes, and illustrative/map problems.

(The latter were pen-and-pencil war games conducted every

Friday for four hours.) Students aided in their own education

by giving short, supplementary talks; participating in lecture

discussions (actual lectures used only half of a 50-minute

period); and conducting individual student research, of which

Ken Walker’s 1929 thesis was the most impressive. (Entitled

Is the Defense of New York City from Air Attack Possible? the

thesis was 56 single-spaced pages long.) However, before

ACTS or its students could accomplish any of the above, the

school needed to accomplish some foundational steps.

ACTS Phase One (1920–26)

According to air theorist William Sherman, the relative

importance of the infantry in war was not permanent; the

airplane (if used properly) could diminish the queen of the

battlefield’s stature, especially by acting decisively against

ground forces.

120

Unfortunately, after World War I the United

States “found itself with an Air Service which through

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212

necessity had been hurriedly gotten together and

consequently poorly trained and inadequately organized.”

121

One solution to these problems was a formalized and

progressive school system.

On 25 February 1920 the War Department authorized the

creation of 11 Air Service schools, including what soon

became the Air Service Field Officers’ School. The air arm then

ordered Maj Thomas Milling, a protégé and former chief of

staff of Billy Mitchell in Europe, to Langley Field, Virginia.

Milling’s charter, as he understood it, was to organize ASFOS;

train officers to become competent commanders and staff

officers of air units, up to and including the air brigade and

army level; teach these same officers air tactics; and originate

sound tactical doctrine for the Air Service as a whole.

122

In order to accomplish these goals, Milling recruited Maj

William Sherman as his assistant. Sherman had also worked for

General Mitchell in AEF and in the postwar Air Service Training

and Operations Group. (Like Milling, he was a disciple of the

flamboyant Mitchell.) With Sherman as his assistant, Milling

hoped to develop the Field Officers’ School—which the Army

renamed the Air Service Tactical School in 1922—into the

clearinghouse for air tactics and doctrine in the Army.

Unfortunately, only the most meager data on air doctrine was

available at the time.

123

As a result, the school first had to rely

on a smorgasbord of diffused and uncoordinated texts that

competed, in good Darwinian fashion, for the hearts and minds

of students and operators alike.

Although ASFOS/ASTS used texts developed by a variety of

sources, the majority of the early materials were

Army-centered and trivialized the possible impact of air

bombardment. Air Service information circulars 56, 57, 73,

75, 84, and 87—all of which functioned as early texts for the

attack, bombardment, observation, and pursuit portions of

what soon developed into a 10-month course—certainly

emphasized the importance of traditional ground forces and

the auxiliary nature of airpower. So did another conciliatory

ASTS text, Billy Mitchell’s Notes on the Multi-Motored

Bombardment Group, Day and Night, which became an official

Air Service publication in 1922 and which primarily stressed

the role of bombardment in the immediate battle zone.

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Following that was Training Regulation 440-15, Air Tactics,

which William Sherman largely wrote in 1922 and the War

Department did not accept as official Army doctrine until

January 1926. It argued that the general roles of airpower

included observation, artillery control, and transportation.

The specific role of bombardment, in contrast, remained the

interdiction of hostile land forces and targets deep in the

enemy’s “zone of the interior.”

124

Subsequently, the ASTS

Bombardment text of 1924–25 made a similar argument.

Bomber aircraft were nothing more than large-caliber guns

that could outrange and outstrike other types of guns and

thus harass approaching infantry columns or disrupt the

concentration of troops.

125

Last, the 1926 version of the

Bombardment text continued to accept the largely auxiliary

nature of airpower by advocating air strikes against the

“spouts” of an army’s supplies.

126

All of the above texts provided a foundation for the

rough-hewn ASFOS/ASTS curriculum, but they did not

ultimately stray from Army orthodoxy. They agreed that

workable principles of strategic airpower were still few and far

between and that pursuit aviation, since it was responsible for

the necessary first step of air supremacy, remained the arm of

the Air Service. Yet, during phase one of the Tactical School’s

existence (1922–26), two major things happened. First, and

through the intercession of two forward-looking faculty

members, the fighter lost pride of place to the bomber in the

school’s curriculum. Second, these same airmen developed a

series of working propositions that served as the bedrock of

future theoretical thought.

Milling and Sherman promoted the future importance of air

bombardment and codified the foundational principles of

American airpower. As already mentioned, they had worked

for Billy Mitchell in World War I and in the postwar Air Service

Training and Operations Group. In both cases, Milling and

Sherman stimulated each other’s thinking and began to

develop the foundations of future Air Force doctrine.

127

They

then took their pro-Mitchell ideas to ASFOS/ASTS, where

Milling worked from 1920 to 1925 and Sherman worked twice,

from 1920 to 1923 and intermittently from 1923 to 1925.

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214

(During the same years, the school employed an average of six

instructors a year.)

Although Milling, Sherman, and their colleagues did not

develop a full theory of airpower, they did do one truly critical

thing. They established the Combined Air Force Course (later

known simply as the Air Force Course) as the most important

offering at the Tactical School. The course did not kowtow to

Army directives, and it was the one place where heretical

airmen could present radical ideas about the future

possibilities of airpower (i.e., bombardment). As a result, the

first filigrees of a new doctrine appeared in the 1925–26

Combined Air Force Course and its text, Employment of

Combined Air Force.

Whoever wrote the 1925–26 text remains a mystery, but the

fingerprints of Milling and Sherman are all over it. The text

provided a series of working propositions that served as the

foundation for the theoretical work done by the Bomber Mafia

during phase two of the Tactical School’s doctrinal

development (1927–34). In particular, the Combined Air Force

text codified five crucial propositions of air warfare for Army

airmen. First, the ultimate goal of any air attack is “to

undermine the enemy’s morale [or] his will to resist.”

128

Second, airmen can best destroy morale by attacking the

interior of an opponent’s territory. Attacks against vital points

or centers will not only terrorize populations into submission

but also save lives. (In M-day warfare, there is no need for

battles of attrition or annihilation.) Third, airpower is an

inherently offensive weapon that is impossible, in absolute

terms, to stop. Fourth, since airpower is the only military tool

that can hit distant centers of concentration and sources of

supply and since it is the only tool that can undermine

national morale with minimum effort and materiel,

combatants should use it extensively in strategic operations.

Strategic targets, after all, are almost always more important

than tactical targets. Last, “In any scheme of strategical

operations the object is to cause complete destruction or

permanent and irreparable damage to the enemy which will

have a decisive effect.”

129

In other words, one must completely

neutralize one target set before moving on to another.

Attacking in driblets against multiple targets will not yield

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significant results in the shortest possible time. Decisive

attacks, in contrast, will spur the collapse of a society’s vital

centers and thus lead to the destruction of society as a whole.

That Milling supported the above assumptions depends on

strong conjecture rather than direct evidence. However, in the

case of Sherman, the above views are clearly documented in

Air Warfare, which appeared in 1926 and was the culmination

of Sherman’s work at the Tactical School. In the book, he

echoes the Combined Air Force text in the following ways:

enemy morale is the center of gravity in air warfare; one

should put enemy population centers, supply systems, and

other rearward objectives under pressure in an effort to

paralyze an entire society; a vigorous aerial assault is

appropriate since no one can wholly prevent a hostile air

assault; the very nature of bombardment aircraft makes them

a strategic weapon; and the skillful air leader should

economize his strength “at all points to the point of

parsimony, in order that he may spend with a prodigal hand

at the all-important time and place.”

130

The above propositions illustrate a huge point: from 1920 to

1926, ASFOS/ASTS did not develop a specific, universally

accepted doctrine for the Army Air Service. What it did do,

however, was elevate the importance of the bomber and

formalize a series of bedrock principles or working propositions

that provided a foundation for the second great contribution of

ACTS—the development from roughly 1927 to 1935 of

unescorted HAPDB, a specific and unique air doctrine.

ACTS Phase Two (1927–34)

ACTS’s Bomber Mafia developed HAPDB. The zealous

faculty members of this group (and their dates of assignment

to the school) included Robert Olds (1928–31), Kenneth

Walker (1929–33), Donald Wilson (1929–34, 1936–40), Harold

Lee George (1932–36), Odas Moon (1933–36), Robert Webster

(1934–37), Haywood Hansell (1935–38), Laurence Kuter

(1935–39), and Muir Fairchild (1937–40). Except for Moon,

who died prematurely, the other bomber enthusiasts

subsequently became influential generals in World War II and

after. Brig Gen Robert Olds, for example, became commander

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216

of Ferrying Command. Brig Gen Ken Walker headed 5th

Bomber Command in the Pacific theater. On 5 January 1943,

he died while leading a daylight bombing attack against

Japanese shipping at Rabaul, New Britain. (For his

“conspicuous leadership” during the raid, Walker

posthumously received the Medal of Honor.) Lt Gen Harold

Lee George guided Air Transport Command, which became

Military Airlift Command during the cold war. Maj Gen

Haywood Hansell commanded 21st Bomber Command in the

Pacific until he ran afoul of General Arnold.

131

Laurence

Kuter, who became a four-star general and commander of

North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) in the

cold war, served as deputy chief of the Air Staff for plans.

132

Muir Fairchild, another future four-star general, was the

intellectual father of the Strategic Bombing Survey and a

member of the Joint Strategic Survey Committee, which was

“one of the most influential planning agencies in the wartime

armed services.”

133

Ultimately, the ACTS Bomber Mafia was

an inordinately talented “collective brain” with a unique vision

and the resolve to bring it to life. As Kuter later observed,

“Nothing could stop us; I mean this was a zealous crowd.”

134

The zealotry, as already pointed out, involved unescorted

HAPDB against an enemy nation’s vital centers. Thanks to the

initial efforts of Olds, Walker, and Wilson, the concept first

appeared in 1932 and went as follows:

1. Modern great powers rely on major industrial and economic systems

for production of weapons and supplies for their armed forces, and for

manufacture of products and provision of services to sustain life in a

highly industrialized society. Disruption or paralysis of these systems

undermines both the enemy’s capability and will to fight.

2. Such major systems contain critical points whose destruction will

break down these systems, and bombs can be delivered with adequate

accuracy to do this.

3. Massed air strike forces can penetrate air defenses without

unacceptable losses and destroy selected targets.

4. Proper selection of vital targets in the industrial/economic/social

structure of a modern industrialized nation, and their subsequent

destruction by air attack, can lead to fatal weakening of an

industrialized enemy nation and to victory through air power.

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5. If enemy resistance still persists after successful paralysis of

selected target systems, it may be necessary as a last resort to apply

direct force upon the sources of enemy national will by attacking

cities. In this event, it is preferable to render the cities untenable

rather than indiscriminately to destroy structures and people.

(Emphasis in original)

135

Further, why did Walker, George, Wilson, and others prefer

unescorted, high-altitude attacks? Because they believed that

modern bombers could operate beyond the reach of defending

fighters and antiaircraft artillery (AAA) fire. Why did they

emphasize precision? Among other reasons, because

government parsimony demanded that they get the biggest

“bang for the buck” from the few aircraft they had. And why

did they prefer daylight operations? Because then-current

navigation aids and bombsights were too primitive to supplant

a reliance on visual, line-of-sight techniques.

While developing the above one-of-a-kind theory, the ACTS

Bomber Mafia acted, in the candid words of Donald Wilson,

“on no firmer basis than reasoned logical thinking bolstered

by a grasp of the fundamentals of the application of military

force and the reactions of human beings.”

136

In other words,

they relied on deductive reasoning, analogies, and metaphors

to develop their working propositions into a pseudoscientific

theory of strategic bombardment. As already noted, to Wilson

and his sympathizers, paralyzing a modern industrial state

was relatively easy since it was made up of “interrelated and

entirely interdependent elements.”

137

In fact, the better a

society organized its industry for peacetime efficiency, the

more vulnerable it was to wartime collapse. All an attacker

had to do was cut one or more of a society’s “essential

arteries.”

138

Or, given that modern states were as sensitive as

a precision instrument, all one had to do was strike an

opponent’s key economic nodes. Damaging them was

comparable to breaking a needed spring or gear in an intricate

watch, which would then inevitably stop working, or to pulling

a critical playing card from a house of cards, which would

then tumble to the ground, or even to breaking a significant

strand of a spider’s web, which would then lose its structural

integrity and ability to function.

139

In all cases, however, the

goal was to avoid using long-range bombers against minor

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218

targets. An inviolable principle of ACTS was that airmen use

the bomber only against vital material targets located deep

within hostile territory and that it never serve in harassing

operations for the Army.

140

ACTS Phase Three (1935–40)

Although Donald Wilson tried to delve into strategic

targeting as early as 1932–33, the work of Robert Webster and

Muir Fairchild in the mid- to late-1930s identified the

industrial and economic target sets that still define modern

war. As far as the bomber advocates were concerned,

unescorted HAPDB would destroy an opponent’s will to resist

only if it focused on destroying or paralyzing “national organic

systems on which many factories and numerous people

depended” (emphasis in original).

141

These systems included

electrical power generation and distribution, since virtually all

industrial and economic operations depended on them;

transportation networks (railroads in particular); fuel refining

and distribution processes; food distribution and preservation

methods; steel manufacturing, which defined a state’s

war-making potential; and a system of highly concentrated

manufacturing plants, including those that produced

electrical generators, transformers, and motors.

142

The above approach was nothing more than an economy-of-

force doctrine predicated on subjective analyses of the US

economy.

143

It was best suited for the denial of war materials

to a highly industrialized enemy whose industries and

population were concentrated together.

144

Unfortunately—and

despite the genuine belief by bomber enthusiasts that the Air

Corps had the minimum skills and technology needed to meet

the above targeting requirements—the strategic intelligence on

which proper targeting depended was still an infant art. A

priori knowledge of what constituted a legitimate target set for

a given nation involved considerable guesswork and remained

unreliable. As a result, immediately before and during World

War II, Allied targeting groups constantly revised their target

lists, either elevating or demoting particular target sets based

on the sketchy strategic intelligence then available. (The two

wartime cases that best illustrate the problem involve ball

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bearings and electricity. In the first case, Allied planners

overestimated the importance of ball bearings to the German

war economy and thus wasted a considerable amount of

resources against perhaps a second-tier target. In the second

case, although ACTS identified electricity as the organic

essential of modern industrialized states, the Allies never

mounted an air campaign against German electricity. Other,

more immediate, problems seemed always to take

precedence.)

Was the Bomber Mafia’s theory flawed? Of course! (1) It

assumed, in good Progressivist fashion, that one could

scientifically manage war. Like almost all the other American

theories of airpower that followed, the ACTS theory of

unescorted HAPDB was part of a cause-and-effect universe

where one’s external means directly impacted another’s

internal behaviors. Unescorted HAPDB, therefore, was too

mechanistic and prescriptive for its own good. It wrongly

assumed that one could impose precise, positive controls over

complex events. (2) The theory was suspect because of its

mid-Victorian faith in technology. It wrongly assumed that

revolutionary bomber-related technologies would produce

almost “frictionless” wars, regardless of pesky variables such

as weather. The “dervishes of airpower,” in other words, saw

technology as a panacea. (3) The theory failed to acknowledge

properly that armed conflict was, as Clausewitz rightfully

pointed out, an interactive process between at least two

competing wills—not the imposition of one’s own will against a

passive foe. As the North Vietnamese demonstrated repeatedly

in the Second Indochina War, people subjected to air attacks

can substitute for and work around lost capabilities. In short,

they can react. (4) Unescorted HAPDB overemphasized the

offensive aspects of air warfare, like all other significant

airpower theories, while minimizing the mischievous potential

of defensive strategies and technologies. The theory did not

properly anticipate the elaborate, radar-based fighter-AAA

defense networks that appeared in World War II. Therefore, in

what turned out to be an egregious error, the Bomber Mafia’s

belief that massed bomber formations could penetrate enemy

air defenses without fighter escorts and still destroy selected

targets with acceptable losses was dead wrong. Eighth Air

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220

Force had to fight its way into Germany past intervening

defenses, just like virtually all other invaders had done over

the last five thousand years. To reach the vital centers of

Germany, Allied airpower had to attrit the Luftwaffe from

the sky—and needed long-range fighters (P-51 Mustangs

and P-47 Thunderbolts) to do it. (5) It overstressed the

psychological impact of physical destruction and merely

assumed that the terrors inherent in bombardment would

eventually destroy an enemy’s will to resist. Arguably, World

War II proved otherwise. (6) HAPDB repeatedly (and wrongly)

used metaphors to imply that modern industrial states, with

their “organic essentials,” were brittle and closed

socioeconomic systems—not the adaptable and open

systems that they typically were, for example, in World War

II. (7) The theory wrongly assumed that opposing states

were rational, unitary actors that based their political

decisions on lucid cost-benefit analyses and not on

potentially obscure organizational, bureaucratic, or

emotional factors. (Is it not possible, for example, that a

state might continue to struggle—at higher costs—to

demonstrate its resolve in future contingencies?) (8) The

Bomber Mafia grossly exaggerated the frailty and

manipulability of popular morale. More specifically, it failed

to realize that whatever angry passions strategic bombing

aroused among civilians might be directed at the attacker

rather than the victim’s own government. Therefore, a

hostile regime might actually experience less pressure from

its own people to quit fighting as a result of air attacks. If it

did, would not its internal resolve exceed that of its people,

as has happened before? (9) Last, as already suggested, the

strategic economic targeting methods formulated at ACTS

ran the risk of “mirror imaging,” whereby the key nodes of

one’s own industrial infrastructure become confused with

the critical vulnerabilities of an opponent’s system.

145

For

example, US air planners in World War II assumed that

German machinery used the same number of ball bearings

as American equipment. Since they did not, Eighth Air

Force bombers attacked a target set that had considerable

“slack” to expend.

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An Open Conclusion

At the end of the interwar period and despite all of the

above problems, the Air Corps’s ad hoc, four-part strategy had

largely worked. The Air Corps had survived, and through its

efforts with the general public, sympathetic “fellow travelers,”

members of Congress, and ACTS (in all its guises), it secured

a semiautonomous strike force—GHQ Air Force; it had a

shared (yet still ambiguous) responsibility with the Navy for

hemispheric defense; and it had a strategic air doctrine that

stressed independent air operations—not against enemy

armies but against the core vulnerabilities of an opposing

nation’s economic infrastructure.

In closing, however, one must answer one final question.

Did the people at ACTS and in the field completely surrender

to the new orthodoxy of HAPDB? Did everyone succumb to the

vision of unescorted battle planes making protracted warfare a

thing of the past? In fact, archival evidence shows that even

up to the last days before the outbreak of war, both students

and members of the Air Corps at large exhibited either

ignorance about or resistance to the soothing answers found

in the theory of unescorted strategic bombardment. To cite

one representative example from ACTS, Gen Orvel Cook, who

was a student in 1937–38, remembered that audiences were

highly skeptical of the school’s bombardment doctrine: “Some

of us had had more experience than some of the instructors

and, consequently, we took a lot of this instruction with a

large grain of salt, and we more or less made up our minds as

to what [to believe], no matter how dogmatic the instructor

might be.”

146

Cook went on to note that the students had as

many different points of view as the instructors: “We knew

they were sort of talking off the top of their heads. This was

largely theory anyway.”

147

Thus, if we are to believe Cook, the

one prevailing attitude at ACTS and the Air Corps at large may

not have been support for unescorted strategic daylight

bombardment, but the less precise belief “that success in any

future war would be largely dependent upon the success of

the air.”

148

Since ACTS’s message did not necessarily enjoy universal

appeal among its students, one can further ask just how

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222

influential it was outside the classroom. Did the operational

Air Corps uncritically accept ACTS bombardment doctrine, or

did the airmen in the field also have their doubts? To cite a

final (but again representative) example, in 1936 the GHQ Air

Force’s position seemed supportive: “The policy of this

headquarters, for the ensuing training year, will be to comply

with the teachings of all texts of the Air Corps Tactical School

to the greatest degree possible in all operations and

training.”

149

The stated goal was to apply ACTS teachings to

the actual operations of GHQ Air Force units. As a result, Col

Hugh Knerr, chief of staff of the GHQ Air Force, asked

operational units to study the Tactical School’s 1937–38 Air

Force text and offer constructive criticisms. The subsequent

reviews were mixed, with some showing an operator’s distrust

of theory. That was certainly the case with Brig Gen G. C.

Brant, commander of the 3d Wing, GHQ Air Force, who

recommended the elimination of as much theory as

possible.

150

Brant’s executive officer, Lt Col George E. Lovell

Jr. confessed a similar empirical bent: “I am quite uneducated

in the higher art of tactics, and found this subject quite

deep.”

151

Lt Col M. F. Harmon and Maj Oliver P. Gothlin Jr. were less

hostile than General Brant, but they too argued that “a note of

caution should be sounded against the too ardent adoption of

peace time [sic] theories and hypothesis [sic] when they are

not supported by actually demonstrated facts nor by the

experiences of the only war in which aviation was

employed.”

152

Neither officer believed that historical precedent

or recent experience justified the doctrine of self-sufficient

bombardment. Last, Lt Col A. H. Gilkeson, commander of the

8th Pursuit Group, could not help similarly agreeing: “This

recent academic tendency to minimize, if not entirely dismiss,

the consideration of the fighting force as a powerful and

extremely necessary adjunct of the air force has led to the

teaching of doctrines which have not been established as

being true and might even be fatally dangerous to our aim in

the event of armed conflict.”

153

The above examples (among many others) caution us not to

remember the Air Corps Tactical School as an omnipresent

force that totally shaped the thinking of everyday airmen in

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the interwar years. Yes, ACTS theory/doctrine was an

important part of the Air Corps’s four-part strategy for

institutional survival and growth. In that regard, it performed

its role very well. But when it comes to the popularity and

acceptance of HAPDB prior to World War II, we can only make

a more modest, but equally powerful, final claim.

In July 1941 President Roosevelt tasked the armed services

to write a war plan that would provide the number of men and

equipment initially needed to win a future war against the

Axis powers. Although the response of General Arnold’s newly

created Air War Plans Division staff could have been a short

and pithy statistical portrait of future Air Force needs, the

division chief thought differently. He was ex–Bomber Mafia

leader Lt Col Harold Lee George, and he saw in FDR’s request

an opportunity to sneak ACTS doctrine into a major War

Department planning document via the back door. With

General Arnold’s approval, George set about doing just that.

However, because he needed a working group to start on the

project immediately, George recruited former colleagues from

ACTS—bomber enthusiasts Lt Col Ken Walker, Maj Haywood

Hansell, and Maj Laurence Kuter.

From 3 to 12 August 1941, these men, with the assistance

of other airmen once associated with the Tactical School,

wrote AWPD-1, the air annex to the requested FDR plan.

However, instead of just providing statistical tables that listed

the Air Corps’s future wants and needs, the four members of

the working group turned AWPD-1 into a blueprint for

strategic air warfare in Europe. The plan grudgingly agreed to

provide hemispheric defense, if necessary; it unhappily agreed

to support a future cross-channel invasion, if necessary; but

its true aim was to conduct a strategic air campaign against

Germany, based on the concepts of employment first

developed by the Bomber Mafia at ACTS in the 1930s. George,

Walker, Hansell, and Kuter spent nine long days fashioning

AWPD-1, but as Hansell would later point out, the plan was

seven years in the making. It called for an initial consignment

of 6,860 bombers to attack 154 key targets (124 of them

centered on electricity, oil, and transportation).

154

With the

necessary equipment, the plan’s writers argued, Germany

would collapse in six months.

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224

To paraphrase Hap Arnold, here was airpower you could put

your hands around; here was the foundation for a myriad of

air plans that followed in its wake. Yes, subsequent plans like

AWPD-42 changed targeting priorities and made other

adjustments, but the basic intellectual scaffolding provided by

AWPD-1 remained in place throughout the air war. That

scaffolding, coupled with the interwar success of the Air Corps

in a broader four-part strategy, ensured that the Army Air

Forces would become what the aeromaniacs had always

wanted—an independent service with an independent

mission.

Notes

1. See Capt J. D. Barker, History of the Air Corps Tactical School, 1931,

1, Air Force Historical Research Agency (AFHRA), Maxwell AFB, Ala., file no.

245.01B. The author would like to thank AFHRA for research funding for

this essay.

2. Ibid.

3. Air Corps Tactical School, “Orientation (Lecture 1) to Air Force

Course,” 5 September 1935, pt. 2, p. 11, AFHRA, file no. 248.2017A.

Webster’s view of air warfare was not uniquely American. It echoed, for

example, what Giulio Douhet said in 1921: “We find ourselves now at a

particular point in the curve of the evolution of war. After this point the

curve drops off abruptly in a new direction, breaking off all continuity with

the past.” See Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Dino Ferrari

(1942; reprint, Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1983), 29.

4. See Douhet; and Gianni Caproni and Nino Salvaneschi, Let Us Kill the

War: Let Us Strike at the Heart of the Enemy, 1917, AFHRA, file no.

168.661-129.

5. Comments by Gen John Pershing, n.d., 11, AFHRA, file no.

248.211-16F.

6. Navy Department inputs for the Howell Commission. See “I. General

Organization,” n.d., 9, AFHRA, file no. 145.93-97.

7. Maurer Maurer, Aviation in the U.S. Army, 1919–1939 (Washington,

D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1987), xix, xxi, xxii. In contrast, the Army

Air Service began the war with 65 officers; 1,100 enlisted men; and 55

aircraft, 51 of which were obsolete and the other four obsolescent. See Air

Service Newsletter, 10 January 1920, 9.

8. Because of the “premature” peace, the record of the AEF’s Air Service

was decidedly mixed. On the positive side, its 767 pilots and 481 observers

won scores of decorations for bravery. The airmen also shot down 781

enemy aircraft and 82 balloons in 12,830 flights over enemy lines. Last,

they dropped 275,000 pounds of ordnance in 150 deep-interdiction

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bombing raids. (The deepest raid penetrated 160 miles into enemy

territory.) On the negative side, America’s industrial mobilization was so

chaotic that its nascent aeronautical industry provided only 196

indigenously produced aircraft before the armistice. Further, wartime

bombing results were so limited, due to inadequate equipment and

personnel, that anything but the tactical value of airpower remained in

doubt. See Mason Patrick, The United States in the Air (Garden City, N.Y.:

Doubleday, Doran, 1928), 44, 49–50; Air Service Newsletter, 10 January

1920, 9; Lt Col Herbert Dargue, AEF, to director of military aeronautics,

letter, 9 November 1918, 13; and William C. Sherman, Air Warfare (New

York: Ronald Press, 1926), 4.

9. Maurer, 9, 11, 13.

10. See Patrick, 83, 89; and Maj Thomas D. Milling, “Air Power in

National Defense,” ca. 1928, 3, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-122.

11. See “Statement of Brigadier General H. A. Drum, Assistant Chief of

Staff, Operations and Training Division, War Department General Staff,

before Board of Aviation Inquiry, Part I,” 21 September 1925, 55, AFHRA,

file no. 248.211-16D; and James L. Crowder Jr., Osage General: Major

General Clarence L. Tinker (Tinker AFB, Okla.: Office of History, Oklahoma

City Air Logistics Center, 1987), 96.

12. Barker, 1.

13. Thomas D. Milling, The Air Service Tactical School: Its Function and

Operation, 1924, 1, AFHRA, file no. 245.01-3. Progressivism was an

amorphous social and political movement in the late nineteenth and early

twentieth centuries. As a political movement, it advocated an active

government defense of the weak and oppressed. Its specific achievements

included the breakup of monopolies and trusts, the introduction of lower

tariffs, the popular election of senators, and the introduction of child labor

laws. In the spheres of business and education, Progressivism stressed

technicism, standardization, professionalization, formalized education,

scientific management, and timeliness and efficiency. One can argue that

Secretary of War Root’s reforms, which included the introduction of the

general staff system and the further rationalization of military education,

were Progressivist acts. See Peter Karsten, “Armed Progressives: The

Military Reorganizes for the American Century,” in Building the

Organizational Society, ed. Jerry Israel (New York: Free Press, 1972),

197–232. For a discussion on the difficulties of defining Progressivism as a

movement, see Peter G. Filene, “An Obituary for the Progressive Movement,”

American Quarterly 22 (Spring 1970): 20–34.

14. Benjamin Foulois, From the Wright Brothers to the Astronauts (New

York: McGraw-Hill, 1968), 202. More than a few airmen shared Pershing’s

distaste for the supercilious Mitchell. In 1919, for example, Oscar Westover

(a future Air Corps leader) complained to Maj Gen Charles Menoher that

“Mitchell believes that his rank entitles him to special deference as a Group

Chief and that all other Air Service activities ought to cow-tow to him as

Chief of the Training and Operations Group.” Such arrogance drove

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

226

Westover to conclude, “I think it also unfortunate that General Mitchell is

not Colonel Mitchell” and to suggest that he be reassigned as the

commander of air defenses in the Philippines! Chief of the Air Corps Mason

Patrick further observed in 1928 that Mitchell had a highly developed ego,

loved the limelight, and thirsted for public attention. Last, the legendary

hostility between Mitchell and Benny Foulois was nothing less than class

warfare. Mitchell, who was an Army blue blood and cerebral by nature, was

the antithesis of Foulois, who was a utilitarian mechanic by temperament.

It therefore comes as no surprise that Foulois later portrayed himself as a

practical everyman compelled to deal with a skittish fop who was a talker

rather than a doer, who merely “sounded” like an expert, and “who couldn’t

agree on the color of white paper.” The egotistical Mitchell did have, Foulois

grudgingly admitted, a “gift of gab,” but it only helped obscure his lack of

practical success in the field. From the standpoint of the Air Corps and its

future, what mattered was that Hap Arnold was an admirer of Mitchell. (He

was, as Mitchell put it, “one of my boys.”) From the standpoint of ACTS,

what mattered was that key members of its faculty—Thomas Milling,

William Sherman, Herbert Dargue, Harold Lee George, and others—were

equally devoted. At Mitchell’s trial, for example, George tried vainly to testify

on his mentor’s behalf, but his interlocutors deliberately restricted him to

answering narrow technical questions. See Oscar Westover, memorandum

to Maj Gen Charles Menoher, 20 June 1919, AFHRA, file no. 168.7089-3;

Foulois, 157–58, 167, 170–71, 224; Patrick, 86; and Flint O. DuPre, Hap

Arnold: Architect of American Air Power (New York: Macmillan Co., 1972),

41, 44–45.

15. The airfields were located in the cities of Norfolk and Montgomery,

respectively. In 1922 the Air Service named Maxwell Field after 2d Lt

William G. Maxwell of Atmore, Alabama, who died in the Philippines while

assigned to the 3d Aero Squadron.

16. See Haywood S. Hansell Jr., The Air Plan That Defeated Hitler

(Atlanta: Higgins-McArthur/Longino and Porter, 1972).

17. Quoted in Sherman, iii.

18. For an inspired analysis of how technology and culture created new

ways of experiencing time and space, see Stephen Kern, The Culture of Time

and Space, 1880–1918 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983).

For the early cultural impact of aviation on Western society, see Robert

Wohl, A Passion for Wings: Aviation and the Western Imagination,

1908–1918 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1994); and idem,

“Republic of the Air,” Wilson Quarterly 17 (Spring 1993): 106–17. See also

Michael Paris, Winged Warfare (Manchester: Manchester University Press,

1992); and Peter Fritzsche, A Nation of Fliers: German Aviation and the

Popular Imagination (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992).

For a discussion on the quest for speed and distance, see Terry

Gwynn-Jones, Farther and Faster: Aviation’s Adventuring Years, 1909–1939

(Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991).

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19. Gen Earl E. Partridge, transcript of oral history interview by Tom

Sturm and Hugh H. Ahmann, 23–25 April 1974, 35, AFHRA, file no.

K239-0512-729. As a senior US Air Force leader, General Partridge later

commanded Fifth Air Force, Far Eastern Air Forces, and Air Defense

Command, among other organizations.

20. See Maj Gen John W. Sessums Jr., transcript of oral history

interview by Hugh H. Ahmann, 25–28 July 1977, 8, and 26–31 March 1978,

AFHRA, file no. K239-0512-951; see also file no. 168.7027-5. Another name

for Weaver’s game was “Modern Military Chess.”

21. Maj Gen Oscar Westover, chief of the Air Corps, transcript of radio

address to the Junior Birdmen of America, 12 December 1936, 2, AFHRA,

file no. 168.7089-10.

22. Foulois, 204. Air zealots did eventually succeed in linking

Americanism, Babe Ruth, and airpower. The influential Hap Arnold, for

example, later defined the strategic bomber as the Babe Ruth of the air

league—it contained the explosive power of a home run that won a game in

seconds. See DuPre, 71.

23. Air Service Newsletter, 27 January 1920, 2, AFHRA, file no.

168.7103-26.

24. See James H. “Jimmy” Doolittle, with Carroll V. Glines, I Could Never

Be So Lucky Again (New York: Bantam Books, 1991). Doolittle was part of a

larger American quest for aerial prestige. The quest was so successful that on 1

December 1925, Americans held 25 of the world’s 44 aviation records. See

Henry H. Arnold, Airmen and Aircraft (New York: Ronald Press, 1926), 55.

25. During his tenure at March Field, California, Arnold proselytized to a

steady stream of aviation-struck Hollywood stars, many of whom came to

his monthly air shows. For a critique of aviation-centered films and

documentaries as instruments of politico-cultural indoctrination, see

Michael Paris, From the Wright Brothers to Top Gun: Aviation, Nationalism,

and Popular Cinema (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995). For a

general discussion of Arnold’s and Eaker’s public relations activities, see

DeWitt Copp, A Few Great Captains (New York: Doubleday, 1980).

26. Arnold, v.

27. The titles in the series were Bill Bruce and the Pioneer Aviators; Bill

Bruce, the Flying Cadet; Bill Bruce Becomes an Ace; Bill Bruce on Border

Patrol; Bill Bruce on Forest Patrol; and Bill Bruce in the Transcontinental

Race. All six volumes appeared in 1928. For a discussion of Arnold’s series

and other youth-centered aviation sets at the time, see David K. Vaughan,

“Hap Arnold’s Bill Bruce Books,” Air Power History 40 (Winter 1993): 43–49.

Although Vaughan ignores the point, Arnold’s tales are a window into the

bigotries of the time. In Bill Bruce on Border Patrol, for example, the author

characterizes Mexicans as “greasers” and born smugglers. Why smugglers?

As one character puts it, “They could take siestas without anyone bothering

them. It was the life which they would naturally select.” Arnold’s

protagonists also describe local Chinese as “chinks,” “chinos,” or

“heathens.” Last, people who spoke Chinese, like those who spoke Spanish,

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

228

were merely “jabbering.” See Henry H. Arnold, Bill Bruce on Border Patrol

(New York: A. L. Burt, 1928), 9, 56, 88, 90, 133, 147, 149, 215.

28. Vaughan, 44–45.

29. On 21 September 1938, the peripatetic Westover died in an aircraft

accident. In a fateful move for the Air Corps, Arnold succeeded him nine

days later. At the time of his death, the “plain-spoken” Westover, who was

also known as “Tubby” to his West Point classmates, was one of roughly 35

Air Corps officers who held all four of its flight ratings. See AFHRA, file nos.

168.7089-3 and 168.7089-10.

30. See Westover, radio address, 12 December 1936, 1.

31. Maj Gen Oscar Westover, chief of the Air Corps, transcript of radio

address to the Junior Birdmen of America, 4 May 1935, 2, AFHRA, file no.

168.7089-10. The inference, of course, was that these four-engined aircraft

would be bombers.

32. Ira Eaker Papers, Personal Correspondence (1935), box 3, Library of

Congress, Washington, D.C. Although Flying and Your Boy never appeared

(as conceived) in print, Arnold and Eaker’s This Flying Game (1936)

included a dedication to the Junior Birdmen of America and the Jimmie

Allen Flying Club.

33. See AFHRA, file no. 168.7023-4.

34. Quoted by Oscar Westover in “Military Aviation,” speech to the Aero

Club of America, Buffalo, N.Y., 7 December 1932, 16, AFHRA, file no.

168.7103-26.

35. General Pershing, who appointed the “tough but fair” Patrick,

expected his West Point classmate to muzzle the garrulous and therefore

subversive Mitchell. Patrick was only partially successful. However, as a

respected moderate who often (but carefully) sided with his subordinates

against the “old guard,” he provided the Air Service with something it sorely

needed—credibility. Also, it probably helped that Patrick was physically

unprepossessing; his false teeth whistled when he spoke and he wore a

toupee, which one unfortunate captain once pulled off while helping him

remove his flight helmet. See Partridge, 84–85; and Brig Gen Ross Hoyt, “A

Prisoner of War,” microfilm 34472, n.p., AFHRA, file no. 168.7130.

36. See Maj Gen Grandison Gardner, Life Memories of Grandison Gardner,

bk. 1 (“Memories of My Service in the U.S. Air Force and Its Ancestral

Organizations”), 4 February 1952, 15, AFHRA, file no. 168.7016-1; August Air

Defense Command letter 47-6, “History of the Army Air Forces, 1907–1947,” 2

July 1947, 7, AFHRA, file no. 168.01; Lt Col Frank Lahm, to Mabel Kaplan,

letter, 17 February 1925, 3, AFHRA, file no. 167.401-4; and Arnold, Airmen

and Aircraft, 146–47. To further illustrate the value of airborne fire patrols,

Secretary of War John Weeks claimed that wildfires in California increased by

23 percent when the Air Service did not provide airplanes for forest protection

in 1922. See John Weeks, Peace-Time Accomplishments of the Army, 21 May

1923, 4, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-101.

37. Gardner, 17; Patrick, 133; Weeks, 4; Lahm, 4; Alfred Goldberg, ed.,

A History of the United States Air Force, 1907–1957 (Princeton, N.J.: D. Van

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Nostrand, 1957), 34–35; and A. M. Jacobs, Knights of the Wing (New York:

The Century Co., 1926), 134.

38. Fifty Years of Aviation History at Maxwell Air Force Base, 1910–1960

(Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Office of Information [Historian], Headquarters, Air

University, 1960), 31.

39. Ibid., 31–33. Some of the items delivered included sixty-four

hundred loaves of bread, fifty-four hundred blankets, 4,516 pounds of

canned cooked meats, 1,651 pounds of bacon, 1,010 cans of evaporated

milk, and 105 boiled hams.

40. See Maurer, 299–317; and Foulois, 242. An illustration of the Air

Corps’s problems is that it initially flew airmail routes totaling 40,800 miles

a day—not even one-third the distance flown by the suspended contractors.

By mid-March, the Air Corps’s total mileage was down to 30,900 a

day—almost 10,000 miles less than the previous month. A considerable

number of the Air Corps’s problems, however, were self-generated—its

pilots lacked sufficient instrument and night-flying training; only a few of

its aircraft had landing, navigation, or cockpit lights; and anti-icing

equipment was unavailable. Still, it didn’t help that pilots flying in one

particularly stormy area of the Western Department depended on a blind

weatherman for their forecasts.

41. See Crowder, 188; and Foulois, 258.

42. See Maj Donald Wilson, “Testimony before the U.S. Federal Aviation

Commission,” 7 May 1935, 2, Air University Library, Documents Section,

Maxwell AFB, Ala., file no. UGK 27 US7. The post-Napoleonic assumption

that whole peoples warred against each other went unchallenged by Air

Corps strategists, who believed that no military could survive without the

sinews of war—a nation’s people and its economy.

43. Ibid., 9 (Walker section).

44. See Brig Gen Herbert Dargue, to Maj Gen Hap Arnold, letter, 7

October 1939, 1–2, AFHRA, file no. 168.7119-19.

45. Wilson, 3 (Olds section). Wilson argued that Olds’s scenario was

theoretically possible because our oceans were no longer impregnable

moats and because we had militarily weak neighbors who were vulnerable

to foreign control. As a result, the traditional source of America’s

inviolability—distance—no longer existed. See Wilson section, 6.

46. Ibid., 10 (George section). See also Harold Lee George, Principles of

War, n.d., AFHRA, file no. 248.11-9.

47. Influence of Airplanes on Operations in War, n.d., 2, 17, AFHRA, file

no. 248.21-121.

48. Wilson, 9 (Webster section). Did World War II prove Webster right?

Soldiers, critics, and historians remain divided on the issue.

49. Thomas D. Milling, in “Testimony of General M. M. Patrick [and

others] before the Morrow Board,” 21 September 1925, 79, AFHRA, file no.

248.211-61V.

50. See G-2 Weekly Press Review, 23 August 1923, 4 (Washington

Herald, 20 August 1923), AFHRA, file no. 248.501-91.

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230

51. See G-2 Weekly Press Review, 14 February 1923, 2 (Rochester

Herald, 31 January 1923), AFHRA, file no. 248.501-91.

52. Alexander Graham Bell, “Preparedness for Aerial Defense,” address

to the National Convention of the Navy League of the United States, 10–13

April 1916, 8, AFHRA, file no. 167.1-2. The Navy League saw itself neither

as “pro-anything or anti-anything” but as a “just plain American” group

dedicated to protecting the United States from invasion.

53. William Mitchell, Tactical Application of Military Aeronautics, 1919, 2,

AFHRA, file no. 248.211-130.

54. Ibid., 4, 6; William L. Mitchell, “General Mitchell’s Startling

Testimony,” Aviation 10 (7 February 1921): 165.

55. Milling, “Testimony of General M. M. Patrick,” 81. If the Navy was the

spearhead, the Army was the bulwark—or so Milling further argued. In reality,

this “bulwark” remained porous, at least against attacking aircraft. By 1936

the Army’s Coast Artillery Corps still relied on sightless machine guns,

three-inch guns, and 105 mm pieces that fired 62-pound shells. In the case of

aerial defense, the normal mission was to concentrate fire on aircraft not

attacking defense batteries! Even then, the batterymen had trouble properly

aiming and firing their three-inch guns six hundred yards ahead of their

intended targets (to establish a killing zone for oncoming aircraft). See Maj Gen

A. H. Sunderland, “The Coast Artillery Corps,” lecture given at the Army War

College, 9 October 1936, AFHRA, file no. 168.7001-37.

56. Wilson, 8, 9 (Walker section). In his testimony, Walker cleverly used

the writings and lectures of Navy officers against their own service.

57. Ibid., 7 (Webster section).

58. Ibid., 6–8.

59. The Navy’s reaction is beyond the scope of this chapter, but

Josephus Daniels’s huffy response to the dangers posed by land-based

aviation to modern fleets was highly representative. According to Daniels,

no air force would get close enough “to drop salt upon the tail of the Navy.”

See New York Tribune, 8 February 1921, 1.

60. Quoted in Westover, “Military Aviation,” 9. However, did Coolidge

envision a robust national defense? One should not forget the frugal

president’s comment to Secretary of War John M. Weeks—“What’s all this

talk about lots of airplanes? Why not buy one airplane and let the Army

pilots take turns flying it?” See Foulois, 199.

61. Lt Gen Robert L. Bullard, “Army and Navy Become Mere Escorts to

Airplane in Warfare, Says Bullard,” 3–4, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-21.

62. Millard F. Harmon, “Preliminary Rough Draft on ‘Policy for Future

Military Education of Air Corps Officers,’ ” n.d., 2, AFHRA, file no. 245.04B.

According to Grandison Gardner, “Miff” Harmon, who acted as ACTS

commandant and assistant commandant from 1938 to 1940, was one of

two officers Hap Arnold probably leaned on most. The other was Carl

Spaatz. See Gardner, 160.

63. Maj Oscar Westover, “Effect of Air Service on Employment of Cavalry

and Coast Artillery,” 23 September 1925, 1, AFHRA, file no. 168.7089-8.

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Ten years later, Harold Lee George seemingly concurred: “We must so

reorganize our national defense doctrine as to make possible the extension

of our frontiers through the intelligent organization and employment of our

air power.” What he actually meant, however, was that our “frontiers” were

synonymous with the economic centers of far-flung states, regardless of

where they were. See Wilson, 12 (George section).

64. See Maj W. G. Kilner, “Proposed Revision of the Policy of the Army

and Navy Relating to Aircraft,” 12 April 1925, AFHRA, file no. 248.121-1.

65. The Navy’s justification was the National Defense Act of 1920, which

stated that it would control all air activities attached to a fleet, including

shore stations needed to support its operations. See Milling, “Air Power in

National Defense,” 18.

66. Ibid., 16–17.

67. George C. Kenney, memorandum to assistant commandant of the

Army War College, 1933, 1, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-65.

68. In 1938 insult followed injury, or so air zealots thought. After three

B-17s intercepted the Rex (an Italian ocean liner) over seven hundred miles

east of New York, the Navy temporarily succeeded in restricting Air Corps

aircraft to a 100-mile zone off the coast. The lead navigator of the B-17s

was Capt Curtis LeMay.

69. The Baker Board’s recommendation was explicit: “To assist in

correcting the present unsatisfactory condition of unit training, the

committee recommends the early creation of the Air Corps Board and that

when created this board give prompt attention to the formulation of uniform

tactical doctrines for all types of aircraft units.” Quoted in Lt Col W. C.

McChord, chief of the Air Corps Plans Division, memorandum to acting

chief of the Air Corps, 29 November 1935, 1, AFHRA, file no. 167.5

(1935–1936).

70. Gen Laurence S. Kuter, transcript of oral history interview by Tom

Sturm and Hugh Ahmann, 30 September–3 October 1974, 165, AFHRA, file

no. K239.0512-810.

71. In this respect, the ACB’s charter paralleled those of other

branch-specific boards, including the Infantry Board, the Coast Artillery

Board, and the Chemical Warfare Service Board. AR 95-20 first authorized

an Air Service Board on 1 August 1922. The provisions of the regulation

subsequently remained in effect, but the board accomplished little until the

Baker Board inspired its reconstitution in 1934. (A revised AR 95-20 was

the instrument of change.)

72. Lt Col R. M. Jones, memorandum, subject: Major Aircraft Advisory

Board, 8 April 1936, 2, AFHRA, file no. 167.5 (1935–1936). Jones identified

three other questions that were of special concern to the Air Corps at the

time: Did two-seat fighters have any utility? Should fighter development

emphasize interception or escort responsibilities? What types of all-purpose

aircraft were suitable for aerial observation? In the case of two-seat fighters

and fighter escort, the decisions later made by the Air Corps had unhappy

consequences in the early phases of World War II.

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232

73. Maj Gen Orville A. Anderson, transcript of oral history interview by

Dr. Donald Shaughnessy, 27 October 1959, 6, AFHRA, file no.

K239.0512-898. Anderson served as secretary of the ACB and thus

immodestly saw himself as the organization’s direct link to General Arnold.

74. Maj Gen Henry H. Arnold, ACTS graduation speech, 12 May 1939, 4,

AFHRA, file no. 168.7027-9.

75. Robert T. Finney, History of the Air Corps Tactical School, 1920–1940,

USAF Historical Study 100 (1955; reprint, Washington, D.C.: Government

Printing Office, 1992), 31.

76. See Air Corps Board Report 31, The Functions of the Army Air Forces,

29 October 1936, 2, AFHRA, file no. 167.5-31.

77. “Analytical Study of Joint Action of the Army and the Navy,” pt. 2,

n.d., AFHRA, file no. 167.5-31.

78. Air Corps Board Report 3A, Revision of Air Corps Field Manual (FM

1-5), defined the Air Corps’s perceived obligations to the Army and Navy. In

the case of the Army, ACB-3A insisted that support aviation was not a

tactical tool of war. Instead, it was an operational-level weapon best used

against the rear area of hostile forces, where it could apply its full striking

power against concentrated targets with minimum losses and maximum

results. Consequently, in future wars air attacks would most likely predate

the contact of surface forces and operate against enemy aircraft, lines of

communications, command headquarters, supply installations, and troop

concentrations. If a battle did occur, support aviation would grudgingly

operate in a battle zone but only if absolutely necessary. It would strike

troop transports, mechanized forces, and enemy formations. Last, in a

postbattle environment, support aircraft would perform counterair

operations and interdict hostile routes of retreat or the arrival of enemy

delaying forces. In the case of the Navy, the role of land-based aviation in

fleet actions would include attacks against battle-line, fast-wing, or

individual vessels; attacks against light forces threatening battle-line flanks

or disrupting friendly flanking maneuvers; the interdiction of hostile air

operations through offensive operations; and attacks against convoy

vessels. In particular, bombers would attack armed vessels, supply ships

and transports, and naval bases. See draft of Air Corps Board Report no.

3A, “Revision of Air Corps Field Manual,” 20 November 1939, 24, 27–28, 39,

AFHRA, file no. 167.5-3A.

79. See ibid., 3. The report’s authors made the claim even though they

admitted that the Air Corps could not sustain air operations against the

homeland of any major foreign power from bases in US territory. However,

they believed that bomber technology was changing so rapidly that the day

of long-range operations was imminent.

80. Air Corps Board Report 31, annex 2, p. 1.

81. Ibid., 5 (main text).

82. Ibid., annex 2, pt. B, 6; and annex 2, pt. C, 17.

83. “Status of Studies of the Air Corps Board as of December 31, 1940,”

1, AFHRA, file no. 167.5.

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233

84. See Air Corps Board Report 35, Employment of Aircraft in Defense of

the Continental United States, annex 2, 7 May 1939, 3, AFHRA, file no.

167.5-35.

85. Ibid., annex 4, p. 1. ACB-35 based its argument on a major principle

of war—economy of force. To use aircraft against objectives that are within

range of ground or naval weapons is to use them in lieu of rather than in

support of those weapons. See annex 4, p. 3.

86. “Analytical Study of Joint Action of the Army and the Navy,” 3.

87. Air Corps Board Report 35, 1–2.

88. For a thorough discussion of how FDR came to support airpower as

a favored instrument of diplomacy and national defense, see Jeffery S.

Underwood, The Wings of Democracy: The Influence of Air Power on the

Roosevelt Administration, 1933–1941 (College Station, Tex.: Texas A&M

University Press, 1991).

89. The evolution of bomber technology, although outside the purview of

this discussion, played a critical role in the Air Corps’s success against the

Navy and in transforming a mere theory of airpower into reality. In the

1920s, bombers were cumbersome and lightly armed machines that

trundled along at 110 MPH. Their operating ceiling, bomb-carrying

capacity, and defensive firepower were also limited. Such aircraft, like the

Curtis Condor and Barling bomber, were much too vulnerable to carry out a

successful bombing campaign in the face of hostile fighters. By 1932,

however, bomber technology suddenly leapt past fighter capabilities. (The

change was attributable to innovations in large civilian aircraft, which then

positively affected bomber development.) When it appeared in 1931, the

Boeing B-9 represented a significant leap in bomber technology, although it

was an interim aircraft (only nine saw service). The plane contained

preliminary engineering items later found in the B-17, which at this point

was entering the advanced design phase. Better yet were the follow-on B-10

and B-12. The Boeing B-10, for example, was an all-metal, midwing

monoplane with retractable landing gear. It could go 235 MPH (at least 10

MPH faster than contemporary fighters), climb up to 21,000 feet, and carry

five machine guns. Its other novel features included an enclosed cockpit,

cowling over the engines, and cantilevered wings. Such developments

encouraged new experimentation, and in September 1934, Boeing

introduced the XB-17. This all-metal, midwing monoplane could do the

work of four B-10s. It could also travel at 250 MPH, carry an internal bomb

load of twenty-five hundred pounds for twenty-six hundred miles, and

operate up to 30,000 feet. Here for the first time in history, Hap Arnold

observed, was airpower “you could put your hands on.” When fighter

technology improved in the late 1930s, it was too late from a doctrinal

standpoint. The Air Corps’s prewar commitment to four-engined bombers

and long-range operations was irreversible. See Thomas H. Greer, The

Development of Air Doctrine in the Army Air Arm, 1917–1941, USAF

Historical Study 89 (1955; reprint, Washington, D.C.: Government Printing

Office, 1985), 46–47.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

234

90. “Testimony of General M. M. Patrick,” 71.

91. Ibid., 53.

92. Bullard, 21.

93. “[Coast Defense,] the Army Viewpoint,” n.d., 2, AFHRA, file no.

211.33. Internal evidence in the statement suggests that it appeared in the

1930s.

94. See Hanson Baldwin, to Haywood Hansell, letter, ca. 16 May 1939,

2, AFHRA, file no. 168.7148. Baldwin was the military and naval

correspondent for the New York Times. He was also a Naval Academy

graduate, which may partially explain the venom in his statement. See also

“Statement of Brigadier General H. A. Drum,” 2.

95. “Relation of Air Corps Expenditures to Total War Department

(Military) Expenditures,” 1, AFHRA, file no. 167.6-5.

96. 1st Lt William A. R. Robertson, “Progress in Military Aviation,” n.d.,

11, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-61Y (1898–1937 folder); see also “Statement of

Brigadier General H. A. Drum,” 7.

97. Hugh Knerr, microfilm A1878, 109, AFHRA, file no. 168.7028-1.

98. Gen Nathan Twining, transcript of oral history interview by Arthur

Marmor, November 1965, 6, AFHRA, file no. K239-0512-634; and Gen

Howell M. Estes Jr., transcript of oral history interview by Lt Col Robert

Zimmerman and Lt Col Lyn Officer, 27–30 August 1973, 38, AFHRA, file no.

K239-0512-686. General Estes entered military service in the late 1930s.

His recollections, therefore, may reflect an attitude shaped more by World

War II than by the interwar years.

99. See Copp as a representative example.

100. Maj Gen Jarred V. Crabb, transcript of oral history interview by Lt

Col Thomas Julian and Maj Donald Goldstein, 17 and 28 April 1970, 8,

AFHRA, file no. K239-0512-622.

101. Haywood S. Hansell Jr., “American Air Power in World War II,”

chap. 2, microfilm 34142-43, 4–5, AFHRA, file no. 168.7148. See also Capt

Charles Walton, “Is an Air Force Capable of Independent Action to an

Extent Sufficient to Justify the Employment of the Term ‘Air Warfare’ in a

Sense as Comprehensive as Our Present Use of the Terms ‘Land Warfare’

and ‘Naval Warfare?’” 1 May 1929, 16, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-16F. Of the

dozens of ACTS student papers this author has read, the title of Captain

Walton’s paper has no peer.

102. “Notes,” n.d., 1, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-32.

103. Col B. Q. Jones, “Air Forces in the Theater,” lecture to Army War

College, 4 March 1939, 17, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-14B.

104. See “Statement of Brigadier General H. A. Drum,” 5, 61.

105. Ibid., 6; see also Wilson, 1 (George section), 18 (Webster section).

106. William Mitchell, in “Testimony of General M. M. Patrick,” 74.

107. Ibid.

108. For a background to this struggle, see R. Earl McClendon, “A

Checklist of Significant Documents Relating to the Position of the United

States Army Air Arm in the System of National Defense, 1907–1945”

FABER

235

(Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Documentary Research Division, 1949); and Maj Guido

Perera, “A Legislative History of Aviation in the United States and Abroad,”

March 1941, AFHRA, file no. 167.401-28.

109. By 1925, and with the waning influence of Billy Mitchell, senior

airmen sought more immediate goals. Mason Patrick, for example,

advocated to the Morrow Board that Congress create permanent aviation

committees in both houses to develop definite, comprehensive, and evolving

government policies on civilian and military aeronautics.

110. Maj Gen Charles Menoher, “Address Given at Society of Automotive

Engineers Dinner,” 10 March 1920, 8, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-130. Mason

Patrick expressed similar sentiments in his “Testimony of General M. M.

Patrick,” 56.

111. Perera, 57, 65.

112. See Milling, “Air Power in National Defense,” 4.

113. For a discussion of the following boards and commissions of

inquiry, see Robert Frank Futrell, Ideas, Concepts, Doctrine: Basic Thinking

in the United States Air Force, vol. 1, 1907–1960 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air

University Press, December 1989), 29–48; and Greer, 21–29, 71–73.

114. The Army Reorganization Act of 1920 codified this view into law

and made the Air Service a regular combat arm. It also provided for a chief

and assistant chief of staff, and it further codified a professional school

system.

115. Foulois, 199–200. Dargue later served as assistant commandant of

ACTS from 1934 to 1938.

116. According to Benny Foulois, the Morrow Board’s accommodations

may have been part of a preemptive attempt to weaken the political impact

of Billy Mitchell’s upcoming trial. See Foulois, 201.

117. Hoyt, 83.

118. Perera, 61. As in previous boards and commissions that were

hostile to the Air Service/Air Corps, the membership of the Baker Board

was an issue. Major General Foulois, for example, was the lone Air Corps

representative and faced off against four generals assigned from the Army

General Staff, among other opponents. In contrast, an obviously biased

Foulois thought the Howell Commission was the “most objective” board of

inquiry in the interwar period. In addition to the above recommendations, it

also supported the creation of the Civil Aeronautics Board and the Civil

Aeronautics Authority (i.e., the forerunner of the Federal Aviation

Administration).

119. For the above statistics, see C. A. McMahan, John Folger, and

Stephen W. Fotis, Graduates of the Air Corps Tactical School, 1921–1940,

April 1953, 3, 5, AFHRA, file no. K243.041-2.

120. William Sherman, Air Tactics, sect. 2 (“Fundamental Doctrine of the

Air Service”), 1922, 5, AFHRA, file no. 248.101-4A.

121. Milling, The Air Service Tactical School, 1.

122. Ibid.

123. Ibid.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

236

124. See Training Regulation 440-15, Air Tactics, 1926, AFHRA, file no.

248.211-65A.

125. Air Service Tactical School, Bombardment, 1924–1925, 66, 83,

AFHRA, file no. 248.101-9.

126. Air Service Tactical School, Bombardment, 1926, 4, AFHRA, file no.

248.101-9.

127. See Futrell, 31.

128. Air Service Tactical School, Employment of Combined Air Force,

1925–1926, 3, AFHRA, file no. 248.101-7A.

129. Ibid., 3–4, 12, 29.

130. Sherman, Air Warfare, 6, 21, 23, 32, 130, 209–10, 217.

131. Arnold was an impatient man who demanded immediate results

from his commanders. Without a rapid return on investment, he worried

that funding for strategic air operations would disappear and therefore

threaten his dream of an independent Air Force with an autonomous

mission. To Arnold, Hansell’s dogged and misplaced attempt to perform

HAPDB in the Pacific theater was an example of “too little, too late.” As

Hansell’s successor, Curtis LeMay abandoned HAPDB for low-level, almost

indiscriminate incendiary attacks against Japanese urban areas.

132. Kuter showed early signs of promise. Col Millard Harmon, for

example, described him as “an exceptional officer who should be given a

rating of ‘Superior plus’. [He] possesses superior qualifications for staff

assignment and for future high command.” See “Official Statement of

Service,” 30 January 1942, 2, Laurence Kuter Papers, box 1, folder 13,

Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

133. Quoted in Kenneth Schaffel, “Muir S. Fairchild: Philosopher of Air

Power,” Aerospace Historian 33 (September 1986): 168.

134. Kuter, oral history interview, 132, 163.

135. This synopsis of ACTS bombardment theory appears in Haywood S.

Hansell Jr., The Strategic Air War against Germany and Japan: A Memoir

(Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1986), 7, 10.

136. Donald Wilson, “Long Range Airplane Development,” November

1938, 6, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-17.

137. Ibid.

138. Ibid.

139. See “Address by Major General Frank Andrews before the National

Aeronautic Association,” 16 January 1939, 8, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-20.

140. Kenneth Walker, “Memo to Assistant Commandant, ACTS,” 24

September 1932, 3, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-13.

141. Hansell, The Strategic Air War against Germany and Japan, 12.

142. Ibid., 12–13.

143. Col Grover Brown, “Concepts of Strategic Air Warfare, Part I,”

lecture to Air War College, 3 December 1951, 4, AFHRA, file no.

K239.716251-28. At the time, the War Department prohibited the Air Corps

from constructing target folders on other nations. The practice was not in

keeping with the avowedly defensive military policy of the United States.

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237

144. See Lt Col William O. Ryan, “Military Aviation,” lecture at Army

War College, 6 March 1940, 11, AFHRA, file no. 248.211-14.

145. Since Weimar Germany deliberately reconstructed its ruined

physical plant and business practices along American lines, the problem of

“mirror imaging” was especially troublesome in World War II. See

Klaus-Juergen Mueller, ed., The Military in Politics and Society in France and

Germany in the Twentieth Century (Oxford: Berg, 1995).

146. Gen Orvel Cook, transcript of oral history interview by Hugh N.

Ahmann and Maj Richard Emmons, 4–5 June and 6–7 August 1974, 101,

AFHRA, file no. K239.0512-740.

147. Ibid.

148. Ibid.

149. Col Hugh Knerr, to commanding general, 3d Wing, GHQ Air Force,

letter, 14 March 1936, AFHRA, file no. 248.126-4.

150. Ibid. (first endorsement).

151. Lt Col George E. Lovell, memorandum to Brig Gen G. C. Brant, 27

March 1936, AFHRA, file no. 248.126-4.

152. Lt Col M. F. Harmon and Maj Oliver Gothlin, “Comments on Air

Corps Tactical Document,” attached to Knerr letter, 2.

153. Lt Col A. H. Gilkeson, “Indorsement to Commanding General, 2nd

Wing, GHQ Air Force,” on Knerr letter, 2.

154. For the specifics of AWPD-1 and the creation of the plan, see James

C. Gaston, Planning the American Air War—Four Men and Nine Days in 1941

(Fort Lesley J. McNair: National Defense University Press, 1982).

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

238

Chapter 7

Alexander P. de Seversky

and American Airpower

Col Phillip S. Meilinger*

Fighter ace, war hero, aircraft designer, entrepreneur, stunt

pilot, writer, and theorist, Alexander P. de Seversky was one of

the best known and most popular aviation figures in America

during World War II. His passion was airpower, and his

mission was to convince the American people that airpower

had revolutionized warfare, becoming its paramount and

decisive factor. De Seversky pursued this goal relentlessly for

over three decades. In truth, although generally regarded as a

theorist, his ideas on airpower and its role in war were not

original. Rather, he was a synthesizer and popularizer—a

purveyor of secondhand ideas. His self-appointed task

entailed selling those ideas to the public, who could then

influence political leaders to make more enlightened defense

decisions. At the same time, de Seversky wore the mantle of

prophet, using his interpretation of history and logic to predict

the path that air warfare would take. Events would show that

he enjoyed more success as a proselytizer than as a prophet.

*I want to thank the following individuals, who have contributed their criticisms

and ideas to this essay: Duane Reed of the Air Force Academy special collections

branch, Ron Wyatt of the Nassau County Library, Josh Stoff of the Cradle of Aviation

Museum, Steve Chun of the Air University Library, Col “Doc” Pentland, Lt Col Pete

Faber, Dr. Dave Mets, Dr. Dan Kuehl, and Mr. Russell Lee.

Regarding sources, de Seversky died in 1974 without heirs. Apparently, most of his

files and personal papers were then deposited in the Republic Aircraft Corporation

archives on Long Island. When that company went defunct a decade later, what was

left of de Seversky’s papers went to the Nassau County Library, also on Long Island.

The collection is incomplete; much of it is taken up with copies of the several hundred

articles, press releases, speeches, and radio broadcasts de Seversky gave over the

years. Although these papers are of great value, virtually nothing of a personal nature

is contained therein; nor is there much in the way of official correspondence. Material

of a technical nature regarding de Seversky’s patents and aircraft designs has been

transferred to the Cradle of Aviation Museum, located in a hangar on the old Mitchel

Field, Long Island.

239

His ideas, like those of many air theorists, outran the

technology available to implement them.

Born in Tiflis, Russia (now Tbilisi, Georgia), on 7 June

1894, Alexander grew up near Saint Petersburg. His father

was a wealthy poet and actor who also had a taste for things

mechanical; for example, he purchased two aeroplanes in

1909—purportedly the first privately owned aircraft in Russia.

Alexander inherited not only his father’s theatrical flair but

also his technological inclination—he experimented with

mechanical devices as a boy, even designing several aeroplane

models. Not atypically for a young man of his class, Alexander

went off to military school at age ten, graduating from the

Imperial Russian Naval Academy in 1914, shortly before the

outbreak of the Great War. After serving for several months on

a destroyer flotilla, Ensign de Seversky transferred to the

navy’s flying service, soloing in March 1915 at Sebastapol

after a total flight time of six minutes and 28 seconds.

Posted to the Baltic Sea, de Seversky and his squadron

sought to prevent the German navy from clearing mines that

Russian ships had placed in the Gulf of Riga. On his first

combat mission on the night of 2 July 1915, he met with

disaster. As he attacked a German destroyer, antiaircraft fire

struck his aircraft, causing it to crash into the water. The

concussion detonated one of the aircraft’s bombs, killing his

observer and blowing off de Seversky’s right leg below the

knee. Miraculously, he survived; a Russian patrol boat

rescued him, and after eight months in convalescence, he

returned to active duty with an artificial limb.

Assigned a job in aircraft production, de Seversky applied

his mechanical acumen to the design of aeronautical devices

that would make a pilot’s job easier, designing such devices as

hydraulic brakes, adjustable rudder pedals, and special

bearings for flight controls. He also experimented with a

sophisticated bombsight and aircraft skis for landing on icy

surfaces. His inventions won him an award in 1916 for the top

aeronautical ideas of the year.

Although designing aircraft was important work, de

Seversky wanted to return to flying duty, but superiors denied

his request. Nevertheless, when in early 1916 a group of

dignitaries visited his airfield to witness the test flight of a new

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

240

aircraft, de Seversky surreptitiously took the place of the

scheduled pilot and put the aircraft through its paces for the

assembled crowd. This stunt caused an uproar, fueling talk of

a court-martial for “endangering government property.”

Fortunately, the czar himself heard of the incident, decided

Russia needed colorful heroes, and intervened to have de

Seversky returned to combat flying duty.

Over the next year, he flew 57 combat missions and scored

13 kills of German aircraft. On one mission, he and his

wingman bombed a German airfield and then attacked seven

planes in the air, shooting down three, despite receiving over

30 bullet holes in his own aircraft.

For this exploit, the czar

presented him a gold sword. His wooden leg did not seem to

bother him. In fact, he later claimed that the injury made him

a better flyer because it forced him to think more deeply about

what he was doing, rather than simply rely upon physical

ability. Even so, the war remained a dangerous activity for

him: his good leg was broken in an accident on the ground,

and on one combat sortie he was shot in the right leg—

although now he required the services of a carpenter rather

than a doctor.

By mid-1917 the Russian monarchy had fallen. Due to lack

of reinforcements, de Seversky’s squadrons—he was now chief

of pursuit aviation for the Baltic Sea—could not prevent the

German fleet from entering Russian waters. He fled when

German ships shelled his headquarters but did not get far in

his damaged aircraft. After stripping the plane of its guns, he

set it afire and began walking towards the Russian lines.

Unfortunately, he ran into a band of armed Estonian

peasants, who debated turning him over to the Germans for a

reward. Upon learning that their captive was the famed

“legless aviator,” however, they sent de Seversky on his

way—with his machine guns. This escape earned him the

Cross of Saint George, Imperial Russia ’s highest decoration.

Alexander E. Kerensky, head of the provisional government,

then posted Lieutenant Commander de Seversky to

Washington, D.C., as part of the Russian naval mission. The

Bolshevik government, which took power soon after,

confirmed these orders, but within a few months of his arrival

MEILINGER

241

in America, his mission dissolved. Nevertheless, de Seversky

elected to stay.

After working briefly with the American Air Service as an

aircraft inspector in Buffalo, New York, de Seversky found

himself out of work. Young, aggressive, and ambitious, he

soon opened a restaurant in Manhattan. He fell in love with

America, and when fellow émigrés complained of conditions in

their new home, he grew impatient and exclaimed, “If you

don’t like it in this country you can always go back to

Brooklyn.”

“Sascha,” as friends now called him, still viewed

aviation as his chief interest, and in 1921 he met Brig Gen

Billy Mitchell, the controversial and outspoken assistant chief

of the Air Service. Mitchell was then trying to “prove” the

obsolescence of surface ships through a series of bombing

tests. However, he feared that his aircraft’s bombs were not

powerful enough to sink heavily armored warships. De

Seversky later claimed he suggested to Mitchell the idea of

dropping bombs next to the ships—not on them—to cause a

“water hammer” effect that would open the seams in the side

of the vessel below the waterline. Although this idea did not

originate with de Seversky, it had validity.

In July 1921

Mitchell’s aircraft used the water-hammer principle to sink

several capital ships, including the German battleship

Ostfriesland, off the Virginia coast.

Over the next several years, de Seversky worked with

military airmen at McCook Field, Ohio, designing a gyroscopic

bombsight hailed by Gen Mason Patrick, Air Service chief. In

addition, he began work on an idea he had conceived during

the war. While flying in formation with another Russian plane

one day, he playfully reached up and grabbed the trailing wire

radio antenna of his mate, flying along “connected” to the

other plane for several minutes. He suddenly realized that one

could also use a wire or tube to transfer fuel from one aircraft

to another in flight. Combat had taught him that

bombardment aircraft were vulnerable to enemy fighter

planes; thus, one needed escort fighters to provide protection

to the bombers. However, the smaller fighters did not have the

range to escort bombers all the way to the target and back. Air

refueling offered a solution. Although his wartime superiors

would not allow him to experiment with such a device at the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

242

time, de Seversky revisited the idea when he worked with the

Air Service, producing an innovative air refueling device used

on the “Question Mark” flight of 1929, when an Air Corps

aircraft remained aloft for seven days.

In 1927 de Seversky

became a naturalized US citizen and received his commission

as a major in the Air Corps Reserve. He was always quite

proud of regaining military rank and for the rest of his life

preferred to be called “major.”

In 1931 he founded Seversky Aircraft Corporation and over

the next decade perfected a host of patents and designs,

including split flaps, metal monocoque construction, a

fire-control unit for aircraft guns, retractable landing gear and

pontoons, and specialized aircraft flight instruments.

He had

obvious talent for design, his innovative SEV-3 amphibian

setting world speed records in 1933 and 1935. Derivations of

this model became the BT-8 (the first all-metal monoplane

trainer built in the United States) and the noted P-35.

The P-35 was the first all-metal monoplane fighter

mass-produced in the United States, incorporating such

innovations as an enclosed cockpit, retractable landing gear,

and cantilever wings. The Air Corps purchased 137 P-35s, the

direct ancestor of the famed P-47 Thunderbolt.

The P-35

featured two other unusual characteristics. First, it was

extremely fast; a civilian version of it won the Bendix Air Race in

1937, 1938, and 1939.

Considering the fact that contemporary

fighter planes could barely keep pace with new bombers such as

the B-17, this was quite a feat. Second, it was specifically

designed for long range (it could fly from coast to coast with only

two refuelings), unlike other fighter aircraft of the day, which

were suitable only for point defense. Remembering his war

experiences, de Seversky recognized the need for fighter aircraft

with the range to escort bombers.

One solution was the air

refueling device he had already patented, but extensive use of

this system would have to wait another two decades. During the

Vietnam War, tactical fighters became strategic bombers as a

result of air refueling. In the late 1930s, however, people

considered such an expedient too inefficient and costly.

Designers, therefore, had to devise a method to extend the range

of aircraft without air refueling.

MEILINGER

243

Most of them thought that building a long-range escort fighter

was technically impossible, reasoning that any plane with the

necessary range would have to be quite large in order to carry

the requisite fuel. A large aircraft needed more than one engine

and might require additional crew members, which, in turn,

meant even larger size, more weight, more fuel, and so forth. In

short, escorts soon looked like the bombers they were designed

to protect and thus would become easy prey for enemy fighters.

De Seversky, virtually alone among designers, was convinced

that one could build a long-range escort by using internal fuel

tanks, which would not sacrifice the attributes characteristic of

a successful fighter.

At the same time, de Seversky called for increased

armament on fighter planes. Whereas standard equipment

generally consisted of two .30-caliber machine guns, he

advocated the inclusion of six to eight .50-caliber guns.

However, when de Seversky suggested this, as well as

increasing range by adding more wing fuel tanks, the Air

Corps turned him down, deeming such innovations not

“sufficiently attractive to pursue.”

This clash of opinion was

doctrinal at least as much as it was technological. American

tactical airmen such as Claire Chennault eschewed the

concept of fighter escort. Although acknowledging the

vulnerability of bomber aircraft, they did not relish an escort

mission that would put fighter aircraft in what they saw as an

inherently defensive and passive position. Most Air Corps

fighter pilots at the time shared this rather peculiar notion.

Not until 1944 did American airmen, because of operational

necessity, embrace the mission of fighter escort, reconciling

need with the imperative to maintain an offensive and

aggressive character.

In any event, this doctrinal disagree-

ment had serious consequences for the relationship between

de Seversky and the Air Corps, already strained by his

emotional and flamboyant personality.

His heroic exploits in the war were well known, as was his

prowess as a stunt pilot. His wife, the beautiful Evelyn

Olliphant, was the daughter of a prominent New Orleans

doctor, and she also became a well-known figure. After their

marriage in 1925, she met many of the famous aviation

figures of the day. Too often, however, she felt at a loss when

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

244

the men congregated in corners to discuss flying. She

therefore decided to take flying lessons and surprise her

husband; after she won her wings in 1934, her first passenger

was Jimmy Doolittle. Evelyn became a noted aviatrix in her

own right, logging several thousand hours and appearing

frequently on radio and in the newspapers to discuss her

experiences and push for more women in aviation.

She and

Sascha made a handsome and vivacious couple, noted for

their gala parties. One magazine even referred to Alexander as

“one of the ten most glamorous men in New York.”

More significantly, he had obvious technical ability as an

aeronautical engineer. His aircraft designs won him the

prestigious Harmon Trophy, presented by President Franklin D.

Roosevelt in 1939, and the Lord and Taylor American Design

Award for 1940. He was not, however, a businessman. His

corporation never made a great deal of money and ran

constantly behind in its production orders. De Seversky argued

that his aircraft were so original that they required new

manufacturing techniques, which took time.

The Air

Corps—indeed, most of his senior colleagues in the company—

disagreed.

Executives at Seversky Aircraft complained that their

president was too busy designing new aircraft instead of

building the ones already on order. He spent too much money

and traveled too frequently on publicity tours. He was a

lackadaisical manager. The Seversky Corporation was a fairly

small company during the Depression years, and the major felt

close to his labor force. One shop worker later recalled de

Seversky walking into his Long Island factory, announcing it

was too nice a day for work, and ordering everyone down to the

beach for a picnic. He supplied the beer.

Such affability might

have won affection, but it did not fulfill military contracts.

Gen Henry H. Arnold, chief of the Air Corps, had great respect

for the models de Seversky produced, but as war approached in

Europe, he needed aircraft companies ready and able to meet

the challenges of greatly increased production. The Seversky

Corporation had a part to play in Arnold’s future but only if it

restructured its senior management.

In short, Arnold wanted

de Seversky out. In May 1939, while de Seversky was out of the

country, his board of directors removed him as president; in

MEILINGER

245

October it ousted him entirely and changed the name of the

company to Republic.

De Seversky was outraged; moreover, he never forgave

Arnold for the role he had played in his removal.

For the

next several years, de Seversky blamed Arnold for every

deficiency—real or perceived—that he found in American

airpower. In his files he kept a list of statements made by

Arnold, each accompanied by unflattering comments. For

example, when Arnold opined that dive-bombers might prove

useful in combat, de Seversky commented, “Another

demonstration of how slow his mind digests the lessons of the

war.” Similarly, when Arnold drew comparisons between

different types of aircraft, de Seversky grumbled that “these

excerpts show how his mind rambles and how reckless his

statements are.”

In truth, de Seversky’s removal from business had positive

results: Republic reorganized to become one of the top aviation

companies of the next three decades. The P-47 Thunderbolt, the

descendant of the major’s P-35, proved vital to American air

success in the war. Based on de Seversky’s track record up to

the time of his removal, Republic probably would not have

responded so effectively to the challenge of war under his

guidance. In addition, sudden unemployment left him time for

other pursuits. Specifically, he used his considerable charm and

communication skills to write and talk about his favorite topic:

airpower. From this point on, the technical aspects of the

major’s career faded into the background as his primary focus

became the education of the American public regarding

airpower. Events would prove that de Seversky was far more

influential as an author than as a builder.

When de Seversky began writing about airpower, he enjoyed

two advantages over the theorists who had preceded him.

First, he was not a serving military officer and therefore did

not fear the retaliation of irked superiors. In view of the fact

that Giulio Douhet and Billy Mitchell had been court-

martialed for pressing their views on airpower too strongly,

this consideration was a substantial one. Second, because of

de Seversky’s background as a successful aeronautical

engineer and designer, he was less likely to fall into hyperbole

when discussing aircraft capabilities—the blight of other

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airpower advocates. The freedom to speak his mind, with

formidable technical authority, coupled with his dynamic and

energetic personality, made him enormously popular in a very

short time.

De Seversky’s voluminous writings shared certain

characteristics. First, they demonstrated a willingness to take on

military leaders and their cherished beliefs. Second, they

displayed a deep-seated anti-Navy bias that grew over time. De

Seversky also employed a strategy of taking his case directly to

the American people, bypassing intermediate filters imposed by

military officials. Finally, the major had an unshakable belief in

the effectiveness and efficiency of airpower.

For example, airpower theorists typically criticized the

conservative and traditional thinking of surface commanders,

whom they considered relics of a bygone age. They did not

understand the new air weapon, seeing it merely as an

evolutionary development—a useful tool that would help them

achieve their surface goals. This attitude was standard fare.

But de Seversky went a step further by taking on the

leadership of the Air Corps, accusing it of equally outdated

thinking. Specifically, he pointedly charged Arnold with

stymying innovative thought in aircraft development and

being more concerned with “military politics” than with

building effective airpower.

When in mid-1941 the War

Department announced a reorganization that created the

semiautonomous Army Air Forces (AAF), most airmen hailed it

as a major step towards a separate service—their cherished

goal. Not so de Seversky. He saw it as a dangerous half-

measure—an “administrative enslavement”—to keep airmen in

their place, a ploy by Arnold to gain promotion. He did not

believe it would seriously advance the cause of airpower. In a

letter to President Roosevelt, he argued that the move was

“positively harmful” because it gave an illusion of progress

where none really existed.

As a consequence of these

gratuitous and personal attacks, Arnold kept de Seversky at a

distance; thus, these two powerful voices for airpower worked

at cross-purposes, precisely at a time when they should have

been close allies.

Throughout his career, de Seversky consciously attached

himself to the Billy Mitchell legend. He said once that Mitchell

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was his best friend, and he wrote several articles about the

general, even dedicating his first book to his mentor’s

memory. This affinity was not necessarily healthy because de

Seversky inherited Mitchell’s inordinate distaste for the Navy.

The saying that there is no greater antipathy towards ideas

than that felt by the apostate was certainly true of former

naval officer de Seversky. His writings consistently stressed

the fleet’s lack of importance, arguing that sea power was

obsolete and that surface ships were doomed in the face of

airpower. Like Mitchell, he often compared the cost of ships to

that of aircraft, noting that one could buy hundreds of planes

for the price of a single battleship. He even began one article

with the blunt announcement that “our great two-ocean,

multi-billion-dollar Navy, now in construction, should be

completed five or six years from now—just in time to have all

of its battleships scrapped.”

However, de Seversky not only denigrated the gunships but

also questioned the utility of aircraft carriers, seeing them as

little more than attractive targets. He discounted their ability

to project power ashore, asserting the inferiority of carrier

planes to land-based planes. Conveniently ignoring the Pearl

Harbor attack, he stated that if carriers attempted to strike a

land power equipped with an air force, the latter would sink

them long before their planes could perform any constructive

purpose.

Like Mitchell’s attacks, de Seversky’s incessant

barbs needlessly antagonized the Navy, while also spurring it

to greater activity. Indeed, although the claim that Mitchell—

and, by extension, de Seversky—was the father of naval

aviation is far too strong, it does contain a kernel of truth.

As with most people of his generation who had lived

through one world war only to see another spawned in its

wake, de Seversky believed that wars had become total.

Distinctions between soldiers and civilians no longer existed—

all people were part of the war effort. To de Seversky, this

meant that all citizens might pay the ultimate price in war

and thus should have a voice in determining how those wars

were fought. In a dictatorship, rulers make war with little

regard for the will of the populace—but not in a democracy.

War strategy had become far too important to be left to

military leaders. The people must have knowledge of the inner

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248

workings of war so they can have a voice in its conduct:

“over-all strategy, like any other national policy that affects

the entire nation, is the province of the people.”

Air war

especially was too new and too powerful, and affected people

too directly for them to be ignorant of its principles. An

educated public would make its opinions known to the

politicians, who in turn would determine military policy. De

Seversky saw educating the people as his duty: “I am

convinced that the best contribution I can make to America is

to draw attention to what seems to me the need for an

effective program of national defense in the air in order to

provide genuine security for our country.”

Over the next decade, the major would write two books and

scores of articles and press releases, and would give hundreds

of radio addresses. His first literary task upon leaving

business in 1939 involved telling of aeronautical conditions in

Europe. He visited Britain , France, Germany, and Italy and

because of his international reputation, was able to talk with

leading airmen and aircraft manufacturers and tour their

factories. He returned to America both sobered and heartened.

On the one hand, he was convinced that Hitler was bent on

war, even predicting that it would break out in September

1939.

He did not think the French were ready for such a

war; although their air force had some useful aircraft designs,

political corruption prevented their mass production. On the

other hand, he was pleased with British developments—he

flew the Hurricane and Spitfire and came away impressed by

their speed and armament. He rated these aircraft far superior

to anything the Germans had and predicted that the Royal Air

Force (RAF) would prevail in any test with the Luftwaffe

because of this qualitative superiority.

Few people were as

sanguine about Britain ’s chances, but the major’s prediction

proved accurate.

Exactly what form de Seversky expected the war would take

during its initial stages remains unclear. Certainly, he

believed airpower would play a key role, but no evidence

indicates he embraced the concept of strategic bombing.

Indeed, despite his connections with Billy Mitchell, his

concentration as an engineer on fighter aircraft and on the

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technological challenges they presented suggests he had not

given a great deal of thought to the issue of strategic airpower.

This perspective changed when war broke out in September

1939. Five campaigns particularly impressed him. First,

Germany’s quick defeat of Poland convinced him that airpower

dominated ground forces—a lesson reinforced by the French

campaign the following year. France’s rapid collapse shocked

most of the world, but de Seversky simply remarked that the

Maginot Line had become the tomb for a nation that had

refused to look skyward.

As in World War I, the French had

relied on their army. This stubborn attachment to tradition

proved disastrous.

Two other campaigns gave different lessons: Norway and

Crete demonstrated the superiority of airpower over naval

forces. In both instances the Royal Navy, reputedly the finest

in the world, had been decisively repulsed—not by German or

Italian sea power, which the British had quickly disposed

of—but by the Luftwaffe. The British fleet lay helpless before

an enemy that controlled the air.

At Crete, for example, the

Luftwaffe sank four British cruisers and six destroyers, while

severely damaging an aircraft carrier and three battleships.

Because of such staggering losses—the worst defeat of the war

for the Royal Navy—the fleet could not hold the island. Later,

the sinking of the British dreadnoughts Prince of Wales and

Repulse off the Malayan coast by Japanese land-based aircraft

served to heighten de Seversky’s scorn for the capital ship.

De Seversky also argued that the rescue of the British army

from Dunkirk was possible only because the RAF controlled

the air above the beaches. Air superiority permitted the Royal

Navy to move in and evacuate over three hundred thousand

troops.

Had the Luftwaffe owned the skies, the British would

not have attempted such an operation; if they had, the results

would have resembled those at Norway and Crete. Airpower

had saved the remnants of the British army.

The Battle of Britain was also compelling insofar as it

demonstrated how improperly structured and poorly led

airpower could squander a numerical advantage. Interest-

ingly, although de Seversky had predicted a British victory,

another famous American aviator, Charles Lindbergh, argued

that nothing could stand up to the Luftwaffe’s might.

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250

Moreover, he believed that because Britain was doomed, the

United States should cut ties with that country and build up

its own air strength.

De Seversky countered that airpower

had shrunk the globe to such an extent that US isolation was

a thing of the past. Americans could no longer sit behind their

oceans and ignore the affairs of Europe; rather, they must

support England because her fight, inevitably, would one day

be theirs.

In February 1942 de Seversky collected these

lessons, combined them with his ideas on airpower, and

produced Victory through Air Power—a book designed to alert

America to the challenges of a modern, total war in which it

was now involved, and to offer a strategy based on airpower

for fighting that new form of war.

Victory through Air Power first takes the reader through a

brief, selective history of the war, much of which repeats what

de Seversky had said the previous year. People who had

followed his many magazine and newspaper articles would

have found little new in this survey. De Seversky reaffirmed

airpower as the key to victory, maintaining that the airplane

had eclipsed traditional forms of land and sea warfare. He

retells the stories of Poland, Norway, France, Crete, and the

Battle of Britain and derides the generals and admirals who

attempted to fight with the methods and tactics of previous

wars: “The lessons of this war can’t be shouted down by

invoking the glories of the past.”

Although other people had

begun to awake to this new form of war and sense its

implications, de Seversky emphasized that it was a revolution

demanding equally revolutionary responses. Unfortunately,

America was not prepared for this challenge.

Perhaps because he was still obsessed with what he

considered unfair treatment by the AAF, de Seversky felt the

need to recount the story of his unsuccessful attempts to sell

advanced fighter aircraft to the government. He regales the

reader with details about his ideas for increasing the range

and firepower of American planes, only to have them snubbed

by military officials. These sections smack of self-justification

and are of limited value. In fact, because de Seversky insisted

on singling out Hap Arnold for attack, military airmen did not

welcome his message.

Once again, he alienated the very

people he should have courted. On the other hand, he

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performed a useful service by calling attention to problems

that existed in America’s aircraft rearmament program.

De Seversky pointed out that American fighter planes were

inferior to those of the other major belligerents. They did not

have the speed, range, altitude, or armament to contest with

frontline enemy fighters. Yet, press releases emanating from

AAF, the government, and industry pretended that American

planes were the best in the world.

De Seversky rejected such

claims with disdain: “No one in his senses would pretend that

the P-40 is a match for the Messerschmitt or the Spitfire.”

Some people accused him of lacking patriotism, of lowering

the morale of American airmen, and of disclosing important

information to the enemy. The major dismissed these charges

by maintaining that the people had a right to know the truth;

otherwise, problems would remain uncorrected.

Besides presenting a bleak picture intended to alert the

public to the backward state of American airpower, de

Seversky also expressed his views on the nature of air warfare.

His most important idea held that airpower was an inherently

strategic weapon. By this he meant that airpower’s ability to

fly over enemy armies and navies enabled it to strike directly

at a country’s most vital areas: its capital, industry,

government, and so forth. Surface forces, on the other hand,

generally fought only at the tactical level of war—force against

force—hoping through an accumulation of victories in battle

to position themselves for strategic, or decisive, military

operations. Surface commanders realized, however, that their

operations would prove far easier and more successful if

airpower supported them. De Seversky cautioned against this,

declaring that supporting an army tactically would squander

airpower’s unique capability. One should employ airpower

primarily as a strategic weapon and use it against targets that

had strategic significance. Similarly, de Seversky rejected the

view that the objective of war was to occupy territory—an

outdated concept. Strategic airpower could destroy the

facilities and structures that made an area useful to the

enemy: “Having knocked the weapons out of his hands and

reduced the enemy to impotence, we can starve and beat him

into submission by air power.”

This accomplished, one

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required occupation of only a humanitarian or political

nature: the Red Cross or similar organizations would suffice.

Second in importance, de Seversky stressed the necessity of

air superiority. The first two years of the war clearly

demonstrated that whoever controlled the air also controlled

the land and sea below. The French campaign especially

illustrated the price an army had to pay when the enemy air

force dominated the sky above it. To de Seversky, the most

effective method of preventing this and protecting friendly

soldiers involved gaining and maintaining air superiority at

the outset of a campaign.

De Seversky argued that one must seek this key battle for

air superiority as early as possible and conduct it with utmost

vigor. Other air theorists, notably Mitchell and Douhet, had

advocated achieving air superiority by attacking enemy

airfields and aircraft factories—not by engaging the air force

itself. Their rationale for this approach was twofold: first,

before the in vention of radar, forcing an aerial battle was

considered nearly impossible. In Douhet’s formulation, a

stronger air force could safely ignore its weaker opponent, and

the weaker air force would be foolish to look for a fight it

would probably lose.

Second, they avoided discussion of an

air battle because it tended to contradict one of their basic

premises of air warfare—that it eliminated the bloody and

prolonged counterforce battle.

De Seversky rejected these arguments. Enjoying the

hindsight provided by the first two years of the war, he saw

that an air battle not only could occur but, indeed, generally

would. As a consequence, de Seversky insisted that one must

resolve the air battle sooner rather than later. In fact, he later

maintained that the RAF should not have stopped its daylight

bombing operations and retreated to the safety of night, a

decision that did not eliminate the air battle but merely

delayed it.

British Bomber Command eventually suffered

greater losses in its night operations than did the American

Eighth Air Force attacking in daylight. Significantly, de

Seversky even implied that air superiority could become an

end in itself: once a country had lost its air force and the

enemy could devastate it at will, a rational government would

sue for peace. In other words, although de Seversky claimed

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that airpower could avoid the type of prolonged battle that

occurred between armies, his call for an air battle

reintroduced it—only now it would take place at 20,000 feet.

De Seversky did not claim in Victory through Air Power that

airpower alone could win the war. Rather, he maintained that

the airplane had become the dominant and decisive element

in modern war. The vital role of land and sea forces was to

hold the enemy in place while airpower pounded him into

submission. In addition, the army and navy had to seize and

hold air bases from which one could launch strategic air

strikes against the enemy’s heartland. Indeed, this was the

strategy for the Pacific: the war against Japan was essentially

a struggle for air bases. Far-flung enemy islands had little

strategic consequence; rather, they were useful as air bases

for striking the Japanese home islands.

As a way of lessening the dependence of airpower on these

overseas air bases, de Seversky pushed for the development of

“interhemispheric” bombers that could strike the enemy from

the United States. He stated that such global bombers would

“change the whole picture of law enforcement”; the mere

threat of American airpower would be enough to keep the

peace.

He pointed to the massive B-19 and Martin flying

boat as examples of the type of long-range aircraft he

envisioned, claiming that these behemoths had a payload

capacity of over 30,000 pounds while also enjoying an

unrefueled range of eight thousand miles. De Seversky wanted

thousands of such aircraft built. Unfortunately, his technical

expertise deserted him in this instance. Both of these aircraft

were underpowered and had structural shortcomings; they

never came close to the performance de Seversky claimed for

them and never reached production.

For the military to utilize airpower effectively, de Seversky

called for a defense department with equal branches for land,

sea, and air. He remained convinced that the older services

would never allow airpower to reach its full potential as a

strategic weapon, simply be cause they did not understand it.

Similarly, airpower needed to remain separate and distinct at

the theater and tactical levels. Because of its great speed,

range, and flexibility, airpower should be centralized and used

en masse over the entire depth and breadth of a theater.

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Under the control of land or sea commanders, airpower would

languish at the tactical level and would not realize maximum

effectiveness.

De Seversky’s last message in Victory through Air Power

dealt with targeting. If airpower were indeed an inherently

strategic weapon, then one should take great care to

determine the proper objectives for an air campaign. The fact

that bombers could strike anything did not mean they should

strike everything. Most air theorists argued that all countries

had vital centers which allowed the state to function

effectively: government, industry, transportation networks,

financial systems, power grids, and so forth. Precisely which

of those objectives were most vital and which specific targets

within those categories one should attack and in what priority

remained unclear. Douhet, for example, merely stated that the

will of the civilian population was the key objective, allowing

the “genius of the commander” to determine how best to affect

that will.

De Seversky was similarly vague. He did, however, reject

popular will as a specific target, although not for humanitarian

reasons. The war had demonstrated a surprising human

resiliency, and prewar predictions of urban populations quickly

panicking and breaking under air attack had proven wrong. De

Seversky therefore emphasized the importance of industrial

targets. In truth, de Seversky was merely echoing American Air

Corps doctrine that had been in place for at least a decade prior

to the war. Unfortunately, like most air theorists, he did not

specify which part of the enemy’s industry one should target.

Debates then raged among Allied air planners over the proper

objectives for attack—candidates included oil, electricity,

chemicals, rubber, and ball bearings. De Seversky did not

contribute to this debate, opting instead for an air campaign to

obliterate all aspects of an industrial infrastructure. Given the

size and complexity of a modern state’s industrial base,

combined with the limited destructive capacity and accuracy of

contemporary bombs, this approach was highly simplistic and

unsophisticated. De Seversky, like so many air thinkers,

overestimated the physical damage of bombing.

The critical response to Victory through Air Power was

divided. Predictably, soldiers and sailors found it both

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inaccurate and dangerous, questioning de Seversky’s claims

regarding the effectiveness of airpower in the war and totally

rejecting his prophecies of air dominance. One naval advocate

sniffed that although the book “purports to be a serious study” it

was actually “a slipshod affair” with a “Jules Verne” quality

about it.

A Navy public relations official candidly admitted,

however, that the book posed a “special threat” because it

“reaches the popular mind, and the popular mind reacts on

Congressmen, and the first thing you know you are going to

have Congress telling you and your colleagues in the Navy that

you are not abreast of modern trends of thought in the matter of

how to make war.”

Airmen also had concerns about the book,

but for different reasons. Although they welcomed the call for a

separate air force, de Seversky’s stinging attacks on Arnold

troubled them. As a result, the AAF ignored the book, although

some people made behind-the-scenes attempts to discredit it.

One de Seversky supporter deplored such machinations, writing

that “the drive to ‘destroy’ Seversky is the symptom of a deeper

struggle, under the surface, between military diehards and

military progressives.”

On the other hand, several informed commentators found

the book both fascinating and significant. For example, one

wrote that “it is the duty of every adult citizen who can lay his

hands on $2.50 to buy it and ponder its message.” Another

commented, “While many specific statements of this book may

be questioned, an open-minded reader is obliged to conclude

that the author is more nearly right than wrong in his views.”

Finally, one said simply that “it is more important for

Americans than all the other war books put together.”

The public was enthusiastic about Victory through Air Power,

and its status as a Book of the Month Club selection guaranteed

a wide and literate audience. The publisher even brought it

out in paperback—rare for a serious work at that time.

Consequently, an estimated 5 million Americans read it. Given

de Seversky’s many other articles and radio addresses, George

Gallup estimated that over 20 million people knew of de

Seversky and his message—an astounding figure in the days

before television.

In fact, Walt Disney approached de Seversky

with a plan to turn Victory through Air Power into a movie.

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The famed cartoon filmmaker wished to contribute to the

war effort by making military training films. Donald Duck

went to war to fight the Nazi menace, Mickey Mouse

admonished people to pay their taxes promptly, and military

units sported over twelve hundred military insignia bearing

Disney cartoon characters.

Disney himself later said that he

had had a deep interest in aviation for years and “sensed that

air power held the key to the outcome of this war.”

Although

millions of people had read the major’s book, Disney realized

that millions of others had not, and his unique ability to use

visual images and cartoons would serve to educate them as

well. Disney believed he would probably lose money on the

movie but stated, “I’m concerned that America should see it,

and now is no time to think of personal profits.”

The movie, which opened on 17 July 1943, begins with a

cartoon introduction to the history of flight up to World War II.

The picture then switches to de Seversky, shown in his office

surrounded by world maps, airplane models, and blueprints.

The major relates his message of airpower and its importance

to modern war.

Superb graphics illustrate his ideas. Nazi

Germany is depicted as a huge iron wheel with factories at the

hub, pumping planes, tanks, ships, and other war equipment

out the spokes for use along the thick rim. Allied armies chip

away at this rim by attacking individual tanks and planes, but

the Nazis react by simply redirecting war material from one

spoke to another to counter the threat; the rim is too strong to

break. Aircraft then bomb the factories of the hub directly,

destroying them and causing the spokes to weaken and the

rim to collapse. In another particularly memorable sequence,

Disney animates the book’s depiction of Japan as an octopus

with its tentacles stretched across the Pacific, encircling

dozens of helpless islands. Allied armies and navies futilely

attempt to hack away at these thick tentacles and free the

islands. American airpower, represented by a fierce and

powerful eagle, then repeatedly strikes the head of the octopus

with its sharp talons, forcing the beast to release the outlying

possessions so it can defend itself. However, it cannot fend off

the eagle and eventually expires under the attacks. The United

States achieves victory through the air. Even today, the movie

remains an extremely powerful piece of airpower propaganda.

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Although the film was not a commercial success, it had a

significant impact. Possibly because two of his old friends on

the AAF staff asked him to go easy, de Seversky removed all

personal bile from the movie version—the film doesn’t even

mention Arnold and the growing pains encountered by

American aviation. As a result, the Air Force embraced the

film, finding it useful for educating recruits on airpower.

Air

Marshal Jack Slessor, himself a noted air theorist and then

commander of the RAF’s Coastal Command, congratulated de

Seversky: “It is certainly first-class educational value to people

who are capable of thinking reasonably clearly for

themselves.”

The film so impressed Winston Churchill that

he insisted that President Roosevelt watch it with him during

their summit meeting in Quebec in August 1943.

Soon after

the war ended, de Seversky interviewed Emperor Hirohito,

who claimed to have watched the movie and to have been

deeply troubled by its predictions concerning the fate of his

country at the hands of American airpower.

Nevertheless,

the movie had serious problems.

In keeping with de Seversky’s antipathy towards the Navy,

the movie depicts sea power in a hopelessly weak and

ineffective light—indeed, it shows most of the surface ships

resting on the bottom of the ocean. The Army fares little

better; its tanks become mere toys, easily pushed over by

attacking aircraft. In fact, although the movie took only three

months to produce, military censors took another 10 months

to clear it. Apparently the Army and Navy hierarchy pressured

Disney to stop the project.

In addition, the film grossly exaggerates the accuracy and

effectiveness of bombing attacks. Every bomb dropped in the

movie hits its target—all of which are factories or railroad

yards—and nothing falls in urban residential areas. In a

surprising sequence, the film depicts the new interhemispheric

bomber advocated by de Seversky. Hundreds of these huge

aircraft, based in Alaska, relentlessly pummel Japan. But they

have no escorts; instead, the bombers bristle with radar-

controlled machine guns that shoot down enemy interceptors in

droves. Considering de Seversky’s spirited push for long-range

escort and his claims that bombers would be unable to defend

themselves adequately, this scene seems somewhat bizarre.

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For the rest of the war, de Seversky continued to call for a

strategy dominated by airpower. He wanted military leaders to

emphasize emerging weapons, not obsolescent ones, but they

largely rejected his pleas. Like Douhet and Mitchell before

him, de Seversky saw little need for historical precedents to

buttress his theories. Using history would lead to employing

strategies of the past. Since generals actually continued to

discuss the campaigns of 1918, they might as well examine

those of ancient Greece and Persia for all their relevance to

World War II!

He wanted massive air attacks against the

enemy’s vital centers—not peripheral pinpricks. At one point

he wrote in exasperation, “We are stabbing the enemy with

penknives, trying to bleed him to death, instead of wielding

the axe of true air power.”

When the war ended, de Seversky visited both theaters and

for nearly eight months wandered the defeated countries,

talked to survivors, saw scores of bombed-out cities and

factories, and interviewed high-ranking military and civilian

leaders. Not surprisingly, he concluded that airpower had

been the decisive factor in victory by destroying the will of the

German and Japanese leadership.

He did not denigrate the

efforts of the other services, which he deemed essential, but

he nevertheless saw airpower as the instrument primarily

responsible for bringing victory. This proved especially true in

Japan, where the atomic strikes eliminated the need for a

bloody invasion of the home islands by giving the emperor, as

he put it, “an excuse to make peace.” De Seversky conceded,

however, that Japan’s far smaller military and industrial

capacity, as well as its qualitatively inferior airpower, made

the country an easier opponent. The Japanese simply did not

understand airpower, a situation exacerbated by the decision

to disperse their industry into small “cottage factories”

throughout the cities. This practice not only curtailed

production but also made area attacks almost inevitable: the

Japanese thus committed “industrial hara-kiri.”

Surprisingly, de Seversky was skeptical about the power

and significance of the atomic bombs. Expecting to find

Hiroshima and Nagasaki “vaporized,” he instead found the

burned-out rubble characteristic of German cities that had

suffered extensive aerial or artillery bombardment. This

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discovery led him to conclude that the importance of the

atomic bomb was greatly exaggerated; to him, it was just

another weapon. In fact, in one interview he referred to it as a

mere “firecracker” that created much noise and light but little

else. This stance gained him much criticism from both

scientists and political leaders—and even labeled him a

military conservative!

De Seversky’s argument on this subject was not mature.

Although the ability to use the medium of the air had

revolutionized the nature of war, dismissing atomic bombs as

merely new weapons of little import was simplistic. One must

exploit the air medium—and do this through the actual

employment of weaponry. Thus, airmen should have

appreciated the great importance of developing air weapons,

but such was not the case. Little effort had gone into

developing aerial bombs between the world wars. The fact that

iron blockbusters of 1917 were quite similar to those of

1945—and remained so for another three decades—proved to

be a major oversight. Without effective weapons, the military

often wasted airpower. Thus, although the Allies had air

superiority over Germany and Japan, they could not force a

rapid decision because their bombs were either too weak or,

more importantly, too inaccurate to do so. Initially, de

Seversky also fell into the myopic snare of not recognizing the

importance of radical new air weapons such as the atomic

bomb. He did, however, change his views when the hydrogen

bomb, hundreds of times more powerful than the atomic devices

detonated over Japan, became part of the American arsenal.

Confrontation with the Soviet Union quickly turned de

Seversky into a cold warrior, profoundly suspicious of the

Kremlin’s motives: “They would break every promise they

make if it suits them.”

(One certainly wonders whether his

Russian heritage gave him special insights or peculiar biases.)

Pessimistically, he thought that the Soviet worldview was

irreconcilable with the West’s, thus making violent

confrontation inevitable. If this were true, then his arguments

regarding the folly of contesting with a powerful land foe by

building a large army seem appropriate. To de Seversky,

common sense demanded that America face such an enemy

by utilizing its unique strength—aeronautical technology.

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De Seversky believed that America remained inherently an

airpower nation. Young people should see their destinies in

the sky—a notion of his that antedated the war. In fact, some

of his earliest radio broadcasts were for young listeners and

explained how airplanes worked, how he had become

interested in them, and why airpower was essential to

America’s future.

His persuasion extended to adults as well:

“In this aeronautical age we ought to become a nation of

aviators, in order to achieve mastery of the sky—just as in the

past, in the age of sea power, England was a nation of sailors.”

He then expanded on this analogy: Rome had been the master

on land, England on sea, and now America in the air. All used

this mastery of a particular medium to dominate the world

and give it peace.

The major was convinced that America had the advantage

in this crucial area. Not only had we employed strategic

airpower in the war while the Soviet Union had not, but also

we were fortunate in having friendly neighbors. The Soviets,

on the other hand, had to build a large army to protect their

vulnerable and extensive borders. Like Douhet, Mitchell, and

Alfred Thayer Mahan, de Seversky clearly saw the significance

of geopolitical factors and wrote for the peculiar American

situation.

In his view, airpower—especially if armed with

nuclear weapons—seemed the only sane path to provide the

world a “Pax Democratica.”

This was a variation of a theme

that de Seversky had repeated for years: airpower and

technology were related in an unusually close and symbiotic

fashion. To a far greater degree than surface forces, airpower

depended on a strong and vibrant scientific and industrial

base. America possessed such a base; the Soviet Union did

not. Moreover, when de Seversky contemplated the future of

space—which he considered merely an extension of terrestrial

airpower—he became even more convinced of America’s

potential dominance.

Like most people at the time, de Seversky was surprised by

the North Korean invasion in June 1950. He immediately

rejected arguments for American involvement, believing it

would play into Soviet hands. Fighting a peripheral war

against Soviet proxies would slowly bleed the United States

white and drain it of its resources.

Significantly, his second

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book, Air Power: Key to Survival, published soon after the

outbreak of the war, prophesied that Korea would be a

mistake for America and would fester inconclusively for years.

According to de Seversky, the Book of the Month Club wanted

to publish his new work as its main selection under the title

Peace through Air Power but was displeased with his

comments regarding the Korean War. The club’s contacts with

military and political leaders in Washington assured it that

the Korean police action was a minor distraction that would

be over quickly. Club officials therefore asked de Seversky to

modify his strident views on Korea to conform to conventional

wisdom. When he refused, they backed out of their offer to

feature the book. De Seversky noted ruefully that because he

told the truth no one wanted to hear, his book sold 30,000

copies instead of six hundred thousand.

Sounding almost isolationist, de Seversky argued against

US involvement throughout the Korean War. President

Truman’s dismissal of Gen Douglas MacArthur—a man for

whom he had great respect—angered him, but he thought the

action justified if it led to a serious reappraisal of American

policy.

Such a reappraisal did in fact occur, but much to de

Seversky’s chagrin, the climactic hearings before the Senate

tended to ratify the limited war policy so abhorred by Mac-

Arthur. The major’s proposed solution was far more direct.

Air Power: Key to Survival argued that “triphibious

operations”—the synergistic actions of air, land, and sea

forces, which he admitted were necessary in World War

II—were now a thing of the past. In a favorite analogy, he

likened the situation to the man who wanted to cross a river.

One contractor tells him to build a tunnel under the water;

another suggests a ferry to cross on the surface of the water;

while the third proposes a bridge to span above the river.

Perplexed and indecisive, the man elects to pursue all three

ideas, at enormous cost and effort. De Seversky saw this

happening with American defense policy. Instead, he

maintained that as airpower increased its range to a truly

global scale, one would have little need for vulnerable surface

forces that would play bit parts in a major war against the

Soviet Union. Why have a navy when there were no sea lanes

to protect and no enemy fleet to contest them? In a vicious

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262

comment, he dismissed fleets as henceforth existing merely in

“vestigial form as a transport auxiliary of air power, but even

that will be temporary.”

Indeed, he was convinced that the

Air Force (an independent service since 1947) should be

dominant within the defense establishment and was suspicious

of calls for greater “unification” of the armed forces. De Seversky

thought that unification, like the old AAF idea of 1941, was a

trick to keep airpower tied to the surface: “Because their primary

functions have been obsoleted by science, the older services are

trying to perpetuate them by bureaucratic law.” America was

more than ever an airpower nation whose destiny lay in air and

space. Calls for “balanced forces” were an archaic and

uninspired method of defense planning that diluted the potent

and decisive aspects of airpower.

When “massive retaliation” became official US strategy

during the Eisenhower administration, de Seversky embraced

it (indeed, his writings since the end of World War II had

called for much the same thing, though without the catchy

title). He rejected notions of limited war, stating that they

inevitably ended in stalemate. Moreover, airpower lost its

special advantages in such conflicts; Korea was an aberration,

and it must stay that way. Unfortunately, Korea would lead

“orthodox thinkers” to believe that such conventional war was

still likely. On the other hand, in an era of decreasing defense

budgets but increasing commitments, he—as well as the new

president and his advisors—saw airpower as the only plausible

solution. Such a strategy also necessitated a technologically

first-rate air force, ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

Clearly, de Seversky had come a long way since the days

before World War II, when he called for a balanced defense of

land, sea, and air forces, while also rejecting suggestions that

airpower alone could win wars. By the mid-1950s, he saw

global airpower as the solution to America’s security needs. In

some of his more outrageous suggestions, he called for a

Department of the Air Force that contained a Bureau of Ships,

a Bureau of Ground Forces, and bureaus “for other auxiliary

units.” The Navy would be drastically reduced so that only its

antisubmarine warfare activities and naval logistics functions

remained. As for the Army, it should number a maximum of

250,000 troops, and its primary mission would be to

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“maintain order in our country during an atomic holocaust, as

well as to protect our domestic air and missile bases.”

Obviously, he was now consigning the Army and its leaders to

the same dustbin occupied by the Navy. George Marshall had

“infantryitis,” Omar Bradley (“the old monkey”) possessed a

weak intellect, and Dwight Eisenhower would “destroy and

slaughter our youth” in areas like Korea if he were elected

president. (As noted above, he miscalculated dramatically

regarding Eisenhower’s intentions and was pleasantly

surprised by most of his defense policies.) The Army, however,

would also serve as an occupational police force after airpower

had decided the matter.

Accomplishing all this was an Air

Force that received two-thirds of the defense budget and that

contained not a “mere” three hundred B-36 bombers then in

procurement plans, but three thousand such goliaths to

demolish potential adversaries with nuclear weapons from

bases in the United States.

He had interesting beliefs on the targeting strategy behind

such strikes. After achieving air superiority, global airpower

(exemplified initially by manned bombers and later by

long-range guided missiles) would strike the industrial center

of the enemy. De Seversky did not advocate merely bombing

cities or targeting the population. Such moves would prove

counterproductive because “dead people don’t revolt.” Instead,

he wanted to drive a wedge between the people and their

leaders by attacking communications and transportation

networks—by “disarming the government.”

This would result

in an “internal blockade” of a country, causing paralysis and

inability to conduct war effectively. This emphasis clearly

differed from that espoused by Douhet, who called for attacks

on the population in order to foment rebellion. It also

contrasted the thinking of theorists at the Air Corps Tactical

School (ACTS) in the 1930s, who concentrated on enemy

industry as a means of breaking the capability—not the

will—of an enemy to fight. Consequently, de Seversky offered a

unique theory of strategic airpower—related to, but distinct

from, that of his precursors.

The Air Force was also studying the idea of “air policing” in

the early 1950s. Air planners had looked at the experiences of

the Royal Air Force in the Middle East between the wars. In

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264

some cases, the RAF had been quite successful at controlling

large tribal areas through threatening air attack and, if

necessary, discreetly using it. Significantly, the RAF could

maintain order in places like Iraq and Transjordan at a

fraction of the cost of using ground forces for the same

mission. In 1950 the Air Staff considered resurrecting this

idea, terming it Project Control, and chose de Seversky to

participate as a member of the lengthy study that ensued.

The basic premise of the project was that one could use

airpower to pressure the Soviet Union into following policies

favorable to the West. If persuasion and threats proved

unsuccessful, then selective strikes—with atomic weapons if

necessary—would put teeth in the threats. The Air Staff

assumed that Soviet leaders would react just as backward

tribes of the 1920s had reacted.

This proposal—which

sounded to some extent like de Seversky’s “internal blockade”

plan—was, of course, never implemented. However, it received

serious consideration from the Truman and Eisenhower

administrations.

This entire idea of persuasion or “air policing” signified an

evolution in de Seversky’s thought. In Victory through Air

Power, he had discussed only two methods of applying

military force: occupation—the traditional strategy of ground

warfare—and destruction, now possible through airpower.

Over the next decade he modified this view, seeing not only

that airpower made possible the “neutralization” of an enemy,

but also that peaceful applications of airpower could achieve

national objectives. Viewing airpower as an enormously

effective propaganda tool, he advocated the delivery of “ideas”

as well as essentials such as food, clothing, and medicine via

airpower to win friends and undermine enemies. Testifying

before Congress in 1951, he exclaimed that too many people

saw airpower as nothing more than “bombs, bombs,

bombs.”

Yet de Seversky himself was guilty of this tendency.

Indeed, by advocating massive retaliation and at the same

time calling for a relatively benign air policing strategy, de

Seversky created a contradiction that he never resolved.

One may attribute this ambivalence, in part, to de

Seversky’s role as a transitional figure. He joined the military

theorists and doctrine formulators of the 1920s and 1930s

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(represented by Douhet, Mitchell, and the ACTS instructors)

and the civilian academicians of the 1950s and 1960s

(characterized by Bernard Brodie and Herman Kahn).

Physically and intellectually, he had a foot in both camps: as a

former combat pilot and reserve officer, he could relate to the

military pilots of the Air Corps. As a businessman, designer,

and writer, he also was at home with civilian thinkers who

devised elaborate models to describe “the balance of terror.”

De Seversky continued to write at a frenetic pace until the

mid-1960s, publishing one more book in 1961, America—Too

Young to Die, and scores more articles.

Although he

continued to move in and out of various business ventures,

his heart never seemed in them; preaching the gospel of

airpower remained his primary interest. In truth, his writings

became increasingly repetitious and technologically dated. The

major was not an expert either in jet engine technology or the

airframe design it required, and his writings on guided

missiles and spaceflight were embarrassingly off the mark.

By the late 1950s, little of what de Seversky wrote retained

either originality or interest, although he did play a useful role

at Maxwell AFB, Alabama, where he periodically lectured

young officers on airpower theory. Over the years, he lectured

to over one hundred thousand officers, reminding them of

their duty to study and promote airpower. Even in his

seventies, he could deliver a spellbinding speech laced with

his own peculiar brand of humor and metaphor. At Maxwell,

he felt at home.

The major died in 1974 at age 80. His wife, Evelyn, who

took her own life due to despondency over a long illness,

preceded him by seven years.

Alexander de Seversky was the most effective and prolific

airpower advocate of his era. His hundreds of articles and

lectures reached millions. One must remember that he did not

write to influence military leaders (they were a hopeless case);

rather, he wrote for the man in the street. Because of his

homey, down-to-earth style, he spoke the language that

average Americans could understand.

His ideas on airpower were not original. Someone else had

already articulated virtually everything he proposed. Douhet,

Mitchell, Hugh Trenchard, Ira Eaker, even Hap Arnold, his

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bête noir, had already written of the unique characteristics

and capabilities of airpower, its revolutionary nature, and its

role in forever changing the face of war. His calls for air

superiority, global range, and an industrial-based targeting

scheme were not new. De Seversky’s role was to take these

ideas, repackage them, cover them with a modicum of technical

credibility, and then sell them to the American people.

He was enormously popular, and his publication record was

staggering—over one hundred major articles and several

hundred lesser ones. Scarcely a month went by during World

War II and the decade after when his articles did not appear in

major magazines. Because his target audience comprised

average Americans, he wrote for publications such as The

American Mercury, Reader’s Digest, The Atlantic, Ladies’ Home

Journal, and Look—representing a huge and diverse

readership. Tens of millions of Americans knew of de

Seversky, and he enjoyed access to the media and the people

that was the envy of anyone attempting to influence public

policy. In fact, Gallup polls showed that the number of

Americans supporting an independent air force jumped from

42 percent in August 1941 to 59 percent in August 1943,

although he certainly was not the sole cause.

De Seversky sold basic, uncomplicated ideas. War had

become total, involving all the resources and people of a

nation. In such a titanic struggle, America must maximize its

unique strength—technological superiority granted by

airpower. Other countries might be willing to pay a heavy

price in blood and treasure to achieve their aims, but America

must not. She must restructure her defense and devise

strategies that relied on airpower. Because an air force

differed fundamentally from armies and navies, it must

remain a separate service, commanded by airmen who

understood its unique qualities—especially its ability to

operate routinely as a strategic weapon. Airpower thus offered

the hope of avoiding the bloody land battles of the world wars.

To enhance airpower’s ability to avoid such battles, one must

give it global range. As long as aircraft remained shackled to

airfields near the enemy, surface forces would need to seize

and defend those airfields; such action could precipitate the

prolonged land campaign that de Seversky hoped to avoid.

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The United States must build interhemispheric bombers,

whose primary aim was to gain control of the air—that

achieved, an enemy became helpless. Perhaps most

importantly, the American public—not just military and

political leaders—must understand all these ideas. In order to

ensure that this was the case, America must see itself as an

airpower nation and look skyward for its destiny.

Like many other air theorists, de Seversky exaggerated the

effectiveness of airpower. He overestimated the physical and

psychological effects of strategic bombing. In this sense, he

shared the shortcomings of his predecessors. Like Douhet and

Mitchell, de Seversky understood the importance of morale

and will, realizing that, somehow, one must modify or bend

the enemy’s will. Unlike them, however, he rejected the notion

that urban area bombing best produced this effect. Instead,

he opted for airpower’s use against enemy industry or

infrastructure.

All of these men had the same goal—to break, or at least

shape, enemy will—but chose different mechanisms to reach

that goal. In short, they identified different key centers against

which airpower should concentrate. Again, like Douhet and

Mitchell, de Seversky combined this emphasis on psychological

goals with a penchant for selecting highly mechanistic methods.

The major was convinced that a finite number of planes and

bombs, delivered on specific targets, would equal victory. Air

strategy consisted of destroying target sets, resulting in a

curious blend of psychology and science.

In the parlance of more classical military theory, he melded

Carl von Clausewitz and Henri de Jomini. But the product

was not altogether satisfactory. For example, he never seemed

to appreciate the fact that nuclear weapons had an even

greater impact on the human mind than on physical

structures. They represented a threshold, and discussions

about their use far transcended considerations of military

effectiveness.

De Seversky clearly misjudged the technical obstacles to

building large aircraft. His trumpeting of the Douglas B-19

and Martin flying boat proved premature. He designed a

“superclipper” in the late 1930s, but it never got off the

drawing board due to technical difficulties. Although the B-29

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constituted a significant advance over the B-17 and B-24, it

did not approach the capabilities de Seversky called for in an

interhemispheric bomber. Even the massive B-36—not a

viable weapon until 1950—fell short of his predictions. In

sum, building large aircraft differed significantly from

designing fighter planes.

He did not foresee that precisely because total war—

especially in the nuclear age—was “unprofitable,” warfare

would be limited or driven down to the unconventional level;

such wars dissipated airpower’s advantages. De Seversky

argued passionately against America’s involvement in limited

wars such as those in Korea and Vietnam. He assumed this

stance partly for cogent strategic reasons: if the Soviet threat

to Europe represented the major concern, then one should not

become distracted by relatively minor conflicts in Asia. On the

other hand, his admission of strategic airpower’s effectiveness

against modern industrialized nations amounted to a tacit

admission of its ineffectiveness against poor agrarian

societies. And admitting the limited, “low intensity” nature of

future wars amounted to admitting that airpower had clear

limitations. That was unacceptable.

Finally, to an illogical and unreasonable degree, he

denigrated the importance of armies and navies. Even in the

total wars he predicted, surface forces would have played a

greater role than merely serving as airfield gate guards and

bomb transporters. One of the distressing traits of airpower

theorists is their tendency to claim too much for their chosen

weapon. Airpower does not have to win wars alone in order to

be decisive, any more than does an army. True unification—

what today we would call “jointness”—recognizes that all

weapons and services have unique strengths and weaknesses.

Wise commanders choose those weapons and capabilities that

will most effectively and efficiently accomplish their objectives.

In the type of war envisioned by de Seversky, the unique

capabilities of airpower were at a premium. But airpower

alone could not do everything.

Nevertheless, Alexander P. de Seversky captured the essence

of a new weapon of war—and peace—and then conveyed an

understanding of that essence to millions of Americans in a way

unduplicated by anyone else, before him or since. He made

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terms like victory through airpower and peace through airpower

familiar to an entire generation. As a prophet, he was mediocre.

As a propagandizer, he was exceptional.

Notes

1. “Alexander P. de Seversky,” U.S. Air Services, August 1937, 18–19.

2. Samuel Taylor Moore, “Amazing Adventures of Legless Aviator,” Every

Week Magazine, 1929, clipping in de Seversky Papers, Cradle of Aviation

Museum archives, Long Island, N.Y. [hereinafter Cradle archives]; and

Chloe Arnold, “An Ace with One Leg and Nine Crosses,” New York Sun, 20

October 1918, 9.

3. Alexander P. de Seversky [hereinafter APS], “I Owe My Career to

Losing My Leg,” Ladies’ Home Journal, May 1944, 107.

4. James Farber, “Major de Seversky—Engineer,” Popular Aviation,

August 1935, 88; and Paul Harvey, “One Bootstrap,” Flying, September

1957, 26.

5. Aeronautics, 23 August 1916, 16. For more information about de

Seversky’s wartime exploits, see Rear Adm B. Doudoroff (his former

commander), to United States Embassy, letter, 30 March 1918, Cradle

archives.

6. APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 7 October 1938, Nassau County

Library archives, Long Island, N.Y. [hereinafter Nassau archives].

Interestingly, de Seversky’s father and brother were also military pilots; in

fact, the former was a member of Alexander’s squadron and thus a

subordinate!

7. APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 1932, Nassau archives. De Seversky

also received the Orders of Saint Ann, Saint Stanislaus, and Saint Vladimir.

8. Officially, his name was Alexander Procofieff-Seversky. However, when

he was passing through Paris in 1918, French authorities inadvertently

replaced the hyphen with a “de.” Seversky liked the change and from then

on relegated Procofieff to a middle name and used the “de.” “Mr Procofieff

from the North,” The New Yorker, 5 October 1940, 14. His trip out of Russia

was actually an escape. Since he was an aristocrat, local Bolshevik officials

viewed him with distrust, despite his war record.

9. Ibid.

10. APS, “I Remember Billy Mitchell,” Air Power Historian, October 1956,

179; “Alexander P. de Seversky,” 19; and APS, “Sky Blazers,” transcript of

radio address, 24 August 1940, Nassau archives.

11. APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 9 January 1940, Nassau

archives; and “Military Men Favor Air Refueling Flights,” New York Times,

17 August 1930, 17. For the bombsight, see Major General Patrick to

adjutant general, letter, 18 September 1924, Cradle archives; and C. L.

Paulus, Materiel Division, memorandum, subject: Seversky’s Employment

at McCook Field, Ohio, n.d. [ca. October 1941], Air Force Museum archives,

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de Seversky file, Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio. The Air Service became the

Air Corps in 1926 and the Army Air Forces in 1941.

12. A. D. McFadyn, “Major Alexander de Seversky,” Journal of the Patent

Office Society, April 1937, 273–76.

13. For a good description of the P-35 and its lineage, see Joshua Stoff,

The Thunder Factory: An Illustrated History of the Republic Aviation

Corporation (Osceola, Wisc.: Motorbooks, 1990), 11–35; and Edward T.

Maloney, Sever the Sky: Evolution of Seversky Aircraft (Corona del Mar,

Calif.: World War II Publications, 1979).

14. The Bendix Race was flown between Burbank, California, and

Cleveland, Ohio—a distance of 2,045 miles. Interestingly, when told by the

Air Corps that the P-35 was too advanced for Army pilots, de Seversky

asked aviatrix Jackie Cochran to fly the plane and demonstrate its

simplicity and reliability. Cochran flew the P-35 to victory in the 1938

Bendix. Dan Dwiggens, They Flew the Bendix Race (Philadelphia: J. B.

Lippincott, 1965), 94–110.

15. De Seversky to Air Vice Marshal Sholto Douglas, letter, 8 April 1939,

Cradle archives.

16. In 1967 de Seversky recalled experimenting with 37 mm and 82 mm

cannon mounted on flying boats in 1917. Speech to the Naval War College,

28 April 1967, de Seversky Papers, Nassau archives. De Seversky argued

for greatly increased armament, including rockets, on fighter aircraft as

early as 1934. APS, “How Can Pursuit Aviation Regain Its Tactical

Freedom?” U.S. Air Services, March 1934, 16–17. He reiterated this idea in

“Lest We Forget,” U.S. Air Services, January 1937, 16–17.

17. De Seversky wrote letters to several high-ranking Air Corps officers,

including at least four to the chief of the Materiel Division, in May and June

1938, making such suggestions, but evidently the only response was from a

Lieutenant Colonel Volandt at Wright Field, Ohio, who stated that the Air

Corps simply was not interested. Copies of all letters are in the Cradle

archives.

18. Capt Claire L. Chennault, “Special Support for Bombardment,” U.S.

Air Services, January 1934, 18–24; and Stephen L. McFarland and Wesley

Newton, To Command the Sky: The Battle for Air Superiority over Germany,

1942–44 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991).

19. Evelyn de Seversky, transcript of radio broadcast, 22 June 1933,

Nassau archives. In addition, both the de Severskys generally took their

cocker spaniel, “Vodka,” along on their flights; she logged over one

thousand flying hours.

20. “Presenting Alexander P. de Seversky,” Pathfinder, 13 February

1942, 16; New York Daily News, 1 August 1967, 12; APS, “Scoring the

Stunt Contest,” The Sportsman Pilot, May–June 1933, 10–12, 45–48; and

John F. Whiteley, “Alexander de Seversky, A Personal Portrait,” Aerospace

Historian, Fall 1977, 155–57.

21. Alexander de Seversky, interviewed by Murray Green, New York,

N.Y., 16 April 1970, Green Papers, USAF Academy archives, Colorado

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Springs, Colorado. The difficulties and bickering between de Seversky and

the Air Corps over the BT-8 contract’s fulfillment is illustrative. See

pertinent letters and reports, October 1935–March 1936, Cradle archives.

De Seversky also received the Harmon Trophy in 1947 when President

Truman lauded his tireless efforts during the war to alert the American

public to the importance of airpower.

22. H. H. Arnold Jr., interviewed by Murray Green, Sheridan, Wyo., 29

August 1972, Green Papers, USAF Academy archives; and Landers to de

Seversky, letter, 6 April 1942, Cradle archives. This letter contains a

number of affidavit attachments regarding de Seversky’s lawsuit against

Republic. The various charges and countercharges are spelled out here,

including the record of a phone conversation between de Seversky’s lawyer

and General Arnold, in which the latter gives credit to de Seversky as an

engineer but notes that “someone else should handle other parts of the

business.” Another letter tells de Seversky he is spending too much money

on his business trips. Wattes to de Seversky, letter, 26 November 1938,

Cradle archives.

23. Arnold’s motives are confirmed by his wartime chief of staff. See Lt

Gen Barney Giles, interviewed by Murray Green, San Antonio, Tex., 12 May

1970, Green Papers, USAF Academy archives. One should note, however,

that in an effort to boost company profits, de Seversky sold 20 aircraft to

Japan in 1938, a move not welcomed by the Air Corps. Stoff, 23.

24. “The Founder Complains,” Time, 2 September 1940, 56–57; and

press release from H. A. Bruno and Associates (de Seversky’s lawyers), 22

August 1940, Cradle archives.

25. Even 30 years after these events, de Seversky’s 1970 interview is

laced with anger and bitterness towards Arnold for taking his company

away from him. On the other hand, Arnold asked his Materiel Division to

search its records, talk to personnel who had worked with de Seversky, and

get all available information on his employment at McCook Field, Ohio, in

the 1920s. Unsigned memorandum, 8 October 1941, de Seversky file, Air

Force Museum archives, Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio.

26. APS, “Analysis of Statements Made by General H. H. Arnold,” 24

May 1943, Nassau archives.

27. APS, “The Ordeal of American Air Power,” American Mercury, July

1941, 7–14; and idem, “Victory through Air Power!” American Mercury,

February 1942, 149.

28. De Seversky to FDR, letter, 11 July 1941, copy in Green Papers,

USAF Academy archives; and “Seversky Calls Army Air Set-Up No

‘Unification,’ but Misnomer,” New York Herald Tribune, 3 July 1941.

29. APS, “The Twilight of Sea Power,” American Mercury, June 1941, 647.

30. APS, “Navies Are Finished,” American Mercury, February 1946, 137;

idem, “Ten Air Power Lessons for America,” Flying and Popular Aviation,

July 1941, 62; and idem, “When Will America Be Bombed?” American

Mercury, April 1942, 415.

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31. APS, “Air Power and Space Supremacy,” speech to Virginia Military

Institute, 7 March 1958, Nassau archives; and Evelyn de Seversky,

transcript of radio broadcast, 2 June 1942, Nassau archives.

32. APS, “I Am an American,” transcript of radio broadcast, 27 July

1941, Nassau archives.

33. “Seversky Fears September War,” New York Post, 13 July 1939.

34. APS, “My Thoughts on the War,” Popular Aviation, April 1940, 19;

“Seversky Feels British Could Balk Invasion,” New York Herald Tribune, 1

June 1940, 5; and APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 20 June 1940,

Nassau archives.

35. “Ten Air Power Lessons,” 14; and APS, “America Repeats Europe’s

Aviation Mistakes,” American Mercury, October 1941, 401–4.

36. APS, “Hard Facts on Air Power,” American Mercury, August 1940,

406–14; “‘Umbrella’ of Air Held Vital to Navy,” New York World Telegram, 4

June 1940; and APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 26 May 1941, Nassau

archives.

37. APS, “The Twilight of Sea Power,” 648–49.

38. APS, “Why Lindbergh Is Wrong,” American Mercury, May 1941,

519–32; and idem, “Why the Luftwaffe Failed,” The Atlantic, March 1942,

293–302.

39. APS, “Aviation vs. Isolation,” Vital Speeches of the Day, 1 July 1941,

557–58.

40. APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 26 May 1941, Nassau archives.

41. The previous month de Seversky had written Congress, once again

recounting his plans for a long-range, heavily armed escort fighter in 1938

and complaining that Arnold had rejected his offers. De Seversky to Truman

Committee Investigating National Defense, letter, 18 January 1942, Nassau

archives.

42. APS, Victory through Air Power (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1942),

213–53; see also idem, “Aviation Ballyhoo vs. Aviation Facts,” American

Mercury, September 1942, 263–74.

43. “Seversky’s Reply to Critics,” New York Herald Tribune, 25 August

1942. This is apparently a response to a statement made by Arnold in a

book he coauthored the previous year: “Comparative tests indicate there is

little difference and no great disparity between them [the P-40 and Spitfire]

in speed, climb and maneuverability.” Maj Gen H. H. Arnold and Col Ira C.

Eaker, Winged Warfare (New York: Harper, 1941), 22.

44. “Wing Tips,” Steel, 14 September 1942, 100; and David Brown,

“Victory through Hot Air Power,” Pic, 15 January 1943, 7.

45. APS, Victory through Air Power, 307.

46. Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Dino Ferrari (1942;

reprint, Washington, D. C.: Office of Air Force History, 1983), 244–50.

47. APS, “World War III and How to Win It,” Coronet, January 1955, 118.

48. APS, “Memo on Enforcement of Peace through Air Power,” 6 January

1943, Nassau archives.

49. Douhet, 50.

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50. Hanson Baldwin, “Victory through Air Power? No!” Sea Power, June

1942, 6–8; and Hoffman Nickerson, “Seversky, Air Power! Nickerson, Not

Enough!” Field Artillery Journal, July 1942, 543–49. For the most vicious

response, see Maj Gen Paul B. Malone, “Victory through Air Prophets?”

Skyways, November 1942, 6–9, 74–75.

51. Quoted in Russell Lee, “Victory through Air Power: American Army

Air Forces, Navy and Public Reactions to the Book and Film during World

War II” (master’s thesis, George Mason University, 1992), 87.

52. Ibid., 54–62. After the war, Arnold wrote to Gen Carl Spaatz, his

successor as commanding general of AAF, that de Seversky was

“dangerous” because of his incessant carping on the alleged failures of

American airpower during the war. Arnold to Spaatz, letter, 9 March 1946,

copy in Green Papers, USAF Academy archives. Interestingly, de Seversky

had great respect for Gen Frank Andrews, Arnold’s contemporary, who was

then commander of the Caribbean theater. Andrews died in a plane crash in

May 1943.

53. William Bradford Huie, “What’s behind the Attacks on Seversky?”

American Mercury, February 1943, 156.

54. Clifton Fadiman, review of Victory through Air Power, The New

Yorker, 25 April 1942, 74–76; Donald W. Mitchell, “The Dominance of Air

Power,” review of Victory through Air Power, The Nation, 23 May 1942, 604;

and Huie, 155.

55. Cited in Lee, 34; see also Richard Shale, Donald Duck Joins Up (Ann

Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms International, 1982), 69. That was

approximately one of every six Americans at the time.

56. Walton H. Rawls, Disney Dons Dog Tags (New York: Abbeville, 1992),

6. Perhaps the most well known Disney military insignia was that used by

the Flying Tigers, the famed air unit based in China.

57. Transcript of BBC radio broadcast, 17 September 1943, Nassau

archives.

58. APS, transcripts of radio broadcasts, 13 August 1943 and 30

January 1944, Nassau archives; and idem, “Walt Disney, an Airman in His

Heart,” Aerospace Historian, Spring 1967, 7.

59. De Seversky had taken a Dale Carnegie course in 1933 to improve

his public speaking skills. Nevertheless, when rehearsing the script for the

movie, he stated that German troops landed on Norway’s beaches—

pronouncing that word as if it were the term for female dogs. Disney then

decided that Sascha needed elocution lessons. APS, “In the Lyons Den,” 14

August 1943, Nassau archives.

60. Kuter, memorandum to Arnold, 23 June 1943, copy in Green

Papers, USAF Academy archives. The two friends were Gen Larry Kuter and

Gen Hal George. Gen Laurence Kuter, interviewed by Murray Green, New

York City, 17 April 1970, Green Papers, USAF Academy archives; and Lee,

78–83.

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61. Slessor to de Seversky, letter, 29 September 1943, Nassau archives.

Between the wars, Slessor wrote a volume on airpower theory that is still

considered a classic: Air Power and Armies (London: Oxford, 1936).

62. Kuter interview; and John Gunther, Taken at the Flood: The Story of

Albert D. Lasker (New York: Harper & Row, 1960), 281–86.

63. De Seversky interviewed Hirohito on 2 November 1945. APS,

transcript of radio broadcast, 1 November 1945, Nassau archives; and

idem, “Report to Secretary Patterson on the Pacific War,” 11 February 1946,

6, Nassau archives. The emperor reputedly added that he was convinced

early on that airpower would eventually determine the outcome of the war.

64. Lee, 43–50.

65. The “superplane” is mentioned in the book but does not play as

prominent a role as it does in the movie. Victory through Air Power, 316.

When asked later about this seeming contradiction in his stance on the

need for escort at that point in the war, de Seversky maintained that they

had attempted several ways to explain this problem in the film, but all such

solutions were too complex. They therefore decided to go with the easy—

admittedly fanciful—depiction in the movie. APS, “Air Power and the

Future,” lecture at Royal Canadian Air Force Staff College, 25 August 1947,

Nassau archives.

66. APS, “Outlines, Quotations, Lessons, etc.,” ca. 1945, Nassau

archives.

67. APS, “Bomb the Axis from America,” American Mercury, December

1943, 680. De Seversky’s advocacy of “precision bombing” at the same time he

spoke of obliteration and destruction from the sky is an interesting paradox. To

a far greater degree than his contemporaries in AAF, he saw airpower as a

blunt instrument rather than a rapier. Given the technology of the time, de

Seversky’s perspective on this issue was the more realistic one.

68. APS, “Report to Secretary of War Patterson,” 10 September 1945,

3–4, Nassau archives.

69. APS, “Report to Secretary Patterson on the Pacific War,” 11 February

1946, 2–7.

70. Patterson Pacific Report, Supplement on Atomic Bombings, Nassau

archives; APS, “Atomic Bomb Hysteria,” Reader’s Digest, February 1946,

121–26; and idem, transcript of radio broadcast, 15 February 1946, Nassau

archives. Of note, a long-time naval adversary accused de Seversky of

conservatism. See Fletcher Pratt, “Seversky and the Bomb,” New Republic,

11 March 1946, 41. At this point, de Seversky did not understand the

danger posed by nuclear radiation.

71. APS, “The Only Way to Rearm Europe,” American Mercury, March

1949, 269.

72. APS, transcripts of radio broadcasts, 17 August 1940, 27 July 1941,

10 August 1941, and 7 February 1942, all in Nassau archives.

73. APS, transcript of radio broadcast, 27 July 1941, Nassau archives;

and idem, speech to the Conference Board, New York City, 19 March 1942,

Nassau archives.

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74. APS, King Features Syndicate article, 12 September 1952, Nassau

archives. De Seversky wrote several dozen essays for King Features, most of

which were published as newspaper editorials.

75. This philosophy is fully developed in de Seversky’s second book, Air

Power, Key to Survival (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1950). See also idem,

“The US Air Force in Power Politics,” Air Affairs, Winter 1949, 477–90.

76. APS, “Wonder Weapons Can’t Win a War,” This Week, 10 September

1950, 4–8; and idem, “Korea Proves Our Need for a Dominant Air Force,”

Reader’s Digest, October 1950, 6–10.

77. APS, “Evaluation of the Air Weapon,” lecture to Air War College,

Maxwell AFB, Ala., 19 November 1953, 4–5, US Air Force Historical

Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, Alabama [hereinafter AFHRA], file

K239.716253-63.

78. APS, King Features Syndicate article, 16 April 1951, Nassau

archives; and idem, “Build an Invincible Air Force Now,” Vital Speeches of

the Day, 1 January 1951, 176.

79. APS, Air Power, Key to Survival, 68–79; and idem, “Navies Are

Finished,” 143. Not surprisingly, de Seversky later strongly opposed

American involvement in Vietnam, for much the same reasons. “Dealing

with a Major Subject,” New York News, 20 June 1971, 7–9; and APS,

speech to Squadron Officer School, Maxwell AFB, Ala., 18 March 1971,

Nassau archives.

80. APS, “Our Current Inferiority Is Not Scientific,” Vital Speeches of the

Day, February 1958, 238–42; and idem, “Our Antiquated Defense Policy,”

American Mercury, April 1949, 389–99.

81. APS, interviewed by Mike Wallace, 20 September 1957; idem,

memorandum for record, 15 April 1951; and record of telephone con-

versation with Gen Elbert Wedemeyer, 11 April 1951, all in Nassau

archives. De Seversky’s choice for the Republican nomination in 1952 was

Robert A. Taft.

82. APS, “Build an Invincible Air Force Now,” 175.

83. APS, “New Concepts of Air Power,” lecture to Army War College,

Carlisle Barracks, Pa., 18 March 1952, 10–16, AFHRA, file K239.716252-

63; idem, “Evaluation of the Air Weapon,” 11–12; and idem, Air Power, Key

to Survival, 183–90.

84. For a good discussion of the British Air Control experiences of the

1920s and 1930s, see David E. Omissi, Air Power and Colonial Control: The

Royal Air Force, 1919–1939 (New York: Saint Martin’s, 1990). For the best

discussion of Project Control, see Maj George R. Gagnon, “Air Control:

Strategy for a Smaller Air Force” (master’s thesis, School of Advanced

Airpower Studies, Maxwell AFB, Ala., 1993).

85. APS, transcript of testimony before Senate Armed Services and

Foreign Relations Committees, 21 February 1951, 734, Nassau archives.

86. APS, America—Too Young to Die (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1961). This

book is a highly polemical piece, as the name suggests, containing few new

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ideas. It did, however, call attention to the growing importance of electronic

warfare in airpower employment.

87. See, for example, APS, “Artificial Gravity for Spaceships,” Science

Digest, October 1946, 5–8; and idem, “Your Trip to Mars,” Pageant, August

1952, 5–15.

88. George H. Gallup, The Gallup Poll: Public Opinion, 1935–1971, vol. 1

(New York: Random House, 1972), 293, 399.

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Chapter 8

Strategic Airpower and Nuclear Strategy:

New Theory for a Not-Quite-So-New

Apocalypse

Dr. Karl P. Mueller*

Many of the other chapters in this book plow surprisingly

untilled ground. As Phillip Meilinger notes in his introduction to

this volume, the amount that has not yet been written (or in the

case of Giulio Douhet, simply translated) about strategic- and

operational-level airpower is often startling. The subject of

nuclear strategy is quite different: its theoretical soil has been

cultivated nearly to the point of exhaustion, and in many places

it has been virtually paved over by 50 years of intense study.

During its first two decades, nuclear strategic thought

reached a plateau of maturity, where it essentially remains

today. Although it is not quite the case that nothing new has

been said about this subject since Thomas Schelling’s Arms

and Influence and Bernard Brodie’s Escalation and the Nuclear

Option appeared in 1966, subsequent work in the field

generally has been limited to offering marginal (though often

extremely significant) insights, challenges, and illumination of

the work that went before.

Both new nuclear technological

developments and new nuclear policy debates, some of them

important, have engaged scholars and other participants

during the last 30 years, but, with few exceptions, these

matters represent the reemergence of much older precursors.

The relative stasis of strategic nuclear thought during the

last generation has led some people to characterize it as a

theoretical dead end, ultimately rendered obsolete by the end

of the US-Soviet cold war, if not before. In reality, however, the

field reached an early theoretical plateau due to its rapid

initial development, along with the intrinsic simplicity of the

*The author thanks Mark Bovankovich, Mark Conversino, Thomas Ehrhard, Charles

Glaser, Jonathan Kirshner, John Mueller, Robert Pape, Dan Reiter, and Jeffrey Renehan

for their generous advice and comments on this essay.

279

subject. Although a lifetime of scholarship is insufficient for

most students of conventional warfare to master their subject,

any reasonably intelligent undergraduate can learn the

essentials of nuclear strategy in mere hours of instruction and

study—or can become reasonably expert in the subject in a

semester. Indeed, 93 minutes spent watching Stanley

Kubrick’s consummate film Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned

to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964) will teach attentive

viewers much of what they need to know in order to

understand the principal nuclear debates.

These factors made nuclear strategy an unpromising

subject for most writers of dissertations during the second

half of the cold war, but they did not make it unimportant.

Rather, the theories and insights developed by theorists of the

“golden age” of deterrence theory—and subsequently refined

by their successors—remain relevant, and one can see their

growing influence on (or at least their congruence with)

conventional airpower theory today.

Because other writers have already ably documented and

recounted the historical development of nuclear weapons

and

nuclear strategic theory

in far more substantial works, this

essay does not seek to retell this story. Nor does it attempt to

summarize the evolution of US or other nuclear strategies and

war plans

—the development of which occurred parallel to but

often almost completely disconnected from the work of nuclear

strategic theorists—or of nuclear arms control.

Instead, the

following sections offer a brief sketch of the technological

aspects of the nuclear revolution, as well as a primer on the

enduring principles of nuclear strategic thought, focusing on the

similarities and differences between this discipline and the other

major strands of airpower theory. Finally, the essay concludes

with a discussion of both the contemporary relevance (and

irrelevance) of nuclear strategy and its relationship with

contemporary theories of nonnuclear airpower.

The Nuclear Revolution

Most technological revolutions happen gradually, resulting

not from a single event but from the cumulative effect of a

number of related innovations. This was certainly the case

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with the aviation revolution—and with the nuclear revolution

as well. In both instances, technological developments

paralleled the development of theories about their implications

and application, with theorists sometimes leading the way and

sometimes trying to keep pace with advances driven by

technological imperatives. However, there probably has never

been another revolution quite so dominated by technological

forces as this one, or one in which theory and doctrine were so

deductively derived from characteristics of the weapons whose

use they were intended to guide. Therefore, one may

reasonably begin with an overview of the key technological

elements that accumulated to form the mature nuclear

strategic world that we have known since the late 1960s,

before turning to the theories that seek to explain it.

Nuclear Warheads

During the Second World War, the Anglo-American

Manhattan Project produced the first atomic bombs—tested in

New Mexico and then dropped at Hiroshima and Nagasaki in

the summer of 1945. The Soviet Union tested its first atomic

bomb in 1949, followed by Great Britain in 1952. This first

generation of nuclear weapons derived its revolutionary

explosive power from nuclear fission—the splitting of heavy,

unstable elements (uranium 235 and plutonium 239) into

smaller atoms, releasing vast amounts of energy as blast,

light, heat, and other forms of radiation.

Early atomic bombs

were on the order of one thousand times more powerful than

conventional explosive bombs of similar size; fission weapons

subsequently became smaller and more efficient, evolving into

today’s tactical nuclear weapons.

The destruction that a single atomic bomb could wreak on a

city or other target was comparable to that inflicted by a

massive conventional air raid involving hundreds of heavy

bombers. (One should recall that the deadliest bombing raid of

the Second World War occurred not at Hiroshima or Nagasaki

but Tokyo, on the first night of the US firebombing of that city,

9–10 March 1945.) One may fairly say that with this

technology, airpower had finally caught up with Douhet’s

imagination. A state equipped with heavy bombers carrying

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atomic bombs could destroy many of its enemy’s cities in

rapid succession, even in the face of substantial defenses.

The next (and the last, to date) fundamental advance in

nuclear explosive technology came in the 1950s, as all three of

the nuclear powers developed thermonuclear (or hydrogen)

weapons. Using atomic explosives as triggers, hydrogen

bombs employ nuclear fusion—the combining of heavy

isotopes of hydrogen into heavier helium atoms—to produce

explosions one thousand times more powerful than those from

similar-sized atomic bombs, or a million times more powerful

than conventional explosives. Although a postwar atomic

bomb could devastate the center of a medium-sized city, a

reasonably large thermonuclear weapon could obliterate a

large metropolitan area—even if delivered with considerable

inaccuracy. Nuclear attack now threatened major powers not

only with massive urban casualties and devastation but also

with effective national destruction.

Subsequent developments in nuclear warhead technology

have occurred around the margins, as weapons have become

smaller with specialized characteristics—such as reduced or

enhanced radiation effects or penetration ability.

With the

arrival of thermonuclear warheads, the locus of nuclear

development shifted to the systems used to deliver weapons to

their targets.

Delivery Systems

Heavy strategic bombers designed to carry conventional

bombs dropped the first nuclear weapons on their targets, and

bombers remained the only major nuclear-delivery system for

the following decade. Subsequent generations of bombers

offered advancements in payload, range, and speed, especially

with the arrival of jet engines and aerial refueling. Designers

increasingly optimized aircraft to carry nuclear weapons,

although most also retained some capability to deliver

conventional ordnance. The problem of penetrating enemy air

defenses became more difficult with the development and

evolution of surface-to-air missiles (SAM), necessitating the

development of higher- and faster-flying bombers. In the

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1960s, emphasis shifted to penetrating enemy territory at very

low altitudes in order to evade detection and interception.

The 1950s saw the development of missiles as

nuclear-delivery systems, beginning with short-, medium-,

and intermediate-range ballistic missiles (S-, M-, and IRBM),

and culminating in intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBM),

capable of striking the United States from bases in the Soviet

Union or vice versa. The first public demonstration of an

ICBM occurred when the USSR used such a rocket to launch

Sputnik I into orbit as the first artificial satellite in 1957,

producing unprecedented alarm in a United States

accustomed both to virtual invulnerability to direct attack and

to a comfortable lead on the Soviets in all things technological.

ICBMs and other ballistic missiles differed in several

important respects from the bombers they first supplemented

and soon began to supplant. They were far faster and able to

travel from one superpower’s territory to the other’s in

something on the order of 30 minutes. They could not be

intercepted (until antiballistic missiles [ABM] were developed),

whereas only some of the bombers would successfully

penetrate enemy air defenses. Land-based missiles also

proved more economical to maintain than bombers and their

crews and proved more suitable to tight centralized control.

Both of these characteristics appealed to the Soviet Union,

which would end up investing a far higher proportion of its

strategic nuclear resources in ICBMs than would the United

States. On the other hand, one could not recall missiles after

launch,

which meant they had to wait at their bases,

perhaps vulnerable to attack, until the proper authorities

decided to launch them. Further, they were inferior to

bombers in payload, accuracy (until the 1980s), and—above

all—versatility. Early ballistic missiles also required fueling

with highly volatile liquid propellants prior to launching—

which required warning time—and they could remain fueled

and ready to launch only for a matter of hours before they

would have to stand down for a considerable period. But the

development of more advanced rocket fuels later removed

these limitations.

Similar weapons took to the sea in the form of sea-launched

ballistic missiles (SLBM), beginning in the early 1960s.

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Generally smaller and shorter ranged than their land-based

counterparts, as well as solid-fueled, SLBMs offered the

tremendous advantage of being based on platforms difficult or

impossible to detect and attack prior to missile launch.

Their principal disadvantage was a significant reduction in

accuracy compared to ICBMs, which persisted until the

United States deployed the Trident D-5 SLBM in the late

1980s.

SLBMs were also less easily controlled by central

authorities than were land-based systems since their

submarines had to be able to operate with a considerable

degree of autonomy. This is probably why they played a

relatively small role in the Soviet arsenal compared to those of

the United States, Britain, and France.

As improvements in radar, missiles, and interceptor aircraft

increased the difficulty of slipping through hostile air defenses,

another response was to equip bombers with standoff

weapons—nuclear-armed missiles that one could fire at a target

from some hundreds of miles away. One could use these

weapons as the aircraft’s primary armament instead of free-fall

bombs, to reduce the bomber’s exposure to enemy fire, or could

fire them at early warning radars and SAM sites in order to

suppress the enemy’s defenses and make penetration easier.

A new technology with profound strategic implications

appeared in the late 1960s with the development of multiple

independently targeted reentry vehicles (MIRV). By replacing

the single warhead on a missile with a postboost vehicle or

“bus” carrying multiple—and now very accurate—warheads

(or reentry vehicles [RV]),

each of which could strike a

different target, a single missile conceivably could destroy a

larger number of the enemy’s nuclear weapons (providing

incentives to strike first in a crisis, as discussed in more detail

below) or other dispersed targets. Multiple warheads were also

potentially useful for penetrating antimissile defenses since

they would increase the number of objects the defender had to

intercept. By the late 1970s, more than half of the US ICBM

force and all of its SLBMs were MIRVed.

The latest development in strategic nuclear-delivery systems

actually to have become operational is stealth technology, which

makes aircraft difficult to detect by radar. Although stealth has

achieved its greatest prominence by enabling US aircraft to

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penetrate enemy air defenses in order to launch conventional

bombing attacks, Northrop developed the B-2 “Spirit” stealth

bomber as a penetrating nuclear bomber to attack targets,

including mobile Soviet ICBMs, discussed further below.

In addition to the major strategic systems—bombers,

ICBMs, and SLBMs—a variety of other, shorter-range delivery

systems were developed for tactical nuclear weapons—smaller

warheads intended for use against enemy military forces on or

near the battlefield. These included fighters and attack

aircraft , short-range missiles and rockets, howitzers and other

artillery pieces, atomic demolition munitions, cruise missiles,

torpedoes, and depth charges. Cruise missiles eventually

became important strategic nuclear weapons, as their ranges

and accuracies increased and their ability to fly low-altitude,

terrain-following flight paths reduced their vulnerability to

interception to a very low order. Strategic nuclear cruise

missiles were deployed on ground launchers, aircraft, surface

ships, and submarines. Most tactical nuclear-delivery systems

were dual-capable—that is, suitable for carrying either

conventional or nuclear warheads.

Still other nuclear-delivery systems have been planned or

developed without being deployed.

Most notably, the Outer

Space Treaty of 1967 outlawed the placement of nuclear

weapons in orbit (or on the Moon), and an international

agreement in 1971 proscribed the placement of nuclear weapons

on the oceanic floor. Space-based weapons were especially

threatening because they could attack with little warning;

similar concerns led to a ban on testing SLBMs in depressed-

trajectory mode, in which a submarine fires the missile at a

shallower angle than normal in order to shorten the length of its

flight and minimize the defender’s warning. The most recent

nuclear-delivery system not quite to appear was the so-called

supergun, under construction in Iraq prior to the Gulf War.

Basing

The evolution of nuclear warheads and their delivery

systems has principally focused on features familiar in almost

all airpower theory—firepower, accuracy, speed, range,

penetration ability, and flexibility. An additional area of

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285

concern (to nuclear strategists, perhaps the most important

one of all) relates to the basing mode of nuclear weapons,

especially as this affects their survivability in the event of an

enemy first strike.

Protecting bombers from preemptive attack remained a

relatively straightforward problem, particularly before the

development of nuclear-armed missiles. When air bases were

vulnerable only to attack by manned aircraft, one could

develop and maintain sufficient early warning capabilities and

alert levels to enable the bombers to take off before the enemy

could destroy them on the ground. Another obvious response,

but one the United States did not quickly adopt, was the

basing of bombers far from the enemy’s bases in order to

maximize warning times in the event of an enemy attack.

Perhaps the greatest direct impact that civilian strategists

ever had on American nuclear policy came in the 1950s, when

Albert Wohlstetter and others at RAND explained to the Air

Force that the US bomber force could be vulnerable to a

surprise nuclear attack at its forward bases around the Soviet

periphery.

The appearance of ballistic missiles complicated

this problem considerably, further encouraging the dispersal

of bomber forces to secondary airfields in the event of a crisis

and the maintenance of some US bombers on constant

airborne alert. The deployment of SLBMs, with their shorter

flight times, made the problem worse, but one could still

reasonably expect successful launch of at least a portion of an

alert bomber force before its bases came under attack.

Advances in surveillance satellites’ ability to detect enemy

missile launches reinforced this expectation.

The problem of ICBM survivability proved more challenging,

since the missiles had to stay on the ground until authorities

made a final decision to launch. One could not launch early

ICBMs on short notice, due to the need to fuel them, and an

enemy could easily destroy their above-ground launch sites.

During the 1960s, the advent of storable liquid (later solid)

rocket propellants, the deployment of ICBMs in hardened

underground silos, and the development of SLBMs carried by

nuclear-powered submarines addressed these problems.

Because one could reliably destroy hardened silos—relatively

resistant to blast effects—only by the explosion of a warhead

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286

in close proximity, an enemy would have to attack each silo

separately and would need to use only fairly accurate weapons

against them. Thus, SLBMs would not prove useful for

attacking ICBMs. Further, if two states had similar numbers

of single-warhead ICBMs (assuming they were less than 100

percent effective) and if one attacked the other’s missiles, the

attacker’s entire arsenal would not destroy all of the

defender’s ICBMs, leaving the attacker disarmed and the

defender able to retaliate with its surviving weapons. SLBMs,

effectively immune from preemptive attack except when their

submarines were in port, reinforced this pattern.

ICBM survivability came under much greater threat as

ICBM accuracies increased and as MIRVs appeared.

Consequently, these technologies quickly became the bêtes

noires of arms control advocates (along with ballistic missile

defenses, discussed below). If each side in a confrontation

possessed one thousand ICBMs with four warheads apiece,

half of either force could attack each of the enemy’s ICBMs

with two warheads and possibly eliminate his force in a first

strike.

The chance that land-based missile forces might be

vulnerable to preemptive attack led to a variety of responses,

the primary one being deployment of missiles on mobile

launchers instead of in fixed silos in order to keep an enemy

from knowing the locations of the missiles. Although the

United States canceled its plans for mobile ICBMs with the

demise of the cold war, the Soviet Union deployed two mobile

ICBM systems—one carried on railroads and the other

road-mobile. In response, the United States planned to use

the B-2 stealth bomber to hunt and attack these weapons. A

variety of other basing schemes also addressed the ICBM

vulnerability problem, especially during repeated deliberations

about how to deploy the American MX (Peacekeeper) missile in

the 1970s and 1980s.

However, the presence of a variety of types of strategic

nuclear weapons systems complicated the problem of

launching a disarming first strike. Much as the

rock-scissors-paper interactions of infantry, cavalry, and

artillery dominated Napoleonic land warfare, the triad of

bombers, ICBMs, and SLBMs proved quite robust during most

of the cold war. Once the target state detected a first-strike

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ICBM launch, it would have perhaps 25 minutes to launch a

large number of alert bombers. On the other hand, if the

attack began with a rapid SLBM strike to catch the bombers

on the ground, the target might have time to launch its intact

ICBM force in retaliation before the enemy could attack it. And

no matter how one planned an attack, it could not destroy the

enemy’s patrolling missile submarines, which would therefore

provide a robust second-strike capability against area targets

such as cities.

Strategic Defenses

All of these calculations assumed that, as Douhet and

Stanley Baldwin had once predicted about conventional

airpower, the bombers (and the missiles) would always get

through—or at least that enough of them would to inflict

catastrophic losses on the target nation. One had considerable

incentive to intercept attacking missiles and aircraft—a

familiar problem during the bomber age. As had happened

before, the capabilities of fighter aircraft to intercept bombers

and of bombers to avoid interception raced against each other

as speeds, ceilings, rates of climb, ranges, firepower, and

sensor capabilities improved. SAMs, first developed by

Germany at the end of the Second World War, joined the

combination of early warning radars, interceptors, and

antiaircraft artillery (AAA). The United States deployed SAMs,

air-to-air missiles, and rockets armed with small nuclear

warheads to increase the effectiveness of its air defenses. The

improving capabilities of air defense systems prompted rapid

developments in electronic warfare and standoff weapons, a

shift to low-level flight profiles to take advantage of difficulties

that ground clutter imposed on radar detection, and research

into stealth technologies to reduce the visibility of aircraft to

radar and other sensors. Although never easy for the bomber,

getting through modern air defenses was not impossible—and

nuclear weapons meant that one could not disregard even a

low percentage of successful penetrations.

Ballistic missiles presented an even more difficult defensive

problem. In order for a SAM to be an effective ABM, it needed

to be able to shoot down an extremely small, sturdy projectile

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reentering the atmosphere at perhaps 20 times the speed of

sound, with relatively little time to detect and track the target.

During the 1960s, the United States developed several such

systems to the testing stage, involving large exoatmospheric

interceptor missiles with thermonuclear warheads as a first

line of defense, backed up by shorter-range missiles with

small nuclear warheads to attack RVs that had penetrated the

first layer.

The arms race between ballistic missiles and ABMs had

several highly unattractive features. First, as one side

developed its ABM system, the other could simply increase the

number of warheads it could launch in order to ensure that

some of them would penetrate the defenses. This meant that

one state could render itself immune to a nuclear first strike

only if the other allowed it to do so (or ran out of money).

However, a less-than-perfect ABM system might allow the

owning state to launch a successful first strike, since defenses

capable of stopping only part of the enemy’s total nuclear

arsenal might prove quite effective against the weaker

retaliatory strike of a state just subjected to massive nuclear

attack. Therefore, ABM opponents argued, investing in

extremely expensive defenses made sense only for an

aggressive nation—to protect second-strike countervalue

forces otherwise vulnerable to preemptive attack or to limit

damage from a strike by a minor nuclear power undeterred by

retaliatory threats.

The combination of high prospective

costs and limited strategic benefits led the United States and

the Soviet Union to sign a treaty as part of the Strategic Arms

Limitation Treaty (SALT) I agreement in 1972, effectively

banning ABMs.

With the country vulnerable to nuclear

missile attack, US investment in defenses against bombers

became of limited value and gradually tapered off.

From the earliest days of the nuclear era, the desire to limit

damage in the event of an enemy nuclear attack also led to civil

defense efforts to protect populations and industry. In the

United States, civil defense lost some of its viability and most of

its popularity once the Soviet Union had achieved the ability to

deliver large numbers of thermonuclear weapons against the

United States. Soviet enthusiasm for civil defense persisted to a

greater extent, and the United States often interpreted it as a

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sign of willingness to fight a nuclear war. Eventually, however,

it became clear that Soviet civil defense preparedness was

considerably lower in reality than in rhetoric.

Ballistic missile defense (BMD) returned to prominence in

the 1980s after President Ronald Reagan’s announcement in

1983 of a Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) program to build a

space-based ABM system, which quickly became known as

“Star Wars” to almost all but its most intense advocates.

Although SDI involved research into a new generation of

sensors and weapons—particularly a wide range of lasers and

other directed-energy weapons—the strategic and budgetary

debates surrounding it were virtually indistinguishable from

those about ABMs 20 years earlier. Again, the prospects for

developing the complete missile shield that Reagan envisioned

(generally referred to as the “astrodome” concept) appeared

weak, even within the SDI organization; a variety of less

comprehensive defenses remained attractive to many people

but drew criticism as being unreasonably expensive,

technologically infeasible, or of limited value except as a

supplement to a US first strike against the USSR. The

apparent decline of Soviet hostility in the late 1980s

(attributed in part to Moscow’s recognition that it could not

afford to engage in expensive BMD and other arms races with

the United States) resulted in reduced spending on SDI, but

the program continued, shifting its emphasis to theater BMD

against shorter-range missiles launched by regional powers

such as Iraq.

Principles of Strategic Nuclear Theory

Many of the rudiments of nuclear theory have already

appeared in the preceding sections, for they are inextricably

tied to—and largely derived from—the infrastructure of

nuclear technology. Although nuclear strategic theory may be

the single most deductive body of thought in the social

sciences, its development proved something less—but perhaps

not far less—than a logical inevitability.

Again, one should consider the parallels between analyses

of strategic airpower during the interwar years and strategic

nuclear airpower after the Second World War. In both cases,

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theorists based their works on relatively limited empirical

evidence. Douhet and his counterparts could look back at the

limited applications of airpower during the Great War and

extrapolate what the next war might look like. They could

refer to the ways in which states and populations reacted to

the privations inflicted upon them by bombing and blockade

during the war, and to the ways in which armies responded to

bombardment and exsanguination on the front lines.

Similarly, nuclear theorists could examine the physical,

psychological, and political evidence provided by atomic and

conventional strategic bombing during the Second World War

and seek to integrate this and other historical knowledge with

more recent technological developments.

In both cases, the

next war looked like something one should assiduously avoid,

although anticipating its details involved considerable—if

educated—speculation. According to Harold Macmillan, “We

thought of air warfare in 1938 rather as people think of

nuclear warfare today.”

Important differences existed between the two cases,

however. First, for all the postwar theorists’ hypothesizing

about the future, in general they did not face great

uncertainties about the physical effects of the weapons under

discussion (though some of the nuclear scientists who

developed the atomic bomb deduced many of the essentials of

postwar nuclear deterrence theory before the advent of any

real information regarding actual weapons effects).

Second,

a far smaller number of theorists, few of them with academic

training, dominated airpower thought during the interwar

period. Most of them were serving military officers with

operational rather than strategic experience, facing many

nonintellectual challenges, including the preservation or

advancement of their beleaguered service arms. The closest

interwar equivalent to the community of (mostly American)

postwar nuclear theorists was the US Air Corps Tactical School

(ACTS) of the late 1930s. A comparison of the two is striking.

Despite the intellectual fertility of ACTS, the theories it

generated were dominated by the work of a gifted few who had

to be concerned not only with predicting the future but also

with ensuring that independent strategic airpower would have

a prominent role in it. On the other hand, strategic nuclear

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airpower was the subject of intense study by a large

community, including many highly trained and intelligent

people who could focus the bulk of their energies on the

subject. Finally, one should note that after 1945 the US

military almost completely abdicated its traditional

responsibility for strategic airpower thought, passing it to the

civilian experts they employed and whose guidance they

occasionally followed. Strategic Air Command (SAC) planners

remained occupied with compiling theoretical target lists and

operational-level war plans and continued in general to

approach strategic airpower much as their wartime

predecessors had during the Combined Bomber Offensive.

This is not to hold up RAND as the intellectual heir of

Plato’s academy; indeed, it inherited the legacy of Douhet and

Alexander de Seversky. However, the nuclear theorists enjoyed

the advantage of being, if not powerful themselves, at least

consultants to the makers of military policy rather than

prophets in the wilderness. They did not have to persuade

their audience that nuclear strategy or nuclear weapons were

important or cost-effective. Perhaps more significantly, for the

most part their policy-making audience accepted their status

as strategic experts, although this did not mean that their

opinions necessarily carried weight. In fact, the opposite was

more often true: the evolution of US nuclear strategy and

weapons development would have differed radically at a

number of points if nuclear strategists had been more

influential and military and political leaders less so. But it did

make their enterprise one of Big Science—in some ways not

unlike the Manhattan Project itself.

In spite of the similarities between Douhet’s vision of the

nature of the next war and that of the nuclear strategists, they

developed very different theories. Douhet’s postwar

intellectual successors did not share his belief in the

inevitability of another great (total) war. Douhet did not

envision mutual assured destruction (MAD), although he

could have done so. Instead, he argued that strategic bombing

would make wars inexpensive by ending them quickly and

efficiently, providing an escape from the prolonged carnage of

another Great War. If the next war were going to be cheap,

states had little reason not to fight it. The nuclear theorists,

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having seen in the Second World War (like the Great War) that

one cannot easily terrorize modern nations into surrendering,

could not pretend that another total war would be less than

horrific. They recognized that states fearing catastrophe would

try to avoid it.

The body of theory that emerged from their efforts

emphasizes a relatively small number of central concepts,

most of which are relevant to—and many of which are

borrowed from—arenas of the military and other social

sciences not directly connected to nuclear strategy.

Deterrence

The most fundamental concept in nuclear strategy is

deterrence, the idea that states will not attack each other

when the expected costs and benefits of attacking appear less

attractive than the expected value of not attacking. Thus, by

shifting the balance in favor of the latter option, one can avert

war.

Strategic airpower seemed to add to this calculus the

ability to make war unpleasant for a prospective attacker by

means independent of fighting the foe on the battlefield;

nuclear weapons radically increased the amount of such

damage one could inflict in a relatively short time.

Because

of their ability to punish a state massively for launching an

attack, successful or not, atomic—especially thermonuclear—

weapons permitted their owners to adopt security strategies

based on deterrence rather than defense.

The distinction between deterrence and defense is important

and widely misunderstood.

On the one hand, deterrence has

to do with changing the enemy’s beliefs about how good or bad

war will be, relative to the alternatives. A punitive threat of

nuclear retaliation may deter, and so may a threat to defeat an

invader’s army, making war look unappealing by making defeat

appear likely.

The latter approach to deterrence is commonly

known as deterrence by denial, although some theorists prefer

to reserve the “deterrence” label for punishment alone.

By the

same token, one could well speak of deterring through rewards

or other positive incentives—by increasing the attractiveness of

not attacking rather than (or in addition to) making attacking

look worse.

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Defense, on the other hand, has to do with making war less

unpleasant for oneself. Of course, many policies contribute to

both defense and deterrence, especially deterrence by denial.

Building up conventional military strength, for example,

largely accounts for policy makers’ tendency to conflate the

two concepts. However, some defensive measures, such as

secret defenses unknown to the enemy, may not deter. More

importantly, some measures that contribute to deterrence by

making war bad for the enemy provide little in the way of

defense; of these, threats of nuclear retaliation against an

attacker’s homeland are probably the most conspicuous.

In fact, security policies based on deterrence rather than

defense existed before the nuclear age.

Although the nuclear

revolution increased states’ abilities to inflict injury upon an

enemy without first winning a war, conventionally armed

airpower had already made this possible to a limited degree.

Many interwar airpower theorists and advocates believed that

nonnuclear strategic bombing offered the opportunity to inflict

truly decisive levels of punishment upon an enemy, regardless

of how things transpired on the front lines. (Of course, many

of their estimates of the destructive power of conventional

bombing were incorrect, but because deterrence takes place in

the mind of the adversary, such facts matter only when they

have an impact on beliefs.) Moreover, the same was often true

even before the earliest rumblings of the airpower revolution,

most obviously through naval blockades against trade-

dependent states.

Nuclear weapons and associated technologies brought to

the table the ability to inflict catastrophic damage against an

enemy, rapidly and relatively inexpensively. In one of Thomas

Schelling’s typically vivid expressions, they vastly increased

their owners’ power to hurt.

Because nuclear weapons

systems generally didn’t have to fight the enemy’s nuclear

weapons, the balance of nuclear forces was irrelevant; the

relationship between weapons and targets determined the

ability to punish, and thus to deter—and one did not need

many nuclear weapons to destroy even a large target.

Similarly, if each side could inflict unacceptable levels of

damage on the other, it did not matter which one could cause

the greater amount. Thus, a powerful state could develop more

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nuclear striking power than it had any use for. Although

sound strategic reasons existed for the superpowers to build

what critics derided as overkill capability during the cold war,

both the United States and the Soviet Union could have built

much larger nuclear arsenals than they actually chose to do.

Assured Destruction and Mutual Assured Destruction

If deterrence is the foundation of most strategic nuclear

theory, the conceptual cornerstone of the edifice is assured

destruction—the ability of a state to destroy its enemy with a

retaliatory nuclear strike even after it is attacked. A state

capable of assured destruction ought never worry about attack

from a state without such capability, since by choosing war, the

latter would commit national suicide. Two states having such a

capability exist in a relationship of mutual assured destruction

and never should attack each other. The United States had

developed an assured destruction capability against the Soviet

Union by the mid-1950s, if not before. Nuclear experts often

believed that the Soviets did not attain this capability towards

the United States until they deployed substantial numbers of

ICBMs in the mid-1960s. As Richard Betts notes, however,

Washington had begun acting as if the Soviet bomber force had

produced a state of MAD a decade earlier.

Beneath the elementary simplicity of this concept lies a host

of debates about precisely what constitutes assured destruction,

but the essentials are straightforward. Having assured

destruction capability requires maintaining a nuclear force that

can ride out a hostile first strike and still retaliate against the

enemy, inflicting so much damage that the fear of such

retaliation deters the enemy from ever launching the first strike.

Targets for such a retaliation ought to be whatever the enemy

values—and the enemy should know this or suspect it. Such

countervalue targets typically include cities, and discussions of

the amounts of expected damage required to assure deterrence

usually refer to civilian deaths and the destruction of industrial

capacity. If the enemy valued something else, such as

conventional military forces or the lives of its leaders, one could

target these instead.

Most such targets (with the exception of

leaders in effective shelters) are relatively easy to attack and do

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not require a high degree of accuracy or speed in nuclear-

delivery systems—unlike targets such as hardened missile

silos and underground command bunkers. Attacking the

latter requires more accurate warhead delivery and usually

involves greater urgency if the goal is to destroy a silo before

missile launch; thus, accurate ICBMs, which possess these

characteristics, have counterforce capability.

The survivability of second-strike nuclear forces is critical,

since a nuclear state vulnerable to destruction by an enemy

first strike not only lacks assured destruction capability but

actually creates incentives for the enemy to strike first, in the

event of a crisis likely to escalate to nuclear war. As a result of

all of these factors, SLBMs are generally considered ideal

second-strike countervalue weapons, since they are nearly

invulnerable while on station and their limitations with

respect to accuracy and command and control (C

) do not

create serious obstacles to performing this mission. However,

even more vulnerable land-based systems can pose effective

threats of assured destruction, since a first strike would have

to destroy a very high percentage of a large force in order to

reduce its retaliatory potential to a level that would not be

tremendously destructive. Since even a massive countervalue

strike against a superpower would require only a relatively

small number of thermonuclear weapons, many believers in

the deterrent efficacy of MAD argued that the superpowers’

cold war nuclear arsenals were much larger than necessary.

Fears about the vulnerability of land-based nuclear

weapons to an enemy first strike have prompted a number of

major changes in nuclear force postures. On the American

side, fears of a first strike by the strategic rocket forces of the

Soviet Union encouraged a shift away from forward-based

medium bombers and the ultimately abortive search for a

survivable basing mode for the MX ICBM. As for the Soviets,

cumulative threats posed by the highly accurate MX, the

counterforce-capable Trident D-5 SLBM, and other new and

accurate US weapons such as the air launched cruise missile

(ALCM) spurred the Soviet adoption of mobile ICBMs in the

1980s. Improvements in missile accuracy did not threaten

either country’s strategic submarine forces, but the prospect

of relying on only one leg of the triad appealed to neither side,

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and (as discussed below) the Soviets had reason to worry

about the security of their fleet ballistic missile submarines

(SSBN) as well. Concerns about vulnerability also prompted

development of options to launch under attack (LUA) instead

of riding out an enemy first strike.

Assured destruction capability also requires that a state’s

nuclear command, control, and communications (C

)

capabilities have a reasonable chance of surviving an enemy

first strike in order to avoid strategic decapitation.

This

became the subject of extensive study by nuclear scholars

during the 1980s, when concerns about the robustness of US

nuclear C

arrangements led to a major increase in investment

in this area. Such programs would replace aging airborne

command-post aircraft and would harden communications

systems against the effects of electromagnetic pulse (EMP).

Although assured destruction and MAD underpinned

American declaratory nuclear strategy, at least from the early

1960s, lesser nuclear powers such as France have based

theirs on a variation on the same theme. When Sweden

considered developing nuclear weapons, the Swedish military

aptly described this principle as “marginal cost deterrence”:

the strategy of threatening to retaliate against an invader with

enough force not necessarily to destroy it but to significantly

negate any benefits the invader might anticipate from

conquering the small nuclear power.

At heart, this is similar

to a superpower’s assured destruction threat, except that the

prospective attacker’s national survival may not be at stake;

for the United States and the Soviet Union as well as lesser

nuclear powers, nuclear deterrence simply amounted to

making war look much less attractive than the alternative.

This model of the adversary as a rational actor that one

can rely upon not to launch a self-destructive war is central

to MAD, but it is often misunderstood. For assured

destruction to work as advertised, the deterred state need

not be a rational, unitary actor (for no state actually is)—

only that it behave approximately as if it were rational.

The

approximation of rationality is significant. MAD has room for

states to suffer from substantial misperceptions; to make poor

decisions; and to be driven by domestic political, bureaucratic,

and other factors beyond those of idealized international

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statecraft. As long as one can rely upon the state not to

destroy itself deliberately, assured destruction should prevent

the failure of deterrence;

one might say that deterrence

theory assumes that states are characterized by no worse

than bounded irrationality. The elegance of MAD lies in its

total lack of subtlety.

For all its paradigmatic status, few concepts in international

relations have produced as much debate as has mutual

assured destruction. MAD enthusiasts, if one may call them

such, emphasize the stability of such a relationship and tend

to praise it with the same superficially lukewarm intensity

with which Winston Churchill lauded democracy as the worst

system of its sort yet devised—except for all the alternatives.

Critics of MAD have attacked it on many grounds.

Some

offer arguments about its strategic logic and assumptions,

addressed below. Others base their opposition on moral

objections to the targeting of civilian populations

—or on the

grounds that dangers posed by the existence of nuclear

weapons remain intolerably high, making their abolition

imperative.

The basic argument about whether MAD acts as a

stabilizing force in international affairs also lies at the heart of

the central debate regarding nuclear proliferation—the

development or acquisition of nuclear weapons by previously

nonnuclear states. The conventional wisdom about

proliferation traditionally was, and to a considerable extent

still is, that the spread of nuclear weapons is destabilizing

because (1) new nuclear states are likely to be less responsible

than their predecessors and (2) arsenals of so-called threshold

nuclear states tend to be vulnerable to preemption—and

therefore will encourage it.

However, a number of strategic

theorists have argued that if MAD stabilizes superpower

relations, one should expect it to do the same for regional

rivalries among smaller powers. This school of thought rejects

as ethnocentric the argument that Third World states will be

more reckless in their handling of nuclear weapons than

Western states have been, and proposes that the nuclear

powers ought to help threshold nuclear states pass through

the transition period to survivable second-strike capability as

smoothly as possible.

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Credibility

The preceding discussion of assured destruction focused on

issues of capability, but almost as important to nuclear

deterrence is the credibility of threats. Actually carrying out a

threat to use nuclear weapons would inevitably involve

significant costs for the state concerned,

and these might well

exceed the benefits, if any, expected from previous promises. Of

course, although one need not automatically believe an

adversary’s threat, even a dubiously credible threat of

annihilation may concentrate the mind and carry deterrent

weight. Credibility is an especially significant and potentially

problematic issue in two types of scenarios. One involves

extended deterrence—threats to retaliate in response to an

attack against a third party or other peripheral interest.

The

other involves situations in which an enemy launches a limited

attack, presenting the victim with a choice between backing

down and avoiding additional destruction or responding to the

attack and risking escalation to an all-out nuclear exchange,

which would prove catastrophic for both sides.

Making the response automatic would solve credibility

problems posed by the possibility of a leader’s unwillingness

in the breach to launch a threatened retaliatory strike. This

possibility found its apotheosis in Herman Kahn’s

hypothetical invention of the “doomsday machine,” an

automated system that would trigger nuclear retaliation in the

event of attack without (or in spite of) human involvement—

later immortalized in Dr. Strangelove.

The United States

never opted to remove the human element from its deterrent

threats, although some evidence exists that the Soviets did

adopt a system to launch some of their missiles autonomously

if the national leadership were incapacitated by an attack.

However, the “dead hand” was also at work in the West. For

example, the fact that SSBN crews might choose to launch

their weapons on their own initiative if their leaders and

country were destroyed served to bolster the American threat

of assured destruction against the possibility of

decapitation.

An additional variation on the doomsday

machine theme appeared in the 1980s, when scientists

discovered that a massive nuclear strike might produce

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substantial global climatic change, raising the possibility that

even a fully successful first strike could significantly injure

the country that launched it.

An opposite approach to the credibility problem entailed

providing leaders with limited nuclear options (LNO) that

might prove relatively credible, whereas an all-out attack

would not. Much attention focused on LNOs in the United

States during the early 1970s, but they always existed to

some extent, even in the purest moments of the doctrine of

massive retaliation of the late 1950s.

Although its opponents

often accused MAD of presenting leaders with a choice

between surrender and suicide in the event of limited attack,

this never amounted to a fair accusation, since most of the

people who lauded MAD believed in the possibility of limited

countervalue attacks, at least for demonstration purposes.

However, counterforce LNO enthusiasts parted company

from MAD theorists in their beliefs about the controllability of

nuclear war. The former tended to envision a relatively

prolonged process of brinkmanship and escalation in which

one could recognize limited counterforce strikes as such; the

latter did not think that escalation would automatically occur,

but they had little confidence that the fog of nuclear war

would permit such subtle bargaining. MAD enthusiasts also

refused to be alarmed by the problem of limited threat

credibility, emphasizing that even a small possibility of

catastrophe is very frightening.

This debate reached its zenith with arguments for and against

the need for escalation dominance—a concept promoted by

theorists who offered an alternative approach to nuclear strategy

commonly referred to as nuclear war fighting.

War fighters

who supported a “countervailing” strategy conceived of a ladder

of escalation ranging from limited and major conventional war

up through levels of nuclear conflict with progressively fewer

limitations, before arriving at full-blown countervalue

apocalypse. They argued for the necessity of maintaining

escalation dominance—the ability to fight and win on whatever

rung of the ladder the enemy chose—to avoid having to choose

between losing, surrendering, or escalating to a more extreme

level of violence. In short, if the enemy could find—or invent—a

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rung on the ladder from which it could prevail, it would have

an incentive to strike.

Skeptics of the countervailing approach rejected the premise

that such a ladder existed for several reasons. First, they

maintained that limitations of sensors and intelligence

prevented one from distinguishing among subtly different levels

of nuclear warfare.

Second, they argued that even if one could

make such distinctions, the scheme would work only if both

sides conceived of the escalatory steps in the same way. Since

one might define levels of violence by the weapons used, the

types or numbers of targets attacked, the location of the targets

or of the launchers, the scale of civilian damage, or other criteria

(evidence indicates that Soviet and American doctrine did indeed

differ in these matters), they suggested that the war fighters

were trying to impose a degree of precision upon nuclear warfare

that it intrinsically lacked. Third, as discussed below, they

warned that war-fighting doctrines and the weapons systems

associated with them would create instability and encourage

preemptive attacks. Finally, they insisted that MAD had no

serious credibility problems in the first place.

The war-fighting school challenged other premises and

arguments of the MAD theorists in addition to their views on

escalation and the potential controllability of nuclear war. One

of these was their attitude towards nuclear superiority. The

logic of MAD implied that a state could achieve a meaningful

degree of nuclear superiority only if it gained the ability to

genuinely disarm the enemy by launching a first strike. Short

of this, having a larger or more sophisticated nuclear arsenal

than a rival didn’t matter, since the enemy retained its

assured destruction capability. Some war fighters responded

that while such might be the case in the corridors of RAND or

even the Pentagon, the appearance of nuclear inferiority—the

appearance of national weakness—was significant and

potentially costly in the international political arena.

Another war-fighting response to this question was that

smaller increments of nuclear superiority might indeed matter

to deterrence, since an enemy who did not believe in MAD

(especially one obsessed with correlations of forces) could well

consider them significant. War fighters based this suggestion

in large part on a conception of the Soviet Union as a state

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less like the United States than MAD theorists believed it to

be. As the title of one such article described it, the Soviets

might think they could fight and win a nuclear war, with their

leaders bunkered out of harm’s way and remembering that the

USSR had got along reasonably well in spite of the killing of

tens of millions of its citizens by Joseph Stalin and then by

the Great Patriotic War.

More generally, states might well

behave in ways that American nuclear theorists would consider

irrational, so one needed to make potential enemies realize not

only that they would suffer if they started a war, but also that

they would lose. In short, since punitive deterrence might not

suffice, one might require deterrence by denial.

The response to this argument essentially amounted to a

reiteration of the fundamentals of MAD. As Robert Jervis, the

standard bearer of opposition to the nuclear war fighters in the

1980s, put it, “MAD Is a Fact, Not a Policy.”

Whatever the

differences among states’ nuclear doctrines and worldviews, the

basic logic of MAD is an inevitable consequence of the effects of

nuclear weapons and states’ pursuit of national survival. A state

would have to behave with an unprecedented degree of

irrationality in order to deliberately run a considerable risk of its

own annihilation. Moreover, Jervis notes that irrationality may

be more likely to reduce a state’s willingness to take risks than it

is to increase it.

The various arguments of the war-fighting school were

mutually supporting but not entirely interdependent. One

could accept some and reject others. Their most significant

interconnection lay in the policy prescriptions that followed

from them: all implied that the United States ought to invest

heavily in the development of tools required for nuclear war

fighting. These included, among other things, highly robust C

systems and weapons optimized for counterforce attacks

against hard targets. Perhaps most important of all, nuclear

war fighting called for strategic defenses—the bête noir of

MAD enthusiasts.

Nuclear Offense, Defense, and Stability

Long before the nuclear revolution, theorists and statesmen

concerned themselves with the stability implications of

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different types of weapons.

In arms control efforts both before

and after the First World War, negotiators sought to reduce the

chances of war by banning or restricting the possession of

offensive weapons without preventing states from defending

themselves against aggression. People widely accepted the basic

premise that offensive weapons facilitate aggression while

defensive ones deter it; unfortunately, differentiating between

the two categories proved extremely difficult. Even heavy

artillery and long-range bombers might have defensive utility,

while one might use even the most purely defensive

weapons—such as fixed fortifications—for offensive purposes.

In a strategic relationship dominated by assured destruction,

the difference between stabilizing and destabilizing weapons

depends not on whether they are better for seizing or defending

territory, but on whether they are better for starting and winning

(or limiting damage in) a war or for retaliating against an

attacker. Thus, accurate, MIRVed ICBMs—ideal for destroying

the enemy’s nuclear weapons—are relatively destabilizing

because of their value in a first strike and their comparative

vulnerability. On the other hand, less accurate SLBMs optimized

for killing civilians are stabilizing, since their invulnerability

makes them useful in a second strike, while their lack of

counterforce capability prevents them from contributing much

to an attempt to disarm the enemy.

At the risk of

oversimplifying the situation, one might say that being able to

kill weapons is bad, while being able to kill people is good.

States whose populations are held hostage by the adversary will

have to be nonaggressive. US-Soviet arms control talks

particularly emphasized restricting the numbers of MIRVed

ICBMs, although progress was slow until the late 1980s.

This produces some counterintuitive results with respect to

strategic defenses. Since the vulnerability of weapons is

destabilizing, measures that increase their survivability—such

as mobility, hardening, and point-defense ABMs—contribute

to deterrence and to strategic stability. On the other hand,

measures such as civil defense preparations and area-defense

ABMs, which reduce the vulnerability of cities and other

countervalue targets, are destabilizing because they threaten

the adversary’s second-strike assured destruction capability.

For the latter reason, among others, ABMs were an early

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target of nuclear arms control efforts and were one of the first

categories of strategic weapons virtually banned by agreement

between the superpowers.

Sometimes explanations of the relationship between offense

and defense in the nuclear world state that nuclear weapons

reverse the traditional order of things—that defenses become

offensive. This statement is partially correct: strategic

defenses do facilitate a nuclear first strike if they reduce—or if

the enemy believes they reduce—his assured destruction

capability. This is especially true of imperfect defenses that

would be more useful for intercepting a retaliatory attack by a

crippled foe than for stopping a coordinated first strike.

However, one cannot say that BMD, air defenses, and civil

defense are not defensive; by limiting expected damage in the

event of war, they do provide defense. Rather, they tend to be

antideterrent by encouraging an enemy to attack preventively

before one can deploy or improve them—or preemptively

before the state which possesses them can strike first and use

them as a shield against retaliation. On a more general level,

strategic defenses have the potential to weaken deterrence by

making war less costly and therefore more attractive.

MAD enthusiasts see strategic defenses as extremely

dangerous, but war fighters find them very appealing, in part

because they could contribute to escalation dominance,

although they might still encourage preemptive or preventive

attacks. They also might persuade an enemy who fears defeat

rather than punishment that he would lose a war on the top

rung of the escalation ladder—a full-scale countervalue nuclear

exchange. More fundamentally, however, war fighters tend to

see damage limitation as important because their analysis of

MAD indicates that nuclear war is a significant possibility. In

contrast, MAD enthusiasts generally consider deterrence failure

under MAD quite unlikely unless one follows extremely bad

policies. Consequently, they see the stability benefits to be

derived from eschewing defenses as far more valuable than a

damage limitation capability that one should never need.

In considering stability, one must distinguish between the

capability to launch an effective first strike and the existence of

incentives to strike first. The former is very difficult to achieve

against an uncooperative state with substantial resources.

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However, circumstances exist under which a state might

launch a preemptive or preventive attack even if it anticipated

that doing so would result in severe nuclear retaliation. If

nuclear war (or a comparable cataclysm, such as conquest)

appeared inevitable—especially if it also appeared imminent—

states would have great incentives to attack first if doing so

would significantly reduce the amount of damage they would

eventually suffer (or perhaps dramatically increase the damage

they could inflict without increasing their own losses). In terms

of deterrence theory, when the value of not starting a war begins

to look extremely bad, war becomes relatively attractive; stability

becomes endangered when states have reason to expect the

status quo to lead to catastrophe. It becomes especially

endangered when a state perceives a window of opportunity—a

temporary chance to avert or mitigate the disaster.

In nuclear strategy, one can expect windows of opportunity

for preventive war when an adversary state appears likely to

acquire and use nuclear weapons in the near future—or to

acquire a first-strike capability that it does not yet possess.

Similarly, a state might perceive such a window if its

second-strike capability were threatened by an adversary’s

anticipated development of strategic defenses, and if it

expected the adversary would then attack or otherwise exploit

this escape from MAD. In the early 1980s, Barry Posen

brought to light a particularly noteworthy preemption scenario

by observing that the Reagan administration’s new maritime

strategy for offensive naval operations in the Barents Sea

during a conventional war in Europe would gradually destroy

much of the Soviet SLBM force, endangering Moscow’s

second-strike capability. At the same time, one could expect a

conventional air war in Europe to incapacitate Soviet early

warning radar capability in the region, giving the Soviet Union

reason to fear being decapitated or disarmed by a surprise

Western nuclear first strike.

The Enduring Importance of

Strategic Nuclear Airpower Theory

In the post-cold-war era, nuclear theory remains important to

strategic airpower, as well as to other aspects of international

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politics, in spite of the views of skeptics who see the subject as

an obsolescent and distasteful relic of the past. Nuclear war is

not likely today, but neither was it likely during the cold war,

notwithstanding the shaking hands of the “doomsday clock”

on the cover of The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. Today,

nuclear strategy and the theories it spawned and inspired

remain significant on several different levels.

First and most obviously, neither nuclear weapons nor

mutual assured destruction has disappeared, and they are

unlikely to do so anytime soon. Dramatic reductions in the

nuclear arsenals of the superpowers are under way, as the

result of both negotiated agreements and unilateral decisions,

guided by the theories of deterrence and stability outlined

above. US and Russian weapons are no longer aimed at their

cold war targets, garnering widespread acclaim in spite of the

strategic (if not political) superficiality of this measure. Yet,

nuclear weapons continue to lurk in the background as the

ultimate guarantors of American and Russian security, as well

as British, French, Chinese, Israeli, Indian, and Pakistani

security. For each of these states, essentially the same nuclear

issues matter—survivability, first- and second-strike

capabilities, and potential adversaries’ expectations about the

values of war and peace.

Nuclear weapons continue to figure

into extended deterrence as well, most visibly in the 1990s

during the Gulf War, when Britain and the United States as

well as Israel made veiled and unveiled threats to Iraq of

nuclear retaliation against chemical weapons attacks.

The spread of nuclear weapons continues to proceed very

gradually, incessantly defying the expectations of proliferation

alarmists. Prospective nuclear powers, like their predecessors,

have weighed the costs and benefits of joining the nuclear

club, and only a few see profit in it.

Even the far less

expensive spread of biological and chemical weapons has been

slower than many people have expected, but sound reasons

remain for serious concern about this less celebrated threat.

In deciding how to deal with each of these developments,

scholars and statesmen again turn for guidance to deterrence

and other theory originally developed for the nuclear world but

relevant to other weapons of mass destruction (or individual

or small group destruction, for that matter). Interestingly, one

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can see the roots of MAD not only in the early nuclear world

but also a decade earlier, when both Germany and the Allies

opted not to employ nerve gas and other chemical or biological

weapons during the Second World War, largely due to fear of

reprisals by their enemies.

In some respects, conventional airpower, too, resembles its

nuclear cousin more and more as advances occur in the

guidance of precision munitions, stealth, and other technologies.

Contemporary arguments about the coercive impact of targeting

leaders, C

systems, economic infrastructure, military forces, or

civilian populations essentially recapitulate debates about

strategic nuclear targeting from the 1980s and before, save that

conventional weapons would produce far less collateral

damage.

Schelling’s coercive principle of targeting what the

enemy values applies similarly in both the nuclear and

conventional worlds, underpinning both yesterday’s and today’s

debates about the relative merits of punishment and denial.

Similarly, “parallel attack” and the quest for strategic paralysis

achieved with conventional airpower share a distinct kinship

with the pursuit of “splendid” first strikes and nuclear

decapitation.

The nuclear revolution in airpower meant that the bomb (if

not always the bomber) would in general get through and that

nuclear powers could do all sorts of damage that they could

not do before to an enemy without needing to conquer him

first. To a considerable degree, the more recent conventional

airpower revolution of smart weapons and stealth does

something similar, except far less expensively, for both the

attacker and the target. Even the concept of MAD may be

relevant to sophisticated conventional strategic attack. If, as

strategic airpower advocates of several generations have

argued, one can effectively cripple or destroy states from the

air with nonnuclear attacks against key economic,

communications, and other assets, and if states value their

own survival, it may not matter decisively for deterrence that

this threat involves the deaths of thousands or hundreds

instead of millions.

In other respects, however, conventional airpower becomes

less and less like nuclear force as its ability to destroy targets

inexpensively and comparatively cleanly improves, and as its

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employers (at least in the West) increasingly eschew the option

of attacking civilian targets. In short, the deaths of millions do

matter, and although conventional airpower possesses

impressive speed and firepower, thermonuclear weapons, for

good or ill, provide the ability in extremis to annihilate—more

importantly, to threaten to annihilate—an enemy state. Just

as warfare is the ultima ratio of international politics, so is

nuclear attack the final argument in warfare. Its very

extremity has always made nuclear war improbable, but the

vast destructive potential of the absolute weapon still makes

both the possibility of its use and the theories created to

understand it important to both statesmen and strategists.

Notes

1. The most prominent works in the “golden age” nuclear deterrence

pantheon include Bernard Brodie, ed., The Absolute Weapon: Atomic Power

and World Order (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1946); William W. Kaufmann,

ed., Military Policy and National Security (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1956); Henry A. Kissinger, Nuclear Weapons and Foreign

Policy (New York: Harper & Row, 1957); Morton Kaplan, “The Calculus of

Deterrence,” World Politics 11 (October 1958): 20–43; Albert Wohlstetter,

“The Delicate Balance of Terror,” Foreign Affairs 37 (January 1959): 209–34;

Bernard Brodie, Strategy in the Missile Age (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1959); Daniel Ellsberg, The Theory and Practice of

Blackmail, RAND Report P-3883 (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1959);

Thomas C. Schelling, Strategy of Conflict (New York: Oxford University

Press, 1960); Herman Kahn, On Thermonuclear War (Princeton, N.J.:

Princeton University Press, 1960); Glenn H. Snyder, Deterrence and Defense

(Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1961); Pierre Gallois, The

Balance of Terror: Strategy for the Nuclear Age, trans. Richard Howard

(Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1961); Herman Kahn, Thinking about the

Unthinkable (New York: Horizon, 1962); André Beaufre, Deterrence and

Strategy , trans. R. H. Barry (New York: Praeger, 1965); Herman Kahn, On

Escalation: Metaphors and Scenarios (New York: Praeger, 1965); Bernard

Brodie, Escalation and the Nuclear Option (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1966); and Thomas C. Schelling, Arms and Influence (New

Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1966), which probably remains the

single most important treatment of the subject.

2. One should note that “nuclear theory” and “deterrence theory” are

related but not synonymous. Deterrence theory applies to much more than

nuclear deterrence, and long after nuclear theory had matured, deterrence

theory was (and is) the scene and subject of lively debate. For reviews of

deterrence theory per se and some of the debates about it, see, among many

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others, Robert Jervis, “Deterrence Theory Revisited,” World Politics 31

(January 1979): 289–324; George Downs, “The Rational Deterrence

Debate,” World Politics 41 (January 1989): 225–37; Paul C. Stern et al.,

eds., Perspectives on Deterrence (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989),

especially the editors’ introduction and Jack Levy’s essay “Quantitative

Studies of Deterrence Success and Failure”; and Karl Mueller, “Strategy,

Asymmetric Deterrence, and Accommodation” (PhD diss., Princeton

University, 1991).

3. Kubrick enlisted Thomas Schelling’s assistance as he set out to

update the 1950s novel Red Alert to the missile age and use it as the basis

for the screenplay for Dr. Strangelove. During this process, Kubrick

concluded that the movie would have to become a comedy. Author’s

conversation with Schelling, 12 October 1989. See also Fred Kaplan, The

Wizards of Armageddon (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1983), 231; and

Alexander Walker, Stanley Kubrick Directs (New York: Harcourt Brace

Jovanovich, 1972), 156–221. Red Alert was also the basis for the dramatic

movie Fail-Safe (1964).

4. See especially Richard Rhodes, The Making of the Atomic Bomb (New

York: Simon & Schuster, 1986); idem, Dark Sun: The Making of the

Hydrogen Bomb (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1995); and Thomas B.

Cochran, William M. Arkin, and Milton M. Hoenig, Nuclear Weapons

Databook, vol. 1, U.S. Nuclear Forces and Capabilities (Cambridge, Mass.:

Ballinger, 1984). On the Soviet and other nuclear weapons programs, see

also David Holloway, Stalin and the Bomb: The Soviet Union and Atomic

Energy, 1939–1956 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1994); Steven

J. Zaloga, Target America: The Soviet Union and the Strategic Arms Race,

1945–1964 (Novato, Calif.: Presidio, 1993); Thomas B. Cochran, William M.

Arkin, and Milton M. Hoenig, Nuclear Weapons Databook, vol. 4, Soviet

Nuclear Weapons (Cambridge, Mass.: Ballinger, 1989); Andrew Pierre,

Nuclear Politics (London: Oxford University Press, 1972); Lawrence

Freedman, Britain and Nuclear Weapons (London: Macmillan, 1980); Brian

Cathcart, Test of Greatness: Britain’s Struggle for the Atomic Bomb (London:

John Murray, 1994); Wilfrid Kohl, French Nuclear Diplomacy (Princeton,

N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971); L’Aventure de la Bombe: De Gaulle

et la Dissuasion Nucléaire (Paris: Librarie Plon, 1985); John Wilson Lewis

and Xue Litai, China Builds the Bomb (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University

Press, 1988); Robert S. Norris, Andrew S. Burrows, and Richard W.

Fieldhouse, Nuclear Weapons Databook, vol. 5, British, French, and Chinese

Nuclear Weapons (Cambridge, Mass.: Ballinger, 1994); and Peter Pry,

Israel’s Nuclear Arsenal (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1984).

5. In addition to Kaplan’s The Wizards of Armageddon and Richard

Rhodes’s works cited above, see also Bernard Brodie, “The Development of

Nuclear Strategy,” International Security 2 (Spring 1978): 65–83; Jervis;

John Baylis and John Garnett, eds., Makers of Nuclear Strategy (New York:

Saint Martin’s, 1991); Barry H. Steiner, Bernard Brodie and the Foundations

of American Nuclear Strategy (Lawrence, Kans.: University of Kansas Press,

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1991); and Alastair Ian Johnston, “China’s New ‘Old Thinking’: The Concept

of Limited Deterrence,” International Security 20 (Winter 1995/1996): 5–42.

6. Aaron L. Friedberg, “A History of the US Strategic ‘Doctrine’—1945 to

1980,” Journal of Strategic Studies (December 1980): 37–71; David Alan

Rosenberg, “The Origins of Overkill,” International Security 7 (Spring 1983):

3–67; Marc Trachtenberg, History and Strategy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1991); Lawrence Freedman, The Evolution of Nuclear

Strategy , 2d ed. (New York: Saint Martin’s, 1989); Desmond Ball, Targeting

for Strategic Deterrence, Adelphi Papers, no. 185 (London: International

Institute for Strategic Studies [IISS], 1983); Peter Pringle and William Arkin,

SIOP: The Secret U.S. Plan for Nuclear War (New York: Norton, 1983);

McGeorge Bundy, Danger and Survival (New York: Random House, 1988);

Steven T. Ross and David Alan Rosenberg, eds., America’s Plans for War

against the Soviet Union, 1945–1950, 15 vols. (New York: Garland, 1989);

and Anthony Cave Brown, ed., Drop Shot (New York: Dial/James Wade,

1978).

7. The literature on nuclear arms control is truly immense. Among the

best of literally thousands of publications on the subject are Bernard

Brodie, “On the Objectives of Arms Control,” International Security 1

(Summer 1976): 17–36; McGeorge Bundy, “To Cap the Volcano,” Foreign

Affairs 48 (October 1969): 1–20; Thomas C. Schelling and Morton H.

Halperin, Strategy and Arms Control (Washington, D.C.: Pergamon-

Brassey’s, 1961/1985); and Thomas C. Schelling, “What Went Wrong with

Arms Control?” Foreign Affairs 64 (Winter 1985/1986): 219–33.

8. On the effects of nuclear weapons, see Samuel Glasstone and Philip

J. Dolan, eds., The Effects of Nuclear Weapons, 3d ed. (Washington, D.C.:

US Department of Defense and Department of Energy, 1977); US Congress,

Office of Technology Assessment, The Effects of Nuclear War, augmented ed.

(Detroit: Gale Research Co., 1984); Irving L. Janis, Air War and Emotional

Stress (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1951/1976); and Jeannie Peterson

and Don Hinrichsen, eds., Nuclear War: The Aftermath (Oxford: Pergamon,

1983).

9. For an overview of nuclear warhead technology, see Cochran, Arkin,

and Hoenig, Nuclear Weapons Databook, vol. 1, chaps. 1–2.

10. Writers often observe that Curtis LeMay’s bombing campaign against

Japan in 1945 had a pronounced Douhetian flavor to it, as the armadas of

B-29s inexorably razed one Japanese city after another. However, one

should recall that the target country was effectively defenseless against the

onslaught in this case. Not until a single penetrating bomber could destroy

a city were the civilian populations of evenly matched countries vulnerable

to rapid destruction from the air, as Douhet had envisioned in “The War of

19—.” See Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Dino Ferrari

(1942; reprint, Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1983),

293–394.

11. The development of H-bombs also removed the constraint that

limited plutonium supplies had previously placed on the expansion of the

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superpowers’ nuclear arsenals, since thermonuclear weapons required far

less fissile material than atomic bombs, relative to their destructive power.

12. It is theoretically possible to build as large an H-bomb as one

wishes, so the incentives to develop a still more powerful generation of

weapons have been limited. The “neutron bomb” was a tactical

thermonuclear weapon designed to have enhanced radiation and reduced

blast (ERRB) effects in order to inflict destruction on enemy military forces

while minimizing the operational problems posed for friendly forces as a

result of tree and building blowdown and the destruction of territory. See

Sam Cohen, The Truth about the Neutron Bomb (New York: Morrow, 1983).

Earth-penetrating warheads were developed in order to attack deeply buried

bunkers and other targets. During the 1980s, scientists devoted much

effort to developing “third generation” nuclear weapons in the form of

H-bomb-pumped X-ray lasers as part of the US Strategic Defense Initiative,

but this technology failed to live up to its advocates’ promises. See William

J. Broad, Teller’s War (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992).

13. Test missiles carry range safety packages to permit their self-

destruction in flight, but this has never been a popular feature for

operational missiles due to their owners’ fears that an enemy might be able

to trigger the devices.

14. The United States also planned at one time to base Polaris SLBMs

on surface vessels, included in the abortive multinational NATO Multilateral

Force (MLF), but surface ships obviously lacked much of the submarine’s

invulnerability to preemptive attack, especially after the advent of satellite

reconnaissance.

15. Although the Trident D-5 is also less accurate than its land-based

contemporaries, it is accurate enough for use against hardened targets

previously reserved for ICBMs and bombers, as discussed below.

16. Examples of the former included the British Blue Steel and the

much longer-range US Skybolt air launched ballistic missile (ALBM),

canceled in 1962; the most prominent defense-suppression missile was the

American short range attack missile (SRAM), carried by B-52s and other

Strategic Air Command (SAC) bombers.

17. In the US arsenal, the number of warheads per MIRVed missile

ranged from three on the Minuteman III ICBM to 14 relatively small ones on

the Poseidon SLBM.

18. In addition, in recent years, ballistic missiles and other strategic

nuclear-delivery systems have also been adapted to carry nonnuclear

warheads, including fuel-air explosives (FAE) and solid kinetic-energy

projectiles.

19. Designed by Canadian artillery innovator Gerald Bull and intended

for the bombardment of Israel or Teheran, one supergun was under

construction in Iraq in 1990; British authorities intercepted parts for a

larger version with a one-meter bore prior to shipment to Iraq.

20. See Kaplan, The Wizards of Armageddon , chaps. 6–8. Although SAC

gradually shifted to a bomber force posture exclusively employing long-

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range bombers based in the continental United States, similar concerns

would arise again in the 1980s, when NATO faced the prospect of Soviet

SS-20 IRBM attacks using nuclear, chemical, or FAE warheads against its

major European bases for dual-capable strike aircraft.

21. The latter are known alternatively as SSBNs or (occasionally) fleet

ballistic missile (FBM) submarines or, colloquially in the United States

Navy, “boomers.”

22. The conventional wisdom during most of the cold war held that the

Soviets were generally unable to detect and track US and British ballistic

missile submarines prior to launch, while the Western navies’ superior

acoustic-detection technology and the Soviets’ noisier submarines gave the

West a considerably greater but still significantly imperfect ability to track

hostile SSBNs.

23. The number of warheads one can fire effectively against a single

point target is limited by the problem of fratricide—the tendency of a

detonating warhead to destroy those following behind it.

24. Among the more or less exotic basing schemes for the MX was a very

expensive “racetrack” (or “shell game”) system of multiple silos per missile

connected by underground rail lines, proposed by the Carter

administration; air launching from transport aircraft; road or rail mobility;

launching from small coastal submarines or from superhardened, deep

underground bases; and the Densepack scheme initially favored by the

Reagan administration, which clustered missile silos so close together that

warhead fratricide would make it impossible to attack more than a portion

of them in a single strike. Passive defenses for missile silos were also

discussed, including surrounding the silos with fields of closely spaced

metal stakes, upon which a warhead would impale and destroy itself before

it could detonate. For detailed discussion and analysis, see US Congress,

Office of Technology Assessment, MX Missile Basing (Washington, D.C.:

Government Printing Office, September 1981). In the end, the 50 MXs were

placed in existing Minuteman ICBM silos, which did nothing at all to

address the survivability problem. ICBM survivability concerns also led to

the Small ICBM (“Midgetman”) program (later canceled) to produce a

single-warhead missile to be carried by hardened, off-road mobile launch

vehicles.

25. This pattern changed somewhat in the late 1980s with the arrival of

the Trident D-5, the first SLBM with sufficient accuracy to attack hardened

point targets such as missile silos, along with the deployment of

ultra-accurate Pershing II IRBMs and ground launched cruise missiles

(GLCM) in western Europe, which promised to increase the ability of the

United States to destroy the USSR’s land-based nuclear systems in a first

strike. (The deployment of the highly accurate, 10-MIRV-per-missile MX in

vulnerable silos probably did little to reassure the Soviet leadership about

American intentions.) The relatively small Soviet SLBM force remained

unaffected, but this too would come under threat in the 1980s, as

discussed below.

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26. One problem with this scheme was that the electromagnetic pulse

(EMP) produced by the detonation of the multimegaton, enhanced X-ray

radiation, exoatmospheric ABM warheads would have done considerable

damage to electronic systems on the ground, including the ABM tracking

radars themselves.

27. Subsequent proposals to build a less capable US ABM system to

provide protection against an isolated, accidental Soviet missile launch or a

small Chinese nuclear attack were deemed unworthy of the necessary

investment. Exactly the same arguments would emerge in the late 1980s for

constructing Global Protection against Limited Strikes (GPALS)—a smaller

version of the missile defense envisioned in the Strategic Defense

Initiative—using a constellation of “brilliant pebbles” orbital interceptor

missiles.

28. The ABM Treaty actually allowed each party to construct two ABM sites

(later amended to one site) to protect the national capital, as well as an ICBM

base, each with no more than one hundred interceptor missiles. The Soviets

deployed (and continue to maintain and update) one hundred GALOSH ABMs

around Moscow, but Congress ordered the single US Safeguard ABM site,

constructed near Grand Forks, N.D., to be deactivated one day after declaring

it operational in 1975, on the grounds of being cost-ineffective. On the US ABM

programs, see B. Bruce-Riggs, The Shield of Faith (New York: Simon &

Schuster, 1988); and Ernest J. Yanarella, The Missile Defense Controversy

(Lexington, Ky.: University of Kentucky Press, 1977).

29. In the end, the world’s most advanced civil defense program was

probably that of Switzerland, perhaps due in part to the Swiss’s having so

little control over whether a superpower nuclear exchange might occur.

30. Among many works about SDI, see Steven E. Miller and Stephen

Van Evera, eds., The Star Wars Controversy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1986); US Congress, Office of Technology Assessment,

Strategic Defenses (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1986);

Kenneth N. Luongo and W. Thomas Wander, eds., The Search for Security in

Space (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989); William J. Broad, Star

Warriors (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1985); and idem, Teller’s War.

31. For example, Janis.

32. “Expert advice had indicated that bombing of London and the great

cities would lead to casualties of the order of hundreds of thousands, or

even millions, within a few weeks.” Harold Macmillan, Winds of Change,

1914–1939 (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), 522. On fears of air attack

prior to the Second World War, see Uri Bialer, In the Shadow of the Bomber

(London: Royal Historical Society, 1980).

33. See, for example, Rhodes, The Making of the Atomic Bomb, 312,

324–25.

34. See, for example, Kaplan, The Wizards of Armageddon, 45–47. On

this subject, see also Bernard Brodie, “Strategy as a Science,” World Politics

1 (July 1949): 467–88.

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35. The seemingly obvious point that one must weigh the value of going

to war against the value of not doing so is absolutely essential to deterrence

theory; however, it is often ignored by deterrence theorists who find it

convenient to treat states’ satisfaction with the status quo as a constant

instead of an important variable.

36. See, among others, Brodie, Strategy in the Missile Age.

37. For the classic explanation of the relationship between these

concepts, see Snyder, chap. 1.

38. See, for example, ibid., 14–16; and J. David Singer, Deterrence, Arms

Control, and Disarmament (Columbus, Ohio: Ohio State University Press,

1962), 22–24.

39. See, for example, Patrick Morgan, Deterrence: A Conceptual Analysis

(Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage, 1977), 20–22; Robert Art and Kenneth Waltz,

“Technology, Strategy, and the Uses of Force,” in Art and Waltz, eds., The

Use of Force, 2d ed. (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1983), 10.

40. The seminal presentation of such a broad perspective on deterrence

can be found in Thomas W. Milburn, “What Constitutes Effective

Deterrence?” Journal of Conflict Resolution 3 (1959): 138–45. Among the few

works to have seriously addressed the use of positive incentives for

deterrence are David Baldwin, “The Power of Positive Sanctions,” World

Politics 24 (October 1971): 19–38; and Peter Karsten, “Response to Threat

Perception: Accommodation as a Special Case,” in Klaus Knorr, ed.,

Historical Dimensions of National Security Problems (Lawrence, Kans.:

University Press of Kansas, 1976), 120–63. For further discussion of

deterrence definitions, see Mueller, chaps. 1–2.

41. See George H. Quester, Deterrence before Hiroshima, rev. ed. (New

Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 1986); John J. Mearsheimer,

Conventional Deterrence (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1983); and

Barry R. Posen, The Sources of Military Doctrine (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell

University Press, 1984).

42. Schelling, Arms and Influence, v.

43. It does not follow, of course, that these strategic reasons actually

determined the size of the Soviet and American arsenals. Perhaps the best

known of many illustrations of this notion is Secretary of Defense Robert

McNamara’s decision to buy one thousand Minuteman ICBMs not because

he and President Kennedy thought they needed that many, but because it

seemed to be the smallest number acceptable to the Air Force and

Congress. See Desmond Ball, Politics and Force Levels (Berkeley, Calif.:

University of California Press, 1980), 232–52.

44. Richard K. Betts, Nuclear Blackmail and Nuclear Balance

(Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1987), 144–79.

45. Exactly how much damage one must inflict in order to destroy an

enemy became the subject of considerable debate over the years. The best

known standard for assured destruction capability was that adopted by

McNamara during the Kennedy administration—that US retaliatory forces

should be able to destroy 50 percent of the Soviet industrial base and kill

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30 percent of the Soviet population after absorbing a Soviet first strike. For

discussions of the merits of different types of targets, see Desmond Ball and

Jeffrey Richelson, eds., Strategic Nuclear Targeting (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell

University Press, 1986); Scott D. Sagan, Moving Targets: Nuclear Strategy

and National Security (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1989);

George Quester, “Ethnic Targeting: A Bad Idea Whose Time Has Come,”

Journal of Strategic Studies 5 (June 1982); and Michael J. Mazarr, “Military

Targets for a Minimum Deterrent: After the Cold War How Much Is

Enough?” Journal of Strategic Studies 15 (June 1992): 147–71.

46. On LUA, see US Congress, Office of Technology Assessment, MX

Missile Basing, chap. 4.

47. Desmond Ball, Can Nuclear War Be Controlled? Adelphi Papers, no.

169 (London: IISS, 1981); Paul Bracken, The Command and Control of

Nuclear Forces (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1983); Bruce G.

Blair, Strategic Command and Control (Washington, D.C.: Brookings

Institution, 1985); and Ashton B. Carter, “The Command and Control of

Nuclear War,” Scientific American 252 (January 1985): 32–39. Bruce G.

Blair, in The Logic of Accidental War (Washington, D.C.: Brookings

Institution, 1993), also describes Soviet C

systems. See also Ashton B.

Carter, John D. Steinbruner, and Charles A. Zraket, eds., Managing Nuclear

Operations (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1987); and on C

less developed countries, see Peter D. Feaver, “Command and Control in

Emerging Nuclear Nations,” International Security 17 (Winter 1992/1993):

160–87.

48. In addition to short-warning SLBM strikes against leadership and C

targets, some decapitation scenarios involved the possibility of detonating

large nuclear weapons at exoatmospheric altitudes in order to maximize

their EMP effects, which would damage or destroy unhardened electronic

systems over an enormous area. See Ball, Can Nuclear War Be Controlled?

10–12. Today small, nonnuclear, microwave-generating electronic

countermeasures (ECM) warheads are being developed for tactical weapons

to produce localized EMP-like effects against enemy C

targets and other

electronic systems.

49. French strategists refer to essentially the same concept as

“proportional deterrence.” See Beaufre. Charles de Gaulle characterized it

less abstractly as the ability “to tear off an arm” of the attacker. This

principle clearly lay behind the British Chevaline SLBM warhead program

in the 1970s, which was directed at enabling the single British SSBN on

patrol during a crisis to destroy Moscow, in spite of the ballistic missile

defenses deployed around that city, by firing all of its missiles at the Soviet

capital. See Norris, Burrows, and Fieldhouse, Nuclear Weapons Databook,

vol. 5, 110–12. On the Swedish nuclear program and its eventual

abandonment, see Mitchell Reiss, Without the Bomb: The Politics of Nuclear

Nonproliferation (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), chap. 2.

50. However, assured destruction is more robust than marginal cost

deterrence because a threat to annihilate an enemy’s country is far less

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sensitive to marginal changes in the amount of damage that one can inflict

than is a threat to destroy only one or a handful of highly valued targets.

Therefore, although nuclear deterrence by smaller powers is similar to that

of the United States or Russia, a potentially important difference exists

between the two classes of states with respect to considerations of crisis

stability.

51. For further debate regarding the validity of the rationality

assumptions in deterrence theory, see, among many others, Philip Green,

Deadly Logic (Columbus, Ohio: Ohio State University Press, 1966); Robert

Jervis, Richard Ned Lebow, and Janice Gross Stein, eds., Psychology and

Deterrence (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985); Edward

Rhodes, Power and MADness (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989);

Richard Ned Lebow, “Rational Deterrence Theory: I Think, Therefore I

Deter,” World Politics 41 (January 1989): 208–24; Downs; Christopher

Achen and Duncan Snidal, “Rational Deterrence Theory and Comparative

Case Studies,” World Politics 41 (January 1989): 143–69; and Paul Huth

and Bruce Russett, “Testing Deterrence Theory: Rigor Makes a Difference,”

World Politics 42 (July 1990): 466–501.

52. See, for example, George Quester, “Some Thoughts on ‘Deterrence

Failures,’ ” in Stern et al., 59–60.

53. An additional school of criticism challenges not the nature of MAD

but the significance that many analysts attribute to it, maintaining that

other factors so overdetermined the postwar peace among the nuclear

powers that their nuclear strategies, doctrines, and force postures have

been inconsequential. See John E. Mueller, “The Essential Irrelevance of

Nuclear Weapons: Stability in the Postwar World,” International Security 13

(Fall 1988): 55–79; idem, Retreat from Doomsday: The Obsolescence of Major

War (New York: Basic Books, 1989); and, in reply, Robert Jervis, “The

Political Effects of Nuclear Weapons: A Comment,” International Security 13

(Fall 1988): 80–90.

54. See Russell Hardin et al., eds., Nuclear Deterrence: Ethics and

Strategy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985); Charles J. Reid Jr.,

ed., Peace in a Nuclear Age (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of

America Press, 1986); Geoffrey Goodwin, ed., Ethics and Nuclear Deterrence

(New York: Saint Martin’s, 1982); and Charles W. Kegley Jr. and Kenneth L.

Schwab, eds., After the Cold War: Questioning the Morality of Nuclear

Deterrence (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1991).

55. For example, Jonathan Schell, The Fate of the Earth (New York:

Knopf, 1982); and idem, The Abolition (New York: Knopf, 1984). For an

argument that nuclear accidents are inevitable (along with much evidence

that they are extremely unlikely), see Scott D. Sagan, The Limits of Safety:

Organizations, Accidents, and Nuclear Weapons (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton

University Press, 1993).

56. For one example among a plethora, see Lewis A. Dunn, “Nuclear

Proliferation: What Difference Will It Make?” in Fred Holroyd, ed., Thinking

about Nuclear Weapons (London: Croom Helm, 1985), 118–36.

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57. Kenneth N. Waltz, The Spread of Nuclear Weapons: More May Be

Better, Adelphi Papers, no. 171 (London: IISS, 1981); John J. Mearsheimer,

“Back to the Future: Instability in Europe after the Cold War,” International

Security 15 (Summer 1990): 5–56; idem, “The Case for a Ukrainian Nuclear

Deterrent,” Foreign Affairs 72 (Summer 1993): 50–66; and Scott D. Sagan

and Kenneth N. Waltz, The Spread of Nuclear Weapons: A Debate (New York:

Norton, 1995). For counterarguments, see Sagan’s chapters in Holroyd; and

Steven E. Miller, “The Case against a Ukrainian Nuclear Deterrent,” Foreign

Affairs 72 (Summer 1993): 67–80. For an overview of the debate, see Peter

R. Lavoy, “The Strategic Consequences of Nuclear Proliferation” and the

subsequent symposium on the Waltz-Sagan dialogue, both in Security

Studies 4 (Summer 1995): 695–810; and Devin T. Hagerty, “Nuclear

Deterrence in South Asia: The 1990 Indo-Pakistani Crisis,” International

Security 20 (Winter 1995/1996): 79–114. On nuclear proliferation more

generally, see, among a host of others, Leonard Beaton and John Maddox,

The Spread of Nuclear Weapons (New York: Praeger, 1962); Stephen M.

Meyer, The Dynamics of Nuclear Proliferation (Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 1984); Rodney W. Jones, ed., Small Nuclear Forces and U.S. Security

Policy (Lexington, Mass.: D. C. Heath, 1984); Leonard S. Spector with

Jacqueline R. Smith, Nuclear Ambitions (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1990);

Benjamin Frankel, ed., Opaque Nuclear Proliferation, special issue of Journal

of Strategic Studies 13 (September 1990); Zachary S. Davis and Benjamin

Frankel, eds., The Proliferation Puzzle (London: Frank Cass, 1993); and

Mitchell Reiss and Robert S. Litwak, eds., Nuclear Proliferation after the Cold

War (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1994).

58. Even a state entirely immune from military retaliation could expect

under most circumstances to suffer nontrivial political and environmental

costs as a result of launching a major nuclear attack.

59. Inevitably, threats to go to nuclear war over interests less than vital

to a state will have reduced credibility, as dramatized in the alliterative

question of whether the United States would really trade Boston for Bonn or

Pittsburgh for Paris. For discussion of the subject of extended (sometimes

called “type 2”) nuclear deterrence, see, among many others, Schelling,

Arms and Influence; Brodie, Escalation and the Nuclear Option; Snyder;

Alexander L. George and Richard Smoke, Deterrence in American Foreign

Policy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1974); John J. Mearsheimer,

“Nuclear Weapons and Deterrence in Europe,” International Security 9

(Winter 1984–1985): 19–46; and Paul K. Huth, Extended Deterrence and the

Prevention of War (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988).

60. Conversely, coercive threats to use nuclear weapons for purposes

other than deterrence (what Thomas Schelling labeled “compellence”) have

substantial credibility problems of their own and have caused much debate

regarding the question of whether nuclear weapons have utility for

purposes other than self-defense. Regarding nuclear compellence, see

Schelling, Arms and Influence; Betts; Sean M. Lynn-Jones, Steven E. Miller,

and Stephen Van Evera, eds., Nuclear Diplomacy and Crisis Management

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(Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990); Rosemary Foot, “Nuclear Threats and

the Ending of the Korean Conflict,” International Security 13 (Winter

1988–1989): 92–112; and Alexander L. George and William E. Simons, eds.,

The Limits of Coercive Diplomacy, 2d ed. (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1994).

61. Kahn, On Thermonuclear War, 144–53.

62. Bruce G. Blair, “Russia’s Doomsday Machine,” New York Times, 8

October 1993, A35; and William J. Broad, “Russia Has ‘Doomsday’

Machine, US Expert Says,” New York Times, 8 October 1993, A6.

63. See Edward Rhodes, Power and MADness, chap. 6. Similarly, the

possibility of unauthorized nuclear launches by dual-capable artillery units

facing imminent destruction, as well as the existence of the British and

French independent nuclear forces, bolstered the credibility of NATO’s

threat to escalate to nuclear warfare in the event of a successful Warsaw

Pact invasion of West Germany.

64. This argument first appeared in R. P. Turco et al., “Nuclear Winter:

Global Consequences of Multiple Nuclear Explosions,” Science 222 (23

December 1983): 1283–92; and Carl Sagan, “Nuclear War and Climatic

Catastrophe: Some Policy Implications,” Foreign Affairs 62 (Winter

1983/1984): 257–92. Further study caused estimates of the probable

severity of nuclear winter to diminish rapidly. See Starley L. Thompson and

Stephen H. Schneider, “Nuclear Winter Reappraised,” Foreign Affairs 64

(Summer 1986): 981–1005. For a critical overview of the debate and

indictment of the wild exaggeration of the initial research results, see

Russell Seitz, “In from the Cold: ‘Nuclear Winter’ Melts Down,” The National

Interest 5 (Fall 1986): 3–17.

65. However, early LNOs were much less limited than many of those

later developed following National Security Decision Memorandum (NSDM)

242. See Lynn E. Davis, Limited Nuclear Options, Adelphi Papers, no. 121

(London: IISS, 1976); and Friedberg.

66. See Robert Jervis, The Meaning of the Nuclear Revolution (Ithaca,

N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989), chap. 3.

67. Among the archetypal statements of the war-fighting school are

Colin S. Gray, “Nuclear Strategy: The Case for a Theory of Victory,”

International Security 4 (Summer 1979): 54–87; idem and Keith Payne,

“Victory Is Possible,” Foreign Policy 39 (Summer 1980): 14–27; Paul Nitze,

“Deterring Our Deterrent,” Foreign Policy 25 (Winter 1976–1977): 195–210;

Walter Slocombe, “The Countervailing Strategy,” International Security 5

(Spring 1981): 18–27; Victor Utgoff, “In Defense of Counterforce,”

International Security 6 (Spring 1982): 44–61; and Robert Jastrow, “Why

Strategic Superiority Matters,” Commentary, March 1983, 27–32. See also

Kahn, On Escalation. One should note that some prominent war-fighting

theorists such as Colin Gray were relatively skeptical of escalation

dominance and countervailing. For detailed analysis of the war-fighting

school(s), see Charles L. Glaser’s excellent essay “Why Do Strategists

Disagree about the Requirements of Strategic Nuclear Deterrence?” in Lynn

Eden and Steven E. Miller, eds., Nuclear Arguments (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell

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318

University Press, 1989), 109–71; and Glaser’s Analyzing Strategic Nuclear

Policy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1990).

68. Indeed, in the 1980s, fears arose that even the most significant

intrawar escalation threshold of all—that between conventional and nuclear

war—might not be recognizable because attacks with powerful conventional

weapons such as IRBMs with FAE warheads might be mistaken for nuclear

detonations.

69. Among the defenders of MAD against the war-fighting critiques, see

especially Robert Jervis, The Illogic of American Nuclear Strategy (Ithaca,

N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1984); idem, The Meaning of the Nuclear

Revolution; Glaser, Analyzing Strategic Nuclear Policy; and idem, “Why Do

Strategists Disagree about the Requirements of Strategic Nuclear

Deterrence?”

70. Many people offer this argument; perhaps the most prominent

instance is in Nitze. See also Benjamin S. Lambeth, “The Political Potential

of Soviet Equivalence,” International Security 4 (Fall 1979): 22–39; Barry

Blechman and Robert Powell, “What in the Name of God Is Strategic

Superiority?” Political Science Quarterly 97 (Winter 1982–1983): 589–602;

and Glaser, Analyzing Strategic Nuclear Policy, chap. 3.

71. Richard Pipes, “Why the Soviet Union Thinks It Could Fight and Win a

Nuclear War,” Commentary, July 1977, 21–34. One key but rarely addressed

problem with the argument that the Soviets might be inclined to start a war,

provided they could expect to fare better in it than would the United States,

was that with both superpowers crippled, all leading powers in the postwar

world would be anti-Soviet, anti-Communist, or both. On the larger issue of

the problems of understanding an adversary’s goals and intentions, see Robert

Jervis, Perception and Misperception in International Politics (Princeton, N.J.:

Princeton University Press, 1976), especially chap. 3.

72. Jervis, The Meaning of the Nuclear Revolution, see title of chap. 3.

73. Jervis, “Deterrence Theory Revisited,” 299–300.

74. On offense-defense theory and its relationship to nuclear weapons,

see Robert Jervis, “Cooperation under the Security Dilemma,” World Politics

30 (January 1978): 167–214; George H. Quester, Offense and Defense in the

International System (New York: Wiley, 1977); David Goldfischer, The Best

Defense (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1993); and Sean M.

Lynn-Jones, “Offense-Defense Theory and Its Critics,” Security Studies 4

(Summer 1995): 660–91.

75. In practice, one can use weapons interactively to complicate matters.

For example, one could use less accurate SLBMs to suppress enemy air

defenses, thereby assisting bombers to attack hardened counterforce

targets.

76. Finally, under the recent Strategic Arms Reduction Talks (START) II

Treaty, Russia and the United States agreed to ban MIRVs on ICBMs and to

reduce the maximum number of warheads per SLBM to four.

77. Other incentives for the ABM Treaty included the desire to avoid the

expense of an intense arms race between offensive and defensive

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capabilities and the political damage that such a competition might do to

relations between the superpowers, even if effective strategic defenses

proved to be a pipe dream.

78. Windows of opportunity are central to debates about the strategic

implications of nuclear proliferation as well. For discussion of the concept,

see Richard Ned Lebow, “Windows of Opportunity: Do States Jump through

Them?” International Security 9 (Summer 1984): 147–86; and Dan Reiter,

“Exploding the Powder Keg Myth: Preemptive Wars Almost Never Happen,”

International Security 20 (Fall 1995): 5–34.

79. Barry Posen, “Inadvertent Nuclear War? Escalation and NATO’s

Northern Flank,” International Security 7 (Fall 1982); and idem, Inadvertent

Escalation: Conventional War and Nuclear Risks (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell

University Press, 1991). See also Desmond Ball, “Nuclear War at Sea,”

International Security 10 (Winter 1985–1986): 3–31.

80. See, for example, Charles L. Glaser, “Nuclear Policy without an

Adversary: US Planning for the Post-Soviet Era,” International Security 16

(Spring 1992): 34–78.

81. See Mitchell Reiss, Without the Bomb; and idem, Bridled Ambition:

Why Countries Constrain Their Nuclear Capabilities (Washington, D.C.:

Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1995).

82. In general, biological weapons represent a far more serious threat

than do chemical weapons. See Thomas L. McNaugher, “Ballistic Missiles

and Chemical Weapons: The Legacy of the Iran-Iraq War,” International

Security 15 (Fall 1990): 5–34; and Steve Fetter, “Ballistic Missiles and

Weapons of Mass Destruction,” International Security 16 (Summer 1991):

5–42. One should also note that nuclear materials such as plutonium,

highly toxic if inhaled or ingested, can also be used as poisons. As with so

many facets of the nuclear revolution, Manhattan Project scientists had

already foreseen such radiological weapons as early as 1941. See, for

example, Richard Rhodes, The Making of the Atomic Bomb, 510.

83. In Cooperation under Fire: Anglo-German Restraint in World War II

(Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1995), Jeffrey Legro argues that

important organizational factors also discouraged the use of chemical

warfare by both sides.

84. See, for example, Col John A. Warden III, “Employing Air Power in

the Twenty-first Century,” in Richard H. Shultz Jr. and Robert L. Pfaltzgraff

Jr., eds., The Future of Air Power in the Aftermath of the Gulf War (Maxwell

AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, July 1992), 57–82. For a discussion of

Warden’s theories, see David Fadok’s essay in this volume; for critiques of

those theories, see Robert A. Pape Jr., Bombing to Win (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell

University Press, 1996).

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Chapter 9

Air Theory, Air Force, and Low Intensity

Conflict: A Short Journey to Confusion

Prof. Dennis M. Drew

As the end of the twentieth century approaches, American

airmen are confronted with two different but not mutually

exclusive visions of future warfare. The first, stemming from

the Gulf War, perceives airpower dominating modern

mechanized warfare. The second discerns modern mechanized

warfare—especially as demonstrated in the Gulf War—as a

thing of the past. In the latter view, the future of warfare

increasingly lies in the ill-defined realm of low intensity

conflict (LIC).

Both visions may be accurate; if so, the truth of the first

vision has a great deal to do with the truth of the second. After

all, if airpower dominates “conventional” warfare, then

countries that cannot field superior air forces must employ

“unconventional” means to gain military success.

This essay does not seek to bolster or challenge either of

these two visions. Rather, it explores the relationship between

LIC since World War II and the theory of airpower as perceived

by the US Air Force. The thesis is straightforward; specifically,

the US Air Force has not effectively accounted for the realities

of LIC in its theory of airpower.

As this essay demonstrates, to a large extent, the Air Force

has ignored LIC as much as possible, preferring to think of it

as little more than a small version of conventional war. But

LIC is not just conventional war waged on a small scale.

Rather, LIC differs fundamentally from conventional war. The

reluctance of the world’s most powerful air force to address

the peculiarities of LIC, combined with the predictions of

many people that such a conflict will be more common in the

future, creates an important void in US airpower theory.

To support these propositions, we must provide definitional

clarity to the LIC muddle and examine how US airmen have

321

reacted to the increasing challenge of LIC, both officially and

unofficially. Unofficially, the essay examines the literature on

the subject as it has evolved since World War II. Officially, it

examines the Air Force theory of airpower as expressed in its

doctrine over the same period.

Although this analysis

concentrates on the era since the end of World War II, LIC has

a much more storied history—as does airpower theory. But

after World War II, limited wars began to absorb inordinate

amounts of US blood and treasure. Further, after World War II

the US Air Force gained its independence as a fighting arm,

with the responsibility to develop appropriate airpower theory

and doctrine.

Low Intensity Conflict Defined

The term low intensity conflict may be the most confusing

misnomer ever adopted by the US military. In the first place, the

term is ethnocentric because the intensity of any conflict

depends on where one stands. The struggle against the

Hukbalahap (Huk) insurgents in the Philippines may have been

a LIC from the US point of view, but it was certainly not low in

its intensity for the Filipinos. In the second place, LIC is so

nondescriptive that it has become little more than the rubric for

an incredible mélange of activities. At one time or another, one

could find in the low intensity stewpot a distinctive type of

warfare (insurgency and counterinsurgency), tactics (guerrilla

methods and terrorism), short-duration conventional military

operations (referred to euphemistically as “peacetime

contingency operations”), diplomatic activities (peacemaking),

and police activities (peacekeeping).

To bring some order and sense to a chaotic situation, the

Joint Chiefs of Staff published Joint Pub 3-07, Doctrine for

Joint Operations in Low Intensity Conflict.

This document

limited the LIC playing field to (1) insurgency and

counterinsurgency, (2) combating terrorism, (3) peacekeeping,

and (4) contingency operations. Although helpful in narrowing

the field, the four categories remain too broad for the purposes

of this analysis.

Within the four categories of LIC, one subcategory—

counterinsurgency—has remained particularly troublesome

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and relevant for airmen. The nature of insurgency challenges

nearly every facet of US airpower theory and makes the

application of traditional airpower theory problematic. Thus,

this analysis limits LIC to the insurgency/counterinsurgency

problem. Although clearly an artificial limitation, it is most

useful for the purposes sought here.

I have argued that insurgencies—particularly those whose

strategies derive from the classic teachings of Mao Tse-tung

and his many disciples—are fundamentally different from

conventional wars.

Called variously “people’s revolutionary

wars” and somewhat later “protracted revolutionary wars,”

insurgencies are revolutionary civil wars that differ

fundamentally from conventional warfare in at least five ways.

The first difference is time. Classically based insurgencies are

designed to be protracted affairs. In the hands of an insurgent

battling an entrenched government, time becomes a weapon.

The longer the insurgency remains in being, the more it

discredits the government trying to stamp it out. The longer the

insurgency remains active, the less the government appears to

be in control of its own destiny: “Time is the condition to be won

to defeat the enemy. In military affairs time is of prime

importance. Time ranks first among the three factors necessary

for victory, coming before terrain and support of the people.

Only with time can we defeat the enemy.”

In contrast, for at least the past two hundred years, the

desire to make wars shorter and victory more decisive has

driven the development of conventional warfare in the Western

world. Much of the technology and virtually all of the

innovations in strategy and tactics had as their aim more

decisiveness on the battlefield and thus wars of much shorter

duration and less cost. The development of strategic

bombardment theory is a case in point.

The second fundamental difference has to do with the

remarkable “duality” of classical insurgent strategy.

Maoist-based insurgencies have a dual focus—one military

and one civilian. On the civilian side, the object is to infiltrate

the entire population with insurgent sympathizers who can

undermine the government and spread disaffection. Further,

they can aid the military side of the insurgency by gathering

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intelligence, recruiting guerrilla fighters, obtaining needed

supplies, and providing funds.

On the military side, the insurgent objective is to harass

government forces; demonstrate the government’s inability to

cope with insurgent forces; and after gaining the upper hand,

take on government forces in conventional battles to

administer the coup de grace. As Douglas Pike has pointed

out, this remarkable duality provides the insurgency with a

built-in advantage. The government under siege must win

both the civilian and military struggles. The insurgent must

win only one. Further, the government faces a dilemma in

resource allocation. Concentrating on the civilian struggle

risks defeat on the battlefield. Concentrating on the military

struggle allows the civilian part of the insurgency time to

infiltrate deeper and more widely into the population and

governmental structures, perhaps risking a bloodless coup.

Conventional warfare, of course, is a web of military and

nonmilitary aspects—a basic Clausewitzian notion. Rarely in

conventional warfare do we find such a seamless web or such

an interdependence between the two aspects.

The third fundamental difference concerns the tactics used

by insurgent military forces. Guerrilla tactics are certainly not

unique to insurgencies. They have been used by regular forces

in large “conventional” wars (Orde Wingate’s Chindits in the

China-Burma-India theater in World War II) and by partisan

irregulars during the same sorts of conflicts (the Soviet

partisans and the French Maquis operating behind German

lines). These operations, however, remained ancillary to the

main military effort.

Insurgents use guerrilla tactics as their principal method of

military operation—and do so out of necessity. Insurgents are

the weak fighting the strong—those out of power fighting those

in power. Insurgents are often outmanned and nearly always

outgunned. Guerrillas negate superior government firepower by

operating in small, dispersed groups that do not provide

lucrative targets. Guerrilla tactics also allow the insurgents to

“melt away” into the population from which they came. Thus,

insurgents generally fight only when they wish to fight.

The fourth peculiarity of insurgent guerrilla operations has

to do with logistics. Looking at conventional logistic flows

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schematically, one finds that the flow of logistic support is in the

same direction as the advance of the troops in the field. Lines of

supply stretch out behind fielded armies to the sources of

supply, in turn creating classic interdiction and strategic targets

for airpower. Insurgent guerrillas, however, draw their

sustenance from the very people they are trying to influence

through both their military and nonmilitary operations.

Again

thinking in schematic terms, insurgent logistical flows run

opposite from the direction of insurgent military operations. As a

result, airpower’s classical interdiction and strategic attack

missions may be of little value.

Of course, a “less than theoretically pure” insurgency may

receive some support and logistical assistance from sources of

supply outside the country under siege (much more the case

for partisans than insurgents). To the extent that insurgents

use outside sources, the more vulnerable they become to

interdiction and to strategic attacks.

The fifth and most important difference between

conventional warfare and protracted revolutionary warfare

concerns centers of gravity for both the government and

insurgent forces. In conventional warfare, although the

identification of an enemy’s center(s) of gravity may prove

difficult, they remain clearly defined for each antagonist. That

is, each side will have deployed its forces to protect its center

of gravity. The enemy’s center of gravity will always be “over

there” behind enemy lines. The central tenet of Western

military thought for at least the past two hundred years has

been to attack or put one’s forces in a position to attack an

enemy’s center of gravity, thus either destroying the enemy’s

ability to resist or coercing capitulation.

By contrast, in an insurgency, both antagonists have the

same center of gravity—the people. Neither the government in

power nor the insurgency can long exist without support from

the people. Without some support from the people, or at least

their neutrality in the struggle, the insurgent underground

infrastructure would find itself quickly exposed and

eliminated. With the destruction of the infrastructure, the

insurgency has no political arm, no intelligence apparatus, no

source of military manpower, and no logistical support. At the

same time, no government can survive without the

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acquiescence of the people—least of all a government actively

opposed by an attractive and aggressive insurgent

movement.

All of this, of course, brings into question the

applicability of Western military and US airpower theory

advocating the attack of an enemy’s center of gravity by

putting fire and steel on target.

The Rise of Protracted Revolutionary Warfare,

1945–64

Not long after World War II, Western democracies faced the

very different challenge of protracted revolutionary warfare.

Many of the difficulties arose in Southeast Asia when the

collapse of Japanese forces created a power vacuum prior to

the return of the colonial powers.

In the Philippines, the Communist-led People’s Anti-

Japanese Army quickly changed its name to the People’s

Liberation Army and changed its mission to establishing a

“People’s Democratic Republic by overthrowing American

imperialism.”

The Huk insurgency was on.

By 1950 the insurgents had 15,000 men under arms,

another 80,000 active supporters, and an estimated support

base of at least half a million. At one point during that crucial

year, insurgents threatened Manila itself with a force of

10,000. The government did not get the insurgency under

control until 1954—and only after a shift in strategy that

made civilian pacification programs (land reform and other

social welfare reforms) an equal partner with military action.

One finds a similar story in Malaya. After the Japanese

surrender, the Communist-dominated Malayan People’s

Anti-Japanese Army disbanded but reappeared in a new

guise, bent on throwing out the British. The situation in

Malaya, however, differed significantly from problems faced by

the government of the Philippines and by the French in

Indochina. In the Malayan case, the insurgent movement

resided almost exclusively in the Chinese population—

ethnically and culturally distinct from the native Malays.

The combined military-civilian campaign waged against the

Malayan insurgents was a strategic masterpiece, and, in

retrospect, the insurgents never came close to winning.

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However, the protracted affair sputtered on through 1958 (the

so-called Year of Mass Surrender)—not formally declared

finished until July 1960.

Meanwhile, the French faced very similar problems in

Vietnam. The Vietminh, who had fought the Japanese

occupation forces, resisted the return of the French and

finally took to the hills to wage a bloody protracted

revolutionary war. Unable to cope with the Vietminh, the

French gave up the attempt after a major defeat at Dien Bien

Phu in 1954. Left in the wake of the French disaster was a

divided Vietnam—the northern half controlled by the

victorious Vietminh and the southern half a rump state

created from those areas of less pervasive Vietminh influence.

The Vietminh would soon turn their attention to uniting all of

Vietnam.

The Unofficial Response

With a significant portion of Asia embroiled in

Communist-backed protracted revolutionary wars during the

late 1940s and much of the 1950s, one would have expected a

significant intellectual response from US airmen. However, the

interests of the US military largely emphasized other areas

and other concerns. US airmen focused on organizational

independence from the US Army and on missions that best

justified independence (i.e., strategic bombing and, to a lesser

extent, deep interdiction). Further, airmen were particularly

enamored with nuclear weapons that promised to bring the

concepts of strategic bombing to fruition.

The United States soon became involved in the Korean

conflict, which, although fought with frustrating limitations,

was a conventional war. Korea, however, became a sideshow

for the US military. The “real” threat remained in Europe,

where the Soviets faced the North Atlantic Treaty Organization

(NATO) with powerful forces and a threatening attitude.

Nor was there much room for thinking about protracted

revolutionary warfare in the years following the Korean

conflict. Europe remained the focal point. Military budget

cutting by the Eisenhower administration played directly into

the hands of people who believed that “atomic airpower” could

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deter all forms of warfare and, if deterrence failed, could

quickly defeat any enemy.

Nuclear strategists, nuclear

deterrence theorists, and Strategic Air Command (SAC)

dominated US thinking and military forces. In all of this, one

assumed that preparation for global war meant preparation

for wars of lesser magnitude. As demonstrated in the

Philippines, Malaya, and Indochina, the problem was not wars

of a lesser kind but wars of a fundamentally different kind.

The struggles in Southeast Asia did spark some interest in

the professional military literature, although far less than the

major themes of “lessons” from World War II and Korea, the

Soviet confrontation in Europe, and nuclear subjects.

French general G. J. M. Chassin, air officer commanding,

Far East, published an important article in an English

language journal in late 1952 that dealt exclusively with the

ongoing use of French airpower in Indochina. Although he

failed to address the fundamental differences between

conventional and insurgent warfare, he did offer insights

(prophetically for US airmen a decade hence) into appropriate

command structures, close support and interdiction missions,

and the extreme difficulty of finding guerrilla targets:

In the tactical field the chief characteristic of the war in Indochina is

the invisibility of the enemy. . . . Here there are no columns on the

march . . . no convoys of vehicles. . . . Once outside the controlled

zone, there is not a soul to be seen in the fields. When an aircraft flies

over a village, the latter empties itself completely, even the domestic

animals taking cover. It needs an unusual degree of skill and

experience to detect the presence of Vietminh troops in the mountains

and forests, where they live under perfect camouflage.

The professional journal of the US Air Force published only

two significant articles concerning airpower and the ongoing

insurgencies in Southeast Asia during the entire decade of the

1950s. One concerned the Huk rebellion in the Philippines;

the other addressed the broader concerns of tactical airpower

in limited war but included a scathing indictment of the

French use of airpower in Indochina.

The Philippine article

addressed broader civil-military issues at the level of overall

strategy but also discussed tactical lessons learned from hard

experience. The article attacking the French airpower effort in

Indochina concentrated on command and control (C

) issues

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328

and failed to give even passing mention to the very different

kind of war the French faced.

Perhaps the most important document published during the

1950s was a three-volume analysis of the French effort

compiled by the French high command.

These remarkable

volumes contain captured Vietminh documents describing

ways by which their tactics could obviate superior enemy

airpower

and the difficulty of interdicting an enemy who

required few supplies and relied on a very primitive and easily

repairable logistic transportation system.

Finally, these

volumes directly called into question the applicability of the

central tenets of American airpower theory, which the French

referred to in these volumes as “the extremist thesis of

Douhetism.”

The continuing problems in Southeast Asia during the latter

part of the decade and the election of John F. Kennedy to the

presidency in 1960 spurred more interest in insurgencies in

the professional literature.

This was particularly true at Air

University, Maxwell AFB, Alabama, where a number of

student research papers directly addressed issues related to

airpower and the wars in Southeast Asia.

One of the earliest of these research efforts showed the

influence of the Air Force fascination with nuclear weapons,

the author calling for their use to seal off the borders of Laos

and Vietnam. He went on to address the problem of finding

enemy forces who used guerrilla tactics by suggesting the use

of “napalm blankets” to burn off the jungle cover, and the

application of chemical defoliants to kill vegetation too wet to

burn.

Although the report was extreme in its

recommendation of nuclear weapons, the suggestion for

defoliation proved prescient, given the Operation Ranchhand

defoliation program that began in January 1962.

During 1962 and 1963, Air University students produced a

number of insightful research papers concerning US

involvement in Southeast Asia. In general, they all addressed

counterguerrilla uses of airpower, but, in fact, most put the

problem in the broader context of counterinsurgency. They

reflected a general appreciation of the civil-military duality in

protracted revolutionary warfare and an awareness of the

inappropriateness of airpower’s traditional focus.

One of the

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studies called into question all firepower missions and

maintained that the supporting roles of airpower (airlift,

psychological operations, etc.) would likely prove most

important.

Others, however, remained sanguine about the

use of aerial firepower against insurgents, even in the difficult

jungle terrain of Southeast Asia: “To moan the lack of

strategic targets or the ability to see tactical targets and

therefore conclude that air power is limited is to overlook the

inherent flexibility of the air vehicle. There is no such thing as

limitations or impossible conditions, only incorrect tactics or

poor employment.”

Articles concerning insurgency in the professional journals

from 1960 through 1964 also increased significantly as US

involvement in Southeast Asia deepened. Remarkably few,

however, dealt with the use of airpower. Noted academics

Peter Paret and John W. Shy published perhaps the most

important article that provided insights into the philosophy

and strategy of protracted revolutionary warfare. Appearing in

the Marine Corps Gazette in January 1962, it provided an

authoritative tour de force on insurgencies and the problems

one faced when combating them.

Unfortunately, the authors

paid scant attention to airpower, and the article apparently

received very little attention from Air Force airmen. The

Gazette and the corps continued their interest in the subject

with an article on how President Sukarno crushed an

insurgency in Indonesia during 1958

and with a four-part

series on the struggle to put down the Huk insurgency.

Although the Marine Corps showed great interest in

protracted revolutionary warfare, Air Force airmen published

very little on the subject in their own professional journals. In

1962 a member of the History Department faculty at the Air

Force Academy published an article about the use of airpower

against the Huks,

and in late 1963 the Air University Review

carried a short article on using airpower to escort ground

convoy movements in Vietnam.

Beyond this meager

showing, the Air Force seemed either supremely uninterested

in the subject or assumed that, in terms of airpower,

protracted revolutionary warfare was just conventional

warfare writ small.

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330

The Official Response

In spite of protracted revolutionary wars raging throughout

Southeast Asia from the end of World War II through the

decade of the 1950s, in spite of deepening involvement after

the election of John F. Kennedy to the presidency, and in spite

of a growing body of literature on the subject, the official

response of the Air Force was both slow and distinctly muted.

Air Force basic doctrine first appeared in 1953 and changed

in 1954, 1955, and 1959. Each version seemed to assume

that the struggles in Southeast Asia did not exist and, for the

most part, that the Korean War had not happened.

None of

them mentioned terms and concepts such as LIC, protracted

revolutionary warfare, and guerrilla tactics. Not until the 1955

edition was the broader concept of limited war even mentioned

in basic doctrine.

At lower levels of Air Force doctrine, the story remained

much the same. For example, the Theater Air Operations

doctrine manual published in 1953 did mention “special

operations” but only in terms of inserting agents behind

enemy lines, supplying partisans, and delivering propaganda.

The version reissued in 1954 made no further elaboration.

Although the “official” Air Force seemed almost mesmerized

by strategic nuclear airpower throughout the 1950s, some

people seemed to recognize that the kinds of struggles seen in

Southeast Asia might require different responses. For

example, as early as March 1954, the Air Force vice chief of

staff sent a message to Air University, Tactical Air Command

(TAC), and Far East Air Forces (FEAF) questioning whether or

not the Air Force could adequately respond to the challenge

presented by Ho Chi Minh, implying that the Air Force could

fight only a major war.

The first concrete actions taken in response to the threat of

protracted revolutionary warfare included the establishment of

the 4400th Combat Crew Training Squadron (CCTS) at Eglin

AFB, Florida, in April 1961, followed by its absorption into the

newer and larger Special Air Warfare Center at the same

location in April 1962. Both actions came only after direct

prodding by the Kennedy administration, which considered

the threat of insurgent warfare very real.

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The 4400th CCTS, nicknamed Jungle Jim, trained foreign

airmen and at the same time developed appropriate

counterinsurgency tactics and techniques. In late 1961,

Jungle Jim elements deployed to Vietnam in Operation

Farmgate. The Special Air Warfare Center had essentially the

same mission as Jungle Jim but was considerably larger and

better organized to develop specialized tactics, techniques,

and procedures.

At the same time (April 1962), Gen Curtis E. LeMay, Air

Force chief of staff, took official notice of the budding

insurgency/guerrilla warfare problem in the publication Air

Force Information Policy Letter for Commanders. Here, he

discussed not only the ability of airpower to concentrate

firepower quickly but also other advantages that airpower

could bring to such struggles:

Air forces also are essential in the fast transport and resupply of

counterinsurgent forces, as well as in providing reconnaissance, leaflet

delivery and defense against insurgent air activities. To the central

government of the nation under insurgent attack, airpower provides

quick access to all parts of the country so it can maintain civic morale

and stability through personal contact.

I would like to see you familiarize yourself with the literature on this

form of warfare. . . . And also remember these two facts: (1) general

war poses the primary military threat to the security of the Free World

and (2) it is under the umbrella of strategic superiority that the United

States has freedom of maneuver in the lesser forms of conflict.

Two things are striking about this policy letter. First, the

broad approach taken to the value of airpower in other than

firepower roles is unusual, especially coming from the airman

most closely associated with strategic bombing doctrine,

nuclear weapons, and SAC. The second notable point is the

continuing reference to strategic superiority and freedom of

maneuver in “lesser” wars rather than “different” wars. Even

at this late date, with personnel already deployed to Vietnam

in the Farmgate program, the Air Force still regarded

insurgent warfare as a lesser, rather than fundamentally

different, form of warfare.

On 21 September 1962, Brig Gen Gilbert L. Pritchard,

commandant of the new Special Air Warfare Center, spoke at

a symposium on limited war and counterinsurgency held as

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332

part of the Air Force Association national convention. Later

published by the Air Force, Pritchard’s speech provided an

accurate primer on the classic concepts of insurgent warfare

and called for the close coordination and cooperation of

airpower with other forms of military power and with

nonmilitary government agencies in a comprehensive and

integrated campaign—including civic actions and

“nation-building.”

Personnel at the Special Air Warfare

Center were doing their homework.

Just as clearly, interest by US airmen in insurgency and

counterinsurgency began to grow. The establishment of the

Special Air Warfare Center, the publication of information

policy letters, the symposium held by the Air Force

Association, and the ever-deepening involvement of the United

States in the struggle for Vietnam culminated in a new Air

Force basic doctrine manual in August 1964.

Given the fact that previous basic doctrine manuals had failed

even to broach the subject of insurgency, this document was

remarkable. In one short chapter, the new manual provided a

very accurate description of insurgent warfare and the objectives

of counterinsurgency. In terms of airpower, it described both

firepower and nonfirepower missions, as well as some of the

difficulties in interdicting guerrilla lines of supply.

However, in terms of the war that the Air Force was about to

enter, the scant two pages devoted to counterinsurgency had

the flavor of “too little, too late.” The manual devoted a full 11

pages to air operations in general and tactical nuclear warfare;

another two pages addressed conventional air operations.

Although the Air Force recognized insurgency and

counterinsurgency, the emphasis in its doctrine (and by

inference, its thinking and theory) remained where it had been

since the advent of nuclear weapons and the creation of the

independent Air Force.

The Vietnam War and Its Aftermath,

1965–80

The war in Vietnam was a watershed event that tore at the

social fabric of the nation and bred distrust of the

government. It proved no less traumatic for the US Air Force.

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Even though some American airmen had given serious

thought to the unique problems of protracted revolutionary

warfare, it quickly became clear that they remained firmly

wedded to the theory of strategic attack on an enemy’s vital

centers to produce victory.

When planning for full-scale intervention by US airpower

began, it focused on North Vietnam rather than the struggle in

the South. The original Air Force plan called for a classic

strategic bombing campaign against the so-called 94-target list,

designed, among other things, to destroy “North Vietnam’s

capacity to continue as an industrially viable state.”

Such was

not to be, at least not to the degree that US airmen envisioned

an aerial “blitzkrieg” against North Vietnam. Fears of escalation,

Chinese intervention, and even nuclear confrontation with the

Soviet Union convinced the political leadership that a “slow

squeeze” was more appropriate than aerial blitzkrieg.

This produced the “Rolling Thunder” bombing campaign,

which would last from early 1965 until the fall of 1968.

During that time, US aircraft would attack all of the original

94 targets in a campaign controlled directly from the White

House and conducted more to send signals of strength and

resolve to the North Vietnamese than to destroy North

Vietnam as “an industrially viable state.” Airmen chafed under

the tight political controls, restrictions, and lengthy bombing

pauses designed to entice the enemy to the negotiating table.

Airmen argued that because of all the political restrictions

and bombing pauses, the bombing of the North did not

constitute a test of traditional airpower theory. Critics argued

that a traditional strategic bombing campaign was not

appropriate. In their view, the situation lacked the major

assumptions behind strategic bombing theory. The struggle

was not a war to overthrow and destroy the North Vietnamese,

and North Vietnam was not a modern industrialized state.

Ironically, strategic bombing advocates believed that their

vindication lay in the two Linebacker air campaigns waged in

1972. In the first campaign, both strategic and tactical uses of

airpower played a significant, perhaps even decisive, role in

defeating the North Vietnamese “Easter offensive.” In

December of that year, President Richard Nixon turned

airmen loose to bomb previously restricted targets—including

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334

targets in Hanoi and Haiphong—in Linebacker 2. Shortly after

this concentrated 11-day bombing campaign, the North

Vietnamese agreed to a cease-fire and the return of US

prisoners of war—a clear sign to many airmen that, had the

politicians turned airmen loose earlier, they could have

completed the struggle in Vietnam quickly and successfully.

The Unofficial Response

One of the earliest responses by an American airman came

with the publication of an important book by Maj John

Pustay, a member of the US Air Force Academy faculty.

Pustay devoted an entire chapter to air operations in such

conflicts, drawing heavily on the experiences of the British in

Malaya, the French in Vietnam, and reports from US advisors

in Vietnam. Pustay paid particular attention to the

nonfirepower missions. As to firepower missions, he explained

why aircraft should be able to fly low and slow and why they

would be well served to have a second crew member for

spotting fleeting guerrilla targets in difficult terrain.

At about the same time that Pustay published his book, the

Aerospace Studies Institute at Air University completed a study

on the French use of airpower against guerrilla forces in Algeria

between 1954 and 1964. Although far from exhaustive and

relying on mostly secondary sources, the study did provide at

least one prophetic insight when the authors noted, “If the cause

of an insurgency is not, or cannot be, erased, then the best

military effort will probably be defeated in the long run.”

Perhaps the most important article published in the

professional military literature in 1965 was a lecture delivered

by Bernard Fall at the Naval War College. It provided

extremely lucid insights into the nature of protracted

revolutionary warfare that should have caused all US military

leaders to reflect on the “American way of war” in the

Vietnamese context.

In retrospect, it seems amazing that a survey of the

American military literature reveals an almost total absence of

articles and books that dealt directly with the use of airpower

in counterinsurgencies between the spring of 1965 and the

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spring of 1967. Nor did the situation improve significantly for

the remainder of the decade.

However, in April 1967 Maj Gen Rollen H. Anthis wrote an

article for Air Force Magazine that displayed both considerable

insight and considerable weakness of military thought.

Anthis, the former commander of 2d Air Division (later

redesignated Seventh Air Force) in South Vietnam from 1961

to 1964, defended the use of airpower in Vietnam against its

critics. He cited the ability of airpower to find the enemy,

transport troops and supplies to vital points, provide firepower

to outposts under siege, maintain government lines of

communications (LOC) and supply, and harass enemy

guerrilla forces. However, he failed to mention the importance

of the nonmilitary side of insurgent operations and the

importance of integrating military and nonmilitary

counterinsurgent operations.

An Air War College student research paper of 1967 provided

a more balanced view of airpower in counterinsurgent

operations. Col Robert L. Hardie’s study emphasized the dual

nature of insurgent warfare and the requirement to integrate

military and nonmilitary counterinsurgent operations.

Drawing on the writings of insurgent war theorists as well as

the experience of the British in Malaya and the French in

Algeria, Hardie provided considerable evidence that the proper

use of airpower would depend upon the phase of insurgent

operations.

Hardie’s paper is significant, for it represents the

first example of a serious attempt to link insurgency theory

and experience directly to air operations. However, it was the

only such example found in the US professional literature

until the decade of the 1980s.

As to the remainder of the 1960s, two other items in the

professional periodical literature are worth noting. The first

article, written by a civilian historian working at Headquarters

SAC , touted the effectiveness of the B-52 bomber in countering

guerrilla forces.

The second, from Great Britain , provided the

first indication in the literature that aircraft on the ground were

particularly lucrative targets for guerrilla operations and that

this vulnerability would be a difficult problem to solve.

Although the professional journals contained few articles on

airpower and protracted revolutionary warfare and although

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336

Air University published little in the way of serious research

on the subject, civilian publishing houses provided a number

of books during the 1960s that should have made it clear to

airmen that the kind of warfare waged in Vietnam was very

different from the nuclear or conventional war paradigms

reflected in US Air Force doctrine. Unfortunately, these books

dealt with airpower only tangentially.

If the response by American airmen in professional military

journals was sparse in the mid- and late 1960s, it was almost

nonexistent during the 1970s. The seriously mixed feelings

about the denouement of US combat involvement in Vietnam,

the unfortunate final outcome of the struggle in 1975, the

desire to put the entire experience to rest, the perceived need

to refocus on the Soviet threat, and a variety of other factors

combined to limit debate and research about airpower in

protracted revolutionary warfare.

The professional military journals in Great Britain had better

luck in publication during the 1970s, but few of the articles

dealt with the basics of airpower theory and doctrine in

protracted revolutionary war. Rather, they recounted historical

episodes or dealt with airpower very much at the tactical level.

The publication in Great Britain in 1970 of the Royal Air

Force (RAF) official history of the Malayan Emergency should

have been far more important. It laid out in detail—and

remarkable objectivity—RAF contributions to the successful

counterinsurgent operations.

No evidence indicates that this

volume had a significant impact in the United States.

The commercial press boasted a wealth of book-length

literature during the 1970s.

These offerings included the

first memoirs of senior military leaders involved in the

Vietnamese struggle.

Unfortunately, they shed little real

light on the use of airpower in counterinsurgency or

protracted revolutionary warfare. This was particularly

disappointing in the cases of Gen Edward Lansdale and Gen

William Momyer. Lansdale served as an advisor in both the

Philippines and Vietnam, but his book says little about the

use of airpower in those conflicts.

Momyer, who commanded Seventh Air Force in Vietnam

until 1968, produced an excellent operational history of the

air war in Vietnam but stayed away from in-depth analysis of

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the peculiarities of airpower in that struggle. In his final

chapter, however, he did draw some “lessons” about C

(the

continuing validity of centralized control of airpower under a

single theater air component commander), counterair

operations (“the contest for air superiority is the most

important contest of all”), interdiction (“we must focus . . .

upon the most vital supply targets: factories, power plants,

refineries, marshaling yards, and the transportation lines that

carry bulk goods”), and close air support (“the tactical air

control system must be very responsive”).

In fact, all of these

“lessons” were reaffirmations of traditional views and could

have come from the history of a conventional war.

The Official Response

The first doctrinal response appeared in March 1967 with

the publication of an Air Force manual exclusively devoted to

“special air warfare.”

A remarkably perceptive document,

AFM 2-5, Tactical Air Operations Special Air Warfare, defined

special air warfare as a rubric for the air aspects of

psychological operations (PSYOP), counterinsurgency, and

unconventional warfare.

The manual clearly indicated that

military and nonmilitary counterinsurgency actions must be

totally intertwined and mutually supporting, and called for the

establishment of a “country team” (including representatives

of the diplomatic mission, other civilian aid and information

agencies in-country, the military assistance advisory group,

the unified military command, and the military component

commands) to establish and direct a unified strategy.

The manual went on to indicate that the military portion of

the strategy must vary by the phases of the insurgency (an

obvious but unstated reference to classic protracted

revolutionary war theory) and that within these phases,

special air warfare actions would range from nation-building

efforts to open combat.

It stressed the difficulty of target

identification during combat—separating friend from foe. This

was a crucial point because “military actions by friendly units

which kill or injure innocent civilians can lose the loyalty of an

otherwise friendly village.”

Again, this reference pertains to

classic insurgent theory and the fact that both sides in an

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insurgency have the same center of gravity (the people) and

that their objective is to capture the support of the population.

Unfortunately, the publication of AFM 2-5 did not establish a

trend. By September 1971, when a new edition of Air Force

basic doctrine appeared, the so-called Vietnamization of the war

in Southeast Asia was well under way; most US combat forces

had withdrawn; and the war itself had begun to take on the

character of a conventional conflict. Interest began shifting back

to the pressing problems of confronting potential Communist

aggression in the more familiar climes of Europe and Korea.

The new basic doctrinal manual now devoted its final

chapter not to the use of airpower in counterinsurgency, but

to the broader subject of Air Force special operations. This

new rubric, intended to replace “special air warfare” used in

the 1967 version of AFM 2-5, introduced yet another new

term, foreign internal defense, by which the manual writers

meant counterinsurgency.

In the scant one-and-one-half page chapter devoted to

special operations, foreign internal defense rated only one

paragraph. It did, however, reinforce the notion introduced in

1967 that one must closely coordinate air operations with civil

actions as well as surface operations in a coordinated

military-civilian campaign to eliminate the causes of popular

disaffection and build a sense of national unity.

During the remainder of this period, doctrinal interest in

protracted revolutionary conflicts declined, at least in terms of

basic doctrine. The Air Force republished the basic doctrine

manual in January 1975, retaining only two generalized

subparagraphs (one pertaining to special operations and the

other to subtheater and localized conflicts).

The same sort of

very brief, very generalized treatment of insurgency-related

topics carried forward to the 1979 edition.

Intellectual Fervor and Official Disdain,

1980–94

The period beginning in 1980 and extending to the present

writing has been a study in contrasts. On the one hand,

enough time had passed since the trauma of the Vietnam

experience that more balanced and objective analyses of the

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war began to appear from the pens of both civilian and

military analysts. Ongoing events further spurred interest in

limited warfare, LICs, and protracted revolutionary warfare.

The mujahideen’s protracted guerrilla struggle against Soviet

occupation of Afghanistan became of great interest. Closer to

home, insurgent movements in El Salvador and Nicaragua

and continuing guerrilla struggles in Guatemala and Peru

captured one’s attention. Other protracted struggles in the

Philippines and Sub-Saharan Africa helped prompt the

outpouring of research literature in the civilian and military

press. During much of this period, LIC and, more specifically,

protracted revolutionary warfare remained “hot” topics,

thought by many people to presage the future.

On the other hand, the official response of the Air Force

reflected confusion and disdain. At one level, the Air Force

made significant progress toward an airpower theory that

included protracted revolutionary warfare. At another level,

the service ignored and contradicted that theory. The result,

as of this writing, is confusion.

The Unofficial Response

Compared to that of previous periods, the literature on

protracted revolutionary warfare was extensive. Importantly,

analysts reached consensus about (1) the nature of LIC, (2)

the general outlines of counterinsurgency strategy, (3) the

airpower technology required, and (4) the role of airpower in

the military portion of a counterinsurgency strategy.

Deryck Eller, Rod Paschall, Thomas Hammes, William

Olson, Larry Cable, and I all came to the conclusion that LIC

really means protracted revolutionary warfare (insurgency) or,

at least within the low intensity field, that insurgency should

remain the central consideration of policy makers and the

military.

This conclusion is in line with the notions of Sam

C. Sarkesian, who noted that the “substantive dimensions of

such conflicts evolve primarily from revolutionary and

counterrevolutionary strategy and causes. . . . Limited

conventional wars and acts of terrorism are outside the

boundaries of low-intensity conflicts. Revolution and

counterrevolution are the major categories.”

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Prescriptively, these authors also demonstrated large areas

of consensus. First, virtually all agreed that increasing the

legitimacy of the government under siege was the key to

successful counterinsurgency. Accordingly, the government

must secure the population from rebel threats and address

the sources of insurgent dissatisfaction.

To reach these

goals, the government must cut across traditional lines of

authority and responsibility to produce a mutually reinforcing

interagency effort. Further, almost all the authors agreed that

the military portion of the struggle must minimize lethality in

order to minimize collateral damage. The objective of military

operations is not so much to kill insurgents as it is to coerce

them and destroy their political will.

However, both Grant Hammond and Cable emphasized that

counterinsurgency is not some sort of sociopolitical

experiment. Hammond declared that we must see it for what it

is—war, albeit very different from traditional notions of

warfare.

Cable reminded his readers of the “simple fact that

once armed insurgency has commenced, it becomes the

functional equivalent of a total war of national survival in

which only one of the two contenders for power will be extant

at war’s end.”

Airmen voiced considerable interest and consensus in the

airpower technology required in such conflicts.

They nearly

universally agreed that very sophisticated aircraft with

attributes suitable for employment in high-speed conventional

warfare are inappropriate and often ineffective in operations

against enemy forces using guerrilla tactics, particularly in

complex surface environments such as jungles. Jerome

Klingaman summed up the problem by saying that “visual,

aerial reconnaissance and surveillance of the guerrilla

operating area is most effective when conducted at low

altitude (below 1500 feet) and at low speed (under 125 knots).

The effectiveness of visual surveillance deteriorates rapidly

above these limits. Very few jet pilots actually saw a human

target during the war in Southeast Asia.”

Further, the authors nearly universally agreed about the

utility of the helicopter, including the armed helicopter, for

many important roles. However, several of them expressed

concern about slow, low-flying aircraft (whether fixed or rotary

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wing) in light of the development of effective shoulder-fired

surface-to-air missiles (SAM). The Soviet experience in

Afghanistan proved particularly enlightening insofar as these

missiles seemed to change the entire character of the air war

against the mujahideen rebels. As Aaron Karp noted, “The

Stinger has quickly become the most celebrated rebel weapon

of the West. Soviet Mi-24 Hind gunships, once the scourge of

the battlefield, have now become the quarry.”

The right technology was only part of the problem for airmen.

Best use of that equipment in a comprehensive strategy

presented a problem that had not previously received extensive

attention. During this period, much of the literature attempted,

at least in part, to examine the theoretical side of airpower

employment in counterinsurgent operations.

David Dean, for

example, noted that “low-intensity conflict needs to be

considered in terms of assistance, integration of forces, and

intervention.”

Writing in the mid-1980s, Dean focused on

using special operations forces rather than the whole Air Force.

Olson took a broader view, extending well beyond special

operations. He noted, for example, that traditional tactical

airpower doctrine is inappropriate for counterinsurgencies:

“Tactical air doctrine and the attending force structure are

designed for conventional wars against conventional enemies.

In most low-intensity conflict situations, control of the air is

established by default, while isolation of the battlefield, where

there are few and fleeting fixed battles, is a non sequitur.”

Olson went on to claim that airpower is most useful in

supporting roles such as reconnaissance, troop transport,

resupply, and presence.

John Green agrees that these

noncombat roles are central to the contribution of airpower

but maintains that close air support and possibly close

interdiction can prove crucial if enemy guerrilla forces either

attack isolated friendly forces or if one can fix them and force

them to stand and fight.

Drawing on the extensive literature of the RAF role in the

Malayan Emergency, I agreed that the supporting roles of

airpower are important—so important that to call them

supporting is difficult. The utility of the traditional role of

delivering firepower was controversial in Malaya and has

remained so. However, technological advances in delivering

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342

aerial firepower may make it much more useful than the RAF

found it to be. The key to the effective use of airpower in a

counterinsurgent role, however, remains the total integration

of the airpower role in the overall military campaign—and the

total integration of the military campaign in the overall

politico-military struggle. In many ways, the military portion

of the struggle is the least important element of the effort.

David Parsons produced the most innovative and

comprehensive theoretical approach but came to many of the

same conclusions as the authors previously cited. Using a

relatively obscure essay published in 1970 by Nathan Leites and

Charles Wolf Jr. as a framework,

Parsons produced both a

general philosophical approach to counterinsurgency and the

role of airpower in such efforts. According to Parsons, Leites and

Wolf characterized an insurgency as a system of inputs,

conversions, and outputs—all three of which form centers of

gravity for an insurgent movement. A comprehensive

counterinsurgent campaign must perform four functions:

interdict inputs, disrupt the conversion process, reduce outputs,

and build a government’s capability to resist.

Although military forces can prove useful in performing all

four functions, their primary role lies in reducing outputs in the

form of insurgent military forces, particularly their leadership

cadre. In this role, conducting reconnaissance, maintaining air

LOC, and flying close air support are most effective. However,

airpower, in the form of PSYOP, can also be an effective tool in

disrupting the conversion process—and the maintenance of air

LOC can be crucial to building a government’s legitimacy and

capacity to resist the insurgent movement.

Airmen concerned with protracted revolutionary warfare

and other forms of LIC also experienced one severe

disappointment during this period. Critics hailed The Air

Campaign: Planning for Combat (1988) by Col John M. Warden

III as the most significant theoretical work on airpower since

the days of Billy Mitchell. Unfortunately, Warden addressed

only conventional warfare and failed even to acknowledge the

fundamental differences between conventional warfare and

protracted revolutionary warfare.

The fact that Warden’s

subsequent writings have also ignored the subject is

particularly unfortunate because his influence has become so

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pronounced within the Air Force. As one of the architects of

the air campaign against Iraq in the Gulf War and

subsequently as the commandant of Air Command and Staff

College at Maxwell AFB, his stature as an authority on

airpower theory has grown significantly, and his influence

over an entire generation of Air Force officers is enormous.

The Official Response

With the introduction of a new basic doctrine manual dated

16 March 1984, LIC had all but disappeared, save for two

generalized paragraphs on special operations. But much more

positive actions that held the promise of developing a theory of

airpower applicable to protracted revolutionary warfare

quickly overwhelmed this “slow start.”

In 1985 the Air War College’s annual Airpower Symposium

at Maxwell AFB focused on LIC. Also in the mid-1980s, the Air

Force established a Center for Low Intensity Conflict (which

quickly became an Army–Air Force venture) and took part in a

Joint Low Intensity Conflict Project sponsored by the Army’s

Training and Doctrine Command. Each of these developments

represented growing interest in the subject, although the

latter two developments produced nothing useful in terms of

airpower theory.

A major step forward was the publication in December 1990

of an Army–Air Force pamphlet devoted to LIC.

It introduced

the internal defense and development (IDAD) strategy as the

basis for all actions (military and civilian) within the LIC arena

and brought together most of the concepts generally agreed

upon in the professional literature over the previous 30 years.

The pamphlet, however, presents its subject at a level of

abstraction that precludes specifics about the use of airpower.

For example, appendix E, “A Guide to Counterinsurgency

Operations,” includes only one sentence about airpower.

The IDAD strategy, which blends interdependent

civil-military functions, was the most comprehensive plan yet

seen in official literature for preventing or defeating

insurgencies. Its four functions—balanced development,

mobilization of resources, population security, and

neutralization of insurgents—provided the framework for a

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344

comprehensive doctrinal statement about airpower in

counterinsurgency operations that appeared two years later.

On 3 November 1992, the US Air Force published its

operational-level doctrine for foreign internal defense (by now

the accepted terminology for counterinsurgency) within the

IDAD strategy framework.

In chapter three of the manual

appeared two paragraphs that represented the culmination of

more than 30 years of field experience, unofficial professional

literature as well as official publications, symposia, and the like.

The first of these two paragraphs discussed priority

operations for airpower during the development and

mobilization functions of the IDAD strategy: “Where ground

lines of communication cannot be established and maintained

because of terrain or enemy presence, aerial logistic and

communication networks carrying information, supplies, and

services to civilian elements establish a critical link between

the government and the population.”

The second paragraph addressed priority of operations for

airpower during the security and neutralization functions:

“Insurgents generally possess no air capabilities . . . have no

heartland, no fixed industrial facilities, and few interdictable

LOC. . . . Their irregular forces are deployed in small units

that . . . usually present poor targets for air attack. In such

cases, air support for security and neutralization should be

used primarily to inform, deploy, sustain, and reinforce

surface elements of the internal security force.”

These paragraphs constituted more than a statement of

operational doctrine. They embodied airpower theory stated in

the best traditions of the early airpower theorists. Like the

kind of warfare with which they deal, these paragraphs stand

conventional airpower theory on its ear.

Thus by 1992 airmen had made considerable progress in

modifying traditional airpower theory to the special case of

insurgency or protracted revolutionary warfare. However,

during the 1980s and early 1990s, while these events were

taking place, a very different chain of events that would stifle

and confuse the progress was also under way.

The perceived importance of protracted revolutionary

warfare was far from universal. A significant number of

military officers—many of them very senior—believed for one

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reason or another that special attention to such

“unconventional” strategies was ill advised and perhaps

counterproductive. For example, in the mid-1980s a very

senior Air Force general officer told me that the Air Force

should not be distracted by “those kind of wars” (insurgencies)

since we can always just “muddle through.” Rather, we should

concentrate on wars “that can eat our bacon.”

Eventually, the belief by some senior officers that protracted

revolutionary warfare was ordinary, unimportant, or

counterproductive from the standpoint of airpower, eliminated

discussion of the subject from the highest level of Air Force

doctrine—AFM 1-1, Basic Aerospace Doctrine of the United

States Air Force (1992). The theory so painstakingly developed

thus languished at lower levels in an obscure manual of

operational doctrine—namely, the aforementioned AFM

2-11.

In fact, at one point the basic doctrine of 1992 appears

to contradict directly the theory promulgated in AFM 2-11.

Specifically, AFM 2-11 notes that insurgents “have no

heartland, no fixed industrial facilities, and few interdictable

LOC,”

whereas AFM 1-1 declares that “any enemy with the

capacity to be a threat is likely to have strategic vulnerabilities

susceptible to air attack.”

Conclusion

US airmen have long been known for their fascination with

technology and the mental toughness required to press home

a bombing attack against fierce resistance or to outduel an

enemy fighter. But they have never been known for their

academic inquisitiveness, their devotion to the study of the art

of war, or their contributions to the theory of airpower.

Instead, American airmen have remained “doers” rather than

introspective “thinkers.”

Nowhere was that more evident than in the US Air Force

approach to the problem of protracted revolutionary warfare.

Wedded to the concept of “atomic airpower” (and its power to

justify an independent Air Force) during the 1950s and early

1960s, American airmen virtually ignored the problem of

insurgent warfare until they entered the Vietnam War.

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346

After the United States withdrew from Vietnam, bitter

memories, confusion about the impact of strategic bombing on

the war’s end, disagreement over the very nature of the

conflict, and the continuing Soviet threat made it all too easy

for US airmen to push the unsettled enigma of protracted

warfare into the background. Retreating to the familiar

problems of strategic nuclear warfare and conventional

warfare in Europe seemed much more comfortable.

But the problem would not go away. Afghanistan, El

Salvador, Guatemala, Peru, and other trouble spots forced the

subject to the surface in the 1980s, and some airmen began to

seriously investigate the peculiarities of airpower application

in insurgent warfare. They succeeded in producing a concise,

well-reasoned modification of traditional airpower theory

based on the consensus developed over nearly 40 years of

experience, research, and publication.

Unfortunately, the doctrine they developed has not had the

impact it deserves. It remains buried in an obscure

operational-level doctrinal manual that few people know exists

and even fewer have ever read. Basic Air Force doctrine, the

capstone of Air Force airpower theory, remains virtually

unaffected at best and contradictory at worst. Most importantly,

however, the theory so painstakingly developed—the one that

airmen may need to deal with the post-cold-war world—remains

largely unknown.

In the grand scheme of things, the four-decade journey from

the grandiose theory of strategic bombardment and atomic

airpower to the subtle complexities of protracted revolutionary

warfare has been quite short. Unfortunately for American

airmen, the journey has ended in contradiction and confusion.

Notes

1. For example, see Richard E. Simpkin, Race to the Swift (London:

Brassey’s Defence Publishers, 1985), chap. 18; and Martin van Creveld, The

Transformation of War (New York: Free Press, 1991), particularly his short

chapter entitled “Postscript: The Shape of Things to Come.”

2. Doctrine has many functions, but one can adequately define it as a

“framework for understanding how to apply military power. It is what

history has taught us works in war, as well as what does not.” US Air Force

basic doctrine is officially described as “what we have learned about

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aerospace power and its application since the dawn of powered flight” and a

“broad conceptual basis for our understanding of war, human nature, and

aerospace power.” Finally, it is officially described as “the starting point for

solving contemporary problems.” Air Force Manual (AFM) 1-1, Basic

Aerospace Doctrine of the United States Air Force, vol. 1, March 1992, v, vii.

Although doctrine may not fulfill all of the requirements of a formal

academic definition of theory, it fulfills most of the same functions and in

that sense forms a “poor man’s” theory of airpower.

3. The Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) define low intensity conflict as

“political-military confrontation between contending states or groups below

conventional war and above the routine, peaceful competition among states.

It frequently involves protracted struggles of competing principles and

ideologies. Low intensity conflict ranges from subversion to the use of

armed force. It is waged by a combination of means employing political,

economic, informational, and military instruments. Low intensity conflicts

are often localized, generally in the Third World, but contain regional and

global security implications” (emphasis added). Such a broad definition

lends itself to the inclusion of a wide variety of activities, especially since

the upper boundary (conventional war) is not defined by the JCS. Joint Pub

1-02, Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms, 23

March 1994, 222.

4. Joint Pub 3-07, Doctrine for Joint Operations in Low Intensity Conflict,

October 1990.

5. Col Dennis M. Drew, “Insurgency and Counterinsurgency: American

Military Dilemmas and Doctrinal Proposals,” CADRE Papers, no.

AU-ARI-CP-88-1 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, March 1988).

6. Ho Chi Minh, quoted in Douglas Pike, PAVN: People’s Army of Vietnam

(Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1986), 219.

7. Ibid., 222–30. The Vietnamese called their version of this dual

strategy “dau tranh.” Pike also notes that “the basic objective in dau tranh

strategy is to put armed conflict into the context of political dissidence. . . .

Conceptually they cannot be separated. Dau tranh is a seamless web.”

Ibid., 233.

8. Between 1965 and 1968 in the Vietnam conflict, 75 percent of all the

battles occurred at the insurgents’ choice of time, place, and duration.

Further, fewer than 1 percent of the nearly 2 million allied small-unit

offensive operations resulted in any contact with the enemy. See W. Scott

Thompson and Donaldson D. Frizzell, The Lessons of Vietnam (New York:

Crane, Russak, 1977), 92, which quotes a national security study

memorandum of 1968 to this effect.

9. To my knowledge, the first person to point out this logistics

phenomenon was Sir Robert Thompson, the British expert on

counterinsurgent warfare. See his book No Exit from Vietnam (New York:

David McKay, 1970), 32–34.

10. Drew, 18–19.

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348

11. Communist Party of the Philippines Secretariat, memorandum to the

Central Committee, quoted in Lt Col Tomas C. Tirona, “The Philippine

Anti-Communist Campaign,” Air University Quarterly Review, Summer

1954, 42–55.

12. Ibid., 46–52.

13. Daniel S. Challis, “Counterinsurgency Success in Malaya,” Military

Review, February 1987, 57.

14. In 1957 Secretary of Defense Charles Wilson testified before

Congress that the “capability to deter large wars also serves to deter small

wars.” The following year, Wilson told the Congress, “There is very little

money in the budget . . . for the procurement of so-called conventional

weapons. . . . We are depending on atomic weapons for the defense of the

Nation.” Robert Frank Futrell, Ideas, Concepts, Doctrine: Basic Thinking in

the United States Air Force, vol. 1, 1907–1960 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air

University Press, December 1989), 454, 459.

15. G. J. M. Chassin, “Lessons of the War in Indochina,” Interavia 7

(1952): 670–75.

16. Tirona.

17. William M. Reid, “Tactical Air in Limited War,” Air University

Quarterly Review, Spring 1956, 40–48.

18. The first volume, written by the Instruction Bureau of Commander

in Chief Indochina, was entitled Notes on Combat in Indo-China (1954). The

second volume, written by the Supreme Command Far East, was entitled

Lessons from the Indo-China War, vol. 2 (1955). The third volume,

apparently also written by the Supreme Command Far East, was entitled

Lessons from the Indo-China War, vol. 3 (ca. 1955–1956). It is unclear when

the English translations of these documents became available to the US

military. The Defense Documentation Center did not receive copies until 3

January 1967. Not requesting and/or receiving copies prior to 1967 would

represent a major failure of the US military to tap into the knowledge and

experience of a major NATO ally.

19. Notes on Combat, 34. This Vietminh document accurately described

what later became known as “clinging to the enemy’s belt”—that is,

remaining so close to the enemy that both airpower and distant, heavy

artillery fires become unusable.

20. Lessons from the Indo-China War, vol. 2, 297–98; and vol. 3, 32–37.

21. Lessons from the Indo-China War, vol. 3, 38.

22. Many people viewed Kennedy’s inaugural address, which promised

to “fight any fight, bear any burden,” as a sign that the United States would

become much more heavily involved in wars such as those ongoing in

Southeast Asia.

23. Richard E. Stanley, “A Concept of Anti-Guerrilla Operations in

Indo-China” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air Command and Staff College, April

1961), 44–54.

24. Guenter Lewy, America in Vietnam (New York: Oxford University

Press, 1978), 257. However, Lewy also notes that the British had made use

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of defoliants in Malaya and that the United States began testing defoliants

as early as 1958.

25. See the following unpublished research papers: William R. Becker,

“Air Power in the Fight against Guerrillas” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air

Command and Staff College, 7 May 1962); John L. Phipps, “Basic Problems

in Counter-Guerrilla Air Operations” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air Command and

Staff College, 7 May 1962); William C. Lockett Jr., “COIN in the Air: A Study

of the Role of Airpower in Counterinsurgency” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air

Command and Staff College, 22 April 1963); and Rupert L. Selman, “What

Operational Concepts Should Govern the Use of Tactical Air Forces in

Guerrilla War?” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air War College, April 1963).

26. Lockett states that “normally, there are no strategic targets, no

opposition to air superiority, and very few tactical targets. Therefore, air

operations are primarily involved with indirect support of ground forces”

(page 54).

27. Becker, 91.

28. Peter Paret and John W. Shy, “Guerrilla War and U.S. Military

Policy: A Study,” Marine Corps Gazette, January 1962, 24–32.

29. D. G. Loomis, “Counter-Insurgent Operations in Indonesia-1958,”

Marine Corps Gazette, October 1962, 34–41.

30. N. D. Valeriano and C. T. R. Bohannon, “The Philippine Experience,”

Marine Corps Gazette, September 1963, 19–24; October 1963, 42–45;

November 1963, 46–51; and December 1963, 41–43.

31. William J. Thorpe, “HUK Hunting in the Philippines, 1946–1953,”

The Airpower Historian, April 1962, 95–100.

32. James F. Sunderman, “Air Escort—A COIN Technique,” Air

University Review, November–December 1963, 68–73.

33. AFM 1-2, United States Air Force Basic Doctrine, 1953, 1954, April

1955, and December 1959. The next issue of the basic doctrine manual

(AFM 1-1) did not appear until fall 1964.

34. AFM 1-3, Theater Air Operations, September 1953 and April 1954.

The next edition of this manual (AFM 2-1) did not appear until June 1965.

35. Message, DTG 302128Z, vice chief of staff, Headquarters USAF,

March 1954, as quoted in David J. Dean, The Air Force Role in Low-Intensity

Conflict (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, October 1986), 87.

36. Dean, 87–94; and Robert Frank Futrell, Ideas, Concepts, Doctrine:

Basic Thinking in the United States Air Force, vol. 2, 1961–1984 (Maxwell

AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, December 1989), 257–58.

37. Curtis E. LeMay, “Airpower in Guerrilla Warfare,” Air Force

Information Policy Letter for Commanders 16, no. 80 (15 April 1962).

38. Gilbert L. Pritchard, “Communism and Counterinsurgency: Air Force

Role in Combined Support Action,” Air Force Information Policy Letter

Supplement for Commanders, no.113 (3 November 1962).

39. AFM 1-1, United States Air Force Basic Doctrine, 14 August 1964. See in

particular chap. 6, “Employment of Aerospace Forces in Counterinsurgency,”

6-1 through 6-2.

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350

40. United States Department of State, United States-Vietnam Relations,

1945–1967 (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1971). This is

the official, multivolume “Pentagon Papers,” also published in two other

unofficial forms. See in particular, McGeorge Bundy, “A Policy of Sustained

Reprisal,” in vol. 4, C. 3:35, annex A, 7 February 1965. Also refer to the

narrative found in vol. 4, C. 3:4.

41. United States-Viet Nam Relations, vol. 4, C. 3:4 and 3:35–38; William

Bundy, “Draft Position Paper on Southeast Asia” (29 November 1964), as

found in Gerald Gold, Allan M. Siegal, and Samuel Abt, eds., The Pentagon

Papers, New York Times Edition (New York: Bantam Books, 1971), 373–78;

John T. McNaughton, “Annex—Plan for Action for South Vietnam” (24

March 1965), as found in Gold, Siegal, and Abt, The Pentagon Papers, 434;

and Doris Kearns, Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream (New York:

Harper & Row, 1976), 264–65.

42. Raphael Littauer and Norman Uphoff, eds., The Air War in Indochina

(Boston: Beacon Press, 1972), 37.

43. John S. Pustay, Counterinsurgency Warfare (New York: Free Press,

1965), 116–35. Pustay retired as a lieutenant general.

44. Concepts Division, Aerospace Studies Institute, “Guerrilla Warfare

and Airpower in Algeria, 1954–1960” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University,

March 1965), 88.

45. Bernard B. Fall, “The Theory and Practice of Insurgency and

Counterinsurgency,” Naval War College Review, April 1965, 21–37.

46. Rollen H. Anthis, “Airpower: The Paradox in Vietnam,” Air Force

Magazine, April 1967, 34–38. Anthis maintained that field commanders

recognized airpower as “dominant in combat” (page 34). He also stated that

US airpower and nuclear superiority forced the Communists to resort to

insurgency and guerrilla tactics in their quest for world domination. This, of

course, raises the question of why the same insurgent/guerrilla tactics were

used against the British in Malaya and the French in Vietnam, neither of

whom had overwhelming airpower—let alone nuclear superiority.

47. Col Robert L. Hardie, “Airpower in Counterinsurgency Warfare,”

Report no. 3373 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air War College, April 1967).

48. Robert M. Kipp, “Counterinsurgency from 30,000 Feet,” Air

University Review, January–February 1968, 10–18.

49. P. Brighton, “The War in South Vietnam,” Royal Air Forces Quarterly,

Winter 1968, 289–93. One sees the truth of this observation in the fact that

sapper attacks on US air bases in South Vietnam destroyed 96 aircraft

(about one and one-third fighter-wing equivalents)—nearly 33 percent more

than those destroyed in air-to-air combat and nearly as many as destroyed

by the vaunted North Vietnamese surface-to-air missile systems. Nor does

the figure of 96 destroyed include aircraft damaged and other destruction

accomplished by sapper attacks, which adversely affected air operations.

Walter Kross, Military Reform: The High-Tech Debate in Tactical Air Forces

(Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1985), 98.

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50. Among the well-read books concentrating on the military struggle

that should have caught the serious attention of American airmen were

Bernard B. Fall’s four books—Street without Joy (Harrisburg, Pa.:

Stackpole, 1961); The Two Viet-Nams: A Political and Military Analysis (New

York: Praeger, 1963); Viet-Nam Witness, 1953–66 (New York: Praeger, 1966);

and Hell in a Very Small Place: The Siege of Dien Bien Phu (Philadelphia:

Lippincott, 1967)—Jules Roy’s The Battle of Dienbienphu (New York: Harper

& Row, 1965); Ho Chi Minh’s On Revolution (New York: Praeger, 1967); Vo

Nguyen Giap’s The People’s War, People’s Army (New York: Praeger, 1962);

Douglas Pike’s War, Peace, and the Viet Cong (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press,

1969); and Sir Robert Thompson’s No Exit from Vietnam (New York: David

McKay, 1969).

51. During the 1970s, Air University attempted to produce monographs

about important subjects/events in the Vietnam conflict, resulting in the

Southeast Asia Monograph Series published through the US Government

Printing Office between 1976 and 1979. Evidently, this effort was neither

well organized nor supported because some of the nine monographs

produced appear to have been “sponsored” either by Air War College or Air

Command and Staff College. Some appear to have been student projects

while others were written by general officers. The final two monographs

were produced under the auspices of the Airpower Research Institute.

Additionally, the subject matter varies widely, ranging from in-depth

analyses of individual air operations to broad views of entire air campaigns.

The final monograph in the series is a “puff piece” about Air Force heroes of

the war in Southeast Asia. The lack of monograph titles (only nine covering

nearly a decade of US involvement in Vietnam), the lack of consistent

sponsorship, and the occasionally slipshod editing and publishing of the

series may be a further indication of the lack of serious interest in the

Vietnam War following the US withdrawal. In a sense, US airmen may have

been suffering from collective intellectual “battle fatigue.”

52. See, for example, the following: S. W. B. Menaul, “The Use of Air

Power in Vietnam,” RUSI Journal of the Royal United Services Institute for

Defence Studies, June 1971, 5–15; Thomas H. Henriksen, “Lessons from

Portugal’s Counter-insurgency Operations in Africa,” RUSI Journal of the

Royal United Services Institute for Defence Studies, June 1978, 31–35; and

Thomas Arbuckle, “Rhodesian Bush War Strategies and Tactics: An

Assessment,” RUSI Journal of the Royal United Services Institute for Defence

Studies, December 1979, 27–33.

53. Royal Air Force, The Malayan Emergency, 1948–1960 (London:

Ministry of Defence, 1970).

54. Among the most important of these were three different editions of

the so-called Pentagon Papers, all published in 1971 by Beacon Press,

Bantam Books (via the New York Times), and the US Government Printing

Office; Don Oberdorfer’s TET! (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1971); Sir

Robert Thompson’s Peace Is Not at Hand (New York: David McKay, 1974);

Robert Asprey’s War in the Shadows, 2 vols. (New York: Doubleday, 1975);

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352

W. Scott Thompson and Donaldson D. Frizzell’s The Lessons of Vietnam

(New York: Crane, Russak, 1977); Lewy’s America in Vietnam; and Peter

Braestrup’s Big Story (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1977).

55. Included among these were Edward Geary Lansdale’s In the Midst of

Wars (New York: Harper & Row, 1972); William C. Westmoreland’s A Soldier

Reports (New York: Doubleday, 1976); U. S. Grant Sharp’s Strategy for Defeat

(San Rafael, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1978); and William W. Momyer’s Airpower in

Three Wars (Washington, D. C.: Government Printing Office, 1978).

56. Momyer, 337–38.

57. AFM 2-5, Tactical Air Operations Special Air Warfare, 10 March 1967.

58. Ibid., 18. The manual defined “unconventional warfare” as efforts to

“strengthen or create resistance to enemy authority among the people

within enemy territory.” Put another way, unconventional warfare was

insurgency rather than counterinsurgency.

59. Ibid., 13.

60. Ibid., 14.

61. Ibid., 16.

62. AFM 1-1, United States Air Force Basic Doctrine, 28 September 1971,

6-1.

63. AFM 1-1, United States Air Force Basic Doctrine, 15 January 1975,

3-4, 3-6.

64. AFM 1-1, Functions and Basic Doctrine of the United States Air Force,

14 February 1979, 1-9, 1-10.

65. During this period, both Simpkin and van Creveld published their

widely read analyses, both of which predicted that such conflicts would be

the future of warfare. See note 1.

66. Deryck J. Eller, “Doctrine for Low Intensity Conflict” (paper

presented to the Ninth Air University Airpower Symposium, Air War College,

Maxwell AFB, Ala., March 1985); Rod Paschall, “Low-Intensity Conflict

Doctrine—Who Needs It?” Parameters 15 (1985): 33–45; Thomas X.

Hammes, “Insurgency—The Forgotten Threat,” Marine Corps Gazette, March

1988, 40–44; William Olson, “The Concept of Small Wars,” Small Wars and

Insurgencies, April 1990, 39–46 (although he did not directly so state, Olson

agreed by implication); Larry Cable, “Reinventing the Round

Wheel—Insurgency, Counter-Insurgency, and Peacekeeping Post Cold War,”

Small Wars and Insurgencies, April 1993, 228–62; and Drew.

67. Sam C. Sarkesian, “Low-Intensity Conflict—Concepts, Principles,

and Policy Guidelines,” in David J. Dean, ed., Low-Intensity Conflict and

Modern Technology (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, 1986), 12.

68. Drew, 35–36, refers to the co-option of the insurgent cause, while

Cable, 235, refers to preemptive reforms.

69. Grant T. Hammond, “Low Intensity Conflict: War by Another Name,”

Small Wars and Insurgencies, December 1993, 231.

70. Cable, 252.

71. See, for example (listed in order of publication), Mark Lambert,

“Counter-Revolutionary Air Power,” Interavia, May 1981, 475–77; Jerome W.

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Klingaman, “Low-Intensity Conflict and Modern Technology: Light Aircraft

Technology for Small Wars,” in Dean, Low-Intensity Conflict and Modern

Technology; Anthony A. Cardoza, “Soviet Aviation in Afghanistan,” US Naval

Institute Proceedings, February 1987, 85–88; David A. Reinholz, “A Way to

Improve Our Marginal Counterinsurgency Airlift Capability,” Armed Forces

Journal International, July 1987, 40–46; Victor J. Croizat, “Helicopter

Warfare in Algeria,” Marine Corps Gazette, August 1987, 23–25; Aaron Karp,

“Blowpipes and Stingers in Afghanistan—One Year Later,” Armed Forces

Journal International, September 1987, 36–40; Raymond Knox, “High Speed

Jets in a Low Speed War—The Utility of Tactical Airpower in Low-Intensity

Conflict” (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: School of Advanced Military Studies, US

Army Command and General Staff College, 20 April 1989); Vance C.

Bateman, “The Role of Tactical Air Power in Low-Intensity Conflict,”

Airpower Journal 5, no. 1 (Spring 1991): 72–81; and George C. Morris, “The

Other Side of the COIN—Low-Technology Aircraft and Little Wars,” Airpower

Journal 5, no. 1 (Spring 1991): 56–70.

72. Klingaman, 9.

73. Karp, 40.

74. See, for example (listed in order of publication), John D. Green,

“Reflections on Counter Guerrilla Tactical Air Operations” (paper presented

to the Ninth Air University Airpower Symposium, Air War College, Maxwell

AFB, Ala., March 1985); William J. Olson, “Airpower in Low Intensity

Conflict in the Middle East” (paper presented to the Ninth Air University

Airpower Symposium, Air War College, Maxwell AFB, Ala., March 1985),

subsequently published in Air University Review, March–April 1986, 2–21;

Dean, The Air Force Role; David Willard Parsons, “Toward the Proper

Application of Air Power in Low Intensity Conflict” (thesis, Naval

Postgraduate School, December 1993); and Dennis M. Drew, “Air Power in

Peripheral Conflict,” in Alan Stephens, ed., The War in the Air, 1914–1994

(Royal Australian Air Force [RAAF] Base Fairbairn, Australia: Air Power

Studies Centre, 1994), 235–70.

75. Dean, The Air Force Role, 110.

76. Olson, “Air Power in Low-Intensity Conflict” (AU Review version), 17.

77. Ibid., 18.

78. Green, 7–11.

79. Drew, “Air Power in Peripheral Conflict,” 241–48, 263–64.

80. Nathan Leites and Charles Wolf Jr., Rebellion and Authority: An

Analytic Essay on Insurgent Conflicts (Chicago: Markham Publishing, 1970).

81. Parsons, 60–63.

82. Ibid., 71–75.

83. John A. Warden III, The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat (Fort Lesley

J. McNair, Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1988). The

index of this book includes no listing for low intensity conflict, insurgency,

counterinsurgency, protracted revolutionary warfare, or partisan warfare; it

includes only one reference to guerrilla warfare—in connection with the

futility of aerial interdiction against self-sufficient forces.

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84. Actually, Warden has published very little. Other than his book, his

only other publications are “Planning to Win,” Air University Review 34, no.

3 (March–April 1983): 94–97; “Employing Air Power in the Twenty-first

Century,” in Richard H. Shultz Jr. and Robert L. Pfaltzgraff Jr., eds., The

Future of Air Power in the Aftermath of the Gulf War (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air

University Press, 1992), 57–82; and “The Enemy as a System,” Airpower

Journal 9, no. 1 (Spring 1995): 40–55. When he served as commandant of

Air Command and Staff College, he produced several unpublished essays,

one of the most well known of which is “Air Theory for the Twenty-first

Century.” For an insightful critique of Warden, see David S. Fadok’s chapter

in this volume.

85. The Army–Air Force Center for Low Intensity Conflict produced 51

major studies between 1987 and the present writing. Only three pertained

directly to airpower: Logistic Support for Low Intensity Conflict—An Air Force

Perspective; Planning Considerations for the Combat Employment of Air

Power in Peacetime Contingency Operations; and A Security Assistance

Example—The US Air Force and the African Coastal Security Program

(Langley AFB, Va.: Center for Low Intensity Conflict, 1988, 1988, and 1989,

respectively). Nonairmen dominated the Joint Low Intensity Conflict Project

(only 13 percent of the participants were from the Air Force). Its final report

addressed only three airpower issues—all concerning specialized aircraft.

Joint Low Intensity Conflict Project Final Report (Fort Monroe, Va.: Joint Low

Intensity Conflict Project, United States Army Training and Doctrine

Command, 1 August 1986).

86. Field Manual (FM) 100-2 and Air Force Pamphlet (AFP) 3-20, Military

Operations in Low Intensity Conflict, 5 December 1990.

87. Ibid., E-4.

88. AFM 2-11, Foreign Internal Defense Operations, 3 November 1992.

89. Ibid., 9, par. 3-3a.

90. Ibid., 9–10, par. 3-3b.

91. I was the team leader and one of the principal authors of the Air

Force basic doctrine manual published in March 1992. Early drafts of the

manual contained extensive information about the peculiar nature of

protracted revolutionary warfare and extensive comment about the

employment of airpower in such conflicts. All of this was essentially

eliminated at the general-officer level after lengthy arguments between me

and the general officers concerned. What remains are vague references

rather than explicit theory.

92. AFM 2-11, 9–10, par. 3-3b.

93. AFM 1-1, Basic Aerospace Doctrine of the United States Air Force, vol.

1, March 1992, 12, par. 3-5a(5). This particular assertion was inserted at

the general-officer level over my objections. Interestingly, vol. 2 of the

manual, which contains evidence for every doctrinal statement made in vol. 1,

contains no evidence of any kind to support this particular assertion.

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Chapter 10

John Boyd and John Warden:

Airpower’s Quest for Strategic Paralysis

Lt Col David S. Fadok

A strategist should think in terms of paralysing, not of

killing.

—B. H. Liddell Hart

Since the advent of heavier-than-air flight in 1903, theorists

have posited numerous schemes to exploit the inherent ability

of aircraft to rise above the fray of the battlefield and go

straight to the heart of an enemy nation. From seeds sown by

the Italian pioneer Giulio Douhet, strategic airpower theory

has steadily evolved throughout the twentieth century. Along

the way, it has been fashioned by harsh lessons of war,

advances in technology, and the visionary concepts of a few,

select airmen.

Two modern-day theorists, Col John Boyd, now deceased, and

Col John Warden, now retired from the US Air Force, have

significantly contributed to this evolutionary process. Although

Boyd does not offer an airpower theory per se, his thoughts on

conflict have significant implications for the employment of

airpower at all levels of war. In contrast, Warden has developed

an airpower theory but focuses primarily on the strategic

application of the air weapon. This chapter summarizes and

critiques each man’s thoughts as they pertain to strategic

conventional airpower.

Further, it identifies and explains the

theoretical linkages and disconnects between the two and

highlights their contributions to the evolution of airpower

theory.

Specifically, I contend that (1) Boyd’s theory of conflict and

Warden’s theory of strategic attack share a theme common to

most, if not all, theories of strategic airpower—the goal of

defeating one’s adversary by strategic paralysis; (2) their

divergent thoughts on strategic paralysis represent two

357

distinct traditions regarding the nature and purpose of theory;

and (3) together, the paralysis theories of Boyd and Warden

represent a fundamental shift in the evolution of strategic

airpower thought from an emphasis on economic warfare to

an emphasis on control warfare.

To demonstrate these

assertions, one must first define the concept of strategic

paralysis.

Seven years after the “war to end all wars,” Basil H. Liddell

Hart published the first of his many books on military strategy

and modern-day war. Its clever title, Paris; Or the Future of

War, recalls the mythical defeat of Achilles by his opponent

Paris, via the surgical strike of a well-aimed arrow. As the title

further suggests, attacking enemy vulnerabilities (instead of

strengths) could and should serve as the role model for the

conduct of war in the years ahead. The killing fields of World

War I had certainly made Paris’s strategy preferable; the

technologies of flight and mechanization seemed to make it

possible as well. Thus, the search began for those key

vulnerabilities of an enemy nation that were crucial to its

survival and protected by the sword and shield of its armed

forces. Along the way, airpower theorists reintroduced the

notion of paralysis into the lexicon of military strategy.

These early air enthusiasts extolled the “third dimension”

that the aerial weapon added to the battlefield. The airplane’s

unique ability to rise above the fray of surface battle led many

people to speculate that airpower could defeat an enemy

nation and its armed forces by incapacitating—or

paralyzing—the vulnerable war-making potential in the rear.

Inflicting paralysis through aerial attack upon the Achilles’

heel of the enemy nation seemingly promised decisive victory

at significantly lower cost in terms of lives and treasure.

To more clearly define the concept of strategic paralysis, one

should examine the idea in light of the theoretical constructs

developed by two preeminent military writers—the British

strategist J. F. C. Fuller and the German historian Hans

Delbruck. Fuller’s typology helps distinguish what strategic

paralysis is, while Delbruck’s demonstrates what it is not.

In The Foundations of the Science of War, Fuller sets out to

examine the nature of war as a science, beginning his study

by introducing the concept of the threefold order. He insists

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that this order is “a foundation so universal that it may be

considered axiomatic to knowledge in all its forms.”

Since

humans consist of body, mind, and soul, wars as human

activities must be subject to a similar constitution. Adopting

the threefold order as the framework for his military study,

Fuller posits three spheres of war—physical, mental, and

moral.

Respectively, these spheres deal with destruction of

the enemy’s physical strength (fighting power), disorganization

of his mental processes (thinking power), and disintegration of

his moral will to resist (staying power). Fuller adds that forces

operating within these spheres do so in synergistic, not

isolated, ways: “Mental force does not win a war; moral force

does not win a war; physical force does not win a war; but

what does win a war is the highest combination of these three

forces acting as one force” (emphasis in original).

This

threefold order proves useful in beginning to understand the

essence of strategic paralysis.

Paralysis of an adversary consists of physical, mental, and

moral dimensions. As a strategy, it entails the nonlethal intent

to physically disable and mentally disorient an enemy so as to

induce his moral collapse. Although nonlethal intent does not

necessarily preclude destructive action or prevent fatal

results, it does seek to minimize these negative outcomes as

much as possible.

These physical, mental, and moral effects

may be short or long term, as required by one’s grand

strategy. Put another way, strategic paralysis aims at the

enemy’s physical and mental capabilities to indirectly engage

and defeat his moral will.

In addition to his threefold order, Fuller offers another

theoretical proposition in Foundations that helps define

strategic paralysis. Appropriate for any scientist of war, Fuller

establishes a variety of battle principles to assist his students

of military strategy. The overriding principle that governs the

conduct of war—the “law” from which he derives nine

subordinate principles—is economy of force. What this law

contributes to the definition of strategic paralysis is the

concept of expending minimum effort to produce maximum

effect—something Paris did quite well against his nemesis

Achilles.

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Having constructed a partial definition of paralysis (a

three-dimensional strategy characterized by nonlethal intent

and force economization), we can now examine this notion in

light of Delbruck’s typology, to further refine our concept by

demonstrating what strategic paralysis is not. In a truly

seminal work with a distinct Clausewitzian flavor, Delbruck

presents a comprehensive History of the Art of War within the

Framework of Political History. In it, he addresses two

traditional strategies of combat—annihilation and attrition.

The strategy of annihilation aims to destroy enemy armed

forces, whereas the strategy of attrition seeks to exhaust

them. Unfortunately, as Delbruck himself feared, the majority

of his readers misconstrued these as the strategy of the strong

(i.e., quantitatively superior) and of the weak, respectively.

Delbruck coins the term Ermattungs-Strategie (strategy

of attrition) as an opposite to Carl von Clausewitz’s

Niederwerfungs-Strategie (strategy of annihilation) but

confesses that “the expression has the weakness of coming

close to the misconception of a pure maneuver strategy.”

Since by definition, annihilation strategy always seeks

destruction of enemy armed forces through decisive battle, he

worries that people will misinterpret his notion of attrition

strategy as the constant avoidance of battle through

maneuver. To clarify, Delbruck further defines the strategy of

attrition as “double-poled strategy,” one pole being battle and

the other maneuver. A military commander employing an

attrition strategy would continually shift between battle and

maneuver, favoring one pole over the other as circumstances

dictate.

Thus, while strategies of annihilation produce rapid

decisions through overwhelming defeat of enemy armed

forces, strategies of attrition produce more drawn-out affairs

capped by the slow but steady softening of the enemy’s will.

In contrast, strategic paralysis is a strategy neither of

annihilation nor attrition but a third type of warfare. It does

not seek rapid decision via destruction of enemy armed forces

in battle. Likewise, it does not seek drawn-out decision via

exhaustion of the enemy by continual shifting between the

poles of battle and maneuver. In contrast to both, it seeks

rapid decision via enemy incapacitation by fusing battle and

maneuver. It bypasses battle with enemy armed forces in favor

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360

of attack upon the sustainment and control of those armed

forces. Strategic paralysis is neither pure battle nor pure

maneuver but a unique melding of the two—“maneuver battle”

against war-making potential.

To summarize, we note that strategic paralysis is a military

option with physical, mental, and moral dimensions that

intends to disable rather than destroy the enemy. It seeks

maximum possible political effect or benefit with minimum

necessary military effort or cost. Further, it aims at rapid

decision through a maneuver battle directed against an

adversary’s physical and mental capability to sustain and

control his war effort in order to diminish his moral will to

resist. With this working definition in place, the chapter now

traces how the thread of strategic paralysis became woven

into the fabric of airpower thought.

In the wake of World War I, two British veterans of that

tragic carnage—Fuller and Liddell Hart—weighed in on the

side of strategic paralysis. Fuller, the designer of what is

perhaps the first modern-day operational plan aimed at enemy

paralysis (Plan 1919), later wrote that “the physical strength

of an army lies in its organization, controlled by its brain.

Paralyse this brain and the body ceases to operate.”

Fuller

insisted that such “brain warfare” remained the most effective

and efficient way to destroy the enemy’s military organization

and hence its military strength. To economize the application

of military force, one needed to produce the instantaneous

effects of a “shot through the head” rather than the slow bleed

of successive, slight body wounds.

Liddell Hart was Fuller’s kindred spirit in the field of

military strategy. Like his fellow countryman, Liddell Hart was

a vigorous advocate of strategic paralysis. Arguing that “the

most decisive victory is of no value if a nation be bled white

gaining it,” he insisted that the more potent and economical

form of warfare was disarmament through paralysis—not

destruction through annihilation.

Fuller and Liddell Hart witnessed the introduction of the

aerial weapon in war, and both envisioned a decisive role for

airpower in inducing strategic paralysis. Fuller predicted “an

army holding at bay another, whilst its aircraft are destroying

the hostile communications and bases and so paralysing

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enemy action” (emphasis added).

Likewise, in 1925 Liddell

Hart reasoned, “Provided that the blow be sufficiently swift

and powerful, there is no reason why within a few hours, or at

most days from the commencement of hostilities, the nerve

system of the country inferior in airpower should not be

paralysed.”

They were not alone in their grand visions of

airpower. Many veteran airmen of World War I supported the

cause. Two men—Hugh Trenchard and William Mitchell—

stand out because of their influence upon the initial develop-

ment of strategic air doctrine.

Marshal of the Royal Air Force (RAF) Lord Trenchard, the

“father of the RAF,” believed in strategic paralysis. In a

memorandum of 1928 to the chiefs of staff on the war object

of an air force, Trenchard explicitly states that the goal of air

action is “to paralyse from the very outset the enemy’s

production centres of munitions of war of every sort and to

stop all communications and transportation.”

He argues

that paralyzing attacks upon an enemy’s “vital centres” offer

“the best object by which to reach victory” because they obtain

“infinitely more effect” and “generally exact a smaller toll from

the attacker” than strikes against the surface and air forces

that defend them. Coincidentally, across the Atlantic, a man

whom Trenchard met and influenced on the western front was

airing similar views in a distinctly American manner.

An outspoken advocate of airpower, Brig Gen Billy Mitchell

also believed in strategic paralysis. In 1919 he asserted that

aerial bombardment’s greatest value lay in “hitting an enemy’s

great nerve centers at the very beginning of the war so as to

paralyze them to the greatest extent possible.”

Six years

later, during his well-publicized court-martial, Mitchell spoke

fondly of airpower’s unique ability to incapacitate one’s foes.

Finally, in his last book, Skyways, Mitchell concludes that

“the advent of airpower which can go straight to the vital

centers and entirely neutralize and destroy them has put a

completely new complexion on the old system of war. It is now

realized that the hostile main army in the field is a false

objective and the real objectives are the vital centers. The old

theory that victory meant the destruction of the hostile main

army is untenable.”

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Clearly, both Trenchard and Mitchell were early proponents

of strategic paralysis. Their hauntingly similar writings

proclaim the revolutionary nature of aerial warfare. The

airplane possessed a unique ability to avoid the bloody

stalemate on the ground and to combine shock and firepower

into a single weapon able to strike deeply into the enemy

heartland. Given the substantial influence of Trenchard and

Mitchell on their respective air services, the notion of paralysis

became imbedded in the theoretical foundation of British and

American strategic air doctrine, resurfacing most recently in

the ideas of John Boyd and John Warden.

The tactical seeds of John Boyd’s theory of conflict were sown

during the Korean War, when Boyd, a fighter pilot who flew the

F-86 Sabre in “MiG Alley,” developed his first intuitive

appreciation for the efficacy of what he would later refer to as

“fast transient maneuvers.” Although the Soviet-built MiG-15

proved technologically superior to the F-86 in many respects,

the latter’s hydraulic flight controls provided Sabre pilots a

decisive advantage over their opponents—the ability to shift

more rapidly from one maneuver to another during aerial

dogfights. Just when the MiG pilot began reacting to the initial

Sabre movement, a rapid change in direction would render the

enemy response inappropriate to the new tactical situation. This

agility contributed to the Sabre pilots’ establishment of an

impressive 10-to-one kill ratio against the formidable MiG-15. A

few years later at Eglin AFB, Florida, Boyd quantified these

air-to-air combat lessons in the form of his energy

maneuverability theory—a collection of tactical principles that

still guides the training of Ameican fighter pilots.

Yet, not until his retirement did Boyd set out to expand his

tactical concepts of aerial maneuver warfare into a more

generalized theory of conflict.

Beginning in 1976 with a

concise, 16-page essay entitled “Destruction and Creation,”

Boyd’s strategic ideas evolved over the next decade into an

unpublished, five-part series of briefings—“A Discourse on

Winning and Losing.” Ironically, the “Discourse” itself is a

product of the very process of analysis and synthesis

described in “Destruction and Creation,” a cognitive process

that Boyd insists is crucial to prevailing in a highly

unpredictable and competitive world. It is a form of mental

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agility, “a process of reaching across many perspectives;

pulling each and every one apart (analysis), all the while

intuitively looking for those parts of the disassembled

perspectives which naturally interconnect with one another to

form a higher order, more general elaboration (synthesis) of

what is taking place.”

Using the dialectic process of

“Destruction and Creation,” Boyd embarked upon an in-depth

review of military history to unravel the mysteries of success

and failure in conflict. Boyd’s firm belief in fast transient

maneuvers instilled during his fighter days undoubtedly

influenced this scholarly exercise. The end product is an

eclectic and esoteric discourse on how to survive and win in a

competitive world.

Boyd’s theory of conflict advocates a form of maneuver

warfare that is more psychological and temporal in its

orientation than physical and spatial. Its military object is “to

break the spirit and will of the enemy command by creating

surprising and dangerous operational or strategic situations.”

To achieve this end, one must operate at a faster tempo or

rhythm than one’s adversaries. Put differently, Boyd’s maneuver

warfare aims to render the enemy powerless by denying him the

time to cope mentally with the rapidly unfolding—and naturally

uncertain—circumstances of war.

One’s military operations

aim to (1) create and perpetuate a highly fluid and menacing

state of affairs for the enemy and (2) disrupt or incapacitate his

ability to adapt to such an environment.

Based upon an analysis of ancient and modern military history,

Boyd identifies four key qualities of successful operations—

initiative, harmony, variety, and rapidity.

Collectively, these

characteristics allow one to adapt to and to shape the uncertain,

friction-filled environment of war. Boyd credits Clausewitz for

recognizing the need to improve one’s adaptability in war by

minimizing one’s own frictions. In addition, borrowing from

Sun-tzu , Boyd insists that one can use friction to shape the

conflict in one’s favor by creating and exploiting the frictions

faced by the opponent. He then relates this idea of minimizing

friendly friction and maximizing enemy friction to his key

qualities of initiative, harmony, variety, and rapidity.

To minimize friendly friction, one must act and react more

quickly than the opponent—specifically, by exercising

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initiative at the lower levels within a chain of command.

However, a centralized command of what and why things are

done must guide this decentralized control of how things are

done. This shared vision of a single commander’s intent

ensures strategic and operational harmony among the various

tactical actions and reactions. Without a common aim and

similar outlook on how best to satisfy the commander’s intent,

subordinate freedom of action risks disunity of effort and an

attendant increase in friction.

To maximize enemy friction, one should plan to attack with

a variety of actions that one can execute with the greatest

possible rapidity. Similar to the contemporary notion of

parallel warfare, this lethal combination of varied, rapid

actions serves to overload the adversary’s capacity to properly

identify and address those events that appear most

threatening. By steadily reducing an opponent’s physical and

mental capability to resist, one ultimately crushes his moral

will to resist as well.

Boyd argues that severe disruption occurs by rapidly and

repeatedly presenting the enemy with a combination of

ambiguous (but threatening) events and deceptive (but

nonthreatening) ones. These multiple events, compressed in

time, quickly generate mismatches—or anomalies—between

those actions the opponent believes to threaten his survival

and those that actually do. The enemy must eliminate these

mismatches between perception and reality if his reactions are

to remain relevant—that is, if he is to survive.

We should hamper the opponent’s ability to process

information, make decisions, and take appropriate action,

thus ensuring that he cannot rid himself of these menacing

anomalies. In consequence, he can no longer determine what

is being done to him and how he should respond. Ultimately,

the adversary’s initial confusion degenerates into paralyzing

panic, and his ability and/or willingness to resist ceases.

Boyd views the adversary as a three-dimensional being,

consisting of “moral-mental-physical bastions, connections, or

activities that he depends upon.”

To defeat this being, Boyd

advocates standing Clausewitz on his head. Instead of

destroying “hubs of all power and movement,” one should

create noncooperative centers of gravity (COG) by attacking

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the moral-mental-physical linkages that bind the hubs

together. This destroys the enemy’s internal harmony and

external connection to the real world, producing paralysis and

collapsing resistance.

In perhaps the most well known feature of Boyd’s theory, he

contends that one can depict all rational human behavior—

individual or organizational—as a continual cycling through

four distinct tasks: observation, orientation, decision, and

action. Boyd refers to this decision-making cycle as the

“OODA loop” (fig. 1).

Using this construct, the crux of winning becomes the

relational movement of opponents through their respective

OODA loops.

Whoever repeatedly observes, orients, decides,

and acts more rapidly (and accurately) than his enemy will

win.

By doing so, he “folds his opponent back inside

himself” and eventually makes enemy reaction inappropriate

to the situation at hand.

The key to attaining a favorable

edge in OODA loop speed and accuracy (hence, to winning) is

efficient and effective orientation.

To survive and grow within a complex, ever-changing world

of conflict, we must effectively and efficiently orient ourselves;

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that is, we must quickly and accurately develop mental

images—or schemata—to help comprehend and cope with the

vast array of threatening and nonthreatening events we face.

This image construction—or orientation—is nothing more

than the process of destruction (analysis) and creation

(synthesis) described earlier. In Boyd’s words, it involves the

process of “examining the world from a number of

perspectives so that we can generate mental images or

impressions that correspond to that world.”

Done well, it

becomes the key to winning instead of losing. Done

exceedingly well, it becomes the mark of genius.

The mental images we construct are shaped by our personal

experience, genetic heritage, and cultural traditions. They

determine our decisions, actions, and observations.

Observations that match up with certain mental schemata call

for certain decisions and actions. The timeliness and accuracy

of those decisions and actions are directly related to our

ability to orient and reorient correctly to the rapidly unfolding,

perpetually uncertain events of war. Mismatches between the

real world and our mental images of that world generate

inaccurate responses. These, in turn, produce confusion and

disorientation, which then diminish both the accuracy and

the speed of subsequent decision making. Left uncorrected,

disorientation steadily expands one’s OODA loop until it

eventually becomes a death trap.

Tying the preceding comments together, Boyd proposes that

success in conflict stems from getting inside an adversary’s

OODA loop and staying there. The military commander can do

so in two supplementary ways. First, he must minimize his

own friction through initiative and harmony of response. This

decrease in friendly friction acts to “tighten” his own loop (i.e.,

to speed up his own decision-action cycle time). Second, he

must maximize his opponent’s friction through variety and

rapidity of response. This increase in enemy friction acts to

“loosen” the adversary’s loop (i.e., to slow down his decision-

action cycle time). Together, these “friction manipulations”

assure one’s continual operation within the enemy’s OODA

loop in menacing and unpredictable ways. Initially, this

produces confusion and disorder within the enemy camp.

Ultimately, it produces panic and fear that manifest

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themselves in a simultaneous paralysis of ability to cope and

of willingness to resist.

Using an analytical model developed by political scientist

Robert Pape,

one can graphically depict Boyd’s theory of

strategic paralysis (fig. 2). As Boyd himself would admit, his

theory of conflict is quite esoteric. He speaks of dismembering

the “moral-mental-physical being” of the enemy and of getting

inside his “mind-time-space,” yet he offers few, if any,

operational details about accomplishing these abstract aims.

The absence of detail is particularly frustrating for the

practically minded war fighter whose profession centers on

translating relatively obscure political ends into concrete

military ways and means. Although Boyd’s purpose is not to

frustrate, neither is it to dictate.

As he tells it, John Boyd is a believer in theories, not theory—

in doctrines, not doctrine.

He refuses to advocate any one

approach, any one formula; following a single path to victory

makes one predictable and vulnerable. Moreover, through the

study of all theories and doctrines, the warrior accumulates a

full bag of strategic tricks. Then, as a particular conflict

unfolds, he can pick and choose from this bag as the situation

demands. So, although Boyd’s work is void of practical recipes

for success, it is so by design.

A more appropriate critique of

his discourse on winning and losing lies elsewhere.

Ironically, one of the greatest strengths of Boyd’s theory is,

at the same time, a potential weakness—his emphasis on the

temporal dimension of conflict. Reflecting an American bias

for fast-paced operations and the related preference for short

wars, Boyd presumes that operating at a faster tempo than

one’s opponent matters—or, more to the point, that it matters

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to the enemy. He may not care that we are “OODA looping”

more quickly. Indeed, it may be in his interest to refuse to

play by our rules. To illustrate this point, I turn to the game of

basketball.

If our opponent is not particularly suited to a “fast break”

style of play, it is in his interest to slow things down if we are

a “run and gun” team. If he refuses to play at our faster pace

and intentionally tries to slow things down, he may succeed in

taking us out of our game just enough to win—even if we

retain a relative advantage in speed throughout. Boyd would

no doubt argue that the fast-breaking side will paralyze its

opponent because of its quicker tempo, a point that may be

true in some instances. It is certainly true if the naturally

slower opponent agrees to speed things up. If, however, he

slows the pace down, knowing full well that our fans will

tolerate nothing other than fast-break ball, he may sufficiently

frustrate our game plan so that, in the end, he wins. This

basketball analogy seems to apply even better when, as in

war, we remove the time clock.

In fact, Mao Tse-tung advocated precisely this approach as

the strategy for liberating China from the scorch of the Rising

Sun in the War of Resistance against Japan. In contrast to

both the subjugationists within the Kuomintang government

and the theorists of quick victory within his own Communist

Party, Mao proposed the notion of “protracted war” as the way

for defeating the militarily superior Japanese aggressors.

In a series of lectures from 26 May to 3 June 1938, Mao

explained and justified his plans for protracted war against

Japan, couching his descriptions and arguments in the

traditional Eastern dialectic of yin and yang. For Mao, this

Taoist “duality of opposites” informed not only the object of war

but also the strategy for war. He argued that in war, one seeks

to destroy the enemy and preserve oneself.

This twofold object

“is the essence of war and the basis of all war activities, an

essence that pervades all war activities, from the technical to the

strategic.” As such, “no technical, tactical, or strategic concepts

or principles can in any way depart from it.”

In consequence, he preached that one should not

characterize the War of Resistance against Japan by either the

“desperate recklessness” of perpetual attack or the “flightism”

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of perpetual retreat.

Instead, the current military advantage

enjoyed by Imperial Japan demanded a blend of attack and

retreat—of operational/tactical swiftness and strategic

protraction. In this way alone could the Chinese resistance

simultaneously preserve itself and defeat the enemy through

gradual erosion of his relative superiority.

Mao insisted that calls for quick victory within the Chinese

Communist camp had no basis in an objective appraisal of

current capabilities and therefore played into the hands of the

Japanese army. Similarly, calls for national subjugation

within the Kuomintang government had no basis in an

objective appraisal of future possibilities. In other words, Mao

claimed that the Chinese could defeat Japan tomorrow if they

could survive today. Brandishing time as a weapon to achieve

the dual object of enemy destruction and self-preservation,

Mao’s strategy of protracted war proved successful in the

Chinese resistance of Japan and, later, in the Vietnamese

resistance to both France and the United States.

Boyd readily acknowledges the influence of Maoism and other

Eastern philosophies of war on his own thoughts, an impact

most evident in his emphasis on the temporal dimension of

war—specifically, in his incorporation of the notion of time as a

weapon. Yet, Boyd fails to fully appreciate this weapon in the

context of Taoism’s yin and yang. The “duality of opposites”

suggests—and twentieth-century revolutionary warfare

supports—the conclusion that time can be a most potent force

in either its contracted or its protracted forms.

Throughout his retirement, Boyd has briefed his “Discourse

on Winning and Losing” to hundreds of audiences in both

civilian and military circles, leaving copies behind to assure a

degree of permanence for his ideas. Interestingly, one of the

agencies he talked to several times in the early 1980s was the

newly formed Checkmate Division within the Air Staff at the

Pentagon. This division’s responsibilities include short- and

long-range contingency planning for the employment of the

United States Air Force. Eventually, this division would have

as its chief our second modern-day theorist of strategic

paralysis.

John Warden has emerged as a leading advocate of force

application in the third dimension. Credited as the originator

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of the air campaign that guided allied efforts during Operation

Desert Storm, Warden has a vision of twenty-first-century

warfare that unabashedly asserts the dominance of aerospace

power over surface force. Furthermore, in concert with the

“Long Blue Line” of American air theorists, he contends that

the most effective and efficient application of airpower lies in

the strategic realm. However, unlike the strategic air warfare

of his predecessors, particularly those at the Air Corps

Tactical School (ACTS), Warden’s is more political than

economic in nature. Targeting enemy leadership to produce

desired policy changes is the overarching aim that should

guide the employment of air forces. In this respect, Warden

acknowledges an intellectual debt to the British military

theorist J. F. C. Fuller. One of Fuller’s classic works, The

Generalship of Alexander the Great, convinced him of the

efficacy of attacking the command element as a means of

defeating armed forces—a strategy of incapacitation through

“decapitation.”

While a student at the National War College, Warden began

to construct his theory of airpower. An academic thesis,

originally planned as an examination of Alexander’s genius,

evolved instead into The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat.

An influential text on the use of airpower in war, this book

focuses on translating national political objectives and

strategic military goals into theater campaign plans, with

primary focus on planning airpower’s contribution to the

overall effort. The book reflects the unique heritage of

American air theory and practice. Warden’s belief in the

predominant role of air superiority flows directly from the

pages of the Army’s Field Manual (FM) 100-20, Command and

Employment of Airpower (1943). Likewise, his emphasis on air

strikes against enemy centers of gravity recalls the writings of

Billy Mitchell and his kindred spirits at ACTS with regard to

attacks against “vital centers” deep within the enemy

heartland.

The main theme of The Air Campaign is that airpower

possesses a unique capacity to achieve the strategic ends of

war with maximum effectiveness and minimum cost.

Airpower’s inherent speed, range, and flexibility allow it to

strike the full spectrum of enemy capabilities in a swift and

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decisive manner. Central to this theme is the Clausewitzian

concept of an enemy’s COG, defined by Warden as “that point

where the enemy is most vulnerable and the point where an

attack will have the best chance of being decisive.”

Properly

identifying these COGs is the critical first step in planning and

conducting military operations.

As suggested earlier, the incorporation of this notion of

COGs into airpower theory is by no means novel. However,

Warden’s description above suggests that such centers are

both strengths and vulnerabilities.

This dual nature of

COGs has implications for campaign planning, particularly in

terms of identifying which force—ground, sea, or air—is key.

As Warden noted, “Air must be the key force when ground or

sea forces are incapable of doing the job because of

insufficient numbers or inability to reach the enemy center of

gravity.”

Airpower’s ubiquity theoretically makes many more

strategic COGs vulnerable to attack relative to surface forces,

providing air forces with a higher degree of strategic

decisiveness.

Although it stresses the importance of correctly identifying

and appropriately striking COGs, The Air Campaign does not

elaborate on how to go about doing so. Warden’s process of

identifying COGs materialized some years after publication of

his first work. While working at the Pentagon, Warden

recognized the need for a coherent theory of airpower. Having

searched for some organizing scheme appropriate to the

concept of COGs as related to airpower, in the late fall of

1988, he developed such a model in the form of five concentric

rings—an air force targeting bull’s-eye of sorts (fig.3).

Analyzing the enemy as a system, Warden contends that

one can break down all strategic entities into five component

parts.

The most crucial element of the system—the

innermost ring—is leadership. Extending outward from the

center, in descending importance to the overall functioning of

the system, are the rings of organic essentials, infrastructure,

population, and fielded forces.

Within each ring exists a COG or collection of COGs that

represents “the hub of all power and movement” for that

particular ring. If the COG is destroyed or neutralized, the

effective functioning of the ring ceases, which affects the

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entire system in more or less significant ways (depending

upon whether it is an inner or outer ring). To facilitate the

accurate identification of these key hubs within each ring,

Warden proposes the further breakdown of any given ring into

five subrings (of leadership, organic essentials, etc.) and these

into five more, if necessary, until the true COG surfaces.

The central theme of the five-rings model is that the most

effective strategic plan always focuses on leadership, first and

foremost. Even if leadership is unavailable as a target set, the

air strategist must still focus on the mind of the commander

when selecting COGs among the other rings.

Within these

rings lie COGs that, when hit, impose some level of physical

paralysis, thereby raising the costs of further resistance in the

mind of the enemy command.

The implicit message is that

destruction or neutralization of the leadership COG(s)

produces total physical paralysis of the system, whereas

successful attack upon COGs within the other rings produces

partial physical paralysis but unbearable psychological

pressure upon the leadership.

When Iraq invaded Kuwait in August 1990 and US military

planners considered possible responses, Warden’s Checkmate

Division developed an air option. Firmly believing in the

efficacy of striking enemy COGs, he resurrected the five-rings

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model to guide the creation of a strategic air campaign . As

Warden observed, “This was a case where the theory existed

before the fact and the facts validated the theory.”

Further refinement of his strategic air theory occurred in

the afterglow of Desert Storm. Warden drew several lessons

from the Gulf War that would influence his thinking. Among

the most prominent were (1) the importance of strategic attack

and the fragility of states at the strategic level; (2) the fatal

consequences of losing strategic and operational air

superiority; (3) the overwhelming effects of parallel warfare

(that is, the near-simultaneous attack upon strategic COGs

throughout the entire theater of war); (4) the value of stealth

and precision weaponry in redefining the principles of mass

and surprise; and (5) the dominance of airpower as the key

force in most, but not all, operational- and strategic-level

conflicts within the next quarter to half century.

Coupling his early thoughts on airpower with his

experiences in the Gulf War, Warden established a theoretical

foundation for employing airpower in the twenty-first century.

Fundamentally, this groundwork relates ends, ways, and

means. First, air strategists must appreciate the political

objectives sought by military action (ends). Second, they must

determine the best military strategy to induce the enemy to

comply, as defined by those political objectives (ways). Third,

they must use the five-rings systems analysis to identify

which COGs to subject to parallel attack (means).

In terms of ends, Warden accepts Clausewitz’s maxim that

all wars are fought for political purpose. Although wars may

have their own distinct capabilities and limitations relative to

other tools available to the statesman, they are by nature

political instruments.

Seen as such, wars are essentially

discourses between policy makers on each side. The aim of all

military action, then, is not the destruction of enemy armed

forces but the manipulation of the enemy leadership’s will.

Warden elaborates:

Wars are fought to convince the enemy leadership to do what one

wants it to do—that is, concede something political. . . . The enemy

leadership agrees that it needs to make these political concessions

when it suffers the threat or the actuality of intolerable pressure

against both its operational and strategic centers of gravity. . . .

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Thus, one does not conduct an attack against industry or

infrastructure because of the effect it might or might not have on

fielded forces. Rather, one undertakes such an attack for its direct

effect on national leaders and commanders.

Warden proposes three main ways to make the enemy do

what one wants him to do—the military strategies of imposed

cost (coercion), paralysis (incapacitation), and destruction

(annihilation).

Collectively, these strategies represent a

continuum of force application. The point chosen along that

strategy continuum should coincide with the level of objective

intent.

An imposed cost strategy seeks to make continued

resistance too expensive for the enemy command. It attempts

to do so by estimating the opponent’s pain threshold, based

on his value system, and then exceeding this threshold as

violently and instantaneously as possible through

simultaneous or parallel attacks upon the designated target

set. Theoretically, such attacks coerce the enemy leadership to

accept one’s terms and change its policy through the actual

imposition of partial system paralysis, as well as the potential

or threatened imposition of total system paralysis.

A paralysis strategy seeks to make continued resistance

impossible for the enemy command. It does so by thoroughly

and simultaneously incapacitating the entire enemy system

from the inside out. This total system paralysis, in turn,

provides one the freedom of movement to change policy for the

enemy leadership without interference.

Finally, a destruction strategy seeks to annihilate the entire

system, making policy change by the enemy leadership

irrelevant. However, as Warden cautions, “the last of these

options is rare in history, difficult to execute, fraught with

moral concerns, and normally not very useful because of all

the unintended consequences it engenders.”

In light of these

observations, he dismisses this military strategy as politically

unviable for twenty-first-century warfare.

Regarding means, Warden advocates the continual

breakdown of each strategic and operational ring until one

uncovers the key to partial or total paralysis. Such successive

differentiation exposes the interdependent nature or

“connectedness” of the enemy as a system.

Consequently, a

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thorough systems analysis may reveal COGs acting as

linkages between rings, as well as components within them.

Summarizing the salient points of Warden’s theory of

strategic paralysis, one first notes that the air strategist must

fully appreciate the general nature and specific content of the

objectives set by his political masters; these objectives

prescribe the behavioral change(s) expected of the enemy

leadership and suggest the level of paralysis needed to effect

the change(s). Second, the air strategist must focus all

energies in war on changing the mind of the enemy

leadership, directly or indirectly, through the imposition of the

necessary level of paralysis upon him and/or his system.

Third, the air strategist must analyze the enemy as an

interdependent system of five rings to determine those COGs

within and between rings whose destruction or neutralization

will impose the necessary level of paralysis. Fourth, the air

strategist must plan to attack all defined targets in parallel in

order to produce the most rapid and favorable decision.

At first glance, Warden’s theory of strategic paralysis (fig. 4)

is marked by a type of reductionism inherent in any

systems-analysis approach. It attempts to simplify complex,

dynamic sociocultural phenomena (the constitution,

operation, and interaction of strategic entities) by reducing

them to their basic parts or functions. In so doing, his theory

risks losing explanatory power and practical relevance.

Arguing that “social scientists make bad generals,” Eliot

Cohen cautions against such an analytical approach to

military strategy since it regards the enemy as “a passive

collection of targets,” assumes that the enemy resembles us,

and considers technology rather than human nature the

controlling element in war. He goes on to argue that these

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assumptions “discourage the detailed study of one’s opponent,

his language, politics, culture, tactics, and leadership.”

Col

Pat Pentland contends that such comprehensive study is

crucial to effective strategy development since sociocultural

factors determine both the form or structure of an enemy and

the process or dynamics by which it operates.

To be fair, one must note that Warden does not deny the

need for thorough examination of the enemy as a political,

economic, military, and sociocultural system. In addition, he

would argue that, while the basic five-rings model may be an

oversimplified, “first order” analysis, successive differentiation

of the rings reveals dynamic interrelationships within and

between rings that are unique and important to the particular

society or culture in question. The standard five-rings model

simply serves as a starting point for further “higher order”

analysis, a theoretical framework to guide air strategists in

their critical task of identifying enemy COGs.

Thus,

Warden’s model reflects a subtle holism which undercuts the

normal criticism that it is reductionist and oversimplistic.

Clausewitz may have penned a more accurate criticism over

150 years before Warden published his ideas:

It is only analytically that these attempts at theory [i.e., those of H. D.

von Bülow, Antoine Henri Jomini, etc.] can be called advances in the

realm of truth; synthetically, in the rules and regulations they offer,

they are absolutely useless. They aim at fixed values; but in war

everything is uncertain, and calculations have to be made with

variable quantities. They direct the inquiry exclusively toward physical

quantities, whereas all military action is intertwined with psychological

forces and effects. They consider only unilateral action, whereas war

consists of a continuous interaction of opposites. (Emphasis added)

As applied to Warden’s theory of strategic paralysis, this

Clausewitzian critique is threefold, as suggested by the

italicized passages in the above quotation.

First, even if Warden’s analysis of the enemy system is

correct, his “synthesized” rule of targeting leadership does not

necessarily follow. Although his analogy with the human brain

is seductive, the center ring of leadership is not always the

most important target. Other rings (or linkages between rings)

may, and often do, offer more lucrative COGs. Warden would

not disagree with this assessment but would insist that one

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must select outer-ring targets so as to influence the

leadership’s cost-benefit calculus. But doing so assumes that

this calculus remains relevant to the defeat of the enemy,

which may or may not be true. The leadership may decide one

thing—the population or armed forces another. What matters

most—the true COG—may be what matters to the society as a

whole, not just to its leadership.

Second, despite Napoléon’s observation that the moral is to

the physical as three is to one, Warden focuses exclusively on

the physical aspects of war. He justifies this by contending

that one can mathematically represent enemy combat

effectiveness by the equation “combat effectiveness = physical

strength x moral strength.”

Using this formula, one can

theoretically eliminate the fighting power of an opponent

through exclusive attack upon the physical component of that

power. If one drives the physical variable to zero, the moral

variable can remain at 100 percent, yet combat effectiveness

remains zero. Additionally, Warden notes that destroying

physical targets is easier than destroying the enemy’s moral

will to resist. He explains that “the physical is conceptually

knowable. So theoretically, if I knew everything about the

enemy, I could drive the physical side of the equation to zero.

Morale, I know almost nothing about.”

Practically, however,

driving the physical side to zero (i.e., annihilating the enemy

system) is, to borrow Warden’s own words cited earlier, “rare

in history, difficult to execute, fraught with moral concerns,

and normally not very useful because of all the unintended

consequences it engenders.”

Consequently, one must still

consider the issue of moral strength.

Third, Warden’s theory deals with unilateral action taken

against an unresponsive enemy and thus disregards

action-reaction cycles and their attendant frictions that mark

the actual conduct of war. Again, Warden feels justified in

doing so because he claims that the parallel hyperwars of the

twenty-first century will eliminate the possibility of enemy

reaction at the strategic and operational levels. In fact,

Warden goes so far as to proclaim that the revolution in

warfare ushered in by Desert Storm has made most

Clausewitzian notions irrelevant: “The whole business of

action and reaction, culminating points, friction, et cetera,

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was a function of serial war and the imprecision of weapons. . . .

[These nineteenth century concepts are] an accurate description

of the way things were, but not a description of how they ought

to be or can be.”

Although theoretically possible, one has

difficulty imagining real war that is reactionless and friction free,

even if conducted in parallel fashion at hyperspeed. If human

nature rather than technology is indeed the controlling element

in war, then war will remain an unpredictable, nonlinear

phenomenon, even in the presence of technological revolution.

The previous sections revealed notable overlap between the

theories of John Boyd and John Warden. Both men contend

that the target for all military action should be the enemy

command and that the most effective and efficient mechanism

for translating military expenditure into political gain is

paralysis of that command. Although they may share certain

fundamental beliefs about the proper conduct of war, Boyd

and Warden diverge sharply in theoretical approach. Their

distinct approaches represent two traditions regarding the

nature and purpose of theory, best personified by two

nineteenth-century theorists of war—Antoine Henri Jomini

and Carl von Clausewitz.

The Jominian tradition believes that one can reduce the

practice of war (i.e., its strategy) to a set of general principles

or rules for scientific derivation and universal application. It

recognizes that the nature of war may change due to political

and/or moral variables but that the conduct of war is

constant and governed by principles. For Jominians, theory

uncovers these immutable truths and advocates their

adoption and use. In the words of Jomini himself, “Convinced

that I had seized the true point of view under which it was

necessary to regard the theory of war in order to discover its

veritable rules . . . I set myself to the work with the ardor of a

neophyte” (emphasis added).

The Jominian school acknowledges that the nature of war is

complex and dramatic and that, consequently, its complete

mastery is truly an art form. However, the strategy of war is

scientific, knowable, constant, and governed by principles of

eternal validity. Borrowing a concept from the emerging

science of chaos and complexity, one notes that Jominians are

predominantly “linear” thinkers regarding the conduct of war.

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They believe in a certain causality or predictability of actions

taken in war. That is, they believe that similar inputs produce

similar outputs. Translated into the language of strategy, if a

given plan of attack is devised and executed in accordance

with veritable principles of war, it will produce victory time

and again.

Believing, as they do, that one can reduce strategy to a

science, Jominians tend to be more prescriptive than heuristic

in their presentation of military theory. In other words,

Jominian theories tend toward teaching soldiers how to act

rather than how to think. Theory should provide answers to

the warrior facing the daunting prospect of battle.

In contrast, the Clausewitzian tradition views the practice of

war from a more nonlinear perspective.

Similar inputs or

strategies often do not produce similar outputs or desired end

states. War’s natural uncertainty makes it impossible to

guarantee that what worked yesterday will work tomorrow.

This unpredictability demands that any theory of war be more

heuristic than prescriptive since “no prescriptive formulation

universal enough to deserve the name of law can be applied to

the constant change and diversity of the phenomena of war.”

As Clausewitz continued, “Theory should be study not

doctrine. . . . It is meant to educate the mind of the future

commander, or, more accurately, to guide him in his

self-education, not to accompany him to the battlefield.”

Thus, the Clausewitzian school insists that the primary

function of military theory is to provide the intellectual

methods by which to unveil the answers to war’s perplexing

questions rather than to provide the answers themselves. It

should develop a mind-set or way of thinking rather than

prescribe rules of war; in the former lies the key to victory in

the midst of war’s fog and friction.

The Clausewitzian school seeks to permanently arm the

military commander with genius, which the Prussian himself

defined as “a very highly developed mental aptitude for a

particular occupation.” In the profession of war, this mental

aptitude represents a psychological strength that entails a

harmonious balance of intellect and temperament and allows

one to function in the presence of uncertainty. Furthermore,

one can develop this aptitude: “That practice and a trained

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mind have much to do with it is undeniable.”

Thus,

Clausewitzians share the belief that one can define and

should teach the genius of war—a cherished conviction

similar to the Jominian belief in the principles of war.

Evaluating our theorists of strategic paralysis in this light,

we note that Warden’s thoughts are predominantly Jominian

in their character, content, and intent, while Boyd’s are

predominantly Clausewitzian. Warden’s theory of swift,

simultaneous attack against the enemy’s physical form, as

depicted by the five-rings model, is practical, concrete, and

linear. He prescribes direct and/or indirect attack upon the

enemy leadership as the way to impose one’s will in a world of

conflict. Though one may want to vary one’s tactical approach,

if a “bullet through the brain” has worked once, it will always

work; therefore, it should remain the strategic aim of military

operations.

In addition, Warden’s representation of combat effectiveness

as the multiplicative product of physical and moral strength

allows him to focus on the tangible variable in the equation to

the exclusion of the intangible one. Decimating the enemy’s

physical capability renders his moral strength irrelevant.

Thus, in both the practice and the theory of war, emphasis on

the physical sphere is understandable, acceptable, and—

indeed—preferable.

In contrast, Boyd’s theory of maneuvering inside the

enemy’s mental process, as depicted by the OODA loop model,

is more philosophical, abstract, and nonlinear. He recognizes

the uncertainty of war and the subsequent need for mental

agility and creativity—in short, genius. He believes that one

can teach genius and sets out to do just that for his audience

by means of the mental process of “destruction and creation.”

He preaches familiarity with many different theories,

doctrines, and models so that, through the genius of

“destruction and creation,” the military strategist can build

from the gems in each of them a plan of attack most

appropriate to the situation at hand. Furthermore, through

extensive training and practice, the strategist can build such a

plan at a faster tempo than his adversary so as to fold him

back inside himself and ultimately defeat his will to resist.

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Warden asserts that success in twenty-first-century war will

result from adherence to the principles of parallel, inside-out

attack. Boyd asserts that success in future war, as in all past

wars, will result from genius in the face of menacing

uncertainty. As Grant Hammond observes, “Boyd knows

certainty doesn’t exist; Warden wants it to.”

Having explored the respective ideas of Boyd and Warden

and highlighted areas of convergence and divergence, we can

now examine the contribution of both theories to the evolution

of airpower thought in the twentieth century. As we shall see,

the works of these two airmen represent a fundamental shift

in strategic air theory—one from paralysis via economic

warfare to paralysis via control warfare.

As the twentieth century passed its midpoint, the modern

world began a slow metamorphosis from an industrial society to

an informational society. Fueled by steady advances in computer

and communications technologies, this transfiguration continues

today. Interestingly, methods of aerial warfare appear to be

changing in parallel. Boyd and Warden stand as transitional

figures in this evolution of strategic airpower theory. Although

paralysis remains the common underpinning for all twentieth-

century thought on the subject, the theoretical transformation

represented by Boyd and Warden is one from economic warfare

based on industrial targeting to control warfare based on

informational targeting.

In the first half of airpower’s inaugural century, strategic air

doctrines that evolved in both Great Britain and the United

States were fashioned by the theory of strategic paralysis and

a belief that one best induced incapacitation of a hostile

nation and its armed forces by striking directly at the enemy’s

economic, war-making potential. RAF strategic bombardment

doctrine reflected the man in charge from 1919 until

1928—Air Marshal Sir Hugh Trenchard, whose air policy

aimed to bring about the disintegration and collapse of the

enemy’s war economy. In the last of his 10 years as air chief,

he produced perhaps the clearest statement of his beliefs on

air warfare in the form of a memorandum to his fellow service

chiefs. In it, Trenchard proposed the following war object for

the RAF: “The aim of the Air Force is to break down the

enemy’s means of resistance by attacks on objectives selected

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as most likely to achieve this end.” He went on to specify these

military objectives as the enemy’s “vital centres” of production,

transportation, and communication from which the enemy

sustains his war effort.

Trenchard highlighted the moral effect of such attacks,

claiming they would “terrorise munition workers (men and

women) into absenting themselves from work or stevedores

into abandoning the loading of a ship with munitions from

fear of air attack upon the factory or dock concerned.”

Thus,

British air policy had a dual nature in that it focused on

destroying enemy capability and will to resist. It sought to

produce strategic paralysis by means of the psychological

dislocation and terror that ensued from economic disruption

and collapse.

Meanwhile, in the United States, the Air Corps Tactical

School took the lead in developing American doctrine for

strategic bombardment. As mentioned, the preachings of Billy

Mitchell did influence this doctrinal development but so did

the ideas of a fellow World War I veteran, Col Edgar Gorrell. As

chief of the Air Service Technical Section in France, Gorrell

was responsible for the Air Service’s strategic air program for

the war. Writing after the war, Gorrell noted that “the object of

strategic bombing is to drop aerial bombs upon the

commercial centers and the lines of communications in such

quantities as will wreck the points aimed at and cut off the

necessary supplies without which the armies in the field

cannot exist” (emphasis added).

He went on to compare the

enemy’s armed forces to a drill bit. The “point” of the army

would remain effective only so long as the “shank” of

supporting infrastructure remained intact. Break the shank

and the entire drill becomes useless.

The ACTS instructors fine-tuned Gorrell’s ideas of economic

warfare, transforming the “shank of the drill” into a closely

knit industrial web requiring precision bombardment to

unweave it.

They did not discount the potentially

incapacitating effects on morale that such precise bombing

might provide as the natural consequence of economic

deprivation. However, the instructors primarily focused

(publicly, at least) on the physical paralysis induced by

precise industrial targeting, as opposed to the British

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emphasis on the physical and psychological paralysis of

economic area bombing.

Both the British and the American versions of economic

warfare through strategic air attack would be severely tested

after Germany’s lightning strikes into Poland and France

ignited World War II. The end of that war coincided with the

dawn of the Information Age. Alvin and Heidi Toffler contend

that this information revolution will transplant the industrial

revolution of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and

transform both wealth creation and war making accordingly.

Although theorists did not completely dismiss the notion of

strategic paralysis through economic warfare, a new form of

incapacitation warfare held great promise—control warfare

against an enemy’s systems of governance and information

processing.

John Boyd is one contemporary theorist who focuses on

paralysis through control warfare.

More specifically, he

concentrates on disorienting the mind of the enemy command

by disrupting the process for exercising command and control

). Boyd represents this process in the form of the OODA

loop.

As we have seen, one ensures victory in conflict by

securing a temporal advantage over one’s opponent in transiting

the OODA loop, which in turn produces a psychological

paralysis of his decision-making and action-taking processes.

In addition to being a governance loop, the OODA model

represents the process of information collection, analysis, and

dissemination. In this sense, Boyd clearly reflects the

influence of the Chinese warrior-philosopher Sun Tzu on his

thinking by highlighting the importance of information to

successful combat operations. He does so by tying it to speed

and accuracy in the decision cycles of strategic, operational,

and tactical commanders. He who has better control of the

information flow can observe, orient, decide, and act in a more

timely and appropriate manner and can thereby operate

within his adversary’s OODA loop. This control provides the

opportunity to deny and/or exploit the information channels

of one’s adversary while simultaneously protecting access to

one’s own channels.

Likewise, John Warden advocates paralysis through control

warfare based on command targeting. However, in contrast to

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Boyd’s process-oriented theory, Warden focuses on the form

by which one exercises C

, euphemistically describing the

leadership bull’s-eye of his five-rings model as the brain and

all its sensory inputs. If, for political or practical reasons, one

cannot attain a direct “shot through the head,” indirect attack

through the destruction, disruption, and/or exploitation of the

brain’s informational and control channels can be equally

effective.

Warden also recognizes the importance of information

management to the effective operation of the enemy as a

system,

speculating that the five strategic rings are

connected by an “information bolt” that holds all the rings in

place. If the bolt is destroyed, components within the rings

may spin wildly out of control,

suggesting that information

linkages between rings may present the key to taking down

the entire enemy system.

Together, Boyd and Warden have transformed paralysis

theory as it pertains to strategic conventional airpower. They

have shifted the focus from war-supporting industry to

war-supporting command—from economic warfare to control

warfare. Yet, Boyd and Warden do not represent the end of the

road. As many futurists predict, the information revolution

will continue to affect how governments and their militaries

wage war.

Former RAF Marshal Sir John Slessor once wrote, “If there

is one attitude more dangerous than to assume that a future

war will be just like the last one, it is to imagine that it will be

so utterly different that we can afford to ignore all the lessons

of the last one.”

One of the foremost lessons of applying

strategic airpower in the Persian Gulf War of 1991 was the

efficacy of information dominance.

By destroying Iraq’s eyes,

ears, and mouth and by exploiting their own surface- and

aerospace-based data platforms, coalition forces quickly

established a form of information superiority that may have

been as decisive as the more traditional control of the air. The

increasing dependence of modern war-fighting machines upon

efficient information-processing systems will continue to

create opportunities to deny, disrupt, and manipulate the

collection, analysis, and dissemination of battlefield

information.

Therefore, one may reasonably suggest that

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future wars will resemble Desert Storm in at least one

important respect—the strategic and operational pursuit of

information dominance via control of the war-fighting

“datasphere.”

RAND’s John Arquilla and David Ronfeldt have termed

these future battles for information dominance “cyberwar.” As

they define it,

cyberwar refers to conducting, and preparing to conduct, military

operations according to information-related principles. It means

disrupting if not destroying the information and communications

systems, broadly defined to include even military culture, on which an

adversary relies in order to “know” itself. . . . It means trying to know

all about an adversary while keeping it from knowing much about

oneself. It means turning the “balance of information and knowledge”

in one’s favor, especially if the balance of forces is not.

In a sense, Arquilla and Ronfeldt are speaking of inducing

strategic paralysis by attacking (physically and/or

electronically) key information-related centers of gravity, be

they nodes or connections.

Future advances in command, control, communications,

computers, and intelligence (C

I) technologies and their

integration with weapons-delivery platforms promise to

increase the tempo of twenty-first-century warfare.

Friendly

and enemy OODA loops will “tighten” enormously as one

collects, analyzes, disseminates, and acts upon battlefield

information within a matter of minutes—not days. As a result,

controlling the datasphere will become a top priority in most,

if not all, future conflicts since “defeating the collection or

dissemination of the information [upon which “shooters” so

depend for effective strikes] will be tantamount to destroying

the attacking platform itself.”

Achieving information

dominance will become key to military victory, since it will

provide both the means to remain oriented and the

opportunity to disorient the enemy. In this way, one can

obtain relative advantages in the speed and accuracy of the

OODA process.

Although the information revolution may not affect the

process of decision making as described by Boyd, it threatens

to fundamentally alter the form of the enemy system as

depicted by Warden’s five-rings model. As Arquilla and

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Ronfeldt astutely observe, there are both technological and

organizational dimensions to this new revolution.

In his 1982 best-seller, Megatrends, John Naisbitt accurately

forecasts organizational trends that accompany the shift from

an industrial society to an information society. Centralization

gives way to decentralization, and networks replace

hierarchies.

As they are currently unfolding in the business

community, these trends produce what Naisbitt calls “a vertical

to horizontal power shift.”

As strategic decision making and

control become decentralized, lateral cooperation between

semiautonomous agents and agencies becomes more vital to

effective system operation than top-down command.

However, as Alvin Toffler speculates, of the “big three”

organizations—economic, political, and military—the military

will likely be the last to undergo a vertical-to-horizontal power

shift due to its particular affinity for hierarchical institutions.

Still, recent organizational adjustments within the US military

ushered in by “total quality management” do mirror changes in

the business world and suggest that, even if the military is the

last to change, change will indeed occur.

If a worldwide military power shift does occur, it will make the

leadership bull’s-eye of John Warden’s five rings increasingly

less relevant to system operation. On the other hand, a

vertical-to-horizontal power shift, with its emphasis on

“distributed problem-solving,”

will add a great deal of credence

to John Boyd’s notion of noncooperative COGs. Control warfare

based on lateral cooperation targeting may indeed replace

control warfare based on top-down command targeting as the

paralysis “strategy of choice” in the twenty-first century. Yet, as

the Tofflers point out, all future warfare will not be exclusively

“third wave,” or information, warfare. That is to say, “first wave”

(agrarian) and “second wave” (industrial) war forms will not

disappear with the emergence of the Information Age. Instead,

we will observe that “every large-scale conflict will be

distinguished by a characteristic combination of these

war-forms. Put differently, each war or battle will have its own

‘wave formation’ according to how the three types of conflict are

combined.”

Thus, although the future of strategic paralysis theory may

lie in the concept of control warfare ushered in by Boyd and

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Warden, actual plans to incapacitate an adversary may

themselves remain “characteristic combinations” of the three

war forms of paralysis discussed above—economic warfare

based on industrial targeting, control warfare based on

vertical command targeting, and control warfare based on

lateral information targeting.

Though experiencing a renaissance in the wake of Desert

Storm, the notion of strategic paralysis has been around for

quite some time. The nonlethal intent of incapacitating

(instead of annihilating or attriting) the enemy sprang quite

forcefully from the carnivorous trenches of World War I.

Airpower’s first major war was one of mankind’s bloodiest and

most senseless. Unsurprisingly, then, air veterans of that war

heeded the strategic call to “think in terms of paralysing, not

of killing.”

Two modern-day airmen, John Boyd and John

Warden, have done just that.

As I have explained, Boyd’s thoughts are process oriented and

aim at psychological paralysis. He speaks of folding an opponent

back inside himself by operating inside his OODA loop, an

action that severs the adversary’s external bonds with his

environment and thereby forces an inward orientation upon

him. This inward focus necessarily creates mismatches between

the real world and his perceptions of that world. Under the

menacing environment of war, the initial confusion and disorder

degenerate into a state of internal dissolution that collapses his

will to resist. To counter this dissolution, Boyd offers the

orientation process of destruction and creation—a form of

mental gymnastics designed to permit more rapid construction

of more accurate strategies in the heat of battle. His theory of

conflict is Clausewitzian in the sense that it remains

philosophical, emphasizes the mental and moral spheres of

conflict, and upholds the importance of teaching warriors how to

think—that is, teaching the genius of war.

Warden’s theory of strategic attack is form oriented and

aims at physical paralysis. It advocates parallel, inside-out

strikes against an enemy’s five strategic rings, with

unwavering emphasis on the leadership bull’s-eye. Continual

differentiation of these rings by air strategists reveals those

COGs within and between rings that, when struck,

incapacitate the enemy system through the rapid imposition

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388

of either total or partial paralysis. Warden’s theory is Jominian

in the sense that it remains practical, emphasizes the physical

sphere of conflict, and upholds the importance of teaching

warriors how to act—that is, teaching the principles of war.

The ideas of Boyd and Warden complement each other and,

together, have helped usher in the era of inflicting strategic

paralysis by means of control warfare. Although this general

war form may become predominant in the Information Age,

specific targeting schemes may need to vary somewhat. Thus,

as always, the practical application of airpower theory must

remain flexible and responsive. Tomorrow’s airmen should

remain forever mindful of the Tofflers’ warning that first- and

second-wave war forms do not disappear in the era of

third-wave conflict. Caveats aside, if twenty-first-century

technologies ever enable nonlethal capability to match

nonlethal intent, then the strategic paralysis theories of John

Boyd and John Warden may offer the guidance necessary for

effective and efficient operations inside the loops and rings of

first-, second-, and third-wave adversaries who threaten us.

Notes

1. In this respect, the works of Boyd and Warden represent a resurgence

in strategic conventional airpower theory. As Col Phillip Meilinger argues,

the three decades of airpower prior to Operation Desert Storm witnessed the

diminished doctrinal significance of strategic conventional airpower. He

cites two primary reasons for this phenomenon: (1) the organizational rise

of tactical airpower in the era of limited war and (2) the identification of

strategic airpower with nuclear weapons in the age of the atom. Lt Col

Phillip S. Meilinger, “The Problem with Our Airpower Doctrine,” Airpower

Journal 6, no. 1 (Spring 1992): 24–31.

2. RAND’s John Arquilla and David Ronfeldt have coined the term

cyberwar to describe the nature of future conflict. The prefix cyber comes

from the Greek root kybernan, meaning to steer or govern. They contend

that cyberwar is a more encompassing term than information warfare since

“it bridges the fields of information and governance better than does any

other available prefix or term.” A RAND colleague, Denise Quigley, offers the

German term Leitenkrieg, which roughly means control warfare. I prefer the

latter term to describe the content of Boyd’s and Warden’s theories of

strategic paralysis.

3. J. F. C. Fuller, The Foundations of the Science of War (London:

Hutchinson, 1925), 47.

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4. Interestingly, Fuller’s three spheres bear notable resemblance to

Clausewitz’s famed trinity of armed forces (physical), government (mental),

and population (moral).

5. Fuller, 146.

6. Nonlethal intent distinguishes paralysis from more traditional

strategies of annihilation. For a differing opinion, see Maj Jason B. Barlow,

“Strategic Paralysis: An Airpower Strategy for the Present,” Airpower Journal

7, no. 4 (Winter 1993): 4–15. He contends that the difference between

paralysis and annihilation is one of technological capability rather than

politico-strategic intent.

7. David Shlapak writes of “indirect engagement” as a mode of attack

whereby “the effect is meant to be felt primarily elsewhere than at the point

of attack.” However, he defines paralysis as a “reduction in a combat force

element’s capability resulting from indirect engagement of that element”

(emphasis added). In contrast, I view paralysis as a direct engagement of

physical and mental capabilities so as to indirectly engage will. See David

Shlapak, Exploring Paralysis: An Introduction to the Study, RAND Report

PM-107-AF (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, December 1992), 5.

8. Hans Delbruck, History of the Art of War within the Framework of

Political History, trans. W. J. Renfroe Jr., vol. 4 (Lincoln: University of

Nebraska Press, 1986), 279.

9. Generally, though not exclusively, relative numbers and/or material

considerations dictated the decision for battle or maneuver. However, they

could also include such political factors as the aim of the war, possible

repercussions within one’s own government or nation, and the individuality

of the enemy government and people.

10. Delbruck, vol. 1, 136.

11. Fuller, 314.

12. Ibid., 292.

13. Liddell Hart wrote that “a strategist should think in terms of

paralysing, not of killing. Even on the lower plane of warfare, a man killed is

merely one man less, whereas a man unnerved is a highly infectious carrier

of fear, capable of spreading an epidemic of panic. On a higher plane of

warfare, the impression made on the mind of the opposing commander can

nullify the whole fighting power his troops possess. And on a still higher

plane, psychological pressure on the government of a country may suffice to

cancel all the resources at its command—so that the sword drops from a

paralysed hand.” Basil H. Liddell Hart, Strategy (London: Faber & Faber,

1954), 212.

14. Fuller, 181.

15. Basil H. Liddell Hart, Paris; Or the Future of War (New York: Dutton,

1925), 40–41.

16. Quoted in Charles Webster and Noble Frankland, The Strategic Air

Offensive against Germany, 1939–1945, vol. 4 (London: Her Majesty’s

Stationery Office, 1961), 72.

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17. Quoted in Thomas H. Greer, The Development of Air Doctrine in the Air

Arm, 1917–1941 (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1985), 9.

18. William Mitchell, Skyways (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1930), 255.

19. Boyd’s theories have significantly affected the operational doctrines

of both the United States Army, as reflected in Field Manual (FM) 100-5,

Operations, May 1986, and of the Marine Corps, as reflected in Fleet Marine

Force Manual (FMFM) 1, Warfighting, 6 March 1989. His ideas have had

lesser influence upon Air Force and Navy operational doctrines.

20. John R. Boyd, “A Discourse on Winning and Losing,” August 1987,

2, document no. M-U 30352-16, no. 7791, Air University Library, Maxwell

AFB, Ala.

21. William S. Lind, “Military Doctrine, Force Structure, and the Defense

Decision-Making Process,” Air University Review 30, no. 4 (May–June 1979): 22.

22. This psychological paralysis often entails physical destruction, but

such destruction is never an end in itself.

23. For Boyd’s analysis, see his “Patterns of Conflict” briefing within “A

Discourse on Winning and Losing.”

24. Boyd’s coupling of initiative and harmony stems from his study and

acceptance of the German concepts of Auftragstaktik (mission order tactics)

and Schwerpunkt (focus of main effort).

25. Boyd, “Patterns of Conflict” in “A Discourse on Winning and Losing,”

141.

26. William S. Lind, “Defining Maneuver Warfare for the Marine Corps,”

Marine Corps Gazette 64 (March 1980): 56.

27. Boyd treats decision making and action taking as the process and

product of a unitary rational actor. However, as Graham Allison argues,

other models of nation-state behavior account for the bureaucratic nature

of governments and the complications this introduces into the behavioral

equation. See Graham T. Allison, Essence of Decision: Explaining the Cuban

Missile Crisis (Boston: Little, Brown, 1971). Boyd would maintain, however,

that minimizing the impact of such bureaucratic factors by streamlining

organizational form and process is just another way to enhance one’s own

OODA loop.

28. By “folding an opponent back inside himself,” Boyd simply means

restricting an opponent’s ability to reorient to a rapidly changing

environment.

29. Boyd, “The Strategic Game of ? and ?” in “A Discourse on Winning

and Losing,” 10.

30. Boyd’s dialectic process of destruction and creation corresponds

fairly well to the modern scientific literature on genius. In “The Puzzle of

Genius,” Newsweek, 28 June 1993, 121, Sharon Begley suggests that

genius rests in the ability to combine in novel ways elements from

seemingly unrelated fields. Interestingly, Boyd’s analysis/synthesis also

correlates with the bihemispheric organization of the human mind as

indicated by modern split-brain research. Pioneered by the California

Institute of Technology’s R. W. Perry, psychologist and cowinner of the 1981

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Nobel Prize, this research suggests a division of labor between the left and

right cerebral hemispheres of the brain. As Jan Ehrenwald explains in

Anatomy of Genius (New York: Human Sciences Press, 1984), the left side is

analytic and rational in its thinking, focusing on the trees. In contrast, the

right side is holistic and artistic, focusing on the forest. He then states that

concerted evidence supports a combined left- and right-hemispheric

approach to the mental process we call genius (pages 14–19). R. Ochse

offers a similar definition of creative genius in Before the Gates of Excellence

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). It involves bringing

something into being that is original (new, unusual, novel, and unexpected)

and valuable (useful, good, adaptive, and appropriate).

31. This is precisely why Boyd claims that orientation remains the most

important portion of the OODA loop.

32. Pape has introduced a methodology for analyzing strategic theories,

particularly those dealing with the application of coercive airpower. Very

simply, his approach links military means to political ends by way of

“mechanisms,” which address why theorists expect their proposed means

or target sets to achieve the ends or desired results. In other words, if one

attacks a given target (means), something will happen (mechanism) to

produce the desired results (ends). Depicted graphically, TARGET →

MECHANISM → RESULT.

33. John R. Boyd, Maxwell AFB, Ala., interviewed by author, 30 March

1994.

34. For those disappointed readers still looking for an operational

example of Boyd’s ideas, I offer the following, both of which were acceptable

to Boyd as possible applications. The first is the Russian concept of the

operational maneuver group (OMG), a combined-arms team of raiders,

paratroopers, and diversionary units designed to operate within enemy

formations. As Dr. Harold Orenstein describes it, “Such activity changes the

classical concept of crushing a formation from without (by penetration,

encirclement and blockade) into one of splitting it from within (by raids,

airborne landings and diversions).” See Harold Orenstein, “Warsaw Pact

Views on Trends in Ground Forces Tactics,” International Defense Review 9

(September 1989): 1149–52.

35. Clausewitz defines the “ultimate object” of war in identical terms.

See Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter

Paret (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1976), 484.

36. Mao Tse-tung, Six Essays on Military Affairs (Peking: Foreign

Languages Press, 1972), 273.

37. Ibid., 299.

38. Regarding his briefings to the USAF Checkmate Division, Boyd

implies that he implanted this idea of strategic paralysis in the Air Staff (see

Boyd, interview). However, the historical review presented earlier suggests

that this notion has underpinned US strategic air theory from its earliest

days. Boyd does not recall briefing John Warden directly, and Warden

claims to have only a superficial appreciation of Boyd’s ideas. He is,

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however, most familiar with those concerning air combat and energy

maneuverability, owing to his fighter background. Col John A. Warden III,

commandant, Air Command and Staff College, Maxwell AFB, Ala.,

interviewed by author, 27 January 1994.

39. One detects a distinct “strategic” flavor to Warden’s discussions of air

superiority and interdiction in The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat

(Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1988). Emphasizing that

“command is the sine qua non of military operations,” he advocates attacking

the three elements of command (information gathering, decision, and

communication) as part of the effort to win air superiority (pages 51–58).

Likewise, he clearly prefers “distant interdiction” against the source of men and

materiel as the “most decisive” form of interdiction (pages 94–95).

40. Ibid., 9.

41. In defining a center of gravity as “the hub of all power and

movement,” Clausewitz viewed COGs as strengths alone. Also, in his quest

to reduce the enemy’s COGs to a single, omnipotent hub, Clausewitz

diminished the strategic significance of interrelationships between COGs.

He did acknowledge that one could not always reduce several COGs to one

(though these cases were “very few” in number). He also recognized a

certain “connectedness” between COGs when he wrote of their “spheres of

effectiveness” to describe the influence of one hub upon the rest. However,

Clausewitz still advocated attacks upon the COGs themselves, overlooking

the possibility of targeting the vulnerable linkages between COGs. These

linkages and interactions are addressed by Boyd, Warden, and, most

recently, Maj Jason Barlow through his creative concept of national

elements of value (NEV). For more on NEVs, see Barlow.

42. Warden, The Air Campaign, 149.

43. This assertion contains two presumptions: (1) an enemy’s COGs are

material in nature and (2) an enemy possesses COGs that are vulnerable to

attack. Regarding the first presumption, certain nonmaterial COGs may

actually be more vulnerable to attack by surface forces than by air forces.

For example, if popular support is the strategic COG for a guerrilla

insurgency, then surface forces may have the advantage over air forces due

to their ability to occupy territory and, if necessary, separate the population

from the insurgents. In terms of the second presumption, an enemy may

have no vulnerable COGs at all due to the inherent redundancy and/or

resiliency of his system.

44. Warden defines a strategic entity as “any organization that can

operate autonomously; that is, it is self-directing and self-sustaining.” As he

goes on to explain, this definition implies that his theory of strategic attack

against the enemy as a system is “as applicable to a guerrilla organization

as to a modern industrial state.” See Col John A. Warden III, “The Enemy as

a System,” Airpower Journal 9, no. 1 (Spring 1995): 55, note 1. Although

one can certainly argue with Warden’s contention that his theory applies to

all forms of warfare, one cannot insist (as many do) that he assumes the

enemy is a modernized nation-state. He does presume that one can analyze

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the enemy, whether a nation-state or a guerrilla organization, as a system

of five strategic rings with leadership at the center.

45. Warden uses a biological analogy to draw parallels with the human

body. The brain, receiving inputs from the eyes and central nervous system,

represents the body’s leadership. Food and oxygen are two organic

essentials, while blood vessels, bones, and muscles provide the

infrastructure. Cells constitute the body’s population, while specific

lymphocytes and leukocytes, along with other white blood cells, provide

protection from attack. A cessation in functioning of any part of the body

will have a more or less important effect on the rest of the body. Although

this analogy is attractive in its simplicity and familiarity, Neustadt and May

caution that one must temper reasoning from analogies by considering

differences as well as likenesses. See Richard E. Neustadt and Ernest R.

May, Thinking in Time: The Uses of History for Decision-Makers (New York:

Free Press, 1986), 41.

46. The terminology often used by Warden to discuss the leadership ring

suggests that, like Boyd, he treats governmental decision making as the

process and product of a unitary rational actor—Allison’s model 1 (see

Allison). However, he argues that one can describe and target the leadership

bull’s-eye in terms of model 1 (rational actor), model 2 (organizational

process), or model 3 (governmental politics). In fact, the analysis or

breakdown of the center ring into its subsystems will reveal the model 1, 2,

and/or 3 dynamics at play. The job of the air strategist is to determine how

best to influence leadership decision making, given its particular system

dynamics. Col John A. Warden III, commandant, Air Command and Staff

College, Maxwell AFB, Ala., interviewed by author, 17 February 1994.

47. Warden, interview, 17 February 1994.

48. Ibid.

49. Col John A. Warden III, “Air Theory for the Twenty-first Century”

(Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air Command and Staff College, January 1994), 14–19.

Interestingly, both Billy Mitchell and the Air Corps Tactical School drew

similar lessons from their examination of World War I; these lessons

subsequently affected their visions of future war and airpower.

50. Although the depiction of war as an extension of politics is widely

accepted in both civilian and military circles, two prominent military

historians have recently cast doubt on this proposition in their latest

publications. See Martin van Creveld, The Transformation of War (New York:

Free Press, 1991); and John Keegan, A History of Warfare (New York: Alfred

A. Knopf, 1993). If, as they claim, war is a sociocultural phenomenon rather

than a political one, this has significant implications for Warden’s emphasis

on enemy leadership as the critical center of gravity.

51. Col John A. Warden III, “Employing Air Power in the Twenty-first

Century,” in The Future of Air Power in the Aftermath of the Gulf War, ed.

Richard H. Shultz Jr. and Robert L. Pfaltzgraff Jr. (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air

University Press, July 1992), 62, 67.

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52. For additional detail, see Warden, “Air Theory for the Twenty-first

Century,” 8–14.

53. Ibid., 3.

54. In certain respects, Warden’s dismissal of destruction strategies

resembles Clausewitz’s idea that absolute war (involving pure violence and

the total annihilation of the enemy state) was virtually impossible to

conduct due to real-world constraints.

55. As mentioned in footnote 41, Major Barlow provides an excellent

discussion of the dynamic interactions between what he calls national

elements of value. He explains that these NEVs are both interdependent

and self-compensating—both critical attributes to consider when one is

trying to dismantle the enemy as a system.

56. Eliot Cohen, “Strategic Paralysis: Social Scientists Make Bad

Generals,” The American Spectator, November 1980, 27.

57. Col Pat Pentland, class notes, Course 633, Center of Gravity

Analysis, School of Advanced Airpower Studies. See also idem, “Center of

Gravity Analysis and Chaos Theory: Or How Societies Form, Function, and

Fail” (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air War College, 1993–1994).

58. Warden, interview, 17 February 1994.

59. Clausewitz, 136.

60. Warden, “The Enemy as a System,” 43. Again, notable parallels exist

between Warden’s formula and the following one developed by ACTS:

NATION’S WAR-MAKING POTENTIAL = WAR-MAKING CAPABILITY x WILL

TO RESIST.

61. Warden, interview, 17 February 1994.

62. Warden, “Air Theory for the Twenty-first Century,” 3.

63. Warden, interview, 17 February 1994.

64. Antoine Henri Jomini, The Art of War, in Roots of Strategy, bk. 2

(Harrisburg, Pa.: Stackpole Books, 1987), 436.

65. Interestingly, many prominent historians note that the Jominian

tradition has dominated American military thinking over the past century

and a half. For example, Michael Howard argues that “it is in Jominian

rather than in Clausewitzian terms that soldiers are trained to think” since

the complicated craft of war is most easily taught by focusing on the

mechanics of military operations rather than on the more nebulous features

of morale, genius, and so forth. Peter Paret traces this Jominian dominance

back to the “intensely empirical atmosphere” of the late nineteenth century.

Michael Howard, “Jomini and the Classical Tradition in Military Thought,”

and Peter Paret, “Clausewitz and the Nineteenth Century,” in The Theory

and Practice of War, ed. Michael Howard (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana

University Press, 1975), 13–14, 31.

66. In an extremely thought-provoking article, Alan Beyerchen argues

that Clausewitz himself was a “nonlinear” thinker and that On War is a

classic exposé of the essential nonlinearity or unpredictability of battle. See

Alan Beyerchen, “Clausewitz, Nonlinearity, and the Unpredictability of

War,” International Security 17 (Winter 1992–1993): 59–90.

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67. Clausewitz, 152.

68. Ibid., 141.

69. Ibid., 100, 110.

70. Col John A. Warden III, commandant, Air Command and Staff

College, Maxwell AFB, Ala., interviewed by author, 23 February 1994.

71. Grant T. Hammond, chair of national security strategy/professor of

international relations, Air War College, Maxwell AFB, Ala., interviewed by

author, 3 February 1994.

72. Quoted in Webster and Frankland, vol. 4, 72.

73. Ibid., 73. Trenchard deplored “the indiscriminate bombing of a city

for the sole purpose of terrorising the civilian population.” That said, he did

focus heavily on the moral effects of strategic bombardment. The minutes of

a meeting he chaired in July 1923 quote him as advocating “the policy of

hitting the French nation and making them squeal before we did. . . . [This

is] more vital than anything else” (page 67). Similarly, Air Staff

memorandum 11A of March 1924 succinctly states that the proper

employment of the RAF is “to bomb military objectives in populated areas

from the beginning of the war, with the object of obtaining a decision by the

moral effect which such attacks will produce and by the serious dislocation

of the normal life of the country.” Col Phillip S. Meilinger, “Trenchard and

‘Morale Bombing’: The Evolution of Royal Air Force Doctrine before World

War II,” Journal of Military History 60 (April 1996): 256.

74. Col Edgar S. Gorrell, “Gorrell: Strategical Bombardment,” in The U.S.

Air Service in World War I, ed. Maurer Maurer, vol. 2 (Washington, D.C.:

Government Printing Office, 1978), 143.

75. One should note that ACTS’s strategic bombardment doctrine was

not the War Department’s official doctrine as laid out in TR 440-15,

Employment of the Air Forces of the Army. Despite only lukewarm

endorsement by the Army General Staff, the school’s “high altitude,

daylight, precision bombing” of the enemy’s industrial web did form a basis

for US air plans in World War II and is widely recognized as the definitive

American strategic air doctrine in the interwar period.

76. The Tofflers contend that “the way humans make wealth and the

way they make war are inextricably connected. . . . It is still not fully

appreciated that the great age of industrialism is behind us. The basic

system for wealth creation is being revolutionized—and war, as usual, is

mutating in parallel.” Alvin Toffler and Heidi Toffler, “War, Wealth, and a

New Era in History,” World Monitor 4 (May 1991): 52.

77. This notion of control warfare assumes that the enemy possesses a

developed, identifiable, and vulnerable system of governance and

information processing upon which he depends to conduct his affairs.

78. As Alan Campen points out, “Actually, the Soviet Union moved to

formalize targeting of command and control almost two decades ago when it

adopted Radio-Electronic Combat (REC) as a formal doctrine and created

forces to execute the concept of physical and electronic attacks on enemy

command and control systems.” See Alan D. Campen, The First Information

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396

War (Fairfax, Va.: Armed Forces Communications and Electronics

Association [AFCEA] International Press, 1992), xxi, note 6.

79. In his briefing “Organic Design for Command and Control,” Boyd

specifically states that the OODA loop is, by its very nature, a C

loop (page

26). See “A Discourse on Winning and Losing.”

80. Warden states that precision, speed, stealth, and information

management are the essential ingredients of parallel warfare. Col John A.

Warden III, “War in 2020,” Spacecast 2020 lecture, Air War College,

Maxwell AFB, Ala., 29 September 1993.

81. Warden, interview, 23 February 1994.

82. J. C. Slessor, Airpower and Armies (London: Oxford University Press,

1936), x.

83. Andrew Krepinevich of the Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD)

defines “information dominance” as a relatively superior understanding of

an enemy’s political, economic, military, and social structures. He contends

that establishing such information dominance may be the decisive

operation in future wars. See Andrew Krepinevich, “The Military-Technical

Revolution” (paper for the OSD Office of Net Assessment, Washington, D.C.,

Fall 1992), 22.

84. Clearly, our potential adversaries differ significantly in terms of their

reliance upon advanced information technologies; consequently, the

viability of paralysis by control warfare based on information targeting must

vary likewise.

85. In fact, the most recent Joint Publication 1, Joint Warfare of the US

Armed Forces, 11 November 1991, codifies the use of advanced technologies

to establish a favorable “information differential.” It states that “the joint

campaign should fully exploit the information differential, that is, the

superior access to and ability to effectively employ information on the

strategic, operational and tactical situation which advanced U.S.

technologies provide our forces” (page 57). In addition, the National Defense

University at Fort Lesley J. McNair, Washington, D.C., opened a School of

Information Warfare and Strategy in August 1994. Its 10-month-long

curriculum focuses on advances in information technology and the ways

these affect the definition of national security needs and the development of

military strategy.

86. John Arquilla and David Ronfeldt, Cyberwar Is Coming, RAND

Report P-7791 (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1992), 6.

87. This assertion does not imply that all future wars will be high-tech,

hyperspeed infowars. I agree with Alvin and Heidi Toffler’s view that the

advent of information warfare does not eliminate other forms of conflict.

Generally speaking, however, advances in information technology will

increase the pace of twenty-first-century warfare, albeit to varying degrees

based on the technological capabilities of the opposing sides.

88. Maj James L. Rodgers, “Future Warfare and the Space Campaign,”

Air Campaign Course Research Projects (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air Command

and Staff College, 1993–1994), 116.

FADOK

397

89. “The Information Revolution reflects the advance of computerized

information and communications technologies and related innovations in

organization and management theory. Sea-changes are occurring in how

information is collected, stored, processed, communicated and presented,

and in how organizations are designed to take advantage of increased

information.” Arquilla and Ronfeldt, 2.

90. John Naisbitt, Megatrends: Ten New Directions Transforming Our

Lives (New York: Warner Books, 1982), 1–2.

91. Ibid., 204.

92. “Distributed problem solving is the solution to problems through the

use of multiple cooperative (usually physically separated) problem solvers.

Truly distributed problem solving must be contrasted with centralized

problem solving with remote execution. In true distributed problem solving,

no one element has access to all the information which will be used in the

eventual solution. The essential issues involve the decomposition of

problems, insuring cooperation among problem-solving elements, managing

communications, and dynamically adjusting the system problem

statements in response to changes in the situation.” Maj George E. Orr,

Combat Operations C3I: Fundamentals and Interactions (Maxwell AFB, Ala.:

Air University Press, 1983), 41–42.

93. Toffler and Toffler, 52.

94. Liddell Hart, Strategy, 212.

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398

Chapter 11

An Ambivalent Partnership:

US Army and Air Force Perspectives

on Air-Ground Operations, 1973–90

Dr. Harold R. Winton*

It is my conviction that the characteristics commonly

associated with chamber music can be achieved in

symphonic orchestras far more readily than is customarily

imagined. It is a matter, first, of the excellence of the

players themselves, and second of the manner in which

they are trained to listen to what others are doing and to

make their individual part contribute to the ensemble

synthesis.

—George Szell

The era between the Vietnam War and Operation Desert

Shield proved highly significant for all of America’s armed

forces but particularly for the Army and the Air Force, both of

which came out of Vietnam with a mixed legacy. On the one

hand, proponents could point to battlefield successes. On the

other, both internal and external critics contended that the

Army and the Air Force had failed to develop strategic and

operational concepts that contributed to preservation of an

independent, non-Communist Republic of Vietnam. These

analysts argued that although part of the failure to achieve

American political objectives lay at the doorstep of misguided

political direction and at times overly restrictive constraints

and restraints, the services themselves suffered from

intellectual deficiencies that detracted significantly from their

overall effectiveness. Debates over these issues led to internal

turmoil in both services, though more so in the Army than the

*The author wishes to thank Andrew Bacevich, Dennis Drew, Douglas Johnson,

Thomas Keaney, Phillip Meilinger, David Mets, and John Romjue for their substantive

and useful comments on an early draft of this essay. All matters of fact and interpre-

tation herein remain, however, the author’s responsibility.

399

Air Force. Two other conditions affected both services: (1) the

emergence of technological capabilities that accentuated the

speed, lethality, and precision of weapons systems for both

land and air warfare and (2) the identification of a possible

Warsaw Pact invasion of western Europe as the single most

significant threat for which the United States had to prepare

conventional forces.

This essay provides a critical, comparative analysis of Army

and Air Force doctrine regarding air-ground operations in the

period 1973–90. For purposes of the analysis, the essay

defines air-ground operations as attacks from the air against

enemy ground targets that have either tactical or operational

consequence for friendly ground formations. One usually

classifies such attacks under the rubrics of close air support

(CAS) and air interdiction (AI). The essay excludes explicit

consideration of tactical air reconnaissance and tactical airlift.

The analysis seeks to determine the degrees of commonality

and divergence that marked the two services’ approaches to

air-ground operations and the underlying reasons for either

the compatibility or tension between the emerging doctrinal

positions. Initial factors examined here include the services’

reactions to the external influences mentioned above as well

as the following internal factors: their visions of the nature of

war, their doctrine-development processes, and the roles of

key Army and Air Force personalities in shaping doctrine.

The first part of the essay focuses on the period from 1973

to 1979, when the Army and the Air Force began a

partnership based primarily on the Army’s realization of its

need for Air Force support in executing its Active Defense

doctrine. The second examines the period from 1980 to 1986,

when the Army’s move from a doctrine of Active Defense to

AirLand Battle and its grappling with the concept of the

operational level of war served to strengthen that partnership.

The final section assesses the era from 1987 to 1990 in light

of the Army’s efforts to develop capabilities to execute deep

battle and of the emergence of unofficial thought within the

Air Force concerning the operational level of war.

This essay fits within the general field of peacetime

preparation for war and institutional responses to challenges

imposed by such preparation. As Michael Howard noted in

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“Military Science in an Age of Peace,” a lecture he gave in

1973, one may find the fog of peace even more difficult to

penetrate than the fog of war.

This situation requires military

institutions in peacetime to navigate by dead reckoning, never

quite sure of what they will encounter when the fog partially

lifts and the bullets, missiles, and electrons begin flying with

malice. Military leaders sailing through this fog of peace not

only must articulate a reasonably accurate vision of the

nature of future war and define new operational concepts for

fighting it successfully, but also—through fiat, consensus

building, or some combination thereof—must convince their

service that the course upon which they are embarked is

correct. Further, they must implement a coherent policy that

will mold the service to meet its anticipated challenges.

None

of this is easy, but these peacetime challenges become

significantly more difficult when the issues require the active

participation of two services with significantly different

institutional histories, self-images, and battlefield perspectives.

Unsurprisingly, the Army and the Air Force look at war from

two sharply contrasting points of view. To most Army officers,

it is axiomatic that ground soldiers with weapons decide the

ultimate outcome of any war. The consideration of terrain is

part and parcel of everything they do. Although weather

influences their operations, it does not preclude them.

Furthermore, soldiers live where they fight: on the ground,

with almost constant exposure to privation and danger. The

primary force they must reckon with is the enemy ground

formation. But—and this is a very important but—virtually all

thinking soldiers also remain painfully aware of their need for

air support: to keep the enemy air force off their backs and to

reduce the effectiveness of the enemy’s ground formations.

Airmen live in an entirely different mental and physical

universe. They do not accept the axiom that the ultimate

result comes from soldiers on the ground. Many airmen

believe passionately that airpower is a liberating force that can

produce tactical, operational, and strategic results quite

independently of land formations. Features of terrain are at

most minor nuisances that one must take into account when

planning flight routes and final approaches. Weather, on the

other hand, is a very significant consideration that can

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401

severely degrade and, under certain conditions, prevent air

operations. Although airmen’s exposure to danger is

intermittent, they rely absolutely on the proper functioning of

their equipment for survival in the hostile and unforgiving

environment in which they fight. Furthermore, most airmen

remain completely convinced that the sine qua non of effective

operations is the neutralization or destruction of the enemy’s

air force and air defenses. This accomplished, all else can

follow. Although airmen largely depend upon soldiers to keep

enemy ground forces at bay, this dependence is nowhere

nearly as strong as soldiers’ dependence upon them. The

asymmetry of this dependence lies at the root of many of the

tensions that exist between the Army and the Air Force

regarding air-ground operations.

Forming the Partnership, 1973–79

The Vietnam experience significantly affected both the Army

and the Air Force, but in noticeably different ways. The Army

was virtually shattered. The proud, confident days when

troops had helicoptered into the Ia Drang Valley and put to

flight multiple North Vietnamese Army (NVA) regiments were a

faded and distant memory by 1973. Instead, at the forefront of

the Army’s consciousness one found (1) a series of battles that

were, at best, tactical stalemates and (2) a deep malaise

brought about by an unpopular war, an inequitable draft

system, a progressive unraveling of small-unit discipline, and

a severe questioning of the competence and integrity of its

senior leaders. Although some voices placed the onus for the

Vietnam debacle on misguided policy and faulty military

strategy directed from the E ring of the Pentagon, others

realized that if the Army were to provide effectively for the

common defense, it must reform itself both morally and

intellectually. The intellectual component of that

transformation would center first in doctrine.

The Air Force experience in Vietnam was not as searing as

the Army’s, but it did possess some doctrinal implications.

First, the evidence on AI remained mixed. Although it had not

appreciably altered support to guerrilla warfare, it had

substantially disrupted the logistical flow to conventional

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402

offensive operations. Second, seven long years of operating

under a badly fragmented command system significantly

reinforced the Air Force’s institutional preference for a single

air commander in each theater of operations, working under

the direct purview of the theater commander. More ambivalent

were the implications of the Vietnam experience for the theory

of strategic attack in negating an opponent’s military

capability and undermining his political will. On the one

hand, many Air Force analysts insisted that Linebacker 2

demonstrated what airpower could do when politicians took

the gloves off.

More thoughtful analysts, however, pointed out

that no panacea target set neutralized the military capability

of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRVN) and that

President Richard Nixon purchased the political objective of

disengaging America from Vietnam with the carrot of

concessions as much as he imposed it with the stick of

airpower.

In sum, Vietnam provided rather uncertain grist for

the Air Force doctrinal mill.

Before examining the development of Army and Air Force

doctrine in the period following the Vietnam War, one should

note that the two institutions have divergent perspectives

about the nature and purpose of doctrine itself. In its military

guise, doctrine forms the essential link between theory and

practice. It remains, in essence, a medium of transmission in

which general ideas about the nature, purpose, and

employment of violence in service of the state (theoretical

propositions) receive sanctioned, practical expression peculiar

to the time and setting of the military institution promulgating

the doctrine of a particular era. As such, doctrine always

involves both thought and action.

But the Air Force

emphasizes the cerebral component of doctrine, while the

Army concentrates upon the musculature. The Air Force’s

propensity to emphasize the conceptual component of doctrine

is clearly evident in the statement attributed to Gen Curtis E.

LeMay, which appeared inside the front cover of the 1984

edition of Air Force Manual (AFM) 1-1, Basic Aerospace

Doctrine of the United States Air Force: “At the very heart of

warfare lies doctrine. It represents the central beliefs for

waging war in order to achieve victory. Doctrine is of the mind,

a network of faith and knowledge reinforced by experience,

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403

which lays the pattern for the utilization of men, equipment,

and tactics.”

The Army view of doctrine seems much more practical.

Chapter 3, “How to Fight,” of the 1976 edition of Field Manual

(FM) 100-5, Operations, meant exactly what it said. This does

not imply that the Air Force’s doctrine has no active

component or that the Army’s has no theoretical content.

Each is clearly a mix of both. Two distinct institutional

preferences exist, however, and the divergence of these

emphases was, in and of itself, a factor that complicated

cross-service communication.

Differing command echelons that developed each service’s

most significant doctrine also influenced Army–Air Force

communications on doctrinal matters. The Air Force doctrinal

structure envisioned three levels: basic or fundamental

doctrine, normally written at the Air Staff; operational

doctrine, the responsibility of the major subordinate

commands; and tactical doctrine, developed by a variety of

schools and agencies.

Army doctrine has a similar structure

but remains more closely tied to its level of organization. At

the top is capstone doctrine, the rough equivalent of Air Force

basic doctrine but, as we have seen, a much more explicit

guide to practice than its Air Force counterpart. Subordinate

doctrine addresses war-fighting and support concepts

appropriate to corps, divisions, brigades, battalions, and

ultimately even minor tactical units.

The major difference between the Army and the Air Force after

1973 was that the Army formed in that year a single

organization—Training and Doctrine Command (TRADOC)—

responsible for the development of virtually all its doctrine, from

the capstone manual to the lowest tactical publication. Thus,

the Army had a powerful integrating agency that could, and did,

make doctrine the engine that drove the Army. This development

directly reflected the personal philosophy of TRADOC’s first, and

arguably most dynamic, commander—Gen William E. DePuy.

The more diffuse locus of doctrinal development in the Air Force

reflected the anomaly that, LeMay’s assertion to the contrary,

doctrine was a much more tangential concern in Air Force than

in Army life. This diffusion also created problems in

institutional communication.

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404

Both the Air Force and the Army recognized that the

former’s Tactical Air Command (TAC), which owned all

US-based aircraft that flew CAS and interdiction missions,

was the logical point of contact for interaction with TRADOC

on doctrinal matters. Although the TAC-TRADOC dialogue

proved extraordinarily productive, it had two drawbacks. The

most significant was that TAC did not speak for the Air

Force—the Air Staff closely guarded its prerogatives in

doctrinal matters and reserved the right to review all

TAC-TRADOC agreements.

From the Army perspective, this

seemed to imply that when TAC and TRADOC worked out a

doctrinal solution to a common problem, someone on the Air

Staff was standing in the corner with his fingers crossed

behind his back.

The other, less significant, problem was that

on doctrinal matters, TRADOC did speak for the Army. This at

times created frustration in the minds of Air Staff action

officers, who, when approaching their Army counterparts for

coordination of doctrinal matters, received perplexed reactions

that said, in effect, “Don’t bother me; that’s TRADOC’s

business.”

Despite the perceptional differences on the nature of

doctrine itself and distinctly divergent institutional

arrangements for the formulation thereof, one actually finds a

significant amount of cooperation between the two services

during the era between Vietnam and Desert Shield. That story

begins with the development of the Army’s Active Defense

doctrine, published in 1976.

Three dynamics drove the 1976 edition of FM 100-5: the

reorientation of the American national security focus from

Indochina to Europe; the increased range, accuracy, and

lethality of direct-fire weapons evident in the Middle East War

of 1973; and General DePuy’s personal energy and

determination. The situation in Europe appeared grim. There,

the insatiable manpower appetite of the war in Vietnam had

bled Army forces white, and the continuously modernized

Warsaw Pact forces appeared capable of launching a

successful offensive into North Atlantic Treaty Organization

(NATO) territory. Further, the Middle East War of 1973 served

as a wake-up call for the US Army. Both sides lost more tanks

and artillery pieces than existed in the complete US inventory

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405

of those systems in Europe, and Egyptian antitank gunners had

successfully engaged Israeli tanks at distances of up to two

thousand meters.

Last, General DePuy supplied the energy to

apply the lessons that he derived from the Arab-Israeli War to

the fashioning of an American Army tactically capable of

repelling a Warsaw Pact invasion in Europe.

The centerpiece of this transformation was the 1976 edition

of FM 100-5. Clothed in a camouflage cover; replete with

numerous charts, graphs, and diagrams; written in a simple,

direct style; and printed with the liberal use of eye-catching

bold-and-italic, black-and-brown type; this manual was

clearly designed to grab and hold the reader’s attention. The

second paragraph of the opening chapter contained the clear

imperative that “today the US Army must, above all else,

prepare to win the first battle of the next war” (emphasis in

original).

The entire second chapter provided a discourse on

the effects of modern weapons that graphically depicted their

increased range and lethality from World War II to the Middle

East War of 1973. The chapter’s most arresting statement

took the form of a stern injunction to its readers about the

capabilities of the modern tanker: “What he can see, he can

hit. What he can hit, he can kill.”

The manual’s conceptual

heart lay in chapter 3, “How to Fight.” Here, soldiers learned

that “the most demanding mission that could be assigned the

US Army remains battle in Central Europe against the forces of

the Warsaw Pact” (emphasis in original) and that generals

concentrate the forces, colonels direct the battle, and captains

fight the battle.

The manual also informed them of the many

advantages of firepower: “MASSIVE AND VIOLENT

FIREPOWER IS A CHIEF INGREDIENT OF COMBAT

POWER. . . . FIREPOWER SAVES MANPOWER AND THUS

SAVES LIVES” (emphasis in original).

Contrary to many popular conceptions, the manual gave

almost equal coverage to offensive and defensive operations,

providing 12 pages to the former and 14 to the latter. It also

stated explicitly in the defensive chapter that “attack is a

vital part of all defensive operations” (emphasis in

original).

Nevertheless, in the face of the overwhelming

numbers of Warsaw Pact tanks envisioned on a breakthrough

frontage, the manual stipulated that active defense (the

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406

phrase from which the doctrine drew its appellation) in the

main battle area would have to be elastic and that

“counterattacks should be conducted only when the gains to

be achieved are worth the risks involved in surrendering the

innate advantages of the defender.”

Of particular interest to this essay is chapter 8, “Air-Land

Battle,” the second paragraph of which explicitly addressed

the Army’s dependence upon the Air Force: “Both the Army

and the Air Force deliver firepower against the enemy. Both

can kill a tank. Both can collect intelligence, conduct

reconnaissance, provide air defense, move troops and

supplies, and jam radios and radar. But neither the Army nor

the Air Force can fulfill any one of those functions completely

by itself. Thus, the Army cannot win the land battle without the

Air Force” (emphasis in original).

This analysis paid particular attention to the suppression of

Warsaw Pact air defenses, asserting that “whenever and

wherever the heavy use of airpower is needed to win the

air-land battle, the enemy air defenses must be suppressed”

(emphasis in original).

The manual depicted this

suppression as a joint effort that required the integration of

the intelligence and strike capabilities of both services. It

cautioned, however, that even with the best of air defense

suppression, the Air Force, in a future European battle

against the Warsaw Pact, would not be able to provide the

unopposed CAS to which the Army had become accustomed in

its three previous wars. In short, the Army’s 1976 doctrinal

prescription for a future war in Europe clearly recognized

cooperation with the Air Force as a tactical and institutional

imperative.

Air Force basic doctrine in the period 1973–79 does not

reflect a similar sense of commonality. The 1975 edition of

AFM 1-1 was a bland document that reflected the desire of Air

Force leadership for a manual that “more accurately and fully

restates the role and purpose of USAF aerospace power,

relating [it] more directly to national policy and national

security strategy.”

In other words, the manual sought to

demonstrate the Air Force’s relevance in the post-Vietnam era.

It listed eight combat operational missions: strategic attack,

counterair, AI, CAS, aerospace defense of the United States,

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aerospace surveillance and reconnaissance, airlift, and special

operations. It also provided the stock definitions of and

commentary on AI and CAS operations, the former defined as

those “conducted to destroy, neutralize or delay enemy ground

or naval forces before they can be brought to bear against

friendly forces.” Aerospace forces engaging in interdiction had

to be capable of timely response to fleeting point and area

targets. CAS operations were “intended to provide responsive,

sustained and concentrated firepower of great lethality and

precision . . . in close integration with the fire and maneuver

of surface forces.” However, nothing in this edition of AFM 1-1

indicated that the conditions for executing AI and CAS had

recently undergone radical transformation or that close

cooperation with the Army, particularly in the area of the

suppression of enemy air defenses (SEAD), had become a key

element in the Air Force’s ability to conduct these operations

without suffering unacceptable losses.

The 1979 edition of AFM 1-1 did little, if anything, to

improve this situation. Now widely derided by airpower

analysts, the manual prompted one informed critic to refer to

it as “the nadir of Air Force doctrine.”

Despite this criticism,

it contained some useful elements. The closing chapter offered

a concise summary of the evolution of Air Force doctrine and a

selected bibliography of publications dealing with military

history and strategy, NATO and joint doctrine, and

international relations. In perusing this list, however, one is

struck by the fact that it does not include a single work

dealing with the strategic, operational, or tactical employment

of airpower! One is even more struck by the presence of

numerous penned sketches of people, ranging from President

Jimmy Carter and former president Dwight Eisenhower to the

chief master sergeant of the Air Force and the ranking female

officer on active duty at the time, each accompanied by a

seemingly relevant quotation. The manual appears to meet the

objective stated by its original drafters three years earlier to

“provide a document that is interesting, relevant, and useful

at all Air Force organizational levels.”

However, in attempting

to be all things to all people, the manual also appears to lose

its focus.

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408

The fuzziness of Air Force basic doctrine, however, presents

a somewhat misleading picture. Considerable evidence

indicates that the Air Force was closely scrutinizing the

realities of a possible war in Europe and was actively

cooperating with the Army to reach mutually acceptable

solutions to those problems. The concern with possible war is

reflected in the decision to develop a single-mission CAS

aircraft, and in a series of RAND studies commissioned by the

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) and the

Air Force to examine the details of a possible Warsaw Pact

invasion of western Europe. The numerous joint ventures

between TAC and TRADOC speak to the Air Force’s

cooperation with the Army at this time.

Development of the A-10 ground-attack aircraft represented

the most tangible and, in many ways, most significant

indicator of the Air Force’s commitment to air-ground

operations between Vietnam and Desert Shield. The origin of

the A-10 goes back to the late 1960s, when Air Force

planners, based on requirements evident in the Vietnam War,

developed preliminary specifications for an ideal CAS

platform. Criteria included the ability to operate from short,

unimproved airstrips; high reliability and ease of

maintenance; capacity to carry large amounts of tank-killing

ordnance; long loiter time; 350-knot speed with high

maneuverability; survivability for both pilot and plane in the

face of heavy air defenses; and low cost.

But how could one

kill tanks with air-delivered munitions? The A-10 answered

that question with its 20-feet-long, four-thousand-pound,

seven-barrel Gatling gun that fired three to four thousand

rounds of 30 mm armor-piercing ammunition per minute.

Two quiet, reliable General Electric turbofan engines canted

upwards near the rear of the fuselage enhanced the plane’s

survivability. A titanium “bathtub” that shrouded the cockpit

enhanced the pilot’s survivability. Although slightly

underpowered and ungainly, the “Warthog” was a

ground-attack pilot’s dream. From the Army’s point of view,

fielding the A-10 not only underscored the Air Force’s

commitment to the CAS mission, it also created a corpus of

pilots whose whole professional being centered around

providing that support.

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409

The Air Force’s analytical focus began to shift toward the

problems of a European war in the mid-1970s. In late 1974,

RAND produced a study that examined the implications of

air-and ground-delivered precision-guided munitions (PGM)

for the defense of NATO.

The report concluded that PGMs

might “add to the ‘glue’ of NATO and create problems for Pact

strategists.”

In late 1975, RAND completed a study that

examined the relative merits of additional manned aircraft,

remotely piloted vehicles, and standoff munitions for

improving air-ground capability in NATO.

The study

concluded that for an investment of $1 billion over 10 years,

CAS standoff munitions launched by A-10s would kill the

most armor and that terminally guided standoff munitions

would kill the most enemy aircraft on the ground.

In May 1976, the Air Force sponsored a two-day conference

at RAND’s offices in Santa Monica, California, to explore in

some detail exactly how the Warsaw Pact ground forces might

attack NATO.

Presenters included analysts from the Central

Intelligence Agency, the Army’s Combined Arms Combat

Development Activity (a TRADOC agency), and RAND.

Representatives from the Air Staff’s Directorate of Plans and

Operations and the USAF Fighter Weapons Center (a TAC

agency) at Nellis AFB, Nevada, also attended. Issues

addressed included how the war might start, principal attack

axes, the primacy of the offensive in Soviet doctrine, Soviet

concepts and tactics, logistical support, air defenses, and

chemical warfare capabilities. One presenter opined that

Soviet forces arrayed in East Germany consisted of 31–32

divisions organized into five armies, possibly augmented by 26

additional Warsaw Pact divisions.

Other RAND studies requested by the Air Force included a

1978 analysis of the effects of weather on battlefield air

support in NATO and a 1979 assessment of the potential

vulnerabilities of Warsaw Pact forces to attacks against their

tactical rear areas.

The main conclusion one draws from

these analyses is that in the early post-Vietnam years, the Air

Force took its mission to support the Army in a European war

very seriously indeed and engaged in a comprehensive effort to

determine how best to accomplish this mission.

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410

The most obvious institutional arrangement that reflected

Army–Air Force cooperation was the connection between

TRADOC and TAC. One finds the genesis of this dialogue,

which emerged into a full-blown partnership, in the desire of

Gen Creighton W. Abrams, Army chief of staff, for close

relations with the Air Force, and in a concern that during a

period of fiscal austerity, the two services not engage in

dysfunctional quarreling that could harm them both.

Abrams directed DePuy to establish a close working

relationship with his counterpart at TAC, Gen Robert J.

Dixon; to ensure that both remained fully engaged in the

effort, he enlisted the support of Gen George S. Brown, Air

Force chief of staff, who had served as his deputy for air

operations and commander of Seventh Air Force in Vietnam.

The commands held initial meetings in October 1973, and

on 1 July 1975 they established a joint office known as the

Directorate of Air-Land Forces Application (ALFA).

ALFA’s

location at Langley AFB, Virginia, TAC’s headquarters and a

mere 15-minute drive from TRADOC’s headquarters at Fort

Monroe, Virginia, facilitated communication. Officers from

both services manned ALFA, whose actions were guided by a

joint steering committee headed by TAC’s deputy chief of staff

for plans and TRADOC’s deputy chief of staff for combat

developments. A colonel, whose branch of service alternated

annually, directed ALFA on a day-to-day basis.

On 15 July

1976, TAC and TRADOC each established an Air-Land Forces

Program Office (ALPO) to convert ALFA’s recommendations

into service-specific programs.

During the period 1975–79, ALFA successfully resolved

many of the tactical and procedural issues regarding air-

ground interface on a highly lethal battlefield. A TRADOC-US

Army Forces Command (FORSCOM)-TAC publication

addressed airspace management—successfully tested in the

Return of Forces to Germany (REFORGER) exercise of 1976.

The agency also produced a comprehensive volume on the

Soviet air defense threat and a study of this system’s

vulnerabilities.

In September 1977, tests under ALFA’s aegis

conducted at Fort Benning, Georgia, evaluated techniques for

the combined use of attack helicopters and A-10 aircraft

against enemy ground formations. ALFA also produced a

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study examining ways to counter the emerging threat of the

Soviet Hind helicopter and prepared plans for the Fighter

Weapons Center at Nellis AFB and the Combined Arms Center

(CAC) at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, to develop and evaluate

specific antihelicopter tactics.

At higher levels, however, ALFA could not bridge the gap

between Army and Air Force views on air-ground cooperation.

The genesis of the problem was Abrams’s decision in 1973 to

eliminate the field army as an echelon of army organization.

The demobilization of the Army and the elimination of the

peacetime draft at the end of the Vietnam War led to a

precipitous reduction in Army manpower. In order to satisfy

Congress with an acceptable “tooth-to-tail” ratio and stabilize

the Army’s force structure, Abrams struck an agreement with

Secretary of Defense James Schlesinger to retain 16 divisions

on active duty in return for a guaranteed force of roughly

785,000. To hold up his end of the bargain, Abrams had to do

two things: (1) put a major portion of the support structure

into the reserves (which also acted as a prophylactic against

the Army being called to war in the future without a reserve

call-up) and (2) cut manpower at command levels above the

division. Ergo, the field army as an organizational echelon

disappeared.

The field army headquarters, however, had served as the

nexus of air-ground cooperation in both World War II and

Korea. The most famous example of this cooperation was the

virtual marriage between Lt Gen George Patton’s Third Army

and Brig Gen O. P. Weyland’s XIX Tactical Air Command.

The fundamental precept that emerged from this relationship

held that each field army would receive support from a

colocated tactical air command that worked for the theater air

commander but whose raison d’être was assisting the

supported ground commander in the accomplishment of his

mission. In January 1974, the Air Staff surfaced the problem

to the Army Staff, from which a proposal emerged for the

establishment of an Army tactical air support liaison element

located at the air force component commander’s tactical air

control center (TACC).

This arrangement proved insufficient,

however, to provide detailed tactical coordination between

ground and air formations; and in January 1976 Dixon

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412

notified DePuy that the situation required more work,

particularly when multiple corps deployed in a single

theater.

The proposal that emerged from these discussions

entailed retaining an Army element at the TACC, now

redesignated the battle coordination element (BCE) but

supplementing this with a robust Air Force liaison element at

each corps headquarters, tentatively designated a tactical air

coordination element (TACE). The Blue Flag exercise of

December 1977 tested this arrangement.

In January 1978, TRADOC published its analysis of this

exercise in an air-land forces interface study, which concluded

that the TACE provided adequate representation to the corps

and that the BCE provided adequate Army representation to

the TACC.

Two anomalies, however, surfaced in this report.

The first was that it envisioned individual corps commanders

communicating directly with the air component commander

regarding the redistribution of sorties among the corps—

clearly not a position the Air Force relished.

The second was

that it did not represent the opinion of corps commanders in

NATO, who felt that mere liaison at the corps level was not

enough—that the corps battle required much more detailed

interface with the Air Force than a liaison party could

provide.

Both of these issues derived from the demise of the

field army, and both continued to bedevil Army and Air Force

planners in the years ahead.

In surveying the formation of the Army–Air Force

partnership during the early post-Vietnam years, one must

also consider the development of Army attack helicopters.

During the Vietnam War, the Army had developed the AH-1

Cobra, an attack variant of the ubiquitous “Huey.” Clearly,

however, the Cobra had neither the lethality nor the

survivability to fight successfully in central Europe. Hence,

the Army embarked on an ambitious program to design a new

generation of attack helicopter from the ground up, resulting

in the AH-64 Apache.

The Apache’s lethality derived from

eight laser-guided Hellfire missiles, a 30 mm chain gun, and

two pods of 2.75-inch rockets. Its design allowed it to

withstand single hits from 12.7 mm armor-piercing rounds

and 23 mm high-explosive cannon and continue to fly for 30

minutes. Equipped with a sophisticated target-acquisition and

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night-sensor system, the Apache was, indeed, a formidable

weapons system.

But its very effectiveness raised the question of whether the

Army had developed this helicopter because it did not trust

the Air Force to provide needed CAS. One cannot entirely rule

out this hypothesis. However, in the context of the Apache’s

development, several other explanations appear at least as

operative as lack of interservice trust. First, the Apache

represented a logical continuation of attack helicopter

development during the Vietnam War. Second, it reflected a

belief shared by the Army and the Air Force that a Warsaw

Pact invasion of central Europe demanded the development of

a wide variety of antiarmor systems in large numbers. Third,

one can view the Apache as a response to aggressive Soviet

development of attack aviation.

In summary, one sees in the early post-Vietnam years a

deliberate effort on the part of the Army and the Air Force to

prepare themselves to defend western Europe. The creation of

TRADOC and the conscious use of doctrine as the device to

refashion the Army in the wake of the Vietnam trauma drove

that service’s effort. In contrast, Air Force basic doctrine

appeared to lack a unifying vision. Nevertheless, the Air Force

developed an aircraft tailor-made for killing enemy tanks in

Europe, and it carefully assayed both the Warsaw Pact ground

forces and the physical environment in which it would have to

operate to help the Army defeat them. Finally, the

TAC-TRADOC partnership embodied a promising start at

forging cooperation between the two services. Remaining,

however, was the troubling issue of restoring the higher-level

ground-air interface in the wake of the Army’s decision to

eliminate the field army as an organizational echelon.

Strengthening the Partnership, 1980–86

Over the next six years, the Army significantly revised its

capstone doctrine from Active Defense to AirLand Battle, the

latter term generating a great deal of misunderstanding,

particularly during the Gulf War. One must remember that

AirLand Battle was Army doctrine (i.e., it was not Air Force

doctrine, and it was not joint doctrine). The Air Force

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rearticulated its basic doctrine in 1984, providing a somewhat

more coherent view of the theory and application of airpower

than had its predecessors. Air Force cooperation remained

absolutely essential to the execution of the Army’s AirLand

Battle doctrine. That cooperation was evident in the

development of the “31 initiatives,” which focused mainly on

programmatic activities between the Army Staff and Air Staff,

and in ALFA’s publication of several practical biservice manuals.

However, the inherent tension between Army and Air Force

perspectives regarding air-ground integration again surfaced,

this time with regard to incorporating NATO doctrinal

prescriptions for the control of AI into US Air Force practice.

General DePuy had clearly intended the 1976 edition of FM

100-5 to be widely read—it was. It also was widely debated. As

the debate matured, criticism of Active Defense focused on

several key issues. First, it was too oriented toward weapons

systems—soldiers became mere operators, not warriors. Second,

the defensive method of moving from blocking position to

blocking position seemed to cede the initiative to the adversary.

Third, the emphasis placed on winning the first battle left open

the more important question of winning the last battle.

Additionally, the doctrine’s focus at division level and below

omitted the important contribution made by the corps,

particularly in disrupting Soviet second-echelon forces. Last,

almost as insult added to injury, the manual contained no

consideration of the “principles of war.” Although outside

analysts, in part, prompted and abetted this debate, it largely

remained an internal affair.

Army officers read DePuy’s manual

closely, and the more they read it, the less they liked it.

This dissatisfaction in the ranks corresponded to two

developments at the top. On 1 July 1977, Gen Donn A. Starry

replaced General DePuy as TRADOC commander; and in June

1979, Lt Gen Edward C. Meyer, Army deputy chief of staff for

operations and chief of staff designate, suggested to Starry

that the Army should begin work on a new FM 100-5.

Starry

was already so inclined.

Although as commander of the

Armor Center and as a DePuy protégé, he had served as one of

the key participants in developing the 1976 edition of FM

100-5, his perspective began to change when he took

command of V Corps in Europe.

Here, he realized the vital

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importance of engaging Soviet second-echelon forces and not

simply blunting the initial attack.

When Starry assumed

command of TRADOC, he began thinking and talking about

the extended battlefield, a term that entered the TRADOC

lexicon in the form of an emerging concept briefed to and

approved by General Meyer in October 1980.

Several

months later, after continuing to cast around for a term that

would adequately convey the sense of the doctrinal shift he

envisioned and after consulting with Lt Gen William R.

Richardson, commander of the CAC, Starry announced his

decision to refer to the Army’s approach to warfare as AirLand

Battle.

Two aspects of this decision are noteworthy. First, although

the doctrine espoused in the 1976 edition of FM 100-5 came

to be known as Active Defense, it was a derived name—not a

given one. In contrast, Starry deliberately hung a label on his

emerging doctrine. Second, although he may have partially

intended the “Air” part of AirLand Battle to make Army officers

more air-minded, one may conclude that he also intended to

signal the Air Force that the Army envisioned a strong

partnership between the two services on any future

battlefield.

The 1982 edition of FM 100-5 reflected both Starry’s

guidance and the input of a number of midgrade officers who

had found the previous edition badly wanting.

The new

manual addressed virtually all of the concerns raised by the

latter. Although it acknowledged the importance of

“armaments sufficient for the task at hand,” the manual

stated categorically that “first and foremost, [combat power]

depends on good people—soldiers with character and resolve

who will win because they simply will not accept losing.”

This statement marked a return to the Army’s traditional view

of war as a struggle waged between people who use weapons,

consciously rejecting DePuy’s notion of war as a contest of

machines operated by people.

Analysis of the defense stated that it “consisted of reactive

and offensive elements working together to rob the enemy of

the initiative”; approvingly cited Carl von Clausewitz’s

description of the defense as a “shield of [well-directed] blows”;

and explicitly warned against the Active Defense’s technique

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of laterally shifting committed forces.

Gone was the single

focus on the first battle. Instead, the manual introduced the

concept of an operational level of war that involved the

planning and conduct of campaigns, defined as “sustained

operations designed to defeat an enemy force in a specified

space and time with simultaneous and sequential battles”

(emphasis added).

Throughout the manual, one found

allusions to corps, divisions, brigades, and battalions working

together to accomplish the mission.

Finally, the principles of war reappeared, albeit in an

appendix and apparently subordinated to AirLand Battle’s

four “basic tenets of initiative, depth, agility, and

synchronization” (emphasis in original).

The tenet of depth

led to the concept of “deep battle,” particularly significant for

air-ground operations, for it clearly signaled the Army’s

realization of the need to delay or disrupt (i.e., interdict) Soviet

second-echelon formations before they made contact with

friendly troops.

In one sense, however, AirLand Battle remained an

anomaly. Whereas the 1976 edition of FM 100-5 had

contained a specific chapter focused on the dynamics of

air-ground operations, the 1982 manual limited its treatment

of “joint operations” to a series of wiring diagrams and an

explanation of the various responsibilities of unified and

specified commands, joint task forces, and service component

headquarters. In short, the Active Defense embodied a much

greater elaboration of AirLand Battle than did the original

version of AirLand Battle.

This changed in 1986, when the Army published a new

edition of FM 100-5, which reaffirmed the doctrinal thrust of

AirLand Battle but updated and expanded it, based on the

lessons learned in classrooms, war games, and field

exercises.

This edition paid much more explicit attention to

the conduct of campaigns and major operations. Of particular

note for the conduct of air-ground operations was the

statement that

operational level commanders try to set favorable terms for battle by

synchronized ground, air, and sea maneuver and by striking the

enemy throughout the theater of operations. Large scale ground

maneuver will always require protection from enemy air forces and

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sometimes from naval forces. Commanders will therefore conduct

reconnaissance, interdiction, air defense, and special operations

almost continuously. Air interdiction, air and ground reconnaissance

. . . must all be synchronized to support the overall campaign and its

supporting operations on the ground, especially at critical junctures.

This was a much different statement than that contained in

chapter 8 of the 1976 edition, for it moved the locus of

concern from the winning of a single battle to the winning of a

campaign. It also reflected a growing maturity on the part of

Army doctrinal writers, for it specifically referred to supporting

operations on the ground. Further, it established the ground

forces’ need for air protection and for the synchronization of

interdiction with those forces, especially at critical junctures.

However, this doctrinal statement implicitly accepted the

proposition that one would make critical decisions on how the

synchronization would take place in the context of campaign

objectives, not merely the tactical dictates of individual

battles. This realization brought it much more in tune with

the Air Force perspective on the employment of airpower.

The 1984 edition of AFM 1-1, now titled Basic Aerospace

Doctrine of the United States Air Force, formally updated that

perspective. Apparently aware of the deficiencies of the

previous edition, Air Staff doctrine writers set out to give the

new manual “a new face and thrust.”

They fully achieved the

former objective—the latter, partially. Packaged in a slim blue

binder, printed in understated blue type, and limited to 43

pages of text, the manual appeared to be a “statement of

officially sanctioned beliefs and warfighting principles which

describe and guide the proper use of aerospace forces in

military action.”

Its four chapters dealt with the military

instrument of power; the employment of aerospace forces;

missions and specialized tasks; and issues of organization,

training, equipment, and sustainment. The second chapter

contained the key doctrinal imperatives, reviewing the

oft-repeated characteristics of speed, range, and flexibility and

informing the reader of the importance of the “three essential

factors in warfare: man, machine, and environment.”

enjoined aerospace commanders to employ their forces as an

indivisible entity, conduct simultaneous strategic and tactical

actions, gain control of the environment, attack the enemy’s

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war-fighting potential, consider both offensive and defensive

action, and exploit the psychological impact of aerospace

power.

Discussion of the coordination of interdiction

activities with surface forces was particularly apt:

The effect of these attacks is profound when the enemy is engaged in a

highly mobile maneuver scheme of operation dependent on urgent

resupply of combat reserves and consumables. Air and surface

commanders should take actions to force the enemy into this intense

form of combat with a systematic and persistent plan of attack. The

purpose is . . . to generate situations where friendly surface forces can

then take advantage of forecast enemy reactions.

Although the manual did not go as far as some critics might

have liked in discussing the inherent fog and friction of war, it

did at least caution readers to respect the flexibility of enemy

forces.

Perhaps the most serious charge that one could level

against it was its failure to explicitly consider the emergence

of the operational level of war as the connecting link between

military strategy and tactics. But the Army, which had first

articulated the strategic-operational-tactical paradigm in

American doctrine in 1982, was still working its way toward a

mature statement of the implications of that model during the

drafting of the 1984 edition of AFM 1-1. In sum, this

statement of Air Force basic doctrine represented a more

coherent explication of airpower principles than did its

predecessor and recognized some of the potential for the

cooperation of air and ground forces at the operational level.

However, it stopped short of a fully developed typology of how

one could best achieve this synergism.

At the tactical level, however, the TAC-TRADOC partnership

was producing great dividends. Gen Wilbur L. Creech—

Dixon’s replacement at TAC—and Starry continued the

well-developed institutional dialogue and met quarterly for

face-to-face consultations.

The most obvious result of this

cooperation was a series of joint manuals dealing with key

issues of air-ground operations. These manuals emerged

primarily from Army–Air Force participation in the Blue Flag

command-post exercises at Hurlburt Field, Florida, and the

Red Flag force-on-force exercises at Nellis AFB but also

reflected an expansion of the TAC-TRADOC partnership to

involve the Marine Corps and the Navy. Further, they laid out

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procedures for joint SEAD, joint attack of the second echelon,

joint air-attack team operations (employment of A-10s and

attack helicopters), and joint application of firepower.

These

manuals represented a great deal of trial and error on the part

of Army and Air Force officers working hard to figure out what

would probably work best. Their very existence and the

signatures of the multiple commanders who promulgated

them constitute vivid evidence of how strong the Army–Air

Force partnership had become by the mid-1980s.

A formal understanding at the departmental level “for

enhancement of joint employment of the AirLand Battle

Doctrine”

also strengthened the partnership. This April 1983

document, signed by General Meyer and Gen Charles A. Gabriel,

Air Force chief of staff, committed the two services to use the

1982 edition of FM 100-5 as the basis for seeking increased

integration of Army and Air Force tactical forces, enhancing

interservice planning and programming, continuing the dialogue

on doctrinal matters, working together on deep-attack systems,

coordinating airlift requirements, and resolving issues

concerning the integration of AirLand Battle into theater

operations. A memorandum of understanding signed by Gabriel

and Gen John A. Wickham, the new Army chief of staff and

Gabriel’s West Point classmate, followed it in November 1983.

This paper emphasized the planning and programmatic aspects

of the previous memo and pledged the services to “initiate

herewith a joint process to develop in a deliberate manner the

most combat effective, affordable joint forces necessary for

airland combat operations.”

Apparently fearful of resistance from within their own

services over “too much cooperation,” Gabriel and Wickham

instructed their operations deputies, Lt Gen John T. Chain

and Lt Gen Fred K. Mahaffey, to establish a small interservice

working group, reporting directly to these officers, that would

develop specific proposals to implement their agreement and

would not release information on the deliberations of this

group to other members of the service staffs.

Based on the

work of this group, Gabriel and Wickham, after some minor

internal coordination in each service, proclaimed their

intention to move forward together in a publicly released

memorandum of 22 May 1984.

This agreement committed

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the services to exploring 31 specific initiatives regarding

air-ground operations that dealt with issues of air defense,

rear-area operations, SEAD, special operations forces,

munitions development, combat techniques and procedures,

and the fusion of combat information.

The 31 initiatives achieved mixed success. Within 15

months, action on 18 of them had been completed, including

the Air Force’s decision to cancel the development of a “mobile

weapons system” (an ersatz tank) for air base defense and a

ground-based radar jamming system; concomitant

cancellation of an Army program for an airborne radar

jammer; development of a joint tactical missile system

(JTACMS) and a joint surveillance, target attack radar system

(JSTARS); and agreement between TAC and TRADOC

regarding procedures for CAS in the rear areas.

The services

were not, however, able to implement the initiative that called

for the transfer of HH 53-H PAVE LOW III search and rescue

helicopters from the Air Force to the Army.

And they

continued to have difficulty settling the issue of air-ground

interface at the operational level of war.

The focal point for this obstacle was the divergence of

perspectives over battlefield air interdiction (BAI), addressed

as initiative 21. BAI had a long and checkered past that arose

from three issues: (1) the divergence between the Army and

the Air Force concerning the relative authority of various

command echelons in directing aircraft to provide ground

support, (2) the elimination of the field army as a ground

echelon of command, and (3) the influence of NATO tactical air

doctrine on US Air Force doctrine. The Air Force command

philosophy, expressed most recently in the 1984 edition of

AFM 1-1, was one of “centralize control—decentralize

execution.”

Although the doctrine did not spell out the level

of centralization, the Air Force preferred control at the theater

of operations. Here, the air component commander would

recommend to the theater commander an apportionment of

assets among the functions of offensive and defensive

counterair, AI, and CAS.

Based on the theater commander’s

decision, the air component commander would allocate

specific numbers of sorties by aircraft type to subordinate air

formations to perform the various functions.

The theater air

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commander, however, retained responsibility for control and

direction of the AI effort, and ground commanders supported

by various air formations had a voice only in the suballocation

of CAS sorties to their subordinate units. As we have seen,

however, the structure of the air-ground interface process was

now in a state of disarray brought about by the disappearance

of the field army.

The military command structure in Allied Forces Central

Europe (AFCENT) and divergences between British and

American philosophies of air-ground operations further

complicated the problem. AFCENT’s organization included a

theater headquarters; a supporting air headquarters known as

Allied Air Forces Central Europe (AAFCE), which contained

the 2d and 4th Allied Tactical Air Forces (2ATAF and 4ATAF);

and two subordinate land headquarters—Northern Army

Group (NORTHAG) and Central Army Group (CENTAG).

Although 2ATAF and 4ATAF remained subordinate to AAFCE,

they had responsibility for providing air support to NORTHAG

and CENTAG, respectively. Although both ATAFs and both

Army groups were truly allied formations, the British

dominated 2ATAF and NORTHAG, while the Americans

dominated 4ATAF and CENTAG.

The British and Americans had distinctly different

perspectives on air-ground operations. Based on philosophy,

economics, and technology, the Royal Air Force (RAF)

preferred to generate a large number of sorties in small,

two-plane formations with relatively little centralized control.

It also preferred relatively shallow interdiction to deep

interdiction. The USAF, on the other hand, preferred a slightly

more “above the fray” approach that emphasized a fewer

number of large formations under relatively tight centralized

control. In light of its possession of platforms that could

conduct deep interdiction and its concern for the high density

of air-defense weapons arrayed at and immediately behind the

front lines of Soviet forces, it preferred deep rather than

shallow interdiction.

In the development of NATO doctrine, however, one could

not ignore the British position. Therefore, a compromise in

NATO tactical air doctrine provided for both relatively deep AI

and relatively shallow BAI.

This doctrine also provided for

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joint BAI and CAS in a category known as offensive air

support (OAS).

Reflecting the British preference for the

nexus of air-ground operations at the army group/ATAF level

rather than at the AFCENT/AAFCE level, once the apportion-

ment decision was made, OAS sorties were allocated to the

ATAF commanders. Furthermore, because the ATAF had

responsibility for supporting an army group, the latter’s

commanders had significant influence in determining how the

OAS sorties were suballocated among the corps under their

command. On the whole, the US Army was quite satisfied with

this arrangement. The CENTAG commander had to trade off

proximity to his fighting corps for proximity to his supporting

air commander in choosing his command location. But the

OAS = BAI + CAS formulation gave him sufficient influence

over air operations to prosecute the major land operations he

had to execute under the rubric of the theater campaign plan.

Although this arrangement did not provide subordinate corps

commanders the amount of influence over air operations they

felt they required to deal with Soviet second-echelon

formations, it did give them access to an Army commander in

the person of COMCENTAG, to whom they could make their

case for priority of both BAI and CAS sorties. The USAF,

however, remained much more ambivalent about BAI.

Although the constraints of allied diplomacy had obliged

senior American airmen to accept it as NATO doctrine, they

were reluctant to incorporate into US doctrine any provisions

for ground commanders to influence air interdiction.

An unprecedented “20-star” conference held at TRADOC in

October 1979 reviewed a number of air-ground issues,

including the BAI question. Attendees at this meeting

included Generals Meyer, Lew Allen, Starry, and Creech, as

well as Gen John W. Vessey Jr., the Army vice chief of staff,

who had served with the Air Force at Udorn AFB, Thailand,

during the Vietnam War. At this meeting, the TAC briefer on

OAS stated that although use of the A-10 to attack Soviet

second-echelon forces was not desirable, it would be feasible if

both the Army and the Air Force were willing to “pay the price”

in SEAD resources.

The meeting produced a consensus that

AI, counterair/air defense, and SEAD were the priority study

issues for ALFA.

It failed, however, to resolve the essential

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procedural issues of BAI, for on 22 December 1979, the Air

Staff issued a new position paper that proposed retaining

control and direction of BAI at the air component level—like

AI.

This position represented a “doctrinal step backward” for

TRADOC planners, who quickly rolled into high gear in their

coordination with their TAC counterparts to reverse the Air

Staff position. Agreements signed at the deputy chief of staff

level in April 1980 and at the command level in September

1980 marked preliminary success in this regard.

A long period of negotiation at the departmental level

followed, culminating in a position paper on the

apportionment and allocation of OAS, signed off by the

operations deputies on 23 May 1981.

In essence, this

document constituted formal biservice cognizance of the NATO

doctrine on OAS spelled out in Allied Tactical Publication

27(B), Offensive Air Operations, previously ratified by the

NATO Tactical Air Working Group. It stipulated that in the

NATO Central Region, apportionment would take place at the

AFCENT/AAFCE level and that OAS allocation, including CAS

and BAI, would take place at the army group/ATAF level. It

also codified the previously agreed arrangement for assigning

an air support operations center (ASOC) to each corps,

explicitly recognizing that “generally, only at Corps level will

sufficient information be available to determine whether it is

possible to engage and counter a threat with conventional

organic firepower or whether it is necessary to have this

organic firepower supplemented by OAS.”

In other words, the Army not only persuaded the Air Force

to subscribe to the NATO doctrine on BAI but also extracted

an admission of the reality that the ATAF commander’s critical

decision on the allocation of OAS sorties between BAI and CAS

would depend upon intelligence developed at the corps level

and passed through the army group to the ATAF. However,

two problems arose. First, the position paper was just that—a

statement of position, not doctrine. Second, the signature of

the Air Force deputy chief of staff for plans and operations did

not remove underlying Air Force reservations about giving the

Army influence over any form of interdiction.

In sum, between 1980 and 1986, the Army and the Air

Force institutionalized the partnership formed from 1973 to

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1979. This regularization, centered around the Army’s

development and refinement of its AirLand Battle doctrine,

manifested itself in the series of “J” manuals produced by the

TAC/TRADOC relationship and in the 31 initiatives at the

departmental level. The Air Force also developed a more

coherent statement of its basic doctrine. Although this

doctrine did not take explicit cognizance of the operational

level of war articulated in the 1982 and 1988 editions of FM

100-5, it at least demonstrated a preliminary vision for how

air and ground forces might cooperate at this level. However,

divergences of perspective remained about air-ground

interface: although the interdepartmental position paper on

OAS apparently resolved these differences, they continued to

boil beneath the surface.

Crosscurrents, 1987–90

From 1987 to 1990, the Army–Air Force partnership

continued to mature. Two developments, however, one in each

service, influenced the partnership in ways not immediately

apparent. The first was the Army’s effort to develop a detailed

doctrine for the corps’s conduct of deep battle; the second was

the publication of a National Defense University thesis entitled

“The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat,” written by a

relatively obscure Air Force colonel named John Warden.

The continuation of a number of biservice projects reflected

the strength of the Army–Air Force partnership. By December

1987, TRADOC and TAC, operating under the aegis of the 31

initiatives, developed a draft summary of requirements for a

follow-on to the A-10 as a CAS aircraft.

By 1988 the services

estimated that their joint force-development initiatives had

resulted in a savings of $1 billion dollars in cost avoidance.

Additionally, they had reached agreement on concepts for joint

attack of Soviet helicopters, the alignment of air liaison

officers and forward air controllers with Army maneuver units,

and a follow-on to the JSEAD manual of 1982. An article

entitled “The Air Force, the Army, and the Battlefield of the

1990s” by Gen Robert D. Russ, Creech’s successor at TAC,

provided further indication of institutional solidarity. Here

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425

Russ stated categorically that “everything that tactical air does

directly supports Army operations.”

Meanwhile, the Army was hard at work developing

guidelines to help the corps commander fight the deep battle.

This effort had begun in 1984 with formation of the Deep

Attack Program Office at Fort Leavenworth, operating under

the CAC aegis.

By 1985 CAC had produced a field circular

on corps deep operations. This publication contained an

integrating concept for fusing Army intelligence, fire support,

air defense, and maneuver assets with tactical air support to

attack a Soviet second-echelon force, as well as the ground

and air infrastructure of Soviet CAS formations.

100

In 1987 the Army took another step forward in the maturity of

its deep battle concept with the publication of a handbook

describing the capabilities of existing and developmental deep

battle systems. The handbook outlined an integrated group of

Army and Air Force systems to sense enemy targets, process

information about these targets, communicate the information

to appropriate agencies, and control the Army and Air Force

weapons used to strike them. The Air Force’s precision location

strike system (PLSS) and JSTARS and the Army tactical missile

system (ATACMS) were particularly important components of

the future architecture for deep battle.

101

This pièce de

résistance of deep battle publications, Corps Deep Operations

(ATACMS, Aviation and Intelligence Support): Tactics, Techniques

and Procedures Handbook (1990), outlined the imperative for the

corps commander simultaneously to control significant

engagements in close operations, deny the enemy the ability to

concentrate combat power, attack enemy forces in depth, and

retain freedom of action in his own rear area.

102

The key to

performing these functions lay in the corps commander’s ability,

as part of a theaterwide concept, to influence enemy ground and

heliborne operations three to four days in the future.

103

This

called for very close integration of the corps maneuver and fire

support assets with Air Force BAI and electronic

countermeasures.

104

In sum, the work was exactly what its title

implied—a handy how-to book for use by corps commanders

and their principal planners in sorting out the difficult

coordination issues involved in attacking second-echelon

divisions of a Soviet-style combined-arms army. It reflected six

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

426

years of hard thinking that conceptually represented the

practical link between technology developed to fight the deep

battle and the overarching doctrine of AirLand Battle.

One had to examine the other side of the coin, however. By

developing extended-range systems that allowed the corps

commander to fight the deep battle, the Army raised the

question of coordinating the effects of these systems with air

operations. The immediate focus of this issue became the

placement of and procedures surrounding the fire support

coordination line (FSCL)—originally known as the “no-bomb

line” and developed in World War II as a coordination measure

to mitigate against the chances of aircraft dropping ordnance on

friendly troops. It was defined as a line short of which the release

of air weapons required the prior clearance of a ground

commander, and it applied primarily to aircrews returning from

interdiction and armed reconnaissance missions with

unexpended ordnance, who wanted to be able to take advantage

of targets of opportunity without endangering friendly ground

forces. The rule of thumb for the FSCL was to place it at the

limit of the range of friendly artillery. As long as this range

remained in the neighborhood of 10–15 kilometers beyond the

friendly front lines, this placement did not present much of a

problem because one would coordinate air strikes within that

range with ground forces. However, with the advent of the

multiple launch rocket system (MLRS) and, later, ATACMS, the

Army had systems that could range out to roughly 30 and one

hundred kilometers, respectively. Additionally, the corps deep-

attack manual envisioned Apache helicopter attacks to a depth

of 70 to one hundred kilometers beyond the front lines.

These newly developed capabilities placed the Army and the

Air Force at loggerheads. If, on the one hand, the FSCL were

pushed out to the depths of new Army weapons, it would

significantly interfere with Air Force interdiction efforts and

could allow enemy forces to escape attack by friendly air

formations. If, on the other hand, the FSCL were kept

relatively close to friendly front lines, the corps commander

would lose freedom of action in the employment of fire support

assets if he had to coordinate these fires with the Air Force

prior to execution. This conundrum defied mutually

satisfactory resolution.

105

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427

Another indicator of the potential fraying of the Army–Air

Force partnership was the publication in 1988 of Warden’s

The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat.

106

One could interpret

this book on two levels. At the most obvious level, it was an

intelligent and imaginative tract that took the basic logic of

operational art—the linkage of strategic objectives and tactical

goals—and applied it to air warfare. As such, it addressed

classic military questions such as the relationship between

offense and defense, the trade-offs between concentration and

economy of force, the employment of operational reserves, and

the use of deception in war—all from an air perspective. In

this sense, it was hardly revolutionary. Many people

interpreted the book as simply the work of a thoughtful

airman who wished to encourage his colleagues in the Air

Force to consider the implications of operational art for the

practice of their profession. In another sense, however, it

constituted an airpower manifesto in the tradition of the

works of Giulio Douhet, Billy Mitchell, and Alexander de

Seversky. Although carefully qualified, a theme of airpower

dominance ran through the book like a brightly colored

thread. Chapter subheads such as “Single Arms Can Prevail,”

“War Can Be Won from the Air,” and “Command Is True

Center of Gravity” suggested an airpower-centered approach

to warfare that had perhaps not fully matured at the time of

publication.

That soon changed. The pivotal question that The Air

Campaign had not addressed was, If airpower can be a

war-winning instrument, how does it become one? In the

summer of 1988, Warden conceived of an answer to that

question.

107

Picturing an enemy society as a system, he

reasoned that its ability to generate power depended on five

subsystems: leadership, organic essentials, infrastructure,

population, and fielded forces (in decreasing order of

significance).

108

Warden represented these subsystems as five

concentric rings, with leadership in the center and fielded

forces on the circumference. This formulation directly

confronted a central concern of almost all airpower

thinkers—what to target. To Warden the answer was clear:

one should start at the inside and work out.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

428

In ordinary times, Warden’s book and his subsequent

musings on targeting philosophies would have held not much

more than academic interest.

109

Regardless of the strengths or

weaknesses of his approach to warfare, one thing remained

certain: it was not Air Force doctrine. It did, however,

represent a view in the Air Force that one could—perhaps

even should—think of the application of airpower as

independent of ground operations. To this extent, it

constituted another crosscurrent in the story of Army–Air

Force partnership

Conclusions

This study has endeavored to answer questions about the

areas of convergence and divergence between Army and Air

Force perspectives on air-ground operations between the end of

the Vietnam War and the eve of Operation Desert Shield, and

the underlying causes for them. Clearly, the services agreed

about a great deal—that CAS was important, that it was an Air

Force mission, and that they needed a dedicated CAS platform

(and, therewith, a dedicated group of pilots whose sole training

focus would address execution of the CAS mission). They agreed

on the importance of SEAD, the fact that it was a shared

responsibility, and the detailed procedures required to effect it.

They agreed on the importance of attacking enemy

second-echelon forces, the use of Army helicopters and Air Force

platforms working in close cooperation to accomplish this

mission, and the detailed tactical procedures required to do it.

They disagreed over two issues: (1) the amount of influence that

senior ground commanders should have over Air Force

interdiction operations and (2) the mechanisms for coordinating

the effects of fixed-wing air and extended-range Army systems.

At the risk of being somewhat simplistic, one can conclude that

although very significant agreement existed at the tactical level,

noticeable divergence characterized the operational level.

One can gain insight into the dynamics behind these

similarities and differences of perspective by surveying the

centripetal forces that tended to pull the Army and the Air

Force together and the centrifugal forces that tended to pull

them apart.

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429

One can attribute the relative cohesion and strength of the

Army–Air Force partnership from 1973 to 1990 in rough

priority to (1) the unifying effect of the NATO defense mission,

(2) the close cooperation of personalities at or near the top of

each service, (3) a leadership shift in the Air Force that put

fighter rather than bomber pilots in the majority of influential

positions, and (4) the clarity of the Army’s vision of how it

intended to fight a future war that tended to pull the Air Force

in its wake. The NATO defense mission gave each service a

clear and unifying mission. The ability to defeat a Warsaw

Pact invasion of western Europe below the nuclear threshold

remained, for the period under analysis, the single most

significant criterion of operational effectiveness for both

services. When the Army and the Air Force looked at this

challenge, each realized it needed the other. Despite the fact

that the Army had greater dependence on the Air Force than

vice versa, one could not deny that in the SEAD mission, the

Air Force distinctly needed Army help. Furthermore, in order

to make manifest its contribution to the national defense, the

Air Force had to demonstrate its ability to destroy Soviet tanks

as well as Soviet MiGs.

The close personal relations established between senior Army

and Air Force leaders proved vital to the strength of the

partnership. The positive personal chemistry apparent in,

among others, the Abrams/Brown, DePuy/Dixon, Wickham/

Gabriel, and Starry/Creech relationships helped forge a

partnership in peace that would hopefully withstand the rigors

of war.

110

A gradual but distinct change in Air Force leadership

abetted these relationships.

In 1960 bomber pilots held 77 percent of the top Air Force

leadership positions—fighter pilots, 11 percent.

111

By 1975

the figures were 43 percent for bomber pilots and 41 percent

for fighter pilots; by 1990 they had largely reversed themselves

to 18 percent for bomber pilots and 53 percent for fighter

pilots. The more prominent role of fighter pilots in the Vietnam

War and the declining numbers of bombers in the inventory

seem to have driven this shift, at least in part. Although the

analysis has complications (e.g., General Brown had flown as

a bomber, fighter, and airlift pilot), the trend remains clear;

further, one can legitimately suspect that the Air Force fighter

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

430

community proved slightly more favorably disposed to

welcome the Army’s doctrinal advances than did the bomber

community.

The final factor pulling the Army and the Air Force together

was the Army’s clear vision of how it wanted to fight a future

war and its distinct realization that Air Force support was

absolutely essential for winning one. Air Force centrality to the

Army’s view of tactics was integral to both doctrines of Active

Defense and AirLand Battle; and the Army’s articulation of the

operational level of war in the latter also contained an explicit

acknowledgment of the importance of coordinated air support.

In something of a doctrinal muddle for several years after

Vietnam, the Air Force appeared to follow the Army’s lead.

Some forces, however, tended to pull the services in

opposite directions. These included the operational differences

between the media in which they fought, the cultural

implications these differences engendered, varying approaches

to the meaning of doctrine and the institutional structure for

developing it, and the capabilities of emerging technology. Air

and land forces fight in two distinctly dissimilar

environments. The former enjoy the flexibility to focus their

effects at different loci, depending on the strategic,

operational, and tactical dictates of the moment; but their

presence is relatively transitory. The latter offer the offsetting

advantage of much more permanent effects, but gravity limits

their flexibility. These diverging operating characteristics

produce cultural approaches to war that maximize the

inherent strengths of each force (i.e., flexibility and

permanence). Beyond these endemic difficulties of developing

common doctrine, the Army decided in 1973 to create a major

subordinate command dedicated to the formulation and

promulgation of doctrine and the integration of that doctrine

into its training, organization, and equipment-development

systems. That decision, together with the Air Force’s choice

not to create such a command, made it difficult for the two

services to develop a common doctrinal framework. Finally,

the technological evolution that extended the ranges of

land-based indirect fire systems and armed helicopters

blurred the line between what had served as the relatively

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431

exclusive operational domains of the two services, thus

creating new doctrinal challenges that defied easy solution.

Interestingly, the partnership between the two services

appeared to be independent of two factors that frequently play

a role in interservice relationships: the size of the defense

budget and external pressure for cooperation. The partnership

began in the mid-1970s, when the defense budget fell steadily

in the aftermath of Vietnam, and it continued to prosper

throughout the 1980s, when the defense budget proved

relatively robust. Further, outside pressure for greater joint

cooperation evidently did not foist the partnership on the

services. Congress passed the Goldwater-Nichols Department

of Defense Reorganization Act of 1986 well after the

TAC-TRADOC dialogue had matured into a partnership and

after the Wickham/Gabriel regime had officially formulated its

31 initiatives. Also, Doctrine for Joint Operations, the key joint

publication resulting from the Goldwater-Nichols Act’s specific

recognition of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as the

promulgator of joint doctrine, was still in draft form in

1990.

112

The drive for jointness, therefore, had virtually no

effect on the cooperation established between the two services

during the period addressed in this essay. Although one could

argue that an earlier start on joint doctrine might have settled

unresolved issues between the Army and the Air Force prior to

1990, the extent to which joint doctrine can compensate for a

lack of internally generated interservice cooperation remains

to be demonstrated.

If one takes George Szell’s criteria for the production of

high-quality symphonic music as the basis for judging the

Army and the Air Force from 1973 to 1990, one finds that they

fall just short of the maestro’s high standards.

113

They were

magnificent individual performers. Each had equipped and

trained itself to play its part as a virtuoso. Each had also

listened to the other enough to recognize how they could most

harmoniously blend their effects in a number of specific

passages. But underlying philosophical differences about the

nature of their activity and certain matters of interpretation

had the potential to produce discordance. The quality of the

performance, therefore, would depend somewhat upon the

venue in which it took place. The acoustical properties of some

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

432

theaters would tend to magnify the harmony, while those of

others could just as easily emphasize the discordance.

From 1973 to 1990, the Army and the Air Force formed a solid

partnership centered around the Army’s ability to execute its

AirLand Battle doctrine with Air Force support. Extensive

biservice training, doctrinal publications, and programmatic

cooperation reflected the strength of this partnership. There

existed, however, an underlying ambivalence that one can

attribute primarily to the services’ diverging perspectives about

the modalities of air-ground cooperation at the operational level

of war. Had war broken out in western Europe, one might argue

that the strengths of the partnership would have proved much

more apparent than its weaknesses. However, the ambivalent

aspects of the partnership became rather more apparent in the

weeks and months after 2 August 1990, when Saddam

Hussein ’s tanks rolled into Kuwait, triggering the American-led

coalition’s responses of Operations Desert Shield and Desert

Storm. This theater subjected the Army–Air Force partnership to

severe strain. Indeed, the performance resembled neither a

delicately balanced chamber session nor a finely tuned

symphony but a concerto in which all performers believed they

were playing the featured instrument. Here, mutual listening

skills proved exiguous, and the interaction between the two

services at times resembled a dialogue of the deaf.

114

But that is

another story.

Notes

1. Michael Howard, “Military Science in an Age of Peace,” Journal of the

Royal United Service Institute for Defence Studies 119 (March 1974): 2.

2. Stephen Peter Rosen, Winning the Next War: Innovation and the

Modern Military (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1991), 8–22. Rosen

highlights the need for senior military leaders to identify junior officers who

share their vision of the new operational concept and to accelerate the

career advancement of those officers.

3. Gen William Momyer, who commanded Seventh Air Force in Vietnam,

is explicit here: “It was apparent that airpower was the decisive factor

leading to the peace agreement of 15 January 1973.” William M. Momyer,

Airpower in Three Wars (WWII, Korea, Vietnam ) (Washington, D.C.: Office of

Air Force History, 1978), 243.

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433

4. Mark Clodfelter, “Nixon and the Air Weapon,” in Dennis E. Showalter

and John G. Albert, eds., An American Dilemma: Vietnam, 1964–1973

(Chicago: Imprint Publications, 1993),182–83.

5. On this point, see James J. Tritten, “Naval Perspectives on Military

Doctrine,” Naval War College Review 48 (Spring 1995): 23.

6. Air Force Manual (AFM) 1-1, Basic Aerospace Doctrine of the United

States Air Force, 1984.

7. Ibid., v–vi.

8. The TAC problem was exacerbated by the fact that it did not even

speak for the entire tactical air community in the Air Force. United States

Air Forces in Europe (USAFE) and Pacific Air Forces (PACAF), like TAC, were

four-star commands with their own perspectives on air-ground operations

issues.

9. See, for example, discussion below of the Air Staff’s reversal of

TAC-TRADOC agreements on battlefield air interdiction.

10. Brig Gen Huba Wass de Czege, US Army, Retired, interviewed by

author, Fort Leavenworth, Kans., 16 February 1995.

11. Paul H. Herbert, Deciding What Has to Be Done: General William E.

DePuy and the 1976 Edition of FM 100-5, “Operations” (Fort Leavenworth,

Kans.: Combat Studies Institute, 1988), 30, 33.

12. Additional details on DePuy’s personal role and TRADOC’s

institutional role in driving the lessons of the 1973 Middle East War into the

Army’s psyche are found in the “TRADOC Report of Major Activities, FY

1974,” 1 August 1975, 14–19; “TRADOC Report of Major Activities, FY

1975,” 20 September 1976, 1–10; and William E. DePuy, “Implications of

the Middle East War on U.S. Army Tactics, Doctrine, and Systems,” in

Richard M. Swain, comp., Selected Papers of General William E. DePuy (Fort

Leavenworth, Kans.: Combat Studies Institute, 1994), 75–111.

13. Field Manual (FM) 100-5, Operations, 1976, 1-1.

14. Ibid., 2-6.

15. Ibid., 3-1, 4.

16. Ibid., 3-5.

17. Ibid., 5-2.

18. Ibid., 5-13, 14.

19. Ibid., 8-1.

20. Ibid., 8-4.

21. History, AF/XO Directorate of Doctrine, Concepts, and Objectives, 1

July–31 December 1993, 35, USAF Historical Research Agency, Maxwell

AFB, Ala. (hereinafter AFHRA), file no. K143.01.

22. AFM 1-1, United States Air Force Basic Doctrine, 1975, 3-2.

23. Dennis M. Drew, “Two Decades in the Air Power Wilderness: Do We

Know Where We Are?” Air University Review 37 (September–October 1986): 12.

24. History, AF/XO Directorate of Concepts, 1 July–31 December 1976,

62, AFHRA, file no. K143.01

25. William L. Smallwood, Warthog: Flying the A-10 in the Gulf War

(Washington, D.C.: Brassey’s [US], 1993), 10–11.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

434

26. Details on the A-10’s design from ibid., 11–17.

27. James F. Digby, Modern Precision Weapons: Assessing Their

Implications for NATO (U) (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1975). (Secret)

Information extracted is unclassified.

28. Ibid., 76. The author of this report was forced to admit, however,

that while the state of analysis for single weapons versus point targets was

fairly well advanced, one could not find detailed studies that “treat ground

forces and air forces working together in a two-sided campaign.” Ibid., 77.

Information extracted is unclassified.

29. Donald E. Lewis et al., An Analysis of Alternatives for Improving U.S.

Air-to-Ground Capability in NATO (1980): Final Report (U) (Santa Monica,

Calif.: RAND, 1975). (Secret) Information extracted is unclassified.

30. Ibid., vi. The report also examined the potential effectiveness of

remotely piloted vehicles (RPV), although its conclusions about them were

ambivalent. It did note, however, that “as enemy ground defenses become

more effective, RPVs (and standoff systems) become more attractive.” Ibid.,

viii. Information extracted is unclassified.

31. J. H. Hayes, H. A. Einstein, and M. Weiner, How the Soviet Ground

Forces Would Fight a European War: Proceedings of a Workshop Held at the

RAND Corporation, 19–20 May 1976 (U) (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1977).

(Secret) Information extracted is unclassified.

32. Ibid., 11–18, 204–5. Information extracted is unclassified.

33. See R. E. Huschke, Effect of Weather on Near-Term Battlefield Air

Support in NATO: Weather and Warplanes VII (U) (Santa Monica, Calif.:

RAND, 1978). (Confidential) Information extracted is unclassified; and D. E.

Lewis et al., Potential Vulnerabilities of the Warsaw Pact Tactical Rear:

Analysis and Results (U) (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1979). (Secret)

Information extracted is unclassified.

34. Herbert, 68. An address prepared by a member of the Air Staff for

Maj Gen James R. Brickel, director of concepts, for presentation to the

Royal Air Force Air Power Seminar on 26 January 1978, explicitly

acknowledged the maturity of this relationship into a partnership. It stated

categorically that “the TAC/TRADOC relationship has matured from a

dialogue to a way of life—a partnership.” The RAF made a special request

for this presentation in order to study how it might work out a similar

partnership with the British army. History, AF/XO, “TAC/TRADOC

Partnership,” 1 January–30 June 1978, AFHRA, file no. K143.01.

35. Herbert, 68.

36. Annual Historical Review (AHR), TRADOC, FY 1976/7T, 22

September 1977, 55, TRADOC History Office, Fort Monroe, Va. (hereinafter

THO). ALFA was subsequently redesignated the Air-Land Forces Application

Agency.

37. “TAC/TRADOC Partnership.” When the colonel came from the Air

Force, he worked for the Army general, and vice versa.

38. Ibid.; and AHR, TRADOC, 57.

39. AHR, TRADOC, 56.

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435

40. AHR, TRADOC, 1 October 1976–30 September 1977, 29 August

1978, 34, THO.

41. Ibid., 38.

42. Lewis Sorley, Thunderbolt: General Creighton Abrams and the Army

of His Times (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992), 322–25.

43. The definitive work on this subject is a manuscript by David N.

Spires, “Air Power for Patton’s Army: The XIX Tactical Air Command in the

Second World War,” forthcoming from the Air Force History Support Office.

44. History, AF/XO Directorate of Doctrine, Concepts, and Objectives, 1

July–31 December 1974, 35, AFHRA, file no. K143.01.

45. AHR, TRADOC, 1 October 1976–30 September 1977, 35.

46. Ibid., 36.

47. AHR, TRADOC, 1 October 1977–30 September 1978, 1 November

1979, 177, THO.

48. Ibid.

49. This issue is discussed in depth, below.

50. For background on the Apache’s development and technical details,

see Doug Richardson, AH-64: Modern Flying Aircraft (New York: Prentice

Hall, 1986), 4–5, 16–21, and 26–41.

51. Gen Bernard W. Rogers, supreme allied commander, Europe, to

various US senators and representatives, letter, subject: Fielding of the

Apache, 22 July 1982. This letter stated in part, “Since the early 1970s I

have been involved personally in the Army effort to field an AAH [advanced

attack helicopter], and have seen previous attempts fail. During the same

period, the Soviets have made steady and dramatic advances in this field

where we wrote the book.” Cited in ibid., 13.

52. One of the earliest external critiques was William S. Lind, “FM

100-5, Operations: Some Doctrinal Questions for the United States Army,”

Military Review 57 (March 1977): 54–65.

53. For a hard-hitting critique of Active Defense, see Gregory Fontenot

and Matthew D. Roberts, “Plugging Holes and Mending Fences,” Infantry 68

(May–June 1978): 32–36. Robert S. Doughty and L. D. Holder, “Images of

the Future Battlefield,” Military Review 58 (January 1978): 56–69, contains

a more scholarly and muted criticism that saw the “new tactics” as an

intermediate step in a longer process. See also John M. Oseth, “FM 100-5

(Operations) Revisited: A Need for Better Foundation Concepts?” Military

Review 60 (March 1980): 13–19. For additional details, see John L. Romjue,

From Active Defense to AirLand Battle: The Development of Army Doctrine,

1973–1982 (Fort Monroe, Va.: US Army Training and Doctrine Command,

1984), 13–21. For a perceptive assessment of the criticism of Active Defense

doctrine, see Richard M. Swain, “Filling the Void: The Operational Art and

the U.S. Army” (paper presented at the Kingston Royal Military College

Military History Symposium, Kingston, Ontario, 23–24 March 1995), 15–22.

54. Romjue, 30.

55. In an address to the Tactics/InterUniversity Seminar Symposium at

Fort Leavenworth on 30 March 1978, Starry defended the rationale behind

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

436

Active Defense but admitted that improvements could be made in the

doctrine and that emerging dialogue on the subject was useful. Donn A.

Starry, “A Tactical Evolution—FM 100-5,” Military Review 58 (August 1978):

2–11.

56. For the subtleties of the DePuy-Starry relationship during

development of Active Defense doctrine, see Herbert, 81–83.

57. Starry recollected this experience, noting, “The fact that we needed

to fight the deep battle, not just with firepower, but by going deep with

maneuver forces as well, starting with attack helicopters, followed by

ground maneuver forces, much on the order that the Israelis did on the

Golan Heights in October 1973, highlighted the deep surveillance-deep fires

and command and control needs.” Gen Donn A. Starry, interviewed by John

L. Romjue, Fairfax Station, Va., 19 March 1993, THO. One of the interesting

aspects of this revelation concerns the way in which Starry’s perception of

the lessons of the Middle East War differed from DePuy’s. To Starry the war

demonstrated the need to maneuver deeply; to DePuy it indicated the need

to blunt the breakthrough attack.

58. Romjue, From Active Defense, 43.

59. Message, TRADOC commander, subject: Air Land Battle, 29 January

1981, THO. The Army experienced some initial debate about whether the

proper rendition of the term was Air Land Battle, Air-Land Battle, or AirLand

Battle. This discussion mirrored the as yet unresolved debate within the Air

Force concerning the propriety of air power versus airpower. Starry’s

consultation with Richardson was significant, for Richardson had drafted

the Meyer letter to Starry suggesting that it was time for a new version of

FM 100-5. Swain, “Filling the Void,” 21.

60. Starry confirmed that the term AirLand Battle had its roots in the

extensive discussions that had taken place between TAC and TRADOC

since 1973. Gen Donn A. Starry, US Army, Retired, Gettysburg, Pa.,

interviewed by author, 13 May 1995. Starry also told his doctrine writers

that getting the Air Force on board was absolutely necessary to make the

doctrine work. See de Czege, interview.

61. One of the interpretive issues here is the extent to which AirLand

Battle represented a logical extension of Active Defense and the extent to

which it represented an overthrow thereof. Starry took the former position

(i.e., AirLand Battle = Active Defense + Deep Battle). Starry, interview, 13

May 1995. One of the two principal authors of the 1982 edition of FM 100-5

saw the AirLand Battle and Active Defense doctrines as almost antithetical.

De Czege, interview. Swain points out Richardson’s key role as the

intermediary between Starry and the doctrine writers and his role in

keeping these opposing views in balance during the drafting of the 1982

edition of FM 100-5. Swain, “Filling the Void,” 24–28.

62. FM 100-5, Operations, 1982, 1-5.

63. Ibid., 10-1; 11-1, 9.

64. Ibid., 2-3.

65. Ibid., appendix B and 2-1.

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66. FM 100-5, Operations, 1986, i. Wass de Czege, who also worked the

second draft of this edition, maintained that the first several years of

teaching in the School of Advanced Military Studies at Fort Leavenworth,

for which he served as the first director, were essential to expanding the

treatment of the operational level of war. De Czege, interview.

67. FM 100-5, 1986, 28.

68. History, AF/XO, Director of Plans, 1 July–31 December 1981, 84,

AFHRA, file no. K143.01.

69. AFM 1-1, 1984, v.

70. Ibid., 2-2, 4.

71. Ibid., 2-10-17.

72. Ibid., 2-14.

73. Ibid., 2-17. In December 1984, Lt Col Barry Watts, USAF, published

a trenchant critique of mainstream Air Force doctrine for its approach to

war as an engineering problem and its consistent disregard for the

Clausewitzian realities of uncertainty in war. Lt Col Barry D. Watts, The

Foundations of Air Force Doctrine: The Problem of Friction in War (Maxwell

AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, 1984). No one knows the extent to which

the Air Staff writers of the 1984 manual were aware of Watts’s work in its

draft form. Drew’s judgment is that although the 1984 edition of AFM 1-1

had “many serious flaws, it is a quantum improvement over the 1979

version.” Drew, 12.

74. AHR, TRADOC, 1 October 1977–30 September 1978, 176.

75. TAC Pamphlet 50-24/TRADOC Pamphlet 525-9, TAC/TRADOC

Concept: Joint Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses, 1981; TAC Pamphlet

50-26/TRADOC Pamphlet 525-16/US Readiness Command (USREDCOM)

Pamphlet 525-4, Joint Operational Concept: Joint Attack of the Second

Echelon (J-SAK), 1982; TRADOC TT 17-50-3/TACP 50-20/USREDCOM PAM

525-5, Joint Air Attack Team Operations, 1983; and TACP 50-28/TRADOC

PAM 34-2/US Atlantic Fleet (LANTFLT) TIP-2/ Marine Corps Development

and Education Command (MCDEC) OH 6-2C/USREDCOM PAM 525-9,

Joint Application of Firepower (J-FIRE) Reference Guide, 1984.

76. US Army, memorandum of understanding with US Air Force,

subject: Joint USA/USAF Efforts for Enhancement of Joint Employment of

the AirLand Battle Doctrine, 21 April 1983, reprinted in Richard G. Davis,

The 31 Initiatives (Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1987),

91–92.

77. US Army, memorandum of understanding with US Air Force,

subject: Initiation of a Joint US Army–USAF Force Development Process, 2

November 1983, reprinted in Davis, 93.

78. Davis, 40–47.

79. US Army, memorandum of agreement with US Air Force, subject: US

Army–US Air Force Joint Force Development Process, 22 May 1984,

reprinted in ibid., 105–6. It is perhaps significant to note that this was a

memorandum of agreement, as opposed to the previous two memoranda of

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

438

understanding, suggesting a greater institutional commitment to the terms

thereof.

80. Davis established these categories of initiatives for purposes of

historical analysis; the memorandum of agreement merely listed the

initiatives themselves. See Davis, 47–64.

81. Ibid., 71–79.

82. Ibid., 75.

83. AFM 1-1, 1984, 2-20.

84. According to Joint Pub 1-02, apportionment is “the determination

and assignment of the total expected effort by percentage and/or by priority

that should be devoted to the various air operations and/or geographic

areas for a given period of time.” Joint Pub 1-02, Department of Defense

Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms, 22 March 1994, 31.

85. Joint Pub 1-02 defines allocation as “the translation of the

apportionment into total numbers of sorties by aircraft type available for

each operation/task.” Ibid., 23.

86. See Steven L. Canby, “Tactical Air Power in Armored Warfare: The

Divergence within NATO,” Air University Review 30 (May–June 1979): 2–20.

87. This doctrine was codified in the NATO Allied Tactical Publication

27(B), Offensive Air Support, May 1980.

88. Stephen T. Rippe, “An Army and Air Force Issue: Principles and

Procedures for AirLand Warfare,” Air University Review 37 (May–June

1986): 63. For a more extended analysis of the OAS/BAI issue from the

ground perspective, see idem, “An Army and Air Force Issue: Principles and

Procedures for AirLand Warfare: A Perspective of Operational Effectiveness

on the Modern Battlefield” (thesis, School of Advanced Military Studies, Fort

Leavenworth, Kans., 1985).

89. ALFA, memorandum for record, subject: “20-Star Meeting,

Headquarters TRADOC, 11 October 1979,” 12 October 1979, THO.

90. TAC deputy chief of staff, plans memorandum, subject: Update of

ALFA Activities, 17 October 1979, in History, TAC, 1 January–31 December

1979, AFHRA, file no. K417.01.

91. Romjue, From Active Defense, 62.

92. The phrase “doctrinal step backward” comes from ibid.

93. Army deputy chief of staff for operations and plans/Air Force deputy

chief of staff for plans and operations, information memorandum, subject:

USA and USAF Agreement on Apportionment and Allocation of Offensive Air

Support (OAS), 23 May 1981, THO.

94. “USA and USAF Position on Apportionment/Allocation of OAS,”

attachment 2 to ibid., par. 6d.

95. The AF/XO history of the period reflects these reservations:

“Following the Field Review, AF/XOXID forwarded much of the background

data on the OAS Agreement to TAC and USAFE in an effort to defend the

issue. However, it is obvious that opinions continue to differ and that

discussions on this subject will continue in the coming months.” History,

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439

AF/XO Director of Plans, 1 July–31 December 1981, 90, AFHRA, file no.

K143.01.

96. AHR, TRADOC, 1 January–31 December 1987, August 1988, 93, THO.

97. AHR, TRADOC, 1 January–31 December 1988, June 1989, 36–37, THO.

98. Gen Robert D. Russ, “The Air Force, the Army, and the Battlefield of

the 1990s,” Defense 88, August 1988, 13. Russ’s statement proved quite

controversial within some circles of the Air Staff because it seemed to

preclude the use of tactical air assets for strategic attack.

99. Army deputy chief of staff for operations and plans, memorandum,

subject: Combined Arms Center Annual Historical Review, 11 December

1984, attachment, “Deep Attack Program Office,” draft charter, CAC

historical files.

100. Field Circular 100-15-1, Corps Deep Operations (U), 1985, ii,

B1-29, CAC historical files. (Secret) Information extracted is unclassified.

101. Deep Operations Capabilities Handbook: Present and Future (U)

(Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: US Army Combined Arms Center, 1987), iii,

1–21, CAC historical files. (Secret) Information extracted is unclassified.

102. Corps Deep Operations (ATACMS, Aviation and Intelligence Support):

Tactics, Techniques and Procedures Handbook (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: US

Army Combined Arms Center, 1990), 1–5, CAC historical files.

103. Ibid., 4–8.

104. Ibid., 4–16.

105. The TRADOC history of 1988 mentions an agreement signed that

year by the service chiefs that established notification and coordination

procedures for Army fires beyond the FSCL. AHR, TRADOC, 1 January–31

December 1988, 35. However, as in the case of the BAI agreement signed by

the service operations deputies, the provisions of this agreement were not

incorporated into doctrine.

106. John A. Warden III, The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat

(Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1988).

107. Col John A. Warden III, USAF, Maxwell AFB, Ala., interviewed by

author, 6 June 1995. In this interview, Warden explicitly stated that his

purpose was to create a new vision of airpower that would supplant the

Creech/Russ view that airpower’s primary function was to support the Army.

108. One can find the fully developed concept in Col John A. Warden,

“The Enemy as a System,” Airpower Journal 9, no. 1 (Spring 1995): 40–55.

109. The role that Warden’s ideas played in shaping the American

military response to Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in August 1990 is beyond the

scope of this study. One version of that story is dramatically outlined in Col

Richard T. Reynolds, Heart of the Storm: The Genesis of the Air Campaign

against Iraq (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, January 1995).

110. Starry was emphatic on this point. He stated categorically that “we

would not have had AirLand Battle had it not been for him [Bill Creech]. I

could not have carried it off by myself.” Starry, interview, 13 May 1995.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

440

111. These figures and those that follow are taken from James M. Ford,

“Air Force Culture and Conventional Strategic Airpower” (thesis, School of

Advanced Airpower Studies, Maxwell AFB, Ala., 1992), 60.

112. The Joint Chiefs of Staff issued Joint Pub 3-0, Doctrine for Joint

Operations, as a test publication on 10 January 1990. AHR, TRADOC, 1

January–31 December 1990, June 1991, 55, THO. The manual was not

published in final form until 1994.

113. Robert C. Marsh, “The Cleveland Orchestra: One Hundred Men and

a Perfectionist,” High Fidelity 11 (February 1961): 38.

114. The literature of the Gulf War is replete with instances of ineffective

communication between the Army and the Air Force. See, inter alia, Rick

Atkinson, Crusade: The Untold Story of the Persian Gulf War (New York:

Houghton Mifflin, 1993), 151–52, 218–23, 338–40; Robert H. Scales, Certain

Victory: The United States Army in the Gulf War (Washington, D.C.: Office of

the Chief of Staff, United States Army, 1993), 174–81, 315–16; Richard M.

Swain, “Lucky War”: Third Army in Desert Storm (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.:

US Army Command and General Staff College Press, 1994), 181–90;

Michael R. Gordon and Bernard E. Trainor, The Generals’ War: The Inside

Story of the Conflict in the Gulf (Boston: Little, Brown, 1995), 203–4, 324–48,

447–54, 494; and Barry D. Watts’s perceptive review essay of Gordon and

Trainor’s work, “Friction in the Gulf War,” Naval War College Review 48

(Autumn 1995): 105. For a dissenting view, see Edward Mann, who

contends that “the air campaign plan would eventually meld perfectly with

schemes of surface maneuver to be developed later.” Col Edward C. Mann

III, Thunder and Lightning: Desert Storm and the Airpower Debates (Maxwell

AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, April 1995), 175.

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Chapter 12

The Evolution of NATO Air Doctrine

Col Maris “Buster” McCrabb

The Atlantic Alliance played a central role in maintaining

peace in Europe—at least the absence of major war—since its

founding in 1949. It did not accomplish this by remaining

stagnant in its military strategies or doctrines; instead, it

underwent significant changes. This chapter assesses how its

air strategies and employment doctrines reflected those changes.

The evolution of North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO)

air doctrine highlights the intertwined nature of political

imperatives and military strategy.

This essay assumes that

one cannot understand air doctrine outside the larger military

strategy it supports and that, especially in the case of NATO,

one must place the wider strategy within its political context.

In NATO, Carl von Clausewitz’s dictum that war is an

extension of politics is a day-to-day reality.

This chapter seeks to identify the sources and characteristics

of NATO air doctrine and trace its evolution from the beginnings

of the alliance to the post-cold-war era. As NATO expands and

becomes engaged in out-of-area missions—such as those

conducted in the former Yugoslavia —in the 1990s, its air

doctrines must change to conform to new realities.

understanding of the origins and evolution of the current air

doctrine illuminates the “opportunity set” for this inevitable

evolution. Further, the chapter highlights points of divergence

and convergence between NATO and US air doctrines.

Briefly stated, NATO air doctrine reflects the alliance’s three

political realities. First, the need to maintain alliance cohesion

requires that the alliance look and act defensively, drive for

consensus, and consider the United States as only the first

among equals. Second, the alliance must take full cognizance

of unique national requirements—for example, British and

French autonomy, especially in nuclear weaponry, and the

issue of West Germany’s reintegration into Europe in the

443

1950s and the reunification with East Germany in the 1990s.

Third, the alliance must recognize fiscal restraints that arise

from US global commitments and the competition for resources

arising from European social welfare commitments.

In other

words, as Richard L. Kugler so aptly remarked, one must

remember that “strategy comes with a dollar sign.”

NATO’s air doctrine also reflects the alliance’s military

realities. For most of its history, the alliance confronted a

numerically superior foe and geopolitical realities that

prevented a military strategy which traded space for time; the

alliance also relied on both the US strategic nuclear umbrella

and conventional reinforcements from North America.

Further, NATO air doctrine is very much negotiated doctrine,

especially cross-nationally—mainly between the United States

and the United Kingdom—and intranationally, among the US

services. The efforts of NATO’s Tactical Air Working Party

(TAWP) to write NATO’s air doctrines best exemplify this

situation.

Negotiated doctrine is neither necessarily bad nor

bland; however, it is time-consuming because one must

obtain consensus from a group of sovereign countries that

belong to a voluntary association.

NATO’s influence on US Air Force doctrine has been

cyclical: closely associated in the 1950s and largely built

around massive retaliation, the two doctrines began diverging

in the 1980s, as USAF doctrine began emphasizing offensive

operations. They may, however, be reconverging in the 1990s,

due to the influence of the Persian Gulf War. Further, the

Goldwater-Nichols Department of Defense Reorganization Act

of 1986 mandated the development of joint US military

doctrine, thereby enhancing and constraining the US

negotiation position. That is, the US position is now

consolidated, but USAF doctrine must more closely conform to

the larger set of US doctrine. Moreover, the US positions at

TAWP, for example, reflect the consensus views of all the US

services—not just the USAF.

This chapter outlines and explains the political and military

context of NATO’s air doctrine because, as mentioned above,

one cannot explain air strategy without understanding the

military strategy it supports, and one cannot understand the

military strategy without understanding its political context.

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444

The essay’s major divisions mark changes in NATO military

strategy, focusing on the 1970s and 1980s—the “Golden Age”

of the development of NATO air doctrine. This assessment

does not imply a retrenchment in doctrinal development

within the alliance since that time. Rather, it suggests that

those two decades represent the process of doctrinal creation

and refinement. Indeed, the 1990s may yet become the true

Golden Age.

NATO’s Central Region receives most of the emphasis here

because therein lay the threat from massed Warsaw Pact and

Soviet forces. However, significant differences in doctrinal

development existed between the Central Region and the other

two major areas—the Southern Region and the Northern Region.

Also highlighted is the Supreme Allied Commander, Europe

(SACEUR) area of operations (which includes the three major

NATO regions); however, discussion of Supreme Allied

Commander, Atlantic (SACLANT)

is limited to air doctrine for

tactical air support of maritime operations. Additionally, this

chapter addresses the way in which NATO produces its

doctrine.

Origins to 1967

Although this chapter does not intend to cover the political

origins of NATO,

four key events greatly affected the military

strategy adopted by the alliance in the early 1950s. First,

NATO came into existence after the World War II alliance

among the great powers of the West (the United States and the

United Kingdom) and the Soviet Union had irrevocably

dissolved. Failure to achieve a peace treaty, the Soviet

blockade of Berlin , and the continued presence of massive

Soviet forces outside the USSR’s borders all pointed to an

increased, not decreased, security threat.

The coup in

February 1948 that overthrew the democratically elected

government in Czechoslovakia prompted the eventual

formation of NATO in 1949.

Second, after the Federal

Republic of Germany formed in 1949, certain states sought to

secure West Germany’s fortunes to those of its erstwhile

enemies in the West. France in particular wished to tie West

Germany politically, economically, and militarily to the

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445

Western states.

Third, although countries recognized the

need for a security arrangement in Europe, an attack from

Soviet forces did not appear imminent. This perception

changed with the outbreak of war in Korea. Fourth, and most

importantly, the United States overturned 150 years of its

history of avoiding formal overseas commitments with the

announcement of the Truman Doctrine and the Marshall Plan,

both designed to tie the United States to the security and

prosperity of western Europe.

The first political hurdle the alliance overcame was the issue

of West Germany.

Treaties providing for the rearmament of

that country and its incorporation into NATO specified that the

new West German military become part of an international

command (NATO) and retain only limited capabilities for

independent national command. Consequently, no German

command structure exists for air operations above the wing

level, and all German air defense aircraft remain under NATO

command, even in peacetime—thus there is no uniquely

“German” air doctrine.

The second major political event occurred in 1966, when

France withdrew from the NATO military command structure.

Explanations of this event generally emphasize the personality

of French president Charles de Gaulle and his alleged

anti-Americanism, but the roots of the split lie much deeper.

For NATO, beyond having to move its headquarters from Paris

to Brussels, the French withdrawal posed problems related to

its military strategy: in times of crisis, what role would French

forces play, and to what extent would they be reintegrated into

the NATO command structure? And how would France employ

the nuclear forces it was developing? According to French

defense planners, the answer to that question depended upon

the military situation in Europe in relation to France.

One of the fundamental issues NATO planners dealt with in

the formative years of the alliance was the kind of attack they

could expect from the Warsaw Pact.

Options included a

full-scale conventional attack following a buildup of forces; a

more limited attack against key NATO installations

(particularly nuclear ones), utilizing a high degree of surprise;

or a full-scale conventional attack with minimum warning

time. Compounding this problem was the need for US

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reinforcements to arrive in time to shore up NATO forces—

believed insufficient to thwart the Warsaw Pact’s advances.

NATO military planning assumed the worst case—an all-out

attack with limited warning. Furthermore, in a comparison of

NATO weaknesses to the opposition’s perceived strengths,

planners tended to assume that any such war would be of

short duration. The key question was how soon US

reinforcements could close on the continent.

The first formal statement of strategy, Military Committee

(MC) Report 14/1, adopted at the Lisbon summit in 1952,

dealt with the counteroffensive. That is, if Soviet forces

invaded, a light force of 20–30 NATO divisions would screen

the attack until US strategic air forces could arrive to deliver

an atomic interdiction blow against the invaders. NATO would

then launch a ground offensive to recover lost territory and

even free eastern Europe. MC 14/2 (1957) dropped the latter

requirement, assuming that a nuclear attack would leave

nothing worth liberating.

The strategy of 1957 also paved the way for stationing in

Europe what later became known as theater nuclear forces.

Although planners still accepted NATO’s inferiority in

conventional power, they recognized that the bulk of Soviet

forces were in fact stationed in the USSR and would take

some time to move forward. This fact, plus the economic

imperatives of providing for defense at minimum cost,

led to

an acceptance of a “sword and shield” strategy whereby

permanently stationed troops would guard against a surprise

or rogue attack (the shield) while in-theater nuclear forces

would threaten follow-on Soviet forces (the sword).

One can hardly overestimate the impact of nuclear weapons

on NATO’s military strategy.

On the one hand, they made up

for NATO’s numerical inferiority in conventional forces. On the

other, they permitted NATO to accept that gap in the capability

of its conventional forces in relation to the Warsaw Pact.

Furthermore, they presented a deterrent posture that appealed

to the European public. Finally, they promised defense at lower

cost, which appealed to every NATO member.

This military strategy channeled NATO’s air strategy to

achieve three tasks in the early days of war: (1) secure the

initial deployment within the alliance from air attack, (2)

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447

protect ports for the follow-up deployment of US and

Canadian forces, and (3) preserve subsequent NATO ground

forces’ freedom of maneuver. At the same time, however,

NATO recognized a need to attack Warsaw Pact

second-echelon forces and even airfields. How NATO expected

to balance these requirements requires further investigation.

First, NATO planners did not see air forces as mere “flying

artillery” that supported the ground force’s close battle—the

traditional use of close air support (CAS). They did recognize,

though, that the alliance would need airpower if Warsaw Pact

forces achieved a breakthrough or if the initial NATO

deployment was incomplete. The primary air-to-ground

mission of NATO air forces entailed interdicting rear areas and

follow-on forces—the traditional mission of air interdiction

(AI). Furthermore, the primary targets for these missions were

Warsaw Pact forces themselves, especially armored forces,

rather than their means of transportation (e.g., trucks or

trains) to the front. Bridges were the only nonmobile targets

generally mentioned in this context.

Second, these missions were to be flown largely within the

confines of East Germany, mainly to an operational depth of

about two hundred kilometers from the political borders—a

stipulation reflected in NATO force structure. Most of the

alliance’s aircraft were of relatively short range, typifying their

defensive nature. These missions sought to disrupt the

intentions of Warsaw Pact commanders by forcing them to

disperse as they moved towards the battle and to force a

deployment of air defense assets to protect second-echelon

forces and hence minimize NATO air losses at the front.

Forward defense, as both a strategic and an operational

plan, stated that NATO should defend its Central Region (West

Germany) as far forward as possible, with defense beginning

immediately behind the border, and that its forces should not

surrender territory without a fight. Again, planners always

kept nuclear weapons in mind because political realities

dictated that NATO could give little ground before having to

employ these weapons against invaders.

In this early period, USAF and NATO doctrine starts to

diverge over the use of air forces to secure command of the

air. Although USAF doctrine emphasized air superiority as a

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448

prerequisite for further air operations, NATO softened this to

emphasize air defense that provided only a favorable air

situation, because NATO believed it had insufficient aircraft to

dedicate to the air superiority role. Further, NATO emphasized

the “defense” aspect of air defense and did not foresee a large,

offensive counterair (OCA) mission for fighter sweeps, escort,

or a major commitment to attacking Warsaw Pact airfields.

This thinking was in line with NATO’s strategy of integrated

air defenses, whereby ground-based air defense systems

enhanced fighter aircraft.

Another area of apparent divergence involved the efficacy of

aerial attack against vital targets—economic as well as

military—deep within enemy territory. Within a decade after

the close of World War II, whose lessons taught many airmen

that the strategic bombing of Germany was at least a—if not

the—decisive element in Germany’s defeat, NATO abandoned

plans to attack the sorts of targets hit by British and US

bomber fleets during the war. NATO’s reasoning was that it

did not wish to present even the appearance of being a threat

to the USSR, fearing that long-range conventional bombers

would suggest as much. Further, the advent of nuclear

weapons had changed air doctrines since World War II,

altering the air bombardment equation in two ways: (1) the

immense destructive power of atomic weapons rendered them

ill suited for a precision bombing role and (2) most people

thought that a nuclear war would be over quickly. In such a

scenario, attacks against economic or industrial targets,

because they seemed to offer mostly long-term benefits,

became militarily insignificant. In reality, however, NATO

never really abandoned strategic bombardment but deferred to

the largely US-based bomber force to accomplish this

mission.

Thus, the one area of convergence between US and

NATO air doctrine—the one deemed most critical by

both—remained nuclear doctrine.

Although NATO political and military strategies served well

during an era of unmatched US political and military

dominance, external and internal changes to the alliance in

the mid-1960s caused the questioning and revising of both

strategies. This stimulated a quest for modernization of

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449

conventional forces and a determination to confine any war to

the nonnuclear level.

Modernization, 1967–89

Starting in the late 1970s and continuing into the

mid-1980s, NATO substantially upgraded its conventional and

nuclear forces.

The USAF removed most of its older weapon

systems and introduced newer aircraft such as the A-10,

F-111F, F-15, and F-16. European countries introduced new

platforms such as the Tornado and F-16 into their inventories,

although at a slower pace than did the United States. NATO

also acquired precision-guided munitions such as

laser-guided bombs, electro-optical guided bombs, precision

television-guided and infrared-guided antitank missiles, and

runway attack munitions. NATO’s decision in 1979 to deploy

nuclear-armed ground launched cruise missiles (GLCM) and

Pershing II missiles—to enhance deterrence by countering

Soviet SS-20s—proved both a major milestone in alliance

military history and a highly political act. Upgrades to the

command and control (C

) arena included a NATO airborne

early warning (NAEW) aircraft, based upon the US E-3

airborne warning and control system (AWACS) aircraft, and

the allied C

system.

The late 1960s witnessed numerous changes that would

ultimately lead to a major reexamination of NATO’s military

strategy. Following years of modernization prompted by the

Soviet humiliation during the Cuban missile crisis of 1962, the

Soviets appeared to gain parity with US forces in the strategic

nuclear arena. Further, appraisals of Warsaw Pact capabilities

led some people to conclude that NATO’s conventional forces

were in a much better position than they were in the 1950s.

And in the political arena, a spirit of détente

and movement

towards arms reduction agreements

between the superpowers

led to a further lessening of tensions.

In 1967 NATO adopted MC 14/3, the strategy of flexible

response, marking a significant change in both the political

outlook and the military strategy of the alliance.

Although it

retained the option of a strategic nuclear response from the

United States

to counter any Warsaw Pact breakthrough in

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450

Europe, the strategy placed new emphasis on conventional

forces’ ability to deter—even defeat—an all-out attack from the

East.

This emphasis, however, did not imply either an

offensive strategy or a belief that the opposition had altered its

objectives. Conventional wisdom still maintained that the

Warsaw Pact was organized, trained, and equipped to conduct

a short-notice attack against Allied Forces Central Europe

(AFCENT) in order to achieve the Rhine crossings and capture

ports on the North Sea within a few days.

Perhaps the most

significant change in MC 14/3 was that nuclear employment

became part of a “deliberate escalation” rather than an

inevitable response to an invasion.

USAF and NATO air defense doctrine continued to diverge

during this time period, as NATO continued to emphasize

defensive counterair (DCA). For example, it increased its use

of hardened aircraft shelters and modernized ground-based

air defenses (such as Patriot missiles) as a counter to the

newer Warsaw Pact air forces. Notably, no other NATO air

force sought the longer-range, more capable air-to-air fighters

such as the F-15 or F-14, which the United States brought

on-line in the 1970s. Furthermore, no countries other than

Great Britain planned to use the multinational Tornado,

developed in an air defense variant, primarily for interdiction.

Nevertheless, this period remains the high point of

convergence between USAF and NATO air strategy, for

planners framed USAF doctrine and force structure in almost

an exclusively European context. Furthermore, this period

saw the convergence of opinion between the US Army and the

USAF over the role of airpower on the NATO battlefield.

In July 1970 Gen Andrew Goodpaster, SACEUR, requested

that the Military Agency for Standardization (MAS)

form a

working party “to develop a tactical air doctrine that would

provide a common understanding of the role of air power in

allied operations, and a set of common procedures for

successfully implementing air operations.”

The primary driving

force at work here was the strategy of flexible response. As NATO

began exploring a more robust conventional deterrent and

war-fighting strategy, the requirement for NATO’s ground, air,

and naval forces to work together effectively in a joint and

combined environment became more insistent, rendering

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451

essentially national doctrines untenable.

The Air Board of the

MAS took two actions over the next several years. First, it

established working parties (e.g., the TAWP) to draft the doctrine

and procedures, which initially involved identifying agencies

within each member nation to represent national positions

during the negotiations. For the United States, this

responsibility fell to the Doctrine Division of the USAF’s Air

Staff.

Second, the MAS Air Board requested SACLANT’s input

following the latter’s objections that drafts coming out of the

working party failed to include practices of the naval air arm.

The document that would become Allied Tactical Pamphlet

33 (ATP-33), Tactical Air Doctrine, took form through a series

of working party meetings and drafts from November 1970

until its release on 11 March 1976. One should note three

points about the development of this seminal document of

NATO air doctrine. First, the initial US working party included

only USAF members, which prompted the US Navy to get the

development process out of USAF hands and into those of the

Joint Chiefs of Staff. Although the effort proved unsuccessful,

the US Navy, Army, and Marine Corps soon joined the

development and coordination process. Second, the

development of ATP-33 brought to the fore the differences of

opinion on C

of air assets, both among NATO member

nations and within the US military. As David Stein points out,

the USAF and Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe

(SHAPE) wanted centralization of control functions at the

highest practicable level of command, while the US Navy, US

Marine Corps, and the United Kingdom’s Royal Air Force

(RAF) wanted decentralized control of air operations at the

lowest possible level of command.

This disagreement

permeates discussions over NATO air doctrine to this very

day. Finally, the process of developing, coordinating, and

finally ratifying this keystone document

reveals the slowness

of doctrine development—almost six years from SACEUR’s

original tasking to an approved document.

The last point becomes especially important in

understanding the role played by the United States in

developing NATO’s initial air doctrines. US officers working

this process tended to have much shorter tours of duty than

other NATO members (especially the RAF). Thus, some

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452

negotiations once thought final would reoccur as new US

action officers came on-line with less than complete

knowledge of the preceding negotiations. Further, these

negotiations occurred during the infancy of US joint doctrine.

The lack of a “US” position versus “USAF” or “US Navy”

positions complicated and slowed negotiations within the

working parties.

Basic Tactical Air Doctrine

The purpose of ATP-33 is to ensure the effective

employment of NATO air resources in tactical air operations to

attain and maintain air superiority, interdict enemy combat

forces and their supporting installations, and assist—through

combined/joint operations—ground or naval forces in

achieving their objectives.

This doctrine, like basic USAF

doctrine, recognizes the priority of air superiority—a

perspective based on NATO’s recognition that air superiority

provides freedom of movement to friendly forces and, by

denying it to enemy forces, facilitates other NATO air

missions. Furthermore, contrary to the beliefs of most

airpower advocates, it foresees airpower as essentially playing

a supporting role to naval and ground forces. As shown later,

efforts that allow a more independent role for airpower

constitute one of the great doctrinal changes that NATO is

contemplating in the 1990s.

Basic NATO air operations include counterair, interdiction,

reconnaissance and surveillance, offensive air support (OAS),

tactical transport, support of maritime operations, and other

supporting operations such as electronic warfare, suppression

of enemy air defenses (SEAD), air-to-air refueling, search and

rescue, and special operations. Each of these operations

warrants a specific chapter in ATP-33, and most have a more

detailed ATP of their own. (The doctrinal pamphlets on air

superiority [ATP-42] and OAS [ATP-27] receive more detailed

treatment below.) First, however, one should examine the

doctrinal guidance on C

of overall air operations provided in

ATP-33.

NATO defines command as the authority to direct,

coordinate, or control one’s own forces; control is the authority

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to do those same tasks over forces not under the individual’s

command. Furthermore, C

is divided between operational

and tactical, the latter applying only to the accomplishment of

specific and generally local missions or tasks.

The pamphlet

calls for the planning and direction of tactical air operations at

an air command operations center (ACOC), with control

delegated to subordinate allied tactical operations centers

(ATOC). The pamphlet stresses the principles of centralized

control (to promote an integrated effort in execution of plans)

and decentralized execution (to provide flexibility in the

detailed planning and execution of those plans).

However, as

Stein observed above, the disagreement over the dividing line

between these two defines the essential differences between

the United States and the United Kingdom and between

services in the US military.

Centralized control of air resources provides allotment,

apportionment, allocation, and tasking of resources. Allotment,

exercised by the commander having operational command,

assigns forces among subordinate commands. Apportionment

determines and assigns the total expected air effort by

percentage and/or priority, while allocation translates that

determination into total numbers of sorties by aircraft type for

each operation or task. Tasking, then, takes the allocation and

turns it into an order to an individual unit.

Counterair Doctrine

One finds NATO’s doctrine for counterair in ATP-42.

Closely tied to it is ATP-40, Doctrine and Procedures for

Airspace Control in the Combat Zone.

NATO has always

recognized a need for air superiority. The two major areas of

disagreement lie in the role of attacks against the enemy’s

integrated air defense system (IADS)—commonly referred to as

SEAD—and C

of counterair resources.

The pamphlet defines counterair operations as “those

operations conducted to attain and maintain a desired degree

of air superiority” to produce a “favourable air situation

essential for the successful conduct of combat operations.”

Although doctrine separates these into “offensive” and

“defensive” operations, it recognizes that, particularly since

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454

they often use the same resources, one cannot view them in

isolation from each other. ATP-42 considers SEAD part of the

offensive operations and defines it as activity which

“neutralizes, destroys or temporarily degrades enemy air

defense systems in a specific area by physical attack and/or

electronic warfare.”

SEAD became an important area of dispute between the

USAF and NATO. USAF doctrine considers SEAD coequal with

OCA and DCA, while NATO, as shown above, views SEAD only

as part of OCA. Specifically, at the most basic level, USAF

doctrine assumes a global perspective whereas, obviously,

NATO doctrine covers a more narrowly focused region. In the

1970s, the USAF had an opportunity to test its doctrines in

the skies over Vietnam. One important lesson it learned there

was that SEAD deserved to be elevated to a position coequal

with OCA and DCA. Further, few NATO air forces other than

US forces have resources (such as the US F-4G Wild Weasel

aircraft) for the SEAD mission.

These countries feared that a

separate SEAD mission would require them to buy

SEAD-dedicated aircraft. Also, within NATO itself, a difference

exists between separate allied tactical air forces (ATAF). As

Stein , Kimberly Nolan, and Robert Perry write, 2ATAF

(dominated by the RAF) and 4ATAF (largely a USAF operation)

“tend to operate as ‘national’ tactical air forces rather than as

a ‘combined’ force.”

For example, although 2ATAF does not

have specific doctrine for SEAD, 4ATAF does.

The C

of counterair operations flows from the major NATO

commanders (e.g., SHAPE) through major subordinate

commanders (MSC—e.g., AFCENT) to principal subordinate

commanders (PSC—e.g., of Air Forces Central Europe

[COMAIRCENT]), who generally exercise operational control

for counterair operations (and other air missions) though, in

practice, tactical control is further delegated to ATOCs and

their subordinate sector operations centers (SOC).

Furthermore, the operational commander designates an

airspace control authority (ACA), who has responsibility for

planning, coordinating, and operating an airspace control

plan. Key elements of this plan include airspace control

measures and means such as control zones, restricted

operations areas, and transit routes. Finally, these measures

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consist of positive and procedural controls plus established

rules of engagement.

Some distinctions exist among NATO’s Central, Northern,

and Southern Regions as they relate to counterair operations

and airspace control concepts. In the Northern Region,

Norway and Denmark view their defense needs as largely

self-defense measures focused on maintaining territorial

integrity. However, they have not insisted on any reservations

to either ATP-40 or ATP-42.

In the Southern Region, ongoing

disputes over national domain of the Aegean Sea complicate

airspace control systems in the eastern Mediterranean.

Air-to-Surface Doctrine

Although NATO countries generally agreed on the proper

air-to-air role of airpower, the air-to-surface role proved

considerably more contentious.

The primary doctrinal

pamphlet that covers these missions is ATP-27, Offensive Air

Support Operations.

The four areas of disagreement included

battlefield air interdiction (BAI), follow-on forces attack

(FOFA), AirLand Battle, and C

of these air resources,

including request procedures, approval authority, planning

locations, and control functions.

OAS operations involve those that support land forces. The

first rendition of this doctrine, ATP-27(A), included three

functions under the OAS umbrella: CAS, AI, and tactical air

reconnaissance (TAR).

During discussions about revisions to

ATP-27(A) at the 1977 TAWP,

the USAF objected to the

inclusion of AI as an OAS mission because it is not a support

mission; its objectives derive from the overall goals of the

combined force—not those specifically derived from the land

force commander. Furthermore, since these missions occur

outside the direct scope of land operations, they do not

require the detailed integration with the fire-and-maneuver

scheme of ground forces—a requirement inherent in CAS.

TAWP accepted this, and ATP-27(B) removed AI from OAS but

replaced it with BAI: “air action against hostile surface targets

which are in a position to directly affect friendly forces and

which requires joint planning and coordination” (emphasis

added).

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Some understanding of the evolution from AI to BAI rests on

the different approaches the RAF and the USAF took to the

management of airpower and air-to-ground coordination.

The Americans viewed airpower as a theaterwide asset with

inherent flexibility. As such, this required a C

structure over

the entire Central Region—the role of Allied Air Forces Central

Europe (AAFCE). Although the British recognized the

flexibility of airpower, they preferred a national chain of

command (such as existed between the British-dominated

2ATAF and Northern Army Group [NORTHAG]) that would

provide a more direct and immediate means of coordination.

The RAF feared that losing “control” over AI would limit the

ability of its airpower to relieve pressure on NORTHAG

forces.

Therefore, it proposed BAI as a way to provide

additional air support (beyond CAS) to NORTHAG. (BAI is

essentially a mission between the closely coordinated and

integrated CAS and AI, which, under ATP-27[B], required no

coordination of integration between ground and air forces.) In

order to solve the disagreement between the RAF and USAF,

the TAWP set up a “drafting committee” to iron out a

compromise. Notably, the committee included representatives

of both the air and ground services of only three countries: the

United States, the United Kingdom, and West Germany.

The USAF voiced three objections to BAI. First, it imposed

air-ground coordination where none had previously existed

under the prevailing AI concept. Second, it required

coordination at a level—proposed to be the army corps—that

seemed inconsistent with a theaterwide view of airpower

management. Third, the USAF viewed BAI as an intrusion on

airpower prerogatives in determining the best employment of

scarce airpower resources. The final document, ATP-27(B),

reflected a compromise between the USAF and RAF positions.

BAI, unlike CAS, would not be conducted under ground-force

direction, thus maintaining the principle of centralized control.

Furthermore, one could execute BAI to fulfill ground or air

commanders’ requests and thus could fly BAI on either side of

the fire support coordination line (FSCL)—the traditional

dividing line between CAS and AI. Finally, BAI was maintained

at the ATAF/army group level and not allocated down to

corps/air support operations centers (ASOC), as with CAS .

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AirLand Battle and Follow-on Forces Attack

Several key initiatives converged in the late 1970s that

would result in a strategic and operational split within NATO.

The US Army, reacting to lessons learned in the Vietnam War

and the 1973 Yom Kippur War as well as an analysis of

emerging Warsaw Pact capabilities and doctrinal changes,

started to focus its doctrinal development on attacking enemy

forces well before they entered the close-combat arena.

Furthermore, it examined the utility of counteroffensive

operations to defeat a numerically superior foe. All this

resulted in AirLand Battle doctrine—not necessarily well

received by NATO. Specifically, many NATO members mistook

the doctrine—an operational concept—for a strategic initiative,

believing that, as a defensive alliance, NATO should not

advocate offensive operations into Warsaw Pact territory.

Further, the doctrine relied on emerging—primarily

US—technologies that many NATO countries believed they

could ill afford, especially at a time when NATO was

attempting to upgrade its main defensive forces.

Also, many

NATO air force members saw AirLand Battle as an attempt to

gain control over air resources. The doctrine stressed shaping

enemy forces through deep attack, thereby implying

ground-commander control over deep-attack assets that were

primarily air assets.

Further, AirLand Battle focused on the

corps as the operational maneuver force, an emphasis that

went against an air perspective—particularly that of the

USAF—that stressed theaterwide air employment.

Since 1979, however, NATO had entertained an initiative

involving the attack of Warsaw Pact second-echelon forces

before they entered the main defensive belt. This initiative,

formally announced by Gen Bernard Rogers, SACEUR, in

1983 and incorporated into ATP-35(A), Land Force Doctrine, in

1985,

was known as FOFA. Like others, it met a contentious

reception within NATO. In one sense, FOFA was merely an

extension of the long-standing NATO doctrine of AI.

However, two of its implications disturbed many NATO

members. First, FOFA implied early border-crossing authority

(something it held in common with OCA operations)—a highly

sensitive issue within NATO, especially for the West Germans.

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458

Second, some nations voiced concern that FOFA would draw

air resources away from operations such as counterair or

CAS/BAI—essential missions in the early days of a massive

Warsaw Pact attack.

Finally, many NATO members

remained skeptical over whether these “smart” technologies

would work or, even if they did, thought that the Soviets

would quickly (and inexpensively) find countermeasures to

them.

NATO OAS doctrine deals extensively with BAI and CAS

procedures for requests, approval, planning (especially

targeting), controlling, and execution. ATP-27 provides the

clearest example of the different levels of detail found in

NATO, as opposed to US, doctrine. From one perspective,

NATO doctrine is written for “generals to captains” or from the

“operational to the tactical level.” For example, ATP-27

includes organizational diagrams and flowcharts outlining

how OAS requests (both preplanned and immediate)

are

processed, planned, and decided—an essentially operational-

level process. It also provides detailed tactical procedures and

techniques, including holding patterns for forward air

controllers, tactics for attack aircraft, and standardized

terminology.

Aside from its level of detail, ATP-27 specifies that one can

initiate OAS requests from “any land force level of command”

(emphasis added),

which emphasizes the support part of

OAS. However, it also calls for the planning of OAS as a joint

air and ground responsibility accomplished at the

ACOC—envisioned as part of the joint command operations

center found at the ATAF/army group level. Further, the

pamphlet provides for the tasking of OAS missions from the

ATOC (which has tactical control over the flying units) via an

air tasking order/message (ATO/ATM). One may further

delegate this tasking authority to an ASOC normally colocated

with a field army/corps—important because ATOC/ASOC

normally has diversion authority, which allows the

accomplishment of higher priority missions by diverting lower

priority missions. In most cases, this would entail diverting

BAI to CAS, although the opposite is possible—but improbable.

The pamphlet does not address whether a BAI mission,

requested by the air commander, is subject to diversion to a

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CAS mission requested by the ground commander. Since

ATP-27 implies that CAS and BAI provide support to the land

force commander, the diversion request would apparently take

priority.

In sum, one can call the period following the adoption of

flexible response the Golden Age of NATO air doctrine. Before

the Goodpaster initiative in 1970, the doctrine that existed was

largely national. The doctrine that emerged was a negotiated

doctrine. No one member dominated the ideas concerning

airpower employment that NATO eventually adopted. The

arguments and final outcomes of the BAI and SEAD issues

clearly point this out. Despite national preferences, airmen from

every member country held similar beliefs on the proper role of

airpower. The near unanimity over counterair operations

(besides SEAD ) and CAS attests to this fact.

During this period, NATO took the first steps towards

rationalizing its air structure, primarily through the creation

in 1974 of AAFCE, located at Ramstein Air Base, West

Germany, to command 2ATAF and 4ATAF. Although this did

not provide a true centralized control apparatus (for example,

BAI was still allocated, tasked, and executed at the ATAF

level), it began the process of integrating air assets into a

theaterwide view versus a more narrowly defined (by

land-force boundaries) view of airpower. This move was

essential if airpower intended to play a more decisive role in

blunting massive Warsaw Pact attacks through interdiction

against second-echelon (and deeper) forces. Furthermore,

planning of air defense and offensive air operations became

combined in the ATOC, which eliminated the false distinction

between these air operations. It also recognized the

importance of both missions to the counterair struggle and

acknowledged that one would likely use the same assets in

both roles. Again, this action highlighted a theaterwide view of

airpower employment.

NATO in the Post-Cold-War Era

Undoubtedly, the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact and the

Soviet Union represented the most monumental change that

took place in NATO’s history. Although the collapse of

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460

Communism in Europe was significant, to say the least, other

events rank high in NATO’s recent past. For example, despite

NATO’s peripheral involvement in the Persian Gulf War of

1991, many European NATO countries (and air forces) played

a significant role in that conflict. Further, throughout its

history, NATO avoided out-of-area operations; however, by the

mid-1990s, it found itself actively involved in combat

operations in the former Yugoslavia.

Lessons learned from

the Gulf War and the Balkans affected the development of

NATO air doctrine in fundamental ways; further, NATO and

US air doctrines are once again merging in significant ways,

mirroring the earliest days of the alliance.

Four major geopolitical changes occurred in the late 1980s

and early 1990s: the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact and the

breakup of the Soviet Union; the breakup of Yugoslavia and the

subsequent civil war; the Persian Gulf War; and the

denuclearization of NATO. The first event seemingly eliminated

NATO’s raison d’être, while the second and third reinforced the

fact that Europe—as well as areas critical to Europe—remains

less than peaceful; further, turmoil in these areas, even if it does

not directly (or immediately) appear to threaten NATO, still poses

problems for the alliance. The final event eliminated a core part

of NATO’s long-standing military strategy. Even during the

heyday of conventional war fighting, nuclear weapons provided a

reassuring backstop to NATO war plans.

The demise of the Warsaw Pact generated both external and

internal military changes in Europe. Most importantly, Soviet

forces, which constituted the backbone of Warsaw Pact

capability, withdrew from eastern and central Europe, thus no

longer occupying territory adjacent to NATO. To military

planners, this move seemed to offer substantially increased

warning time, even if Russian forces attempted to invade

western Europe. Likewise, the fact that former Warsaw Pact

members were politically distancing themselves from Moscow

offered the potential scenario that a resurgent Russia might

have to fight its way west, even to reach NATO lands. Further,

political instability in Russia and the rapid downsizing of the

military forces of former Warsaw Pact countries led the latter

to seek closer ties to NATO for purposes of security.

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Internal changes in NATO often mirrored those in the

now-defunct Warsaw Pact. Foremost was the withdrawal of

substantial US forces from Europe. By the mid-1990s, the

United States maintained one army corps and fewer than 10

fighter squadrons in Europe—down from two corps and

almost 25 fighter squadrons. Furthermore, most of these

combat units disbanded, thus reducing the number of

available units in the event of increased tensions in Europe.

This downsizing also is taking place in the European states.

For example, the German Bundeswehr (federal armed forces)

will be cut from 515,000 to 370,000 personnel. Also,

operational readiness postures will be reduced and many

aircraft, tanks, and warships will be retired.

Additionally, for

both the United States and other NATO countries, domestic

fiscal pressures drastically reduced modernization initiatives.

Finally, within western Europe, the Western European Union

(WEU) and Eurocorps both present Europe-only alternatives

to NATO, while the Partnership for Peace (PFP) program may

result in a further extension of NATO’s area of operations right

to the eastern limit of the European continent.

Otto von Bismarck, the great nineteenth-century German

geopolitician, allegedly said that “some damn thing in the

Balkans” would mark the end of stability in Europe. Some

people argue that his prediction came too bloody true in the

fields of France from 1914 to 1918. Some also believe that it

might again prove true in the 1990s, as civil strife runs

rampant in the former republics of Yugoslavia. In this

cauldron in 1994, NATO found itself conducting its first

combat operations. The ironies are rampant. For 40 years,

NATO girded for an onslaught of conventional forces from the

east; what it got was insurgency and terrorism in a civil war

fueled by ethnic and religious forces. For 40 years, NATO

prepared on the central front, only to find its first operation in

its largely ignored Southern Region. For 40 years, European

NATO forces that planned to fight from their fixed areas and

air bases now found themselves deploying to fight. Finally,

after 40 years of preparing to fight as NATO, it found itself as

only the military appendage of the United Nations, taking

orders from and requiring permission from a completely

separate political organization.

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462

Although space precludes a full rendering of the role that

NATO, both as individual member countries and as an

alliance, played in the Gulf War, one should note three

important events. First, and most importantly, NATO did

respond as an alliance—for the first time in its history—to an

area (southeastern Turkey) few people would have imagined

and against a threat (Iraq) even fewer would have foreseen.

The statement by the North Atlantic Council was unequivocal

on this point: “We note that the crisis in the Gulf poses a

potential threat to one of our Allies having common borders

with Iraq, and we affirm our determination to fulfill the

commitments stipulated in Article 5 of the Washington

Treaty.”

This posture reaffirmed the commitment made by

NATO secretary-general Manfred Wörner on 10 August 1990.

Second, NATO responded with more than statements, sending

the NAEW aircraft

to Turkey within a week of Iraq’s invasion

of Kuwait; activating the Naval On-Call Force Mediterranean

on 14 September 1990; and deploying the Allied Command

Europe, Mobile Force (AMF)-Air

to bases in eastern Turkey

in early January 1991. Most notably, these actions

demonstrated the alliance’s political will (something many

commentators had questioned) and its basic defensive

posture. The third key aspect of the Gulf crisis is that 14 of

the 16 NATO members sent forces to support the anti-Iraq

coalition.

(Iceland has no military forces but did contribute

funds; Luxembourg has only minimal forces.)

In late 1991, NATO substantially changed the role of

nuclear weapons in its military strategy, reducing by 80

percent the substrategic stockpile—everything from GLCMs

and surface-to-surface missiles to atomic artillery shells and

free-fall nuclear weapons carried by tactical fighter aircraft.

Most importantly, it changed the mission of these weapons.

Traditionally, nuclear weapons played a backstop role to

preclude a Warsaw Pact victory, either through conventional

means alone or through the Warsaw Pact’s own use of nuclear

weapons. However, the new strategic concept (see below) calls

for the retention of NATO’s nuclear weapons as a deterrent to

the use of nuclear weapons or other weapons of mass

destruction, such as chemical or biological weapons.

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Despite the rapid changes that occurred from 1989 through

1991 and despite an image of lethargy, NATO’s political and

military planning arms responded quickly and compre-

hensively to redirect the alliance’s strategy to cope with the

changes.

From the London declaration in July 1990 to the

new strategic concept issued at the Rome summit in early

November 1991, NATO undertook the most comprehensive

review of its strategy since its founding.

Perhaps reflecting

the changed times, the new concept that replaced MC 14/3

was the first to be made public.

The document did not change the purely defensive nature of

the alliance but reaffirmed it, as was the case with the

indivisibility of NATO’s security, the collective nature of its

defense, and the critical linkage between Europe and North

America. It recognized the absence of the monolithic threat

and its replacement by “a situation in which many of the

countries on the periphery of the Alliance were faced with

economic, social and political difficulties which might result in

crises and in turn could lead to a range of unpredictable,

multi-faceted and multi-dimensional risks to Allied security.”

The military forces needed to fulfill this new role—including

deterrence and support for crisis management, peacekeeping,

humanitarian assistance, and the defense of Alliance

territory—were flexibly organized into three tiers.

The first

tier consists of immediate-reaction forces and more capable

rapid-reaction forces, made up of multinational,

rapidly

deployable air, land, and sea forces.

The second tier,

comprising the bulk of the forces, includes regionally oriented,

in-place, main defensive forces consisting of both active and

mobilization units. The third tier includes augmentation

forces primarily from Canada and the United States—also

made up of active and reserve forces.

In light of these changes, NATO’s doctrines—even the

process—could not help being affected. At the 18th TAWP, the

Air Board charged the meeting to consider including PFP

countries at future TAWPs and determining which ATPs could

be released to those countries, under the general NATO

guidance that any unclassified NATO document can be

released to a PFP country. This mandate placed the working

party in a somewhat uncomfortable position of determining

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464

whether a previously unclassified document should now be

classified or whether parts of the document (such as the

detailed tactics, techniques, and procedures) should be

stripped out of the parent document and be made separate

documents. Some members expressed concern that certain

information, such as procedures for aborting a CAS attack, is

somewhat sensitive and that releasing that information could

come back to haunt NATO sometime in the future. In the end,

however, the TAWP decided to release all of these

publications, at least partly because ongoing and future joint

exercises between NATO countries and PFP countries required

the sharing of these procedures to accomplish the exercises

successfully.

Despite ongoing changes, some key trends are emerging

within NATO’s air doctrine. The most fundamental changes

sprang from a seminal paper on joint air operations written by

Maj Luigi Meyer of the USAF’s Doctrine Center, located at

Langley AFB, Virginia. This paper outlined US views (not just

those of the USAF) on such issues as strategic attack,

command relationships, and battlefield control measures.

Many of these concepts are making their way into NATO

doctrine. For example, Allied Joint Pub (AJP)-1(A), Allied Joint

Operations

Doctrine,

states that its primary objective is “to

provide a ‘keystone’ doctrine for the planning, execution,

and support of allied joint operations.”

The publication

includes strategic attack as an air operation, recommends the

designation of a joint force air component commander

(JFACC) to ensure unity of the air effort, and further recom-

mends that the JFACC assume additional responsibilities as

air defense commander (ADC) and airspace control authority

(ACA).

This “trihatted” approach precisely mirrors US joint

doctrine and USAF doctrine. AJP-1(A) also includes a chapter

on command and control warfare (C

W)—a rapidly developing

area of US doctrine.

One must still resolve the issue of whether these concepts

will continue to filter down to other NATO doctrinal

publications. For example, the proposed change three to

ATP-33(B) does not list strategic attack as an air operation

against enemy surface assets, retaining instead the classic

missions of AI and OAS, the latter still including CAS and BAI.

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465

However, the proposed section on C

of tactical air forces,

while not specifically mentioning a JFACC, does include a

discussion of centralized C

and decentralized tactical

execution not in conflict with US doctrine. Specifically, it

states that “unity of effort is best achieved when authority for

command and control of the air effort is established at the

highest practicable levels under a designated commander

while ensuring tactical control is passed down to the level

necessary to provide timely, flexible response to battlefield

initiative.” It further argues that “centralized control is

achieved through a designated air commander who directs the

total air effort by exercising operational control of tactical air

forces assigned or attached.”

Finally, the pamphlet does not

preclude strategic attack as an air operation. It specifically

defines interdiction, for example, as air operations “conducted

to destroy, neutralize, or delay the enemy’s military potential

before it can be brought to bear effectively against friendly

forces” but delimits “the enemy’s military potential” to “those

forces not engaged in close combat, his supplies . . . and the

means by which these unengaged forces and supplies are

moved” (emphasis added).

In contrast, Meyer defines

strategic attack as an action against enemy centers of gravity,

which include “characteristics, capabilities, or locations from

which alliances, nations and military forces derive their will to

fight, their physical strength, or their freedom of action.”

implication, this includes attacks against command, control,

communications, and intelligence (C

I) targets, basic

industrial targets, and fundamental infrastructure targets not

solely devoted to military forces.

The latest versions of the counterair and airspace control

pamphlets, however, continue to reflect NATO’s long-standing

commitment to the primacy of the air superiority mission,

especially DCA,

and the imperatives of an integrated

airspace control scheme. While not defining a JFACC/ACA

relationship specifically, ATP-40(A) stresses that the ACA

must have the authority to plan, coordinate, and organize the

airspace control system (ACS), including all weapons (both

aerial and surface-to-surface) that operate within the ACS.

The planning process, therefore, must include all users.

100

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466

Finally, ATP-27(C) on OAS still firmly holds to the concept of

BAI but specifies that OAS missions include only those flown

between the forward line of own troops (FLOT) and the corps

area of responsibility. This places OAS firmly in a battlefield

context and not as deep as either AI or strategic attack. Again,

although not specifying the JFACC concept, ATP-27(C) does

emphasize the requirement for unity of command under a

single air commander—specifically (in the Central Region),

COMAIRCENT, a PSC under commander in chief Central

Europe (CINCENT).

101

Notably, COMAIRCENT would have

operational control of the forces assigned to that region. In

this case, the pamphlet specifies that CINCENT makes the

apportionment decision (again, the determination, by

percentage or priority, of how much of the total air effort goes

to a specific air operation), based upon COMAIRCENT’s

recommendation and after consultation with the other

component commanders (e.g., the land and/or naval

commander). NATO organizational charts anticipate these

decisions, and the consequent planning functions will be

colocated at the joint command operations center while the

tasking of OAS (and all other air missions) will originate with

the combined air operations center.

In summary, NATO has undergone substantial political,

military, and doctrinal changes in a relatively short period of

time. Certainly, NATO air forces have learned substantial

lessons from the experience of both the United States and

other countries in the Gulf War. Despite significant merging

between US and NATO doctrine, vestiges of older doctrines

remain entrenched, the most notable example of which is BAI.

In assessing the future direction of NATO air doctrine, Col

Robert D. Coffman, commander of the USAF’s Doctrine

Center, believes that NATO will ultimately accept the JFACC

and strategic attack, and that BAI will probably remain. He

also believes that, despite the drawdown of US forces in

Europe, the United States retains significant influence in

NATO’s doctrinal discussions. Finally, in assessing the impact

of the Goldwater-Nichols Act, which reinvigorated US joint

doctrine, he maintains that the act served as a strengthening

step for the United States because it forced other NATO

countries to face a unified doctrinal front from America.

102

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Conclusions

NATO’s first priority has always been alliance cohesion; its

second, a deferral to national preferences—witness the initial

decision to sacrifice operational depth of maneuver in favor of

forward defense along the inter-German border (IGB) and the

preponderance of European air forces still deployed in their

home countries. One also sees these priorities in the

deployment of NATO’s ground forces (and the subsequent

strain that placed on NATO’s air forces), which is more a

reflection of postwar occupation areas than militarily viable

defensive positions.

The third priority of the alliance remains the strict

maintenance of the image and reality of a defensive

organization, which enhances alliance cohesion in several

ways. For instance, every nation can agree on the defense.

Offensive operations imply an out-of-area objective,

specifically rejected by NATO from its inception. From the

mid-1950s on, liberating eastern Europe or even East

Germany was never an overt objective. Further, presuming

that defensive forces are less expensive than offensive ones,

this strategy eases the fiscal burdens of European

members—an especially critical point in the 1950s, when

Europe was rebuilding from the ashes of World War II. Also, a

defensive posture remains critical to maintaining stability in

Europe because it denies anyone an excuse to launch an

attack against the alliance.

NATO’s force structure, deployment posture, and air

doctrines reflect these priorities. From its founding, the

alliance has employed a threefold air strategy. The first

priority, air defense, did not imply air superiority as the USAF

defines it. Air planners never foresaw gaining command of the

air but focused more narrowly on achieving security against a

Warsaw Pact air attack on NATO’s ports and major lines of

communications. Furthermore, air defense remained largely a

passive campaign, featuring DCA patrols integrated with

ground-based systems, albeit paying some attention to

attacking Warsaw Pact airfields.

The second priority for NATO’s air forces was attacking

Warsaw Pact second-echelon forces. The early years saw these

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attacks as heavily orchestrated with NATO’s ground forces,

but later years saw an evolution to FOFA, which gave air

forces freedom to attack lucrative targets in order to shape the

close battle. However, in all cases the strategy first called for

attacks against Warsaw Pact forces, mainly armor, and

second, for strikes against countermobility targets, usually

bridges.

The third priority called for support of engaged ground

forces. From the beginning, NATO air strategists recognized

the expense of this mission. But they also recognized that it

might prove the most critical, especially in a short-warning

attack scenario in which airpower might represent the only

significant combat power available to NATO commanders.

Particularly after the adoption of flexible response in 1967, the

need to prevent a Warsaw Pact breakthrough took on greater

significance because of the ever-lurking presence of nuclear

weapons. NATO strategists truly wanted to take any measures

necessary to avoid employing these weapons of mass

destruction. Beyond purely moral reasons, they eventually

realized that nuclear weapons did not favor the side with

smaller conventional forces. Had Warsaw Pact forces

accomplished a breakthrough, forcing NATO to employ

nuclear weapons, presumably the Warsaw Pact would

retaliate in kind. The result perhaps would have been an even

quicker Warsaw Pact victory but at a considerably higher cost

to both sides—especially in civilian casualties.

Over the three periods examined here, a few themes emerge

regarding the influences of NATO air doctrine on USAF

doctrine and vice versa. Specifically, during the early years of

the alliance, NATO’s strategy for the use of nuclear

weapons—the doctrine of massive retaliation—fitted well with

USAF doctrine and force structure.

103

However, by the time

NATO shifted focus in the late 1950s, the two doctrines

started to diverge. Whereas NATO contemplated a DCA battle,

a reflection of its political imperatives, the USAF stressed the

need for an OCA campaign in order to destroy Soviet and

Warsaw Pact air forces that might deliver nuclear weapons

against the allies. In large part, this divergence reflected the

overwhelmingly strategic orientation of the USAF as opposed

to the more tactical focus of NATO. Another theme was that

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NATO planners did not envision total air superiority over all of

western Europe, seeking instead only local or battlefield air

superiority, while USAF doctrine emphasized the critical

requirement for theaterwide air superiority as the first priority

of an air force.

By the 1970s and 1980s, NATO and USAF doctrines were

back in sync, not because NATO changed but because USAF

doctrine dramatically shifted from an offensive, global, nuclear

orientation to a conventional, European one. Perhaps the

most dramatic example of this shift lay in the changing

perception of the role of airpower in the opening days of a

conflict. Under the NATO scenario—assuming the numerical

superiority of Warsaw Pact forces, a Warsaw Pact initiative,

and a requirement for US air and ground support—USAF and

NATO commanders recognized that a specific battle for air

superiority, especially through offensive airfield attacks, would

have to wait. The immediate priority would be air defense of

ports, nuclear facilities, command centers, and movements of

NATO ground forces, along with battlefield support to prevent

a Warsaw Pact breakthrough.

104

The latest version of USAF basic doctrine, published in

1992, had no link to NATO air doctrine

105

and came at a time

when NATO underwent massive changes. Unsurprisingly, the

two doctrines diverged somewhat. However, in the mid-1990s,

both USAF/US joint doctrine and NATO doctrine are

undergoing substantial changes that promise a new era of

convergence. One should note that the USAF doctrine

preceded both the joint and NATO doctrinal development. Of

course, one should expect this, insofar as doctrinal

innovations should come from the air service first, because of

its expertise and familiarity. It then diffuses through the other

doctrinal outlets, such as joint doctrine or NATO pamphlets.

The role played by operating commands in doctrinal

development reveals another important aspect of the

differences between the US and NATO experiences. The

Goldwater-Nichols Act specifically defined a role for US

war-fighting commands (e.g., US European Command, Pacific

Command, Atlantic Command, and others), whereas in NATO,

the war-fighting commands (e.g., Allied Forces Central, Allied

Forces South, and their subordinate allied air commands) play

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470

a more limited role. For example, although the MSC/PSCs can

propose doctrinal changes, they have no vote in the

ratification process. Furthermore, although US joint doctrine

is authoritative and directive, US commanders can deviate for

cause. NATO’s military commanders, however, are much more

closely tied to the doctrinal prescriptions found in NATO

publications. Finally, for most NATO countries, NATO doctrine

is “national” doctrine, in that no other doctrine exists—as it

does in the United States. Thus, these NATO countries might

take a much more interested posture in NATO doctrinal

development. This is particularly true for countries such as

the United States, United Kingdom, and France, that have

more global interests and thus tend to write doctrine from that

perspective, unlike other NATO countries with a more

“European” view.

Three examples of convergence between US doctrine (both

USAF and joint)

106

and emerging NATO doctrine

107

lie in C

arrangements, synergy from an integrated AI and ground

maneuver scheme, and the role of strategic attack against

enemy centers of gravity. All three doctrinal manuals

recognize unity of effort as a key requirement for successful

integration of air resources, and all recognize the JFACC as

the proper mechanism for achieving this integration.

108

Each

relates how meshing AI with ground maneuver presents the

enemy with an “agonizing dilemma”: if the enemy disperses to

avoid air attack, he becomes more susceptible to piecemeal

destruction by friendly maneuver forces; but if the enemy

force concentrates, it leaves itself open for devastating air

attack.

109

Finally, all three documents recognize that direct

attack against key enemy centers of gravity—most effectively

accomplished by airpower—offers potential payoffs much

greater than those produced by air resources used in more

traditional OAS roles.

110

Undoubtedly, NATO air doctrine has undergone tremendous

changes over the past several years, matching the rapidly

changing geostrategic environment. Former foes are now

friends; former off-limits operations—out-of-area missions—

now occupy NATO’s day-to-day concerns; we have witnessed

an explosion in the technology of war; and we have learned

much from the lessons of the Gulf War. What other challenges

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may lay on the horizon, and how will they become part of

NATO’s air doctrine?

In their study of the process and problems in the

development of NATO’s doctrine, Stein, Nolan, and Perry

emphasize two critical aspects. First, although national

doctrines often reflect unique national service traditions and

capabilities, gaining NATO-wide acceptance for those views

can prove difficult. This is especially true of US doctrine if

other countries believe it may harbor hidden agendas or may

result in expensive modernization schemes. Second, they

argue that NATO has experienced difficulty keeping its

doctrine in tune with rapidly changing developments—both

technological and political.

111

NATO finds itself in such a

situation now. The unanswered question is, How will its air

doctrine evolve in light of these unprecedented changes?

One may gain some insight from the 18th TAWP held at

NATO headquarters in April 1995. At that meeting, some

familiar processes still existed: the degree of participation by

the various countries related mainly to the issue at hand. For

example, Spain did not send a delegate at all, while Turkey’s

delegate attended sessions that dealt only with specific ATPs

(such as the one dealing with airspace) in which it had a

particular interest. On the other hand, in order to facilitate

progress, delegates acting as individuals often attempted to

clarify issues or offer proposed solutions (especially when two

countries differed). Likewise, the TAWP, recognizing the slow

and cumbersome process of making changes to existing

doctrine, acknowledged the need to speed up the process in

light of changing circumstances—witness the requirement to

update procedures used in CAS missions, found in two

annexes of ATP-27.

AIRCENT had submitted extensive changes for new

procedures (e.g., on night CAS, laser operations, etc.), based

upon the experience of Operation Deny Flight (then being

conducted by NATO over the former Yugoslav Republic of

Bosnia-Herzegovina). The TAWP, recognizing both the

existence of a short-term problem on updating guidance on

OAS procedures to get to the field and a long-term

philosophical debate on OAS, decided to hold the doctrinal

debate in abeyance and proceed with updating the applicable

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ATP-27 annexes. It then continued the philosophical debate

with the goal of producing a “way ahead” framework for the

subsequent development of NATO air doctrine. Rapidly finding

common ground on the procedures, the TAWP recommended

that the Air Board quickly seek ratification of the procedures

and publish them as an interim supplement to ATP-27 while

the more laborious work on the basic document’s philosophy

took place.

Thus, it appears that NATO air doctrine may be entering

another Golden Age of development as air-minded people,

sharing a common foundation of bedrock beliefs on the proper

way to employ airpower, struggle with the massive political

and military changes under way within and outside NATO,

and seek to produce air doctrines to cope with those changes.

Notes

1. The difference between doctrine and strategy often lends itself to

debate. As used in this chapter, strategy refers to a plan of action for the

allocation of resources—based upon an anticipated contingency and

specifying the simultaneous and sequential orchestration of military

objectives—to achieve a political objective. Doctrine is “what we [the USAF]

hold true about aerospace power and the best way to do the job in the Air

Force.” Air Force Manual (AFM) 1-1, Basic Aerospace Doctrine of the United

States Air Force, vol. 1, March 1992, vii. Thus, since both terms deal with

action and “doing the job,” they are used interchangeably throughout this

chapter, except when they allude to a specific concept or document (e.g.,

the strategy of flexible response or NATO tactical air doctrine).

2. This is not to overlook economic, cultural, or even historical

explanations of NATO’s choice of strategy. However, this chapter argues

that, ultimately, one expresses those reasons in political terms.

Furthermore, since this chapter focuses on military strategies, political

reasons are of overriding importance.

3. This is especially true in the case of Germany. Largely due to its

experiences with a powerful General Staff, the strategy of the postwar

German air force lies in civilian hands. Furthermore, the German military

embraces that concept and stresses that any NATO military plan must be

“directly and significantly shaped by policy considerations.” More

importantly, the German constitution prohibits planning for, or conducting,

offensive war. Michael E. Thompson, “Political and Military Components of

Air Force Doctrine in the Federal Republic of Germany and Their

Implications for NATO Defense Policy Analysis” (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND

Graduate School, 1987), 2.

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4. Additionally, some people have argued that NATO organizations must

undergo far-reaching changes. For one view, see Willard E. Naslund, NATO

Airpower: Organizing for Uncertainty (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1993).

5. It is easy to overlook the economic dimension of NATO or to simply

dismiss it as penny-pinching. Yet, as Andrew J. Goodpaster (former

supreme allied commander in Europe) points out, from the earliest days,

the United States and western European countries recognized that

“strengthened economies were an essential underpinning to sustained and

stable security efforts and to the military budgets and programs on which

such efforts depended.” Article 2 of the NATO Treaty specifically recognized

this link. See Goodpaster’s “The Foundations of NATO: A Personal Memoir,”

in James R. Golden et al., eds., NATO at Forty: Change, Continuity &

Prospects (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1989), especially 25–26.

6. Richard L. Kugler, Commitment to Purpose (Santa Monica, Calif.:

RAND, 1993).

7. TAWP delegates, who represent 14 of the 16 countries currently in

NATO (Iceland has no military forces, and Belgium represents

Luxembourg’s interests), share a common heritage of airpower. Most are

pilots—though the percentage of delegates from other services (army,

marine forces, and navy) has increased over the years—and their countries

ostensibly choose them as representatives because of their expertise in the

areas under discussion. Each country realizes that, because of the iterative

nature of the doctrine-development process, compromise is better than

confrontation, over the long run. In other words, except for rare instances,

each country knows that it has more to lose than to gain from a rigid

insistence on national stances.

8. For most of its history, NATO has included three major commands:

SACEUR, SACLANT, and Channel Command, the latter absorbed by

SACLANT in 1994.

9. Countries assume responsibility for certain documents. For example,

Great Britain is the custodian of Allied Tactical Pamphlet 33 (ATP-33);

Germany maintains ATP-27; and the United States is the custodian of ATPs

40 and 42. These publications are reviewed on a periodic basis, and

proposals for change are submitted from the countries or the affected NATO

commands, collated by the custodian, and then reviewed at the working

parties (e.g., the TAWP). The recommended changes are then proposed to

the working parties’ sponsoring board, which acts as the coordinating agent

to gain ratification from the individual countries (the NATO commands do

not have a vote). Once a sufficient number of countries ratifies the changes

(each board decides the appropriate number), the board promulgates them.

Group Capt Alan E. Hotchkiss, Royal Air Force (RAF), Retired, chairman,

18th TAWP, Brussels, Belgium, interviewed by author, 26 April 1995. One

can find the detailed process in Allied Administrative Publication 3,

Development, Preparation, and Production of NATO Publications, 1 July 1995.

Much of the discussion in this chapter comes from this TAWP, which the

author attended as an observer. According to Group Captain Hotchkiss,

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who has successively attended nine of the 18 TAWPs, this one was

representative of most TAWPs.

10. For information about the founding of NATO, see Don Cook, Forging

the Alliance: NATO, 1945–1950 (London: Martin Secker & Warburg, 1989);

William Park, Defending the West: A History of NATO (Brighton, England:

Wheatsheaf, 1986); or Escott Reid, Time of Fear and Hope: The Making of

the North Atlantic Treaty, 1947–1949 (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1977).

11. The rapid and extensive demobilization undertaken by the West after

World War II had the effect of worsening this situation.

12. Josef M. A. H. Luns, former secretary-general of NATO, in Golden et

al., x.

13. The Schuman Plan (named after the French foreign minister),

announced in May 1950 and eventually becoming the European Coal and

Steel Community (the antecedent organization to the European Economic

Community formalized in the 1957 Treaty of Rome), is another example of a

measure undertaken to tie Germany and its former adversaries together.

14. West Germany also presented NATO with a significant military

problem in that it forced the alliance into a strategy that became known as

“forward defense,” which in 1963 tasked NATO ground forces with

defending the inner German border and precluded them from trading space

for time.

15. Thompson, 2–3. See also Werner Kaltefleiter, “NATO and Germany,”

in Lawrence S. Kaplan et al., eds., NATO after Forty Years (Wilmington, Del.:

Scholarly Resources, 1990); and Ian Smart, “The Political and Economic

Evolution of NATO’s Central Region,” in Golden et al.

16. Pierre Melandri, “France and the United States,” in Golden et al.

Melandri argues that events such as the Marshall Plan, German

rearmament, colonial policies (especially in Algeria and Indochina), the

1956 Suez crisis, and even the formation of NATO itself, bespoke increasing

French dependency on the United States, which sparked a nationalistic

backlash. Kugler points out that France, under the conditions of the 1946

McMahon Act, which prohibited the United States from sharing information

about atomic weapons even to its allies, was not included in a 1958

amendment that allowed Britain to receive nuclear help (page 86).

17. Melandri, 66.

18. This is not to imply that NATO waited until the Warsaw Pact’s

founding in 1955 before assessing the attack options from the east. Rather,

this constitutes a more general statement on the threat assessment NATO

planners undertook in these early years. Furthermore, while other Warsaw

Pact countries did retain significant military forces, planners always

considered Soviet forces the major threat, particularly those in eastern

Europe.

19. MC 14/1 dates from the beginning of the alliance in 1949. However,

NATO did not formally accept the force goals needed to implement the

strategy until the Lisbon summit in 1952. NATO intended to attain these

goals by 1954 but never did so, abandoning them in December 1953,

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following the easing of tensions in Europe that arose from the signing of the

armistice in Korea and the death of Stalin. See William H. Park, “Defense,

Deterrence, and the Central Front: Around the Nuclear Threshold,” in

Kaplan et al., 222.

20. Philip A. Karber, “NATO Doctrine and National Operational

Priorities: The Central Front and the Flanks: Part I,” in Robert O’Neill, ed.,

Doctrine, The Alliance and Arms Control (Hamden, Conn.: Archon, 1987).

21. This chapter principally addresses NATO’s conventional strategy.

However, no analysis of NATO military strategy gets very far before the issue of

nuclear weapons, both their deterrent effects and their employment options,

comes to the fore. Without going into a detailed recap of nuclear deterrent

strategy, suffice it to say that two concepts—central deterrence and extended

deterrence—are key. The first refers to the US strategic nuclear forces and their

deterrent effect of precluding general nuclear war, which presumably would

have included the NATO countries. The second refers to the deterrent effect of

US strategic forces precluding general war, either conventional or nuclear,

within Europe, which presumably could have spread to general nuclear war

between the United States and the USSR.

22. One must recall that western Europe was still rebuilding from the

devastation of World War II; despite the aid arriving under the Marshall

Plan, the European “economic miracle” was just beginning to unfold in the

mid-1950s.

23. Philip A. Karber and A. Grant Whitley, “The Operational Realm,” in

Golden et al.

24. Besides Park in Kaplan et al., see also Richard K. Betts, “Alliance

Nuclear Doctrine and Conventional Deterrence: Predictive Uncertainty and

Policy Confidence,” in Golden et al.

25. Park in Kaplan et al., 224.

26. The US Joint Chiefs of Staff made the same assumption in

approving the Mutual Defense Assistance Act of 1949. See Robert Frank

Futrell, Ideas, Concepts, Doctrine: Basic Thinking in the United States Air

Force, vol. 1, 1907–1960 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, December

1989), 249.

27. The heart of this upgrade program is the Long Term Defense

Program, consisting of 10 separate yet integrated initiatives formally

adopted by NATO in 1978. However, the genesis of the modernization goes

back to the early 1970s.

28. See Barry R. Posen, “Measuring the European Conventional

Balance,” International Security 9 (Winter 1984/1985); and John J.

Mearsheimer, “Why the Soviets Can’t Win Quickly in Central Europe,”

International Security 7 (Summer 1982).

29. At the same time NATO adopted MC 14/3, it also adopted the

Harmel Report, which called for arms-reduction negotiations between the

Warsaw Pact and NATO.

30. Two examples were the NATO/Warsaw Pact Mutual and Balanced

Force Reductions (MBFR) talks started in Vienna in 1968 and the 35-nation

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Conference on Disarmament in Europe (CDE) held in Stockholm. The latter

evolved into the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE)

and, as such, formally declared the end of the cold war with the signing of

the Charter of Paris on 20 November 1990.

31. One can trace the origins of this strategy to speeches made by

Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara in Athens at the NATO ministerial

meeting in the spring of 1962 and a commencement address he gave at the

University of Michigan at Ann Arbor a few weeks later. See Kugler, 140–42.

He formalized the strategy in a draft presidential memorandum in 1965. In

that document, McNamara challenged the underlying assumptions of

NATO’s nuclear policy—specifically the notions that these weapons could

somehow compensate for NATO’s inferiority in conventional forces and that

the Europeans would really permit nuclear war on their territory. See Park

in Kaplan et al., 225.

32. By the mid-1960s, the United States had removed B-47 strategic

bombers and shorter-ranged ballistic missiles such as Jupiter and Thor

from Europe, largely due to its fielding of the longer-ranged B-52s,

Minutemen ICBMs, and the advent of sea-launched ballistic missiles. A

proposal to establish a nuclear multilateral force under NATO control,

floated briefly in the early 1960s, never gained acceptance and became a

dead issue by 1964. See Kugler, 154–63.

33. Gen Bernard Rogers, former supreme allied commander,

characterized this strategy as “delayed tripwire.” See his “Greater Flexibility

for NATO’s Flexible Response,” Strategic Review 11 (Spring 1983): 16.

34. Peter Stratman, “NATO Doctrine and National Operational Priorities:

The Central Front and the Flanks: Part II,” in O’Neill.

35. Besides the cost issue, NATO policy makers were unwilling to

separate themselves completely from nuclear weapons. Even if a

conventional defense were completely successful, it would leave much of

western Europe devastated but the Soviet homeland untouched.

36. In 1973, under the guidance of senior Air Force and Army leaders,

the Air Land Forces Application (ALFA) directorate was set up to work out

common tactics and procedures. A similar organization was established in

Europe between United States Air Forces in Europe (USAFE) and United

States Army Forces, United States European Command (USAREUR).

37. The MAS, dating from 1951, produces standardization agreements

(STANAG) and consists of three service boards (Navy, Army, and Air Force)

and a joint board (to resolve differences between service boards) plus a

terminology and thesaurus section and the Office of Chairman. See

Giovanni Ferrari, “Unglamorous Force Multiplier—The Military Agency for

Standardization,” NATO’s Sixteen Nations, nos. 3/4 (1994): 19–22.

38. Quoted in David J. Stein, The Development of NATO Tactical Air

Doctrine, 1970–1985 (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1987), 14.

39. David J. Stein, Kimberly Nolan, and Robert Perry, Process and

Problems in Developing NATO Tactical Air Doctrine (Santa Monica, Calif.:

RAND, 1988), 4. Willard Naslund believes that the United States hoped to

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use NATO doctrine as a means of transferring US war-fighting concepts

(which tend to a more offensive bent) to the overly defensive-minded NATO.

Interviewed by author, Langley AFB, Va., 17 March 1995.

40. With the establishment of the USAF’s Doctrine Center in 1994, that

responsibility now lies with that organization.

41. Stein, 17.

42. NATO ATPs have never been hierarchical, unlike US doctrinal

publications; nor is there any logic behind their numbering. For example,

although ATP-33 is the keystone document on tactical airpower doctrine,

laying out the larger picture of air missions, ATP-27 elaborates on one set of

those missions—OAS—while ATP-42 limits itself to another set—counterair.

At the 18th TAWP, the United Kingdom proposed a more rational structure,

whereby ATP-33 truly became a keystone document (e.g., reducing some of

the detail and overlapping information contained in other ATPs), with the

other ATPs (e.g., ATP-27, -40, and -42) subordinate to it.

43. Stein, Nolan, and Perry, 7–10.

44. ATP-33(B), Tactical Air Doctrine, 1 November 1986, 1-1.

45. Further, coordination authority allows one to require consultation

but not to compel agreement. Ibid., 3-2.

46. Ibid., chap. 3. The “B” designation refers to the second complete

revision of the document; minor revisions are made via changes. ATP-33(B)

incorporating change one is the subject of this section. Change two

(January 1992) and the proposed change three (December 1994) are the

subject of the section on post-cold-war/post–Gulf War revisions to NATO air

doctrine.

47. Ibid., 3-4 through 3-5.

48. ATP-42, Counter Air Operations, March 1981; with change one, 28

January 1982.

49. ATP-40, Doctrine and Procedures for Airspace Control in the Combat

Zone, January 1977. A new pamphlet, discussed in the following section,

was published in December 1994.

50. ATP-42, pars. 201–2.

51. Ibid., annex A.

52. Stein argues that other NATO members feared that “statements of

operational requirements would follow on the heels of any TAWP upgrading

of SEAD’s doctrinal status.” He further points out that the primary

objections came from the RAF, Belgium, and the Netherlands, although

they, along with other member air forces, “exhibited no reluctance in

accepting US SEAD support” (page 48 and notes 42–43).

53. Stein, Nolan, and Perry, 11.

54. In the Central Region, 2ATAF and 4ATAF commanders were PSCs

whose command centers were ACOCs. Commander, Allied Air Forces

Central Europe was an MSC who operated out of a regional air operations

center. The following section examines the evolution of these C

systems.

55. ATP-40, chap. 2.

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56. Reservations occur when a member nation refuses to abide by a

particular section of the document. For example, the Netherlands registered

a reservation to three paragraphs of ATP-42 that deal with SEAD.

57. Stein, Nolan, and Perry, 5–6.

58. Naslund believes that this attitude arises from a systems orientation

towards doctrine which holds that if a service (or country) owns a system, it

must control it. On the other hand, he believes that the British take an

opposite approach: since they do not own enough resources themselves,

they wish to control those of other countries—hence their support of BAI,

which, in essence, gives them fire support to their ground forces from other

countries’ air forces. Naslund.

59. This section focuses on ATP-27(A), Offensive Air Support Operations,

February 1975, and the (B) revision, published in May 1980 (as well as the

changes between the two). The following section on the

post-cold-war/post–Gulf War era examines proposed changes in the (C)

revision.

60. ATP-27(A), par. 102b.

61. One should recall that the TAWP is the detailed working group

organized by the MAS Air Board. It includes members from each country,

except Luxembourg and Iceland, as well as every NATO regional command.

62. Stein, 27.

63. ATP-27(B), par. 106.

64. This paragraph and the following one are based upon Stein, 26–35.

One should note that the BAI/AI discussion extended beyond an RAF-USAF

disagreement. The US Army and its AirLand Battle doctrine also played an

important role in the emergence of BAI as a separate category of

air-to-surface airpower employment. See Robert Frank Futrell, Ideas,

Concepts, Doctrine: Basic Thinking in the United States Air Force, vol. 2,

1961–1984 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, December 1989),

546–55.

65. NORTHAG covered the relatively flat, open spaces of the North

German plain and was defended by 17 divisions from five countries

(Denmark, Holland, United Kingdom, Belgium, and West Germany) whose

land forces generally had less firepower than US forces further south (who

also had more favorable defensive terrain). This situation was exacerbated

by NATO’s forward defense posture, which required these forces to be

spread thin along the inter-German border (IGB), and the Warsaw Pact’s

blitzkrieg strategy, which sought a breakthrough along a narrow front

followed by exploitation into NATO’s vital rear areas. This attack would

destroy logistics networks, envelope NATO forces, and defeat them in detail.

See Kugler, 433–37.

66. Of particular concern were Warsaw Pact (mainly Soviet) operational

maneuver groups (OMG), which were highly mobile, second-echelon forces

designed to exploit any breakthrough by first-echelon Warsaw Pact forces

and then wreak havoc in NATO rear areas—particularly nuclear systems

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(storage and launch facilities), command centers, airfields, and logistics

dumps.

67. Critical technologies required for AirLand Battle included (1)

intelligence technologies that could detect and identify Warsaw Pact

echelons and relay that data in a timely manner in order to strike at these

(presumably) fleeting targets; (2) precision, all-weather attack resources

(both platforms and weapons); and (3) the support assets needed to get

them through the dense Warsaw Pact IADS.

68. Naslund stressed this point, specifically relating his belief that the

US Army used the threat posed by Warsaw Pact OMGs to gain control over

NATO’s deep-strike air assets.

69. The initiative was also proposed for inclusion into US joint doctrine.

Joint Test Pub 3-03.1, Joint Interdiction of Follow-on Forces Attack, 16 June

1988, essentially followed the same logic as the NATO concept. Notably,

FOFA never became part of either NATO air doctrine manuals or USAF

doctrine.

70. The primary difference between classic AI and FOFA was the

former’s emphasis on fixed targets such as bridges, while the latter focused

on forces most likely on the move. Identifying moving targets in a timely

fashion required more sophisticated technologies. See Wing Commander A.

V. B. Hawken, RAF, Follow-on Force Attack—Now and in the Future,

Research Report (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air War College, 1990). The joint

surveillance, target attack radar system (JSTARS), which played such a role

in the 1991 Gulf War, was developed precisely for this mission, as was the

tactical missile system (TACMS) family of surface-to-surface missiles with

“smart” antiarmor submunitions.

71. General Rogers refuted each of these concerns. Arguing that the

purpose of FOFA was to “restore flexibility to Flexible Response,” he claimed

that FOFA was complementary to defensive operations because “defense . . .

protects our [NATO’s] means to attack Soviet follow-on forces, and attacking

in depth . . . will help to keep the force ratios at the GDP [General Defensive

Position] manageable.” Finally, he strenuously disputed the idea that FOFA

was a new strategy. See his “Follow-on Forces Attack (FOFA): Myths and

Realities,” NATO Review 32 (December 1984): 1–9 (quotes on pages 1 and

5). For an opposing view—one that claims FOFA was an “idea whose time

may well have passed” because OMGs were so close to the first-echelon

forces that attack against targets any deeper than, say, one hundred

kilometers would be a waste of resources—see David Greenwood,

“Strengthening Conventional Deterrence,” NATO Review 32 (August 1984):

8–12 (quote on page 9).

72. Preplanned requests include those passed up through the land-force

chain of command; one includes them in the daily tasking after

accomplishing the joint coordination and planning. Immediate requests are

just that: immediate calls for air support beyond that provided in the daily

allocation of air resources. See ATP-27(B), par. 602. Often confused in this

regard are airborne versus ground alert missions—both are allocated air

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resources, differing in the degree of responsiveness. Obviously, airborne

assets are the most responsive. ATP-27(B), par. 410.

73. Ibid., par. 506.

74. NATO’s 1949 charter specifically forbids involvement in operations

outside its members’ territories. Ironically, the United States, fearing that

the alliance would become entangled in Europe’s colonial wars, insisted on

the inclusion of this provision. Now, of course, the United States, with its

global commitments, is seeking a change in this posture and more support

from the allies. See David C. Morrison, “Beyond NATO,” National Journal, 23

February 1991, 452–54. An interesting question undergoing debate within

NATO is, Precisely what is “out-of-area”? Is not Europe (hence the Balkans)

within NATO’s “area”? What of the southern rim of the Mediterranean,

which is arguably contiguous with NATO’s area? Finally, what of the Middle

East, with its rich oil reserves upon which most European countries depend

(much more so than the United States)?

75. Thomas-Durell Young, The “Normalization” of the Federal Republic of

Germany’s Defense Structures (Carlisle, Pa.: US Army War College Strategic

Studies Institute, 1992).

76. In reformulating their strategy (discussed below), NATO politicians

and planners recognized that NATO must forge closer links with the WEU

and the Organization for Cooperation and Security in Europe (OCSE).

Thomas-Durell Young argues that such cooperation will provide a means

for NATO members to coordinate on out-of-area operations without

appearing to establish a situation in which member states might feel

“trapped” in other members’ “adventures” outside of NATO’s traditional

areas of concern. See his “Preparing the Western Alliance for the Next

Out-of-Area Campaign,” Naval War College Review 45 (Summer 1992):

28–44.

77. For a full discussion, see Jonathan T. Howe, “NATO and the Gulf

Crisis,” Survival 33 (May/June 1991): 246–59. At the time, Admiral Howe

was commander in chief of allied forces in NATO’s Southern Region (which

includes Turkey and the Mediterranean); thus, he had operational

command over Southern Guard (NATO’s response to the crisis) and its two

military measures—Dawn Set (in southeastern Turkey) and MedNet (in the

Mediterranean). Dawn Set included Operation Ace Guard, which involved

the deployment of the Allied Command Europe, Mobile Force (AMF)-Air and

Patriot missiles to Turkey (see below).

78. North Atlantic Council, Statement on the Gulf, 18 December 1990,

par. 5. Article 5 of the treaty states that an armed attack against one

member is considered an attack against them all.

79. The NAEW aircraft maintained 24-hour coverage of eastern Turkey.

As an aside, during the Gulf War, since Joint Task Force Proven Force,

conducting US offensive air missions out of Incirlik, Turkey, did not have

sufficient US E-3 AWACS aircraft to cover all its missions, it “borrowed”

NAEW threat warning (not positive control) for some attack packages.

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80. AMF-Air’s major forces included 18 Belgian Mirage Vs, 18 German

Alpha Jets, and six Italian RF-104G reconnaissance aircraft, plus a Dutch

Patriot surface-to-air missile battery. Additionally, six US F-15C aircraft at

Incirlik, as part of Proven Force, were placed on air defense alert under

NATO control. Notably, NATO offensive aircraft were stationed at Erhac,

Turkey—out of range of the Iraqi border, further testimony to their purely

defensive role.

81. “NATO Countries’ Gulf Role,” National Journal, 23 February 1991,

454. Britain and France played the largest role, contributing both air and

ground forces to the coalition. However, both Italian and Canadian fighter

aircraft flew combat missions from the Arabian peninsula. The majority of

the other countries contributed naval forces plus essential basing and

overflight rights (especially Portugal and Spain).

82. See the Nuclear Planning Group communiqué of December 1991;

Michael Legge, “The Making of NATO’s New Strategy,” NATO Review 39

(December 1991): 13; and Gen John R. Galvin, “From Immediate Defence

towards Long-Term Stability,” NATO Review 39 (December 1991): 17–18. At

the time, Legge was the assistant secretary-general for NATO’s defense

planning and policy and chairman of the Strategy Review Group; Galvin

was SACEUR.

83. Manfred Wörner, “NATO Transformed: The Significance of the Rome

Summit,” NATO Review 39 (December 1991): 3. He was secretary-general of

NATO at the time.

84. For a summary of the London declaration, see the US Department of

State Dispatch, 8 October 1990, 163. Significant changes included calling

for a move away from forward defense, reducing readiness, reducing the

number and size of units and exercises, relying more on multinational

forces and reconstitution, and modifying flexible response to make nuclear

weapons truly weapons of last resort. For the text of the London

declaration, see NATO Review, August 1990, 32.

85. Legge, 9. For the texts of the new strategic concept and the

accompanying Rome declaration, see NATO Review, December 1991, 19–22,

25–33.

86. Legge, 12.

87. Galvin, 15.

88. The theme of multinational forces runs throughout NATO’s

discussions. This concept replaces NATO’s “layer cake” approach, whereby

essentially autonomous national corps fought side-by-side under a (loosely)

multinational command headquarters. It proved politically important

because it spread German ground forces along the IGB, interspersed with

other national corps. Doing so precluded a Warsaw Pact attack against

German forces only, which, some people believed, might have reduced other

countries’ commitment to fight. It also tied the smaller NATO countries,

such as Belgium and the Netherlands, to IGB defense. See Kugler, 214–20.

As to multinationalism, three key issues are yet to be answered. The first

concerns which countries will provide what types of forces to these units.

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The second issue involves logistics. Historically, NATO has relied on the

doctrine of national logistics, which requires each country to supply its own

forces. Lacking complete standardization and interoperability, this doctrine

would create a nightmare of logistics in a multinational force. The third

issue entails command arrangements. Traditionally, NATO senior

commands have either been allocated to a particular country (e.g., SACEUR

has always been a US general) or rotated on a rigid schedule. No one knows

whether this practice will suffice in multinational forces. See David

Greenwood, “Refashioning NATO’s Defences,” NATO Review 38 (December

1990): 2–8.

89. The immediate reaction force (IRF) is an augmented AMF of about

five thousand troops able to deploy anywhere within Europe within 72

hours. The Allied Command Europe Rapid Reaction Corps (ARRC) consists

of upwards of one hundred thousand multinational troops deployable

within six to 10 days. See David M. Abshire, Richard R. Burt, and R. James

Woolsey, The Atlantic Alliance Transformed (Washington, D.C.: Center for

Strategic and International Studies, 1992), 22.

90. Galvin, 15–17.

91. A somewhat related issue that arose in the 18th TAWP dealt with

former Warsaw Pact material now in NATO. For example, Germany retained

a squadron of MiG-29 Fulcrum aircraft from the former East German air

force. Delegates expressed concerns about identification-friend-or-foe issues

that directly affect NATO airspace control doctrine.

92. A preliminary draft is just a working document. After all the issues

are ironed out, a final draft is sent to the countries for ratification. As

outlined earlier, after ratification, the document (whether a change, major

revision, or new document) is promulgated.

93. AJP-1(A), Allied Joint Operations

Doctrine, 22 November 1996, par.

0001.

94. AJP-1(A), chap. 18, “Joint Air Operations and Airspace Control.”

95. ATP-33(B), proposed change three, December 1994, par. 306. At the

18th TAWP, the United Kingdom proposed suspending further work on

ATP-33 and -27 pending a complete review of NATO air doctrine. Much like

the earlier TAWP that established a separate forum to work out the

differences between the United States and United Kingdom over BAI (see

above), this TAWP established a working group—which met in Germany in

1995—to study these issues (e.g., the Meyer paper and a contending United

Kingdom proposal).

96. Ibid., par. 505–6.

97. Maj Luigi Meyer, memorandum to Tactical Air Working Party

agencies, subject: US Paper on Joint Air Operations, Department of the Air

Force, 27 July 1994, 5.

98. ATP-42(B), Counter Air Operations, December 1994. Paragraph 503

states that “Offensive Counter Air should be the prime consideration in the

effective employment of friendly tactical air resources.”

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99. Ibid., par. 802c: “Indeed, the first positive indication of an impending

conflict may be the need to conduct air defence operations.”

100. ATP-40(A), Doctrine for Airspace Control in Times of Crisis and War,

December 1994, chap. 3.

101. In the early 1990s, NATO renamed some of its MSCs and PSCs.

Hence, AAFCE became AIRCENT.

102. Col Robert D. Coffman, USAF Doctrine Center, Langley AFB, Va.,

interviewed by author, 17 March 1995.

103. Gen Thomas D. White, Air Force vice chief of staff, said that the

strategy allows recognition of the Air Force as an instrument of national

power. Furthermore, he noted that the strategy was in line with the ideas of

Giulio Douhet, Billy Mitchell, Hap Arnold, and other early airpower

theorists and leaders. See Futrell, vol. 1, 432.

104. Futrell, vol. 2, 494–95. Futrell extensively quotes Gen David C.

Jones, USAF chief of staff, who came to the chief’s position from

commanding all USAF and allied air units in Europe. General Jones

explicitly outlined NATO’s air requirements of blunting the Warsaw Pact

armor attack, providing some battlefield air superiority, and attacking

Warsaw Pact second-echelon forces.

105. Col Dennis Drew, USAF, Retired, team chief and principal author of

the 1992 edition of AFM 1-1, interviewed by author, Maxwell AFB, Ala., 10

March 1995.

106. For USAF doctrine, the primary publication is AFM 1-1. For joint

doctrine, the key publication for operations is Joint Pub (JP) 3-0, Doctrine

for Joint Operations, 9 September 1993.

107. For NATO, the keystone doctrine for the planning, execution, and

support of allied joint operations is AJP-1(A).

108. See AFM 1-1, vol. 1, par. 3-1; JP 3-0, chap. 2; and AJP-1(A), chap.

18, sec. 3.

109. See AFM 1-1, vol. 1, par. 3-5b(1); JP 3-0, chap. 4, 3f. AJP-1 does

not address this level of specificity; however, ATP-33(B), proposed change

three, par. 506–7, discusses the need for close coordination between AI and

ground maneuver.

110. See AFM 1-1, vol. 1, par. 3-5a; JP 3-0, chap. 4, 2c; and AJP-1(A),

chap. 18, par. 1805.

111. Stein, Nolan, and Perry, 12–13.

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Chapter 13

Soviet Military Doctrine and Air Theory:

Change through the Light of a Storm

Lt Col Edward J. Felker

Often, advances in technology have caused revolutions in

military affairs as they transformed the nature of war.

Tanks, motor transport, mobile communications, and

airpower altered the battlefield of the early twentieth

century. In midcentury, nuclear weapons and missiles

altered the strategy of the battlefield. Today, we see

high-tech conventional alternatives replacing battlefield

nuclear weapons. These new weapons reduce the likelihood

of escalation yet create little or no collateral damage.

These were the changes to the future battlefield the

Russians analyzed in the Gulf War of 1991. The collapse of

the Soviet Union, the waning of the cold war, and the end of

the confrontation between communism and capitalism

created a new political-military situation. As a result, the

Soviets/Russians altered their military doctrine and view of

the nature of future war, based on their perceptions of

airpower in the Gulf War.

To the Soviets, military doctrine represented neither a

general theory nor the view of individuals. Instead, it was a

system of official state views, encompassing the leading,

fundamental, official principles of military theory for

mandatory practice. In its simplest form, military doctrine

carried politically approved sanctions of law for military

structure and function. Doctrine codified the country’s

political goals and economic potentials into legislative acts,

government decrees and resolutions, military regulations

and manuals, and basic military orders.

485

Russian View of Military Doctrine

To understand how the Gulf War affected the evolution of

Russian airpower doctrine, one must understand the broader

context of military doctrine from which it came. The

Voroshilov Lectures define military doctrine as a system of

theories accepted by the state and the armed forces regarding

the character, form, and conduct of war.

They characterize

military doctrine as the body of thought that prepares a

nation and its armed forces for war. Political leadership

develops the theories according to domestic and foreign policy,

ideology, and military-scientific achievements. Thus, military

doctrine reflects the economic, political, military, and historic

character of the people and their international commitments.

Benjamin Lambeth, a RAND analyst, defines this view of

military doctrine as “the sum total of scientifically based views

accepted by the country and its armed forces on the nature of

contemporary wars that might be unleashed by the

imperialists against the USSR, and the goals and missions of

the armed forces in such a war, on the methods of waging it,

and also on the demands which flow from such views for the

preparation of the country and the armed forces.”

Charles Dick notes a dual social-political and military-

technical aspect of Soviet military doctrine. Political and

military leadership decides the tenets of military doctrine

according to “socio-political order, the level of economic,

scientific, and technological development of the armed forces’

combat material, with due regard to the conclusions of

military science and the views of the possible enemy.”

The

political aspect is dominant and directive, while military

doctrine forms the bedrock for force structure and military

plans. The General Staff uses the social-political aspect of

doctrine to develop military strategy and operational art.

Relationship between Military Doctrine and Strategy

Military strategy decided the nature and role of the armed

forces in war. It resolved the form, type, organization, and

theoretical principles to plan the strategic actions of the

armed forces and provided an analytical foundation for

studying strategy, characteristics, and capabilities.

Military

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strategy provided the theoretical framework that united

domestic politics, economics, history, morale, science,

international politics, and military forces. It also unified

military doctrine and operational art—its ultimate application.

Military strategy linked political leadership and the Soviet

High Command in preparing the nation for war. The Soviet

High Command organized strategy, planned force

deployments, prepared the armed forces for war, and

controlled them during war. Military strategy’s political basis

directly influenced the military-technical fundamentals of

doctrine. Because of this circular relationship between

military strategy and doctrine, any change in the theoretical

base of one produced changes in the other. Doctrine’s views

about future war guided strategy. Simultaneously, strategy

affected the formulation and perfection of doctrine’s

military-technical component.

This military-technical aspect of doctrine remained a

dynamic idea, constantly adjusted to reflect changes in force

posture, political requirements, economic factors, scientific

achievement, and changes introduced by potential enemies.

Timothy Thomas notes six considerations embraced by the

military-technical dimension of military doctrine: (1) the

character (nature) of the military threat; (2) the type and

struggle that may result (future war); (3) the requirements for

defense (historical paradigm about war’s beginning, initial

period, timing, and interaction of technology); (4) the required

armed forces (strategic posture, mobilization, and

deployment); (5) the means to conduct armed struggle and the

use of the armed forces (force generation, manning, and

equipping); and (6) preparation of the armed forces to

accomplish these tasks (training, etc.).

Soviet military doctrine guided the development of military

art, but military art was not its subset. Doctrine consisted of

general principles regarding the nature of war, whereas

military art concerned the practical issues of war fighting.

Given military doctrine’s view of the future battlefield, military

art described the nature of warfare in general terms. It

articulated the likely enemy, types of action to expect and

prepare for, and measures to equip and train forces. Further,

it provided the synthesis of the national economy and

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population in supporting future war. Military art and its

doctrinal underpinnings, therefore, were closely coordinated.

In the initial period of war, this coordination became critical.

According to army general M. V. Gareyev, the response in the

initial period most directly reflected the Soviets’ political

intent. He observed that “while politics usually prevails

throughout a war, the political aspects are most prevalent on

the eve or at the beginning of a war.”

Evolution of Soviet/Russian Military Doctrine

Soviet military doctrine changed in response to the complex

interrelationships that formed it—international political and

military environments, foreign military doctrines, history,

technology, and ideology, as well as internal political, social,

moral, and economic constraints. Perceived strategic

imbalance has remained the prime motivator in the Soviets’

doctrinal evolution. Michael MccGwire notes that “Soviet

military doctrine has evolved in response to what have been

seen as a series of direct threats to the state’s existence. . . .

Nuclear testing aside, Soviet actions and the doctrines behind

them must be seen as responses to the perceived threat posed

by American decisions.”

Russian military doctrine, therefore, represents an amalgam

of factors. The international political environment and an

assessment of the probability of war formed its political

component. The evolution of Soviet military doctrine reflected

the influence of foreign doctrines. Soviet history forged the

Soviet perspective of war. World War II, with its more than 20

million Soviet deaths, had a profound effect.

Internal

political, economic, and social constraints, as well as the

nature of Soviet decision making, greatly affected the nature

of doctrine. Technological innovation also played a key role.

Thus, Soviet military doctrine arose from the interaction of a

multitude of often conflicting factors.

Post World War II: Stalin’s Era (1945–53). The formative

impact of World War II led military doctrine to cast future war

in the mold of that experience—protracted land war, with

ground troops directly supported by tanks, artillery, and

aircraft. Soviet leaders believed that surprise attack

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characterized this period.

Although the war laid the

foundation of military doctrine, the Soviets conducted little

critical examination of their failures in 1941 and 1942.

Furthermore, Joseph Stalin placed great importance on atomic

weapons and rocketry for international prestige. US superiority

in strategic nuclear weapons and airpower prompted a Soviet

emphasis on strong conventional forces and offensive

counterattack into Europe from Soviet bases in Eastern Europe.

The international political environment and Marxist-Leninist

ideology also shaped military doctrine. Marxist idealism

included the inevitable clash between capitalism and socialism,

which reinforced the Soviets’ view of the world.

Most influential was the role played by the nature of the

internal Soviet political system. Under Stalin , the Soviet Union

became more authoritarian. Elevating to doctrinal status

those factors he believed were responsible for winning the war,

he ignored developments in conventional weapons, the role of

surprise on the battlefield, and any failures the Soviets may

have had during the German push to Moscow, Leningrad, and

Stalingrad. Stalin considered these deficiencies irrelevant to

victory.

Both defense and offense played major roles in conventional

warfare. Victory resulted from accumulating successful battles

along slowly moving, continuous fronts. Frontal breakthroughs

occurred by massing forces on a main axis of attack. The

military concentrated its forces in strike sectors for speed,

firepower, and shock to penetrate, envelop, and thrust into the

enemy’s rear areas. Combined arms, with preeminent ground

forces in a European environment, became the primary vision of

future war.

Khrushchev’s Era (1954–64). Freed from the stupefying

control of Stalin, military doctrine changed significantly under

Nikita Khrushchev. The major doctrinal trend became

adapting nuclear weapons and missiles to the old concepts of

future war.

Khrushchev dropped the idea of the inevitability

of a protracted ground war in Europe. Instead, war would

result from the presumed escalation of a small conventional

war into a nuclear one. Short, intense, and massive exchanges

of nuclear weapons dominated this view of war.

Because of

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this outlook, Khrushchev downgraded and partially demobilized

ground forces and tactical air forces. Conventional options

became obsolete, and the strategic rocket forces received the

lion’s share of the Soviet defense budget. Nuclear weapons

provided the means of establishing favorable conditions for rapid

ground advances. With the defense weakened, ground forces

would break through and carry out decisive maneuvers to the

enemy’s flanks and rear.

This view led to the offense’s

becoming the dominant form of battle, accordingly emphasizing

the role of surprise. Since war likely would not last long, the

initial period became most important, motivating both sides to

achieve the initiative immediately.

This doctrine created a different set of contributions for

airpower. No longer viewed as long-range artillery directly

supporting ground forces, it became a prime instrument for

delivering nuclear blows. Additionally, it became the force of

choice to counter an enemy nuclear response to the Soviet

offense.

US strategic nuclear superiority and the cold war

challenge led to the Soviet policy of preemption. Now that the

Soviets no longer considered idealistic war inevitable,

Marxist-Leninist dialectic had less impact on doctrine than it did

under Stalin. Replacing the dialectic became a concentrated

analytical process for determining historical lessons.

Brezhnev’s Era (1964–82). Only minor changes in thought

occurred under Leonid Brezhnev. Given the massive nuclear

capabilities on both sides, military doctrine reflected a belief

that conflict would eventually involve large-scale exchanges of

nuclear weapons.

Conventional strategic operations within

the Western theater of military operations (TVD) opposite

NATO became dominant.

The Soviets believed that a Warsaw

Pact strategic conventional offensive could preemptively deny

NATO any incentive to initiate a nuclear war. Success

depended on (1) early air superiority, (2) timely cooperation

among the Warsaw Pact allies, and (3) strategic surprise.

Thus, the reemergence of conventional operations became the

primary doctrinal change. In 1961 the United States began

moving away from massive retaliation to flexible response,

making conventional operations more interesting to Soviet

planners—especially if the enemy might not strike with

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nuclear weapons first. As a result, the initial conventional

phase took on very specific characteristics. Time was the “coin

of the realm.” Friendly forces needed to destroy both the

enemy’s defensive lines and tactical nuclear weapons

quickly.

Since the most likely scenario involved a surprise

attack by the enemy, doctrine logically insisted on the primacy

of the offense.

Other internal and external factors drove doctrine. After

achieving nuclear parity with the United States, the Soviet

Union for the first time possessed a credible nuclear offensive

capability to deter nuclear escalation. In the international

political arena, tensions eased with other countries. As their

economy began to expand domestically, the Soviets could field

the forces necessary to carry out the military doctrine they

espoused. The historical significance of two major world wars

on the continent continued to influence military doctrine’s

reliance on large conventional forces. The internal political

apparatus under Brezhnev became more conservative,

pluralist, and bureaucratic in decision making. The military,

KGB, and heavy and light industry all received representation

on the Politburo. As a result, real appropriations to each of

these sectors increased significantly. In this context, military

doctrine emphasizing a conventional option enhanced the role

of the ground forces, again making them “a more integral and

legitimate actor in the decision making process.”

Gorbachev’s Era (1983–89). The era of Mikhail Gorbachev

saw perhaps the most sweeping changes in Soviet military

doctrine. In the mid-1980s, perestroika (restructuring) markedly

accelerated changes in military doctrine, and emphasis on

strategic defense, rather than preemptive conventional offense,

marked the doctrine emerging from this period. Many factors

drove changes to this “defensive” doctrine. The inevitability of

this change appears in the comments of Eduard Shevardnadze,

then the Soviet foreign minister:

The achievements of our foreign policy would be much more

impressive if we could assure greater internal stability. The numerous

misfortunes that have befallen our country recently, the critical

situation in the economy, the state of ethnic relations and natural

calamities are reducing the chances of success in our foreign policy.

The policy of reform thanks to which our country has restored its good

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name is undoubtedly giving rise in the world to a feeling of

compassion and a desire and readiness to help us. But it should be

frankly said that if our domestic troubles are multiplied by

conservatism and ill will, intolerance and selfishness and clinging to

dogmatic principles of the past, it will be more and more difficult for

us to uphold the cause of peace, reduce tensions, fight for broader and

irreversible disarmament, and integrate our country into the world

system. That is why our diplomats are not living with their heads in

the clouds. Their thoughts are turned to the harsh realities of our

domestic life.

Military planners and politicians firmly believed that nuclear

escalation would destroy the Soviet state. They saw that their

previous preemptive doctrine created a deadly paradox. Rapid

conventional success against NATO on any axis might accelerate

NATO’s nuclear first use—exactly what preemption was trying to

preclude. Thus, the previous Soviet strategic concept contained

the seeds of its own destruction. Further, in the 1970s and early

1980s, NATO leaders perceived the Soviet buildup as

threatening and destabilizing. As such, NATO responded with

deliberate political and military measures. The resultant NATO

buildup in technologically superior forces and the political will

for rapid reinforcement decreased the Soviets’ likelihood of

winning a conventional war in the initial period.

This produced

an economically and technologically draining competition with

the Soviet civilian economy. The military capability to carry out

preemptive doctrine became a burden the Soviet economy could

not endure. Direct costs imposed by military demands on the

workforce, material, and technology exacerbated the Soviets’

decline on the world’s stage. Finally, the Soviet Union’s internal

political turmoil resulted in the virtual disappearance of

Marxist-Leninist ideology from the formation of military doctrine.

The Soviets put their view of others on a “back burner” in order

to concentrate on their view of themselves.

In 1985 the Soviet political leadership redefined military

doctrine to support pressing political, economic, and societal

concerns. Under the new doctrine, the defensive operation acted

as a precursor to strong conventional counterstrikes, followed by

a concentrated counteroffensive. Doctrine designed the defensive

phase as a temporary measure to buy time in the initial period

of a conflict. The Soviets would use this time to mobilize,

reinforce, and move rear echelons forward for the counter-

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offensive. The new doctrine focused almost exclusively on the

initial period of the defense, saying little about the counterstrike

and counteroffensive periods.

It shifted away from the

aggressive nature of the Brezhnev years, becoming a so-called

defensive doctrine with weapons of “reasonable sufficiency.”

The new doctrine led the Soviet military to develop plans to

conduct a more prolonged initial defense.

The new military doctrine, however, included a provision to

switch, perhaps suddenly, from the general strategic defensive

to a counteroffensive, marking the end of the initial period of

war. To achieve a sufficient correlation of force for the

counteroffensive to succeed, the Soviets needed more forces

than the new defensive doctrine prescribed. This put a

premium on mobilization of strategic reserves and forward

movement of follow-on echelons. After forces from the

strategic reserve moved forward, they would exploit the

success achieved by early counterstrikes at the front. Without

fire superiority, the counterstrike’s surprise, maneuver, and

decisiveness were impossible. Soviet forces had to destroy

enemy deep-fire systems and reconnaissance, mostly by air,

so that maneuver forces had freedom of action.

This scenario mandated answering a NATO attack with a

“devastating rebuff,” although the doctrine did not clarify

whether one limited this rebuff to a counteroffensive only or

expanded it to a full-scale, strategic offensive operation. In

1987 Defense Minister Dimitriy Yazov called for a decisive

offensive to follow a counteroffensive. By late 1989, however,

when the new military doctrine emerged, he said, “Until

recently, we planned to repel aggressions with defensive and

offensive operations. Now, however, we are planning defensive

operations as the basic form of our combat action.”

Central to the defensive doctrine was the prevalent concept

that victory came only by defeating the enemy through the

offensive mode. Yet, the Soviet military said little publicly on

issues related to the debate over the counteroffensive. John

Hines and Donald Mahoney feel that the military’s reticence

stemmed from the atmosphere of uncertainty characterizing

Soviet military affairs after the announcement in December

1988 of unilateral force reductions.

Michael M. Boll asserts

that the Warsaw Pact continued to exercise with simulated

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nuclear weapons, in sharp contrast to the doctrine’s

reorientation, which emphasized defensive preparation. He

argues that the Soviets’ announced defensive position

remained more “in the realm of intent . . . than . . . immediate

reform.”

Officially, the General Staff embraced the defensive

but continued an offensive spirit.

Immediate Pre–Gulf War Era (1990–91). This period

marked the end of communism, the breakup of the Warsaw

Pact, the dissolution of the Soviet Republic, the rise of Boris

Yeltsin , and the formation of the Russian Federation. In 1989

Gorbachev announced unilateral force reductions in Europe, a

move toward professionalism versus conscription, and force

development began to focus on qualitative factors. Political

factions reassessed the military threat from the West and

declared it less daunting. The central theme of doctrine

evolution during this period addressed ways of making

defensive doctrine and reasonable sufficiency work after

military restructuring. According to Lester Grau of the Foreign

Military Studies Office, many indicators show that the

declaration of a defensive doctrine was “a purely political

decision made for economic and political purposes and

imposed on the military with little regard for the military logic

of that doctrine.”

He points out that, after the new doctrine

declaration, professional books and journal articles published

in the USSR continued to reflect the Soviet military’s

conservative approach to operational art. The Soviets found

themselves on a trip down a poorly lit and twisting path,

where perceptions and reality would come into sharp conflict.

New US and NATO systems were clearly a generation ahead

of those of the Soviets. The role of precision-guided munitions

(PGM) and electronic warfare (EW) had added a great combat

additive to NATO forces. Although the Soviets clearly lagged

behind, they did not intend simply to mirror NATO’s reliance

on technology as a force multiplier.

Soviet military

professionals asserted that they would “not follow in the wake

of the probable enemy and copy his weapons and employment

concepts [but would] seek asymmetrical solutions, combining

high combat effectiveness with economic efficiency.”

The

Soviet forces “are to become equipped with the latest in

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science and technology and become increasingly more flexible,

cohesive, and mobile.”

The revamped force structure would

become compact, ready, and easily expandable by an

enhanced mobilization base. Finally, the restructured force

relied on fully automated command, control, and

communications (C

) infrastructure to facilitate mission

execution.

The Soviets hoped that the synergy produced by

these factors would amount to an order-of-magnitude increase

in combat effectiveness.

The Soviets envisioned the future battlefield as a high-

intensity, dynamic, high-tempo, air-land operation extending

over vast land areas and space. The operation orchestrated

elements and preplanned fires, maneuver, counterattack forces,

and counterstrike forces. Maneuver and countermaneuver

ensured the viability of the defense and created conditions

favorable to a counteroffensive. Tempo allowed the Soviets to

counterattack into the operational depth of the enemy during

operational/strategic counteroffensives.

One finds an interesting characteristic of this doctrine

common to all Soviet military doctrine. That is, the defense

creates a favorable condition to culminate in an offensive.

Forces allotted to the defense remained secondary to the

counteroffensive, while operational reserves exploited the

counteroffensive. More than blunting an attack, the defense

became the means to seize the initiative from the aggressor,

creating conditions leading to the enemy’s defeat.

Counterstrike and preemption become keys to seizing the

initiative. Although a defensive doctrine highlighted this era,

maintaining offensive capability remained the essence of this

defensive doctrine. Therefore, one can view the ideas of the

“strategic defensive” and counteroffensive as the same

doctrinal concept.

Soviet Military Doctrine Stereotype

Throughout its evolution, Soviet military doctrine took on

certain primary characteristics, albeit in many forms. But in

looking at the doctrine closely, we see a persistent and

recurrent theme involving offensive action—the doctrinal

template the Soviets applied when the air phase of the Gulf

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War began in January 1991 and the comparative paradigm

they used to measure Western military performance against

their 40-year-old ideas about the nature of future war.

In the strategic-operational plan, the high command of

forces organized on one or more strategic axes in a TVD.

Operational commanders within this TVD aimed to destroy

the enemy and weaken his political alliances. The weakest

points of the enemy received the major blows, and in areas

likely to receive counterattacks, friendly forces built defenses.

Envelopment would destroy the enemy. The key to the

strategic-operational plan lay in achieving significant tactical

superiority in a strike sector where the main blow fell, while

accepting local inferiority in passive or secondary sectors not

coming under attack. Soviet military planners stressed that

only the offensive could achieve victory. Seizing the initiative

at the outset of hostilities, before the enemy could fully

deploy, offered the Soviets the best opportunity to mass forces

to break through the enemy’s prepared defenses.

The Offensive. Successful deep operations required

simultaneous fire suppression of the enemy throughout the

depth of the defense, rapid penetration, and high-speed, deep

attacks to achieve the objective as quickly as possible.

Motorized rifle, tank, and air-assault forces characterized these

high-speed strikes. Echeloning forces built pressure on the

weakest sector. Generally, combined-arms armies made up the

first echelon of a front, containing the bulk of its forces, with

tank armies normally in the second echelon. The mission of this

first echelon was to overcome the enemy’s defenses and attack

through to the immediate operational depths.

The front’s second echelon, normally one army, exploited

the success of the first echelon and continued the main

thrusts to the subsequent objective. Thus, a significant force

remained out of contact with the enemy until the first forces

in contact either reached their objective or achieved a

breakthrough. Echeloning served to ensure the availability of

freshly committed forces for exploitation.

Given the

importance that Soviet planners placed upon the attack, the

Soviets regarded the breakthrough as their center of gravity

upon which operational—and, by inference, strategic—

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objectives rested.

The second operational echelon contained

up to one-half of the entire front’s committed force to exploit

the breakthrough and advance into the enemy’s rear.

Air support of ground forces during the offensive consisted

of four stages. First, support of the movement forward called

for giving priority to deep targets, especially nuclear weapons,

enemy aircraft on airfields, and combat helicopters—forces

that might strike friendly forces far removed from the forward

edge of enemy defenses. The second stage occurred before the

onset of a ground offensive across a specified frontage. This

stage increased the mass of fires by combining artillery and

air strikes in the attack’s preparatory stage. An extension of

the second stage, the third stage provided direct support of

ground forces after the offensive started, concentrating on

targets beyond the range of frontal artillery. The Soviets called

the final stage the “air accompaniment.” It occurred during

the advanced stage of the offensive, when progress of the

ground forces had outstripped the prepared fire-support plan.

This stage ensured support of ground forces as they

penetrated the enemy’s defensive positions.

The Air Operation. Generally, strategic operations began

with an air offensive. As part of a strategic offensive operation,

an air operation functioned as a joint operation of all aviation

resources coordinated on an operational-strategic scale.

Air

operations entailed the aggregate of mass strikes, air

engagements, and successive actions coordinated and

conducted simultaneously—or successively—by air force

operational formations. They aimed to destroy enemy air as

well as operational and strategic reserves in the TVD.

Additionally, the air operation prevented enemy strategic

movement within the TVD and destroyed the enemy’s military

and economic potential.

Thus, the air operation attempted to destroy the enemy’s main

aviation groupings and create a favorable air situation. This

required air forces to seize the initiative, retain strike power,

provide freedom of movement to frontal forces, and guarantee

operational success. As the air operation concluded, aviation

units reverted to direct support of ground units.

The air

operation—the principal component of the total Soviet effort to

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negate enemy nuclear capability in the initial periods of a

conflict—sought to establish air superiority. It differed from

support of the general offensive because it did not occur

coincidentally with the advance of ground-maneuver forces.

Russian Impression of the Gulf War

Studying the Gulf War proved important for the Soviets as

they redefined their military doctrine. Unfortunately, however,

as Ben Lambeth says, “Operations Desert Shield and Desert

Storm occurred at a time when the Soviet political system was

hopelessly unsuited to profit from any teachings of the war

because of more pressing distractions, notably an economy in

ruin and the rapidly accelerating disintegration of the Soviet

Union.”

Despite the unpropitious political climate, the

military’s receptivity remained keen. After all, military history

and experience are key factors in the formulation of Soviet

doctrine. Unsurprisingly, then, lessons from the Gulf War

influenced the form that the new Russian military doctrine

eventually took. The Russians also used the Gulf War in

defining the nature of future war.

When the war began, the Soviet High Command set up a

special operations group “to gather, generalize, and assess

information received, and to evaluate the nature of the new

arms and equipment being used, forms and methods of

preparing and waging contemporary air-ground and amphibious

assault operations, the control and communications systems,

and questions of overall support.” General of the Army Mikhail

Moiseyev believed that the Gulf War served as a testing ground

for the military actions and state-of-the-art hardware of the

United States and NATO, and that the results would affect NATO

structure and equipment in the near future.

These forums combined internal and external analysis with

recommendations for doctrinal changes. David M. Glantz of

the Foreign Military Studies Office notes that the Soviet

General Staff’s assessment of the Gulf War followed six key

elements: (1) the initial period of war, (2) the likely intensity

and scale of combat, (3) the means (weaponry) employed, (4)

the consequences for the Soviet economy and population, (5)

the duration of the war, and (6) the influence of US and NATO

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doctrine on the Soviet doctrine of reasonable sufficiency.

Glantz notes that the Soviets found the Gulf War significant

because it “posed a new model of future combat in which the

new military-technical dynamics of conventional combat not

only have an impact upon the course and outcome of the

initial period of war in the theater of military operations, but

also have become synonymous with the very outcome of the

war itself.”

Strategy

To the Soviets, strategy linked political aims with the posture

of the military forces; it defined war’s conditions and

characteristics. Through strategy, the Soviets identified and

adapted experiences related to the preparation and conduct of

past wars with the study of future wars. Thus, the Gulf War was

not just an exercise in weapons evaluation but a necessary and

basic requirement of the Soviets’ strategy-formulation process.

The Gulf War altered their strategic concept about the

characteristics of the danger or threat, the nature of future war,

and the importance of the initial period of war.

For four decades, the Soviets’ military doctrine concerned

itself with opposing NATO. In evaluating the causes of the Gulf

War, the High Command drew several conclusions concerning

the West. It believed that the United States showed weakness in

signaling a warning to Saddam Hussein of its probable response

in late June 1990, when Iraq massed forces at the Kuwaiti

border. The High Command also believed that the failure of the

United Nations to act against aggression in South Lebanon and

Panama gave Saddam a false sense of security. Further, it

believed that the Western powers thought they could achieve

strategic goals through local conflicts, so that now they actually

encouraged war. In all these beliefs, the Soviets reinforced their

old mistrust of Western hegemony.

Maj Gen V. Zhurbenko, deputy head of the main department

of the Soviet General Staff, said in an interview with Tass that

the Gulf War was “without analog since World War II.”

Mary C.

FitzGerald points out that since Soviets structured the armed

forces according to their view of the nature of future war, their

military doctrine is “riveted to future military capabilities and

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environments” even in the era of “new thinking” and perestroika.

Under the influence of Marshal N. V. Ogarkov in the early

1980s, the Soviets began to focus on developing advanced

conventional munitions (ACM), directed-energy weapons, and

space-based systems. The Soviets became convinced of the

inevitability of wide-scale deployment of these weapons by their

opponents. Before the Gulf War, Soviet military theorists

envisioned a future war whose political-military objectives were

not driven by seizing territory but by destroying the opponent’s

military capability and infrastructure. To FitzGerald, the Gulf

War represented a confirmation of how the Soviets envisioned

future war. She notes three significant effects on Soviet military

thought. First, the Soviets saw a new arms race coming that

emphasized implementation of strategic mobilization and

deployments to theaters far from the homeland. Second, they

placed new emphasis on the role of surprise as the key to

victory, with airpower as the main means of achieving it. Finally,

the Soviets stressed that the Gulf War served as the prototype of

technological operations. They responded to the war as a

confirmation of Marshal Ogarkov’s ideas about technology, an

invalidation of the defensive doctrine of 1987, a redefinition of

deterrence in terms of nonnuclear parity, and a cause for

serious concerns about the future of US-Soviet arms

negotiations.

Soviet concepts of future war focused on keeping war

conventional. To achieve parity, the Soviets assumed that

having the same number of weapons as their adversary

created stability. For 40 years, they had emphasized quantity,

but in the 1980s Marshal Ogarkov emphasized quality and

high technology. He redefined the type of war the Soviets

might realistically envision and the adjustments they might

have to make to their military art.

The Gulf War heightened

and clarified the implication of future war and the

development of Soviet weapons.

Because the old idea of a military doctrine with little

flexibility to respond to a variety of threats was no longer

viable, the Soviets required a more varied force structure and

strategic posture. Rapid reaction rather than defensive parity

had to become the hallmark of Soviet strategy. Preparation for

future war would require greater flexibility and diversity in

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500

forces. Military scientists would have to rely on their creativity

and adaptability to new circumstances, despite economic and

political problems.

Local war rather than conflict between blocs of power in a

TVD replaced the Soviet view of the operational-strategic

scenario. Maj Gen Vladimir Slipchenko of the General Staff

noted that advanced-technology weapons created a military-

technical revolution in military affairs. He noted that future

wars would have “no front lines or flanks,” that enemy

territory would consist of “targets and nontargets,” and that

new technology would end wars quickly: “the political

structure will destroy itself, and there will be no need to

occupy enemy territory.”

The General Staff determined that local conflicts could lead

to strategic victories. Rather than an incremental

tactical-operational/strategic progression, strategic goals may

become the first ones attained in future war. The staff saw a

serious danger, since local conflicts generate a different set of

military-political objectives than do bloc struggles; thus, the

old concepts of struggles for national survival and

unconditional surrender were no longer operative. In many

ways, the Soviets saw this situation as a cause of direct US

involvement and of their own indirect involvement in a dispute

among Iraq, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia .

The General Staff argued that preemption offered the only

way to avoid defeat in progressively threatening situations

against a powerful opponent because the military would have

no time to develop a defensive phase while preparing for a

viable counteroffensive.

This course of action became

particularly important if the opponent waged an air operation

similar in size and scope to that in the Gulf War. The war

vividly displayed the new strategic importance of the initial

period. If the fighting involved high-tech precision munitions,

the Soviets realized that the initial period might decide the

war rather than simply influence its outcome and length.

Future weapons capitalized on the qualities of speed, mobility,

lethality, and accuracy, thereby significantly increasing the

value of two of the Soviets’ prized principles of war—surprise

and initiative. One General Staff officer observed that the

“war’s outcome was decided by gaining the initiative and

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winning air superiority; Hussein did not preempt and so he

lost!”

Security and support advanced from secondary to

strategic importance. General of the Army N. Klokotov noted

that “Iraq made a strategic error. Its forces were prepared for a

battle in which the means of ‘strike’ were preeminent. To

civilized states this is a thing of the past. Now not only means

of strike but also means of security such as reconnaissance,

radio-electronic warfare, means of guidance, and effective

defense are of prime importance. Therefore Iraq’s strike means

were unprotected.”

The Soviets said that the conduct of the air operation

represented the most important factor in changing the

relevance of the initial period. Lt Gen A. E. Maliukov, then

chief of staff of the Soviet air force, said that the Gulf War

confirmed the impact of aviation on tactical surprise and its

execution. Future war required an air capability to repel initial

attacks and then mount its own air offensive. The key, as the

Soviets defined the Gulf War, lay in protecting the control of

air forces and training air commanders to act independently.

Of all the Soviet statements made about the Gulf War, Lt

Gen A. I. Yevseyev’s proclamation for Soviet doctrine had no

precedent. In contrast to past wars, he noted that “the main

content of the initial period can be the delivery by the

belligerents of nuclear strikes or strikes with conventional

means of destruction . . . for achieving the war’s main

objectives.”

In the past, Soviet military theorists believed

that only nuclear weapons achieved a war’s main objective in

the initial period. To Soviet military theorists, the coalition

had achieved nuclear effects in the initial period by using

air-delivered, high-tech conventional weapons.

Operational Art

Operational art describes how Soviet forces are formed,

organized, and employed to achieve military strategy. Soviet

operational art, which encompasses the operational-level

commander’s sphere of actions, had become focused on speed,

mass, shock, and firepower of preeminent ground forces, with

other services in a supporting role. The success of the coalition

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air operation in the Gulf War caused Soviet military theorists to

reassess their old concept of operational art.

Airpower’s Role. One of the first assessments appearing in

the Soviet press addressed airpower’s ascendancy. The Soviets

noted that the priority of actions of the United States (and

possibly theirs, by inference) had changed. Tass military analyst

Vladimir Chernyshev commented, “The ‘classic’ form of combat

gave the main role to land forces in military actions, and the air

force supports them. Here [the Gulf War] everything has been

different: I would say the basic blows of strategic, decisive

significance were struck by the Air Forces.”

The Soviets saw the Gulf War as a repudiation of Giulio

Douhet’s ideas about airpower.

They did not feel that the Gulf

War justified building a force structure that emphasized

strategic bombardment; however, they felt they needed parity in

ground-air-space weapons to present a credible deterrent to a

potential threat.

Although the Soviets saw success in war as a

joint effort of all the services, General Maliukov found Douhet’s

ideas of attacks against industrial and population centers

relevant to the Gulf War’s outcome.

He viewed these strikes as

part of the psychological warfare to wear down the Iraqi people.

In the May 1991 issue of Voennaia mysl (Military Thought), he

said that the initial period of war confirmed the increased role of

aviation to combat power. The Gulf War confirmed the impact of

aviation on tactical surprise and its execution. More

importantly, he said that the defensive cast of Soviet military

doctrine implied an air capability able to repel initial attacks and

mount its own air operation. He went on to state that this would

occur only by protecting the control of the air and giving air

commanders the ability to operate independently.

General Maliukov also said that the Gulf War “constituted a

textbook example of what air supremacy means—both for the

country that gained it and for the country ceding it to the

opponent.” When asked whether he felt the war reflected a

practical application of the American doctrine of AirLand

Battle, he answered,

I do not think so. There was no classical “air-land battle.” Why? The

point is that this war—and here General [Michael] Dugan comes to

mind—was obviously conceived from the outset as an air war to wear

out the opponent by means of air strikes, disorganize his command

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systems, destroy his air defenses, and weaken the ground forces’

striking power. In terms of the choice of objectives, it was more a case

of a classic air offense. And these objectives were achieved. Broadly

speaking, this is the first time we have seen a war which aviation took

care almost entirely of all the main tasks.

The mobility, speed, and accuracy of modern weapons

systems are combat multipliers. This factor makes surprise

and initiative, especially in the initial period, the most

important of all military principles. During the Gulf War, the

Soviets defined coalition airpower as devastating. Maj Gen I.

Vorobyev, retired Soviet military scientist, underscored the

unique role of airpower when he said it played “the decisive

role . . . in destroying the enemy. . . . This has never been

demonstrated so clearly in any operation in the past.”

called for a “prompt and fundamental review of existing

[Soviet] ideas and propositions in the field of tactics and

doctrine,” noting that Iraq’s defeat was not caused by “any

weakness in weapons or combat equipment, but by the habit,

dogmatism, stereotype, and conventionalism in the leadership

of the troops. . . . And this is a graphic lesson for everybody.

This includes our armed forces”

(emphasis added).

On the

operational and tactical levels, the Iraqis made errors forced

on them by the loss of initiative and coalition air superiority.

The Soviets concluded that any force trying to defend without

mobility or without the ability to strike a maneuvering enemy

from the air would fail. Maneuvers by large ground forces

required air superiority. To a degree, aircraft assumed the

primary role as the most maneuverable and long-range means

of fighting, despite Iraq’s combat advantage in tanks.

The General Staff examined the air operation in the March

1991 issue of Morskoi sbornik (Naval Anthology). It stressed

that command of the air made a systematic air campaign

possible. In the initial period, the air campaign struck Iraqi

command and control (C

), air defense, and military-industrial

targets. Following the initial phase, the campaign shifted to

interdiction, seeking to isolate the region of combat

operations. Following the air interdiction (AI) phase, the center

of gravity for the air operation shifted to direct support of

ground forces. Capt First Rank K. Kzheb of the Soviet navy

outlined the coalition air operation: “The primary stake in the

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war was placed in the allies’ massive use of their airpower to

keep losses on the ground to an absolute minimum. The

immediate goal was to disarm, blind, deafen, and decapitate

the enemy from the very outset to achieve control of the air.

Then, allied airpower was applied at will to systematically

destroy the Iraqi strategic infrastructure and ‘isolate the area

of upcoming combat operations, along with concurrent

destruction of Iraq’s troops and military equipment.’ ”

Perhaps the strongest proponent of airpower’s role in the Gulf

War was General Slipchenko of the General Staff. He noted that

the coalition air campaign set the outcome from the opening

moments of the Gulf War, even intimating that the war had cast

serious doubt on the relevance of the ground forces as

traditionally structured. “The Gulf War supports the fact that air

strikes can by themselves form the basis of victory. . . . Airpower

was responsible for the victory, because air superiority altered

the complexion of the war from the very outset” (emphasis

added).

Force Structure. The principle of strategic posturing had

defined how the Soviets generated, positioned, and mobilized

forces. It called for forces capable of multidirectional fighting

and able to work with Warsaw Pact members; it also required

that they deploy in a fully developed TVD. Internal changes

within the Soviet Union and the demise of the Warsaw Pact,

however, invalidated this concept. With the bulk of the Soviet

forces undergoing redeployment, force structuring took on

new meaning as regards the concept of strategic security.

From the beginning of the Gulf War, coalition strategic

posturing impressed the Soviets. Initially, many Soviet officers

thought the coalition mission was impossible, given the

multiethnic makeup of the forces and the distances involved.

As the war went on, however, this opinion changed. The

Soviets cited coalition preparation and cooperation of the

forces as crucial to the victory. Further, examination of the

coalition heightened their awareness of a professional force.

The Soviets saw that coalition professionals performed much

better than Iraq’s conscript force.

Many General Staff

officers unanimously concluded that people controlling the

technology decided a war’s outcome more than the technology

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itself.

Gen N. Kutsenko of the General Staff expressed this

sentiment best in his assessment that “more depends on the

professional training of the people operating and servicing the

equipment than its quality; it is of decisive significance.”

With the initial period of war ascending to new importance,

the Soviets saw implications for their mobilization planning

and force structure. The coalition overcame distances through

extensive logistical support. For the Soviets, that placed a

premium on developing a rapid-deployment force to project

power and protect vital interests. By building a similar

capability, they believed they could deter local wars and began

reorganizing their forces into a rapid-reaction force.

The

General Staff argued that a key aspect of the coalition’s

success lay in its ability to transport people and equipment

halfway around the world through the close coordination of air

and sea transport.

Technology, Research, and Development. Col-Gen Y.

Shaposhnikov, commander in chief of the Soviet air force,

noted in an interview that the Gulf War gave the General Staff

an opportunity to observe and evaluate American airpower—

the first time that circumstances had allowed an assessment

under real combat conditions on such an unprecedented

scale. Dr. V. Tsygichko, head of Moscow’s National Security

and Strategic Stability Studies Center, admitted at a lecture at

Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe on 5 March

1991, that models run by the General Staff before the Gulf

War had grossly overestimated the coalition’s losses and failed

to predict the outcome. He blamed this failure on not having

reliable parameters to assign to the allied weapons, pointing

out that their models contained no factors to account for the

Iraqis’ poor discipline and morale. Finally, he noted that the

air campaign lasted considerably longer than most Soviet

analysts had predicted.

Of extreme importance, these models contained algorithms

based on the Soviets’ previous notions of the nature of future

war. The failure of the models repudiated the previous

doctrinal base for predicting what the nature of future war

might hold. Marshal S. Achromeyev supported Tsygichko’s

views by affirming that the Soviet estimates “were based on

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classic AirLand Battle doctrine.” Increasing the air campaign

to 40 days invalidated the projection models. Achromeyev

implied that the models had their basis in a Central European

scenario by stating, “The conduct of air operations of such

duration against an enemy approximately equal in strength

would have been impossible.”

The General Staff convened another roundtable in mid-

March 1991 to evaluate the performance of Soviet air defense

equipment in the Gulf War and to determine the effects on

research and development (R&D). Senior officers stifled the

formal presentations, trying to avoid criticism and contentious

issues. Consequently, some junior officers in attendance

noted that most of the interesting and compelling comments

occurred “in the lobby.” Some of the core issues they thought

needed attention included the “lamentable condition” of Soviet

military science and defense preparations and the failure of

their air defense organization (PVO) to provide them with “the

most modern systems available.” They also commented about

the need to replace “obsolete models of weapons that

accomplish little, as evidenced by the Gulf War.”

Influenced by the coalition’s success in the Gulf War, Defense

Minister Andrei S. Grachev listed the following seven priority

items for continued R&D: highly mobile troops; army aviation;

long-range ACMs; command, control, communications, and

intelligence (C

I) systems; space systems; air defense systems;

and strategic arms.

As a result of the General Staff’s analysis

of the Gulf War, political and military leaders reached a

consensus on maintaining R&D at the expense of procurement,

as the Russian defense budget shrinks. The Russians believe

they cannot “be second best” in stealth and ACMs,

noting that

they were seven to 10 years behind in the latter.

After talking to the editorial staff of Voennaia mysl in April

1992, Ben Lambeth deduced some broad outlines of the High

Command’s thinking as regards the meaning of Operation

Desert Storm. Four recurrent themes emerged that should

affect R&D: (1) the broadened role played by conventional

airpower in deciding war’s outcome; (2) the criticality of good

training and operator proficiency in getting the most out of

modern weaponry; (3) the disproportionate leverage offered by

high-tech weapons as a force multiplier; and (4) the meaning

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of these and related findings for future Russian defense

planning and policy.

According to Lambeth, the Russians

concluded that the nature of modern war had changed

radically in the last few years, noting that although airpower

might not win a war by itself, it had become the decisive force

which permitted the attainment of victory, yet kept friendly

losses to a minimum. Their assessment contained radical

ideas for planners of Russian military doctrine:

• The Soviet concept of redundant, overlapping, and

integrated air defenses contained serious flaws.

• Tanks become an endangered species without control of

the air.

• Quality beats quantity, but one must have enough of it to

matter.

• Coalition warfare works, but it’s difficult to conduct.

• Soviet concepts of offensive air operations need revision.

• Top-down centralization remains critical to effective combat

operations, but it must have flexibility in execution.

• Hardened shelters no longer shelter.

• Stealth is the wave of the future.

• Ground warfare, as well as air, has undergone a technical

revolution.

• The end of the cold war made Gorbachev’s defensive

doctrine obsolete.

On 8 February 1989, Colonel-General Moiseyev, first deputy

defense minister and chief of the USSR Armed Forces General

Staff, declared his candidacy as a USSR people’s deputy from

the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). He focused

part of his campaign on changing the military doctrinal-review

process to give it greater meaning in the General Staff.

Additionally, his comments seemed to possess clear foresight

in describing the doctrinal review process that followed the

Gulf War two years later. His campaign speech noted that “it

appears that we should also revise our attitudes toward work

on long-term problems. . . . But responsibility for the end

results [of the General Staff] has been understated. The

situation is different now. . . . Many difficult problems that the

troops are encountering today can be traced back, with careful

analysis, to our lack of foresight, our shortsightedness. . . . The

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new nature of the tasks now being resolved requires the

development of creative activeness on the part of all

directorates and every official; it requires initiative and

inquisitiveness in work.”

Emerging Russian Post–Gulf War

Military Doctrine

The Soviets had to respond to many internal and external

political, economic, and social disruptions in the late 1980s

and early 1990s, one such response involving a review and

revision of their military doctrine. The “crowning blow” may

have been their reaction to the Gulf War in light of all the

other internal and external changes under way. The Gulf War

showed that planning for a counterattack, as Gorbachev’s

defensive doctrine dictated, required the Soviets to react

instead of act. To the Soviets, this was an unacceptable form

of action in light of their Gulf War assessment of an era of

high-tech weapons.

In May 1992, the Russian High Command released a new

draft of military doctrine by publishing it in Voennaia mysl,

their foremost armed forces theoretical journal.

In November

1993, the Russians formalized this effort by releasing the

approved doctrine in Rossiyskiye Vesti (Russian News).

The

new doctrine established the prevention of war as the

fundamental goal of security policy of the Russian Federation.

It also established a system of views regarding the

organization of the armed forces, the country’s defense

preparations, the countermeasures to threats to the state’s

military security, and the utilization of the armed forces of the

Russian Federation. As in prior military doctrines of the

former Soviet Union, the effort stated that one carries out the

provisions of military doctrine by means of the “coordinated

measures of a political, economic, legal, and military nature

with the participation of all organs of state power and

administration, public organizations, and citizens of the

Russia Federation.”

Military doctrine within the Russian

Federation derived its force of law from the agreement and

approval of the state’s legislative body, the Congress of

People’s Deputies.

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The Threat

The new military doctrine listed several scenarios that

future war might take. It placed primary emphasis on meeting

threats that endangered Russian sovereignty or territory—

either autonomously or as part of the Confederation of

Independent States (CIS). It also noted that hostilities might

result from economic or political pressure from a major

power.

In the past, figuring out the character of a threat

normally fell to Marxist-Leninist ideology within the

sociopolitical dimension of military doctrine.

Although it did not specifically identify potential enemies, the

new doctrine listed several factors that could lead to conflict,

describing them as possible sources of “military danger.”

First,

the Russians viewed NATO’s military power and the American

presence in Europe and the Far East as their greatest potential

danger.

Second, the doctrine examined the anxiety over the

rise of global or regional powers, especially Germany, Japan,

Iran, and Turkey. Third, the doctrine noted the pressure exerted

by the leverage that Western economics might create against the

Russian government. Last, it echoed the concern over America’s

exerting military power beyond its borders to further the aims of

foreign policy.

The doctrine also described two direct threats to

Russia: (1) the introduction of foreign troops into any of its

adjacent states—a concept similar to the stereotypical direct

threat to Rodina

and (2) the buildup of air, naval, and ground

forces near Russian borders.

View of Future War

According to the new doctrine, local wars represented the

most probable type of conflict. Large-scale conventional war

could occur when local hostilities directed against the Russian

Federation, the CIS, or other states close to Russia ’s borders

escalated into full-fledged coalition war. This evolution to

conventional warfare followed a fairly prolonged threat period

and general mobilization.

According to this scenario, large-scale intervention by the

West against the CIS or Russia could occur with either long or

short warning. The hostility probably would occur in two

phases. First, the enemy would attack with combined naval

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and air offensive strikes at important economic and military

targets, using PGMs and electronic jamming. These attacks

would disable Russian command centers and prevent reserve

mobilization and force deployment. The opening attacks would

attempt to force an early withdrawal of Russia’s allies and

least reliable coalition partners from the war. The second

phase of the war would include an intense ground campaign

conducted under the cover of powerful and decisive air forces.

In many ways, the new military doctrine rehashed the factors

that won the Great Patriotic War—repulse of a massive

conventional invasion requiring full mobilization of all the

state’s resources.

The Gulf War motivated the Russians to redefine aggression

and make adjustments to their fundamental ideas about

operational art. The doctrine listed primary tasks to safeguard

military security when war threatened or seemed imminent.

For the military, such tasks included mobilizing and

equipping forces to repulse and defeat an aggressor.

Force Structure and Priorities

The new doctrine contained guidance for the composition

and priorities of Russian armed forces. It specified enough

forces in permanent readiness to deter and repel local

aggression. Further, the doctrine identified mobile reserves

capable of rapid response and deployment to repel midlevel

aggression when combined with the ready forces. Last, it

required strategic reserves to conduct large-scale combat

actions. The top priority task for all forces entailed developing

and exploiting “the emerging high precision, mobile, highly

survivable, long-range, stand-off weapons.”

The Russians’ second priority was also directly linked to the

military-technical aspect of military doctrine. The new

doctrine specified “arms, equipment, and C

I systems whose

qualities allow a reduced quantity of arms” and called for

reducing serial production while maintaining research,

development, and production capabilities that rapidly surge

the emerging technologies (emphasis added).

100

The new doctrine saw the role of the Russian armed forces

as defeating missile attacks, protecting strategic targets such

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as administration and industrial infrastructure, and carrying

out retaliatory strikes.

101

Defeating surprise aviation-missile

attacks represented a new strategic concept to the Russians.

They saw Desert Storm as a new type of combat—the electronic

fire operation—consisting of surprise attacks involving massed

and prolonged missile, aerospace, electronic, and naval strikes

conducted for several days or weeks. Further, the Russians

thought that by disrupting the military-economic capability to

ensure victory in political and economic arenas, these

operations would deny the enemy the ability to continue the war

and reconstitute his forces. Unlike massed ground warfare,

these attacks did not aim to seize and occupy land.

Differences with Pre–Gulf War Military Doctrine

C. J. Dick points out that the new draft military doctrine

was drawn up by a General Staff that had not “undergone a

revolution of the mind and who, far from being in tune with

Gorbachevian ‘new thinking’ were still unreconstructed Cold

War warriors paying lip service to perestroika while trying to

preserve the old system as far as they could.” This situation

divorced the new military doctrine from government policy and

reality. In many ways, the new doctrine resembled the old,

viewing the world through a distorted prism. It remained

hostile to the West—implicitly, if not explicitly. Even after four

years of internal political, economic, ideological, and social

strife, the new military doctrine persisted in worst-case

analysis. According to Dick, the Russian military failed to

recognize this approach as a major cause of the collapse of the

Soviet economy in the first place.

102

In a marked departure from the pre–Gulf War Gorbachev

era, the new doctrine made no provision for restricting the

scale or depth of the Russian army’s counteroffensive.

Additionally, it made no explicit references to defensive

strategy or defensive operations. In many ways, the new

military doctrine reminded one of Brezhnev doctrine, albeit a

high-tech version. But it differed significantly from that of the

Gorbachev era in several other ways. Specifically, the old

doctrine had emphasized the prevention of war by repelling

aggression, and the new doctrine specified optimized forces for

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512

all possible wars and combat missions.

103

The new doctrine’s

main objective entailed “localiz[ing] a seat of tension and

terminat[ing] military operations at the earliest possible stage

in the interests of creating preconditions . . . on conditions

that accord with the interests of the Russian Federation. . . .

The forms, methods and means of conducting combat

operations that best accord with the prevailing situation and

ensure that the initiative is seized and the aggressor defeated

must be chosen.”

104

Under Gorbachev’s military doctrine, reasonable sufficiency

meant conducting no large-scale conventional operations.

Under the new doctrine, however, the conventional-sufficiency

provision provided for additional deployments, making

large-scale conventional operations possible and clearly

rejecting Gorbachev’s prohibition against large-scale

conventional offensives.

105

Gorbachev’s doctrine stressed

repulsing an aggressor and forming subsequent defensive

actions based on the nature of the enemy’s operations. The

new military doctrine amplified an old theme—destruction of

the enemy.

The new military doctrine viewed nuclear war as an

extension of large-scale conventional operations. Thus, it saw

conventional “smart” weapon attacks against C

facilities,

storage depots for chemical and biological weapons, nuclear

energy and research facilities, and nuclear forces themselves

in the same light as releasing weapons of mass destruction

and inviting retaliation in kind. This perspective significantly

departed from a major tenet of the Gorbachev doctrine, which

held that nuclear war will be catastrophic. The new doctrine

refined this assumption to might be catastrophic. The old

doctrine discussed nuclear war as global in nature—

attempting to limit it to specific regions would prove almost

impossible. In the new doctrine, however, both concepts were

missing, insofar as Russia refuted its commitment to no first

use of nuclear weapons, seeing limited regional nuclear war as

a possibility.

106

Doctrinal statements clearly reflect the lessons of the Gulf

War. Specifically, the new doctrine expects Russian

commanders to balance troop training in both defensive and

offensive operations, hold the country’s vital areas, restore the

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status quo along its borders, and eventually rout the enemy.

Gorbachev’s earlier military doctrine espoused more modest

terms of cessation to hostilities. The pre–Gulf War doctrine

specifically addressed partial victory, enemy withdrawal, and

restoration of peace. The new doctrine’s resurrected idea of

“total victory” incorporates traditional Soviet thinking that

prevailed well into the late 1980s.

Most important of all, the new doctrine stressed the decisive

importance of the initial period of war.

107

In Desert Storm, the

Russians saw the initial period consisting of air strikes aimed

at disrupting enemy strategic deployments, disorganizing

civilian and military C

I, and collapsing any enemy coalition.

The Russians’ new doctrine specifies the destruction of

economic and military targets by ACMs simultaneously or

preemptively with electronic warfare.

108

Of significance is the

Russians’ new belief that ACMs could accomplish missions

once thought possible only by nuclear weapons. To the

Russians, superiority in EW and C

I are necessary and

sufficient to ensure victory in warfare.

109

Both the Gorbachev doctrine and the new military doctrine

stress the need to obtain high-technology weapons and

maintain a mass-mobilization capability. Neither doctrine

seems to accept the social, economic, and political reality that

might stand in the military’s way of carrying out that doctrine.

C. J. Dick aptly cites the Russian General Staff for living in an

“Alice in Wonderland world,” reinforced by its assertion that

force reductions can take place only when the right military-

technical, economic, and social conditions are created.

110

Analysis and Implications

In the early 1980s, Marshal Ogarkov argued that emerging

technologies were generating a new revolution in military

affairs.

111

The Russians’ response to Desert Storm and their

reformed military doctrine seem to confirm Ogarkov’s

predictions by (1) reverting from a defensive to an offensive

preemptive position; (2) reverting from no nuclear first use to

a possibility of nuclear escalation; (3) guaranteeing the 25

million ethnic Russians living in former Soviet states

protection from any kind of retaliation; (4) emphasizing the

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importance of military advancement in command, control,

communications, computers, and intelligence (C

I), smart

weapons, and increased mobility; and (5) emphasizing

strategic nonnuclear deterrent forces.

Several factors contributed to evolving Russian military

doctrine: the explosion of nationalism in the face of

communism’s collapse, the diminished role of the military in

developing policy, and Russian loss in controlling the direction

of the CIS. Clearly, the new doctrine represents the Russians’

response to what they saw in the Gulf War, especially the

impact of airpower on its outcome. More than just a response

to social, political, and economic changes, the new doctrine

represents the reemergence of the Russian military as a policy

developer in the new state. The Russians saw the Gulf War as

a new form of war, involving the decisive use of surprise and

high-tech systems. More importantly, they saw the initial

period of war change from a preparatory phase to perhaps its

only phase, in which airpower’s role had become dominant.

Because their doctrine proved inadequate for building on the

Desert Storm experience, they changed it to address their

lessons of the Gulf War.

They did so because they saw that deep first strikes with

technologically superior weapons could achieve strategic

objectives quickly and inexpensively. Thus, the Russians

reverted to a revisionist military doctrine, reinforcing their

earlier ideas about the preeminence of the offense. The Gulf

War cleared their perception and put security threats in a

different light: the need to protect their interests following “the

breakup of the former Soviet Union, the loss of their former

allies, the emergence of new hotbeds of military tensions along

their southern borders, and the deterioration of the internal

political and social fabric” of their country.

112

Lambeth is

correct when he points out that the fate of the Russian

military remains “inseparably tied to the political and

economic fate of post-Soviet Russia.”

113

During the final days of the Soviet Union, defense outlays

fell more than 23 percent—2.3 million rubles—from the 1990

levels. In 1992 the Russians redirected about 70 percent of

their defense budget into the social sector. Additionally,

Russian politicians programmed almost 70 percent of the

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remaining defense budget for construction of military family

housing to solve critical shortages and fund social programs for

badly deprived military personnel. By late 1993 the promised

military funding allocations were more than three trillion rubles

in arrears. To compensate for declining investment in military

equipment, the Russian military bartered first-line arms for

capital to augment its declining operations and maintenance

costs.

114

Jacob Kipp points out that the Russian military was

using many of the arms sales and barters to pay for the cost of

demobilization.

115

Yet, the defense minister claimed that the

Russian army would “eventually have the most advanced

weapons,”

116

while at the same time the economic crisis

compelled the Russians to cut their military force structure

considerably—to as low as 1.5 million.

117

Clearly, it is a long

way from bartering for operations and maintenance funds back

to military superpower status.

In the new military doctrine, the General Staff all but

ignores political instability from within and prepares to fight

an air-space war against a major adversary. To many military

and civilian leaders, this strategy represents the Russians’

clearest chance at maintaining military superpower status. In

the near term, they will rely on countering the US air-space

domination of air-space technology—namely cruise missiles,

space sensors, stealth, and so forth. For the long term, they

plan to build the infrastructure capable of producing the

advanced technologies they need for the Russian armed

forces. Somewhere in between is what Mary FitzGerald calls

the “transition period,” with its reliance on limited nuclear war

to deter and defeat worse-case threats. Given the Russians’

analysis from the Gulf War that they lag the United States in

weapons technology, their policy of nuclear first use makes

sense. The revolution in military technology meant that the

Russian Federation would no longer hold its own in a

conventional conflict with the United States. What better way

to avert military disaster than to convince their adversary that

Russia would use nuclear weapons from the very outbreak of

war? This tactic provides protection only in the near term and

does not solve Russia’s other problems with military

technology.

118

In short, this threat of a return to massive

retaliation may have a healthy component of deception,

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designed to delay the outbreak of a conflict until Russia

masters new advances in warfare.

According to Andrei Kokoshin, civilian deputy defense

minister in charge of Russia’s military-industrial complex

(VPK), the new doctrine focuses R&D efforts to create a

“scientific-technical reserve in critical technologies.”

119

The

new doctrine reduces serial production but maintains R&D

and production capacity to rapidly surge new technology when

required. This allows the R&D effort to “hover,” so that the

defense industry can leap over a generation of weapons by

focusing on prototypes. Their own analysis of the Gulf War

should have taught the Russians that future war will be short

and decisive and will have a fairly short notice. Even the

five-month buildup and redeployment during Operation

Desert Shield proved fairly rapid, given the amount of material

and personnel involved. Relying on hovering assumes that

Russia will have sufficient strategic warning to change

prototypes and hovered technology into weapons for

employment. The timing of future war may leave the Russians

no time to turn technological potential into weapons reality.

120

It is one thing to possess the R&D but another matter to turn

that into weapons production.

One cannot discuss Soviet/Russian military doctrine apart

from the political structure from which it is derived. The new

doctrine still implies that the political-social means give the

military doctrine form; however, it completely ignores political

means for preventing war. It never mentions crisis

management or war termination. As in the Great Patriotic

War, destruction of the enemy and victory become possible

only when armed force carries out the will of the state. The

force structure needed to station forces forward to protect

borders and the capital expenditure for high-tech weapons

should cause concern to Russia as it tries to rebuild its

economy. To carry out this new military doctrine, Russia will

need to spend on the military as it did before, risking the

same economic disaster. In the new Russian military lexicon,

the idea of “geopolitics” replaces that of the domination of the

political-social component of military doctrine. This change

amplifies the Russians’ primary focus on threats nearer to

their own borders, with aggression from former Soviet states

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and forces within Russian autonomous regions taking on

added importance.

Perhaps even more perplexing, the new military doctrine

identifies factors beyond those discussed in the former

versions. The new doctrine’s identification of rights of Russian

citizens in foreign states, external political pressure, and

economic pressure as an excuse for war is most troubling.

121

Speaking in February 1994, President Yeltsin called Russia

the “guarantor of stability” throughout the former Soviet

Union, saying that the fate of ethnic Russians living in

neighboring states was “our national concern. . . . When it

comes to violations of the lawful rights of Russian people, this

is not the exclusive internal affair of some country, but also

our national affair, an affair of our state.”

122

He warned East

European countries not to join NATO without Russia. Further,

he noted that Russia ’s foreign policy sought to promote the

country’s own interests. Surely, Russia’s neighbors will worry

about these ill-defined rights and the use of military force.

Everywhere one looks in Russia today, the military is

implementing ambitious plans to reshape its forces. Clearly,

economics and the demise of the Soviet Union forced a good

deal of this restructuring on the Russian military. In many

cases, the final force structure was determined by what the

Russians could afford—not what their new doctrine

advocated. The Russian air force is a case in point.

123

The new

structure makes the once powerful air defense forces extinct,

with their combat elements absorbed by the Russian air force.

The surface-to-air units of the defense forces will go to the

ground forces. The independent air armies of the Supreme

High Command are restructured into territorial commands, in

which frontal aviation forces will also reside. This

reorganization fractures the Russians’ air forces vertically and

horizontally at the exact time their new doctrine reinforces

what they say they learned about airpower from the Gulf War.

With the new doctrine focused on threats from the “near

abroad,”

124

army mobile forces have emerged as preeminent.

Thus, the Russians reverted to a military functional

structure based on their stereotypical operational art.

Although they recognize that Western airpower and space

power represent the primary threat to Russian joint combat

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operations, practical Russian airpower theory plays down its

independent role in combat operations, thus emphasizing its

support of ground operations. Regardless of emerging aerospace

technology, then, Russian airpower will remain fragmented.

Clearly, the new doctrine gives the Russian military exactly

the theoretical base it always wanted. By 1991 the Russian

military had become institutionally paralyzed. The new thinking

under Gorbachev led to radical changes in security policy that

proved increasingly untenable. In 1987 the Ministry of Defense

began subverting and resisting Gorbachev’s changes to a

defensive posture. In effect, progressive dissolution of political

controls over the military emancipated the General Staff to act,

first covertly and then openly, in revising doctrine to its former

offensive high. As Communist Party control atrophied, the

General Staff increasingly expanded its influence over politicians

and elevated its standing with President Yeltsin by putting down

the “White House” revolt. Col-Gen Igor Rodionov’s opposition to

Russia’s first doctrinal draft, which refuted the first use of

nuclear weapons, eliminated defensive sufficiency, and refined

the nature of future war, indicated the rise of the Russian

military in political stature and control. The net result is a

politicized Russian military. Rather than accept tenets of

doctrine passed to it from its political masters, as in the past,

the military formed its own doctrinal ideas and passed them to

the politicians for approval. More importantly, Rodionov’s

success in changing the doctrine to a more provocative and

revisionist view by carrying it from a defensive to an offensive

posture, shows how far the politicization process may already

have come. The Russian military is now a developer of doctrine—

not just an implementer, as in the past. The emergence of an

offensively structured doctrine dramatically displays the

commitment that Yeltsin is willing to make to the military.

Today, the pressing demands of military housing and social

crisis within its forces preoccupy the Russian military. Force

modernization, training, tactics, and other mission-related

concerns remain on the back burner. Clearly, the new military

doctrine shows that the Russians became excessively

impressed and concerned about the technological wizardry

unleashed during Desert Storm. Preoccupied with looking

outward, they neglected to look inward at the contribution

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made by the former Soviet military to the collapse of the Soviet

Union and the Warsaw Pact.

In essence, Russian military doctrine lacks reality. Any

analyst reading the new doctrine must wonder whether the

Russians learned any lesson at all from the collapse of the

USSR, the Warsaw Pact, and the Russian economy. Even

though the populace of the former Soviet Union rejected the

military’s perception of the requirements for defense, the

Russian Federation General Staff seems determined to

continue chasing that chimera. At a time when Russians are

seeking help from the West to stimulate their economy and

social structure, one wonders about the Russian General

Staff’s grasp of reality—namely, Russia’s status in the world,

the condition of the CIS, and the domestic situation. A close

reading of the Russian Federation’s draft military doctrine

shows a clear danger of Russian military policy moving

divergently from foreign and domestic policies.

Notes

1. Charles Dick, “Russian Views on Future Wars,” Jane’s Intelligence

Review, September 1993, 390.

2. M. A. Gareev, “On Military Doctrine and Military Reform in Russia,”

Journal of Soviet Military Studies, December 1992, 540.

3. Doctrine (voennaia doctrina), as defined by the Soviets, has two

important framing aspects: sociopolitical and military-technical. The

military policy of the Communist Party expressed the sociopolitical aspect,

based on a classic Marxist-Leninist view of the world. Its ideas about the

political essence of modern war stemmed from the nature of the Soviet state

and social system, and from historical principles of military organizational

development. It took account of the international correlation of forces and a

scientifically based thesis on the psychological and moral-political nature of

the people.

The military-technical aspect determines the character of the military

threat and the type of armed struggle to be fought. It serves as the basis for

determining defense requirements and needs of the armed forces. Further,

it establishes the means to conduct armed struggle and prepare the armed

forces to accomplish their missions and tasks. See Timothy L. Thomas, “The

Soviet Military on ‘Desert Storm’: Redefining Doctrine?” Journal of Soviet

Military Studies, December 1991, 594–620; Soviet Studies Research Centre,

The Sustainability of the Soviet Army in Battle (Sandhurst, United Kingdom:

Royal Military Academy, 1986), 4–32; and The Voroshilov Lectures: Materials

from the Soviet General Staff Academy, ed. Graham H. Turbiville Jr. and

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comp. Ghulam D. Wardak, vol. 1, Issues of Soviet Military Strategy

(Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1989), 380–84.

4. The Voroshilov Lectures, vol. 1, 385.

5. Benjamin Lambeth, How to Think about Soviet Military Doctrine (Santa

Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1978), 4.

6. Charles J. Dick, “Initial Thoughts on Russia’s Draft Military

Doctrine,” Journal of Soviet Military Studies, December 1992, 552.

7. Strategy dealt with the preparation, timing, and execution of strategic

operations by groups of fronts in separate or adjacent theaters of military

operations (TVD); operational art concerned actions of fronts and other

operational groupings. TVD is a Russian acronym for Teatr voenykh deistvii.

In the Soviet context, front describes an organization of tactical units into

an operational-level force structure. Fronts are created from combined-arms

armies, tank armies, and front air armies. In the Soviet lexicon, the term

describes force structure, organization, and strategic mission instead of a

geographical area. See The Voroshilov Lectures, vol. 1, 357–68.

8. Ibid., 55–59.

9. Thomas, 595.

10. John G. Hines and Donald Mahoney, Defense and Counteroffensive

under the New Soviet Military Doctrine (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1991), 13.

11. The “initial period of war” occurs when operations are carried out by

those forces deployed before the outbreak of war to achieve the initial

strategic objectives or to create favorable conditions for the committal of

main forces which are mobilizing and deploying during the initial period.

Dick, “Initial Thoughts,” 555.

12. M. V. Gareyev, “Frunze—Military Theorist,” in Hines and Mahoney, 13.

13. Michael MccGwire, “Soviet Military Doctrine: Contingency Planning

and the Reality of the World War,” Survival, May–June 1980, 107, 112.

14. One analyst stated that “lessons learned by the Soviet military

leadership during World War II . . . provided the most important impetus to

the development of modern Soviet military doctrine.” See William Schneider

Jr., “Soviet General-Purpose Forces,” Orbis, Spring 1977, 96.

15. Dr. Jonathan R. Adelman, “The Evolution of Soviet Military Doctrine,

1945–84,” Air University Review, March–April 1985, 28.

16. V. D. Sokolovskii, Soviet Military Strategy, trans. Herbert Dinerstein,

Leon Gourè, and Thomas Wolfe (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall,

1963), 83.

17. S. N. Kozlov, The Officer’s Handbook: A Soviet View, trans.

multilingual section, secretary of state, government of Canada (Washington,

D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1971), 29.

18. Marshal V. D. Sokolovskii pointed out that “armed conflict in ground

theaters would also be different,” predicting that missile attacks would

become the primary means of defeating an enemy’s ground forces, missiles,

tanks, and aircraft. He saw nuclear weapons as the primary means of

resolving combat in a TVD. Sokolovskii, 299, 306.

19. The Voroshilov Lectures, vol. 1, 263–76.

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20. S. Biryuzov, “The Lessons of the Beginning Period of the Great

Patriotic War,” Soviet Military Review, no. 8 (1964): 26.

21. M. Povaliy, “Development of Soviet Military Strategy,” Soviet Military

Review, February 1967, 70.

22. The Voroshilov Lectures, vol. 1, 382.

23. Hines and Mahoney, 7.

24. B. Samorukov, “Combat Operations Involving Conventional Means of

Destruction,” Soviet Military Review, August 1976, 28–30.

25. Adelman, 33.

26. Quoted in Dr. Robert F. Miller, “Echoes of Perestroika,” Pacific

Defense Reporter, December 1989–January 1990, 7.

27. Graham T. Allison Jr., “Testing Gorbachev,” Foreign Affairs, Fall

1988, 23–26.

28. Andrew C. Goldberg, “The Present Turbulence in Soviet Military

Doctrine,” Washington Quarterly, Summer 1988, 164–67.

29. Raymond L. Garthoff, “New Thinking in Soviet Military Doctrine,”

Washington Quarterly, Summer 1988, 137–41.

30. Dimitriy Yazov, “Interview with General Yazov,” Danas, 15 November

1989, 54–58, in Joint Publications Research Service (JPRS), JPRS-UMA-

89-002-L, 19 January 1989, 8.

31. Hines and Mahoney, 100.

32. Boll uses evidence from Soviet and East German archives to make

clear that the Soviets’ war plans were clearly offensive at a time when their

“official” doctrine was defensive. He implies that at the operational, tactical,

and training levels, the Soviet and Warsaw Pact militaries disregarded the

defensive doctrine imposed by Gorbachev. See Michael M. Boll, “By Blood,

Not Ballots: German Unification, Communist Style,” Parameters, Spring

1994, 71–75.

33. Lt Col Lester W. Grau, “Continuity and Change: A Soviet General

Staff View of Future Theater War,” Military Review, December 1991, 13–17.

34. Marshal Ogarkov had seen this technological advantage coming for

the West as early as 1984:

Rapid changes in the development of conventional means of de-

struction and the emergence in developed countries of

automated reconnaissance-strike complexes; long-range, highly

accurate, terminally guided combat systems; remotely piloted

vehicles; and quantitatively new electronic control systems make

many types of weapons global and make it possible to increase

sharply (by at least an order of magnitude) the destructive poten-

tial of conventional weapons bringing them closer in terms of

effectiveness to weapons of mass destruction. The sharply in-

creased range of conventional weapons makes it possible to

extend combat not just to the border regions, but to the territory

of the entire country. This was not possible in past wars. This

qualitative leap in the development of conventional means of

destruction will inevitably entail a change in the nature of the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

522

preparation and conduct of operations, which will in turn prede-

termine the possibility of conducting military operations using

conventional systems in qualitatively new, incomparably more

destructive forms than before.

Quoted in I. Rodionov, “Approaches to Russian Military Doctrine,” Koen-

naya mysl, special edition, July 1992, in JPRS-UMT-92-012-L.

35. Vitaly Shabanov, “USSR Deputy Defense Minister for Armaments:

The Country’s Defense—New Approaches,” Krasnaya zvezda, 18 August

1989, in Foreign Broadcast Information Service (Soviet Union)

(FBIS-SOV)-89-160, 21 August 1989, 119–22.

36. M. A. Moiseyev, “From Defense Doctrine Positions: Colonel-General

M. A. Moiseyev, Candidate USSR People’s Deputy Meets Communists from

the USSR Armed Forces General Staff,” Krasnaya zvezda, 10 February

1989, in FBIS-SOV-89-028, February 1989, 77–81.

37. Ibid., 79.

38. John Erickson, “The Soviets: More Isn’t Always Better,” Military

Logistics Forum, September–October 1984, 59–60.

39. US Army, Soviet Armed Forces (Carlisle, Pa.: War College Press,

1988), 46.

40. John Erickson, Lynn Hansen, and William Schneider, Soviet Ground

Forces: An Operational Assessment (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1986),

214–18.

41. I. Krupchenko, “Methods of Exploitation in the Operational Depth

with Forces of Tank Armies and Tank and Mechanized Corps,” Soviet

Military Historical Journal, 1981, 70–81.

42. A. I. Radzievskiy, Army Operations, ed. and trans. Soviet Studies

Research Center (Sandhurst, United Kingdom: Soviet Studies Research

Center, 1977), 61.

43. Field Manual (FM) 100-2-1, “The Soviet Army: Operations and

Tactics,” final draft, 18 June 1990, 11-3 through 11-4, 11-24 through

11-27.

44. Philip A. Peterson and John R. Clark, “Soviet Air and Anti-Air

Operations,” Air University Review, March–April 1985, 42.

45. The Voroshilov Lectures, vol. 1, 315–16.

46. Ibid., 312–13.

47. Benjamin Lambeth, Desert Storm and Its Meaning: The Viewpoint

from Moscow (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1992), v.

48. In fact, Gen V. Lobov, former chief of staff of the Warsaw Pact, said

that the Gulf War would give NATO an “unfair” advantage, pointing out that

the Warsaw Pact was in the process of dissolution, but NATO had the

opportunity to test weapons in the Gulf: “The fact alone that the Warsaw

Pact will soon disappear but NATO will remain means that there is no

longer any parity.” See Brigitta Richter, “Interview with General V. Lobov,

Warsaw Pact Chief of Staff: The War Has Become a Means of Destroying

Iraq,” Der Morgen, 18 February 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-036, 22 February

1991, 81.

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49. Mikhail Moiseyev, “On Occasion of an Anniversary,” Krasnaya

zvezda, 29 February 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-041, 1 March 1991, 53.

50. David M. Glantz, “Soviet Military Art: Challenges and Change in the

1990s,” Journal of Soviet Military Studies, December 1991, 558, 565.

51. See Jacob Kipp, “First Lessons of the War,” Foreign Military Studies

Office (FMSO) Daily Bulletin, 22 July 1991; and S. Korolev, “In Too Much of

a Hurry with the Bombing,” Rabochaia tribuna, 29 January 1991, in

FBIS-SOV-91-023, 4 February 1991, 17.

52. Oleg Moskovskiy, “Interview with Major General V. Zhurbenko, Chief

of the Main Department, USSR Armed Forces General Staff,” Tass, 26

February 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-038, 26 February 1991, 11.

53. Mary C. FitzGerald, “The Soviet Military and the New Air War in the

Persian Gulf,” Airpower Journal, Winter 1991, 65–66, 76–77.

54. Mary C. FitzGerald, “Russia’s New Military Doctrine,” Military

Intelligence, October–December 1992, 24–26.

55. Thomas, 615.

56. V. Slipchenko, “Soviet Officers’ Visit to Army War College,” Soviet

Army Studies Office Network (SASONET) report (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.:

Foreign Military Studies Office, 25 March 1991).

57. Thomas, 602.

58. See Nikolay Buryga, “Interview with General V. Gorbachev . . . Tanks

Will Not Save the Day,” Izvestiya, 21 January 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-014,

22 January 1991, 18–19.

59. Nikolay Buryga, “Military Experts Examine and Assess War in Gulf,”

Izvestiya, 21 January 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-014, 18–19.

60. Kipp.

61. Quoted in FitzGerald, “The Soviet Military,” 73.

62. Vladimir Chernyshev, “Tass Military Expert Views Military

Maneuvers,” Tass, 17 January 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-013, 18 January

1991, 8.

63. Ben Lambeth points out that the Soviets identified the wrong

airpower theorist, claiming that Desert Storm came closer to supporting

Billy Mitchell’s ideas: “Whereas Douhet had looked on aircraft other than

bombers as ancillary—nice to have, perhaps, but not absolutely

necessary—Mitchell could argue the case for all types. The important thing

for him was not strategic bombing, but rather the centralized coordination

of all air assets under the control of an autonomous air force command,

freed from its dependency on the army. If that goal could be achieved, he

felt, everything else would fall into its place.” See Lambeth, Desert Storm

and Its Meaning, 50; and David MacIsaac, “Voices from the Central Blue:

The Air Power Theorists,” in Peter Paret, ed., Makers of Modern Strategy:

From Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University

Press, 1986), 631.

64. Thomas, 598.

65. Cited in Kipp.

66. Cited in ibid.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

524

67. A. Sidorov, “Interview of Lieutenant General of Aviation Maliukov:

The Gulf War: Initial Conclusions—Air Power Predetermined the Outcome,”

Krasnaya zvezda, 14 March 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-053, 19 March 1991,

50–51. Lt Col Ed Mann, USAF, expanded this idea: “There is nothing wrong

with Air-Land Battle so far as it goes. It’s fine when ground forces are the

primary tool, but it assumes they always will be. While airpower plays an

important and integral role in the ground battle . . . that’s not all it can do.

Sometimes airpower alone, or in a lead role, can be more effective and save

lives. Airpower doctrine doesn’t deny utility to Air-Land Battle. It goes

beyond it to consider additional options.” See Lt Col Edward C. Mann,

“Operation Desert Storm? It Wasn’t Air-Land Battle,” Air Force Times, 30

September 1991, 27, 61.

68. Quoted in Lambeth, Desert Storm and Its Meaning, 67–69.

69. Ibid.

70. Thomas, 600.

71. Buryga, “Interview,” 18–19. Asked about Iraq’s numerical superiority

in tanks, General Gorbachev replied that Iraq did indeed hold a numerical

advantage and that the bulk of the Iraqi tanks were the Soviets’ newest

T-72s. He pointed out, however, that the “400 Apaches are capable of

nullifying Hussein’s advantage. . . . Having no opposition in the air, the

coalition will be able to carry out its task one way or another.” Buryga,

“Interview,” 18–19.

72. Quoted in Lambeth, Desert Storm and Its Meaning, 71.

73. V. Slipchenko, “Major General Slipchenko of the Soviet General Staff

Academy Answers Questions during a Working Session before the Start of

the NDU Conference,” SASONET report (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Foreign

Military Studies Office, 28 March 1991), 12. When asked about the success

of the strategic air campaign, Slipchenko said, “First and foremost was your

ability to fly so many sorties per day. Never in our wildest calculations did

we believe you could sustain so many sorties logistically and overcome pilot

fatigue. After winning air superiority . . . the war became . . . a war of

technology, something Hussein did not have.” Lambeth, Desert Storm and

Its Meaning, 72–73.

74. Buryga, “Interview,” 19.

75. S. Bogdanov, “The General Staff Is Closely Monitoring the

Developing Situation,” Krasnaya zvezda, 31 January 1991, in

FBIS-SOV-91-022, 1 February 1991, 6.

76. N. Kutsenko, “Lessons of Combat Operations,” Izvestiya, 28

February 1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-042, 4 March 1991, 41.

77. Gelyy Batenin, “How to Overcome the 1941 Syndrome,” New Times,

26 February 1991, 12–14.

78. Shaposhnikov and Tsygichko quoted in Brian J. Collins, “Airpower

in the Persian Gulf: Soviet Analysis,” SHAPE Defense Studies (Brussels:

Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, 12 February 1992), 12.

79. S. Achromeyev, “Achromeyev Comments on Iraqi Defeat,” Novoye

vremya, no. 10 (March 1991), in JPRS-UMA-91-018, 8 July 1991, 54.

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80. A. Ladin, “Prepared Statements from the Podium, Honest Talk in the

Lobby,” Krasnaya zvezda, 22 March 1991, in FBIS-SOV-060, 28 March

1991, 38.

81. Cited in Maj Gen I. Losev and Lt Col A. Yakovlevich, “Desert Storm

Revisited: Lessons from the Persian Gulf War,” Vestnik protivovoz dushnoy

oborony, 7 July 1992, JPRS-UMA-92-040, 57–59.

82. Quoted in Maj Gen V. Shevchenko, “Soviet Air Force Col-Gen

Shaposhnikov Assesses Air War in Gulf,” Krasnaya zvezda, 25 January

1991, FBIS-SOV-91-021, 9.

83. Lambeth, Desert Storm and Its Meaning, 43–44.

84. Ibid., 69–88. One apocalyptic Soviet correspondent, Pavel

Felgengauer of Nezavisimaya gazeta, may have expressed a concern on the

minds of many of the General Staff when he said, “The indestructible Red

Army, made up for the most part of unprofessional officers and

semi-trained conscripts, could hardly manage to put up sustained

resistance to the professional NATO armies and modern highly accurate

superweaponry. The clash of brute force and reason, a bullfight in essence,

would end, like all bullfights, with the moment of truth.” Quoted by

Stanislav Kondrashov in “Political Observer’s Notes,” Izvestiya, 28 January

1991, in FBIS-SOV-91-021, 31 January 1991, 15.

85. Moiseyev, “From Defense Doctrine Positions,” 81.

86. Thomas, 594.

87. FitzGerald, “Russia’s New Military Doctrine,” 6.

88. “Basic Provisions of the Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation:

Russia’s Military Doctrine,” Rossiyskiye vesti, 18 November 1992, in

FBIS-SOV-92-222-S, 1–11 (hereinafter Russian Draft Military Doctrine).

89. Ibid., 1.

90. Ibid., 2–3.

91. Ibid.

92. The draft doctrine defines “military danger” as an immediate threat

of direct aggression against the Russian Federation, describing the danger

in terms of social, political, territorial, religious, national-ethnic, and other

conflicts. The military danger derives from the desire of a number of states

and political forces resolving their problems through armed struggle. It

describes armed conflict from aggressive nationalism and religious

intolerance as posing “a special danger.” A military danger becomes a

“military threat” when there is an immediate danger of war. See ibid., 2–3.

93. Moiseyev, “From Defense Doctrine Positions,” 78.

94. Natalie Gross, “Reflections on Russia’s New Military Doctrine,”

Jane’s Intelligence Review, August 1992, 339.

95. Rodina (the motherland) is a Russian concept that links preservation

of state, cultural pride, and nationalism. It elevates patriotism and

self-sacrifice for the motherland to a near-religious level. See Dick, “Russian

Views,” 362. Marshal Sergei F. Akhromeyev noted as early as March 1991

that “a military threat to the Soviet Union no longer exists, but a military

danger does” (emphasis added). According to Timothy Thomas, Defense

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

526

Minister Yazov later echoed these concerns about military danger instead of

military threat. See Thomas, 596.

96. Russian Draft Military Doctrine, 2–3.

97. Ibid., 5–6.

98. Ibid., 5.

99. Ibid., 7–9.

100. FitzGerald, “Russia’s New Military Doctrine,” 45.

101. Russian Draft Military Doctrine, 5–6.

102. Dick, “Initial Thoughts,” 560.

103. Russian Draft Military Doctrine, 6–8.

104. Ibid., 8.

105. FitzGerald, “Russia’s New Military Doctrine,” 45–46.

106. Russian Draft Military Doctrine, 2.

107. Ibid., 6.

108. Ibid.

109. FitzGerald, “Russia’s New Military Doctrine,” 46.

110. Dick, “Initial Thoughts,” 562.

111. Amidst the domestic stagnation of the Brezhnev years and the

resurgence of American strength, Ogarkov evinced deep concern about the

Soviets’ ability to keep pace with the “truly revolutionary transformation of

military affairs now occurring as a result of the development of

thermonuclear weapons, the rapid evolution of electronics and weapons

based on new physical principles, as well as the wide, qualitative

improvements in conventional weaponry.” Quoted in Ilana Kass and Fred

Clark Boli, “The Soviet Military: Back to the Future?” Journal of Soviet

Military Studies, September 1990, 392.

112. Aleksandr Stukalin, “Armed Forces Viewed after One Year in

Existence,” Kommersant-Daily, 8 May 1993, in FBIS-SOV-93-088, 10 May

1993, 36–38.

113. Benjamin S. Lambeth, “Red Phoenix Redux: The Fitful Emergence

of a New Russian Air Force,” draft (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, March

1994), x.

114. Ibid., 28–32.

115. An interesting observation by Kipp pertains to the impact of arms

sales on the overall Russian economy. Since industrial plant costs were

already accrued (sunk costs) and with labor costs also very low, military

sales were actually making money and stimulating the economy. Although

one central theme of this essay holds that the Russian economy will have a

deleterious effect on the Russian military, Kipp’s reasoning might at first

appear to counter that notion. It might prove interesting to consider how

much of the Russian military the politicians are willing to sell for this

temporary economic stimulation. I do not believe that the Russians will

“mortgage the state” at the expense of the military. Dr. Jacob Kipp, Foreign

Military Studies Office, Fort Leavenworth, Kans., interviewed by author, 21

March 1994.

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116. Aleksandra Nadzharov, “Defense Minister Grachev Interviewed,”

Nezavisimaya gazeta, in FBIS-SOV-93-109, 9 June 1993, 47.

117. A. Zarayelyan, “Commentator Views Russian Army Anniversary,”

Moscow Ostankino Television First Channel, 7 May 1993, in

FBIS-SOV-93-088, 10 May 1993, 37.

118. Mary C. FitzGerald, Hudson Institute, Washington, D.C.,

interviewed by author, 24 March 1994.

119. Quoted in Mary C. FitzGerald, “Russia’s Vision of Air-Space War,”

Air Force Magazine, December 1993, 79.

120. During the mid-1980s, I participated with top US scientists and

industrialists in several industrial mobilization forums conducted at the

Naval War College during the annual Global Wargame and at National

Defense University. The main problem with industrial mobilization and

surge was “rampup.” For example, changing from peacetime production of

one type of US missile to its wartime surge requirements took about 18

months. Certain technologies (computer chips, optics, composite materials,

etc.) tend to be the pacing items in the production hierarchy. The problem

was not economic. No amount of money could increase the production rate

of some of the subcomponents. Certainly, one might build new production

facilities and hire additional technicians, but the lead time for capital

improvements and training might add four to five years to the production

schedule. This surge delay had to do with a weapons system in the US

serial production pipeline. If only a prototype or shelved technology were

available, going from no production to surge would certainly take

considerably longer.

121. Draft Russian Military Doctrine, 2–3.

122. Quoted in Fred Hiatt, “Yeltsin Promises Assertive Russia,”

Washington Post, 25 February 1994, 1.

123. Brian Collins, “Russia Fragments Its Airpower,” Air Force Magazine,

February 1994, 62–65.

124. More and more Russians use the term near abroad in reference to

the ex-Soviet nations on Russia’s rim.

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Chapter 14

Ascendant Realms: Characteristics

of Airpower and Space Power

Maj Bruce M. DeBlois*

At the onset of World War I, the United States found itself in

a position as a major world sea power, arguably second only

to Britain . Completion of the Panama Canal provided evidence

of its desire to dominate the Western Hemisphere. The Navy

maintained several overseas bases, a force structure of more

than two dozen battleships, and a variety of other support

vessels. A thriving industrial base that focused on overseas

trade supported this seafaring nation. Twenty-five years

earlier, however, that same nation had no overseas territories,

only a few modern battleships, a military dispersed over its

own frontier, an economy based on internal commerce, and a

population that still viewed itself as an agrarian-based

democracy. What happened to dramatically change the

national focus over this relatively short period of time? Simply

stated, the time was right.

A unique combination of factors contributed to the rise of

American naval power during the first decade of the twentieth

century. Primary among those factors was the acclaimed sea

power vision of Alfred T. Mahan’s book The Impact of Sea

Power upon History, 1660–1783, published in 1890, which

provided a clear operational means by which an emerging sea

power could attain international status. That vision resonated

with an American population in the process of becoming more

aware of its international position—and with a dynamic young

president, Theodore Roosevelt. As assistant secretary of the

Navy, he had recognized the potential of the United States as

a world leader, as well as the mechanism to attain it: sea

*The author recognizes the significant contributions of Maj Cynthia A. S. McKinley,

a strategy and policy analyst for Headquarters Air Force Space Command/XPXS, and

Maj Michael A. Rampino, a J6 (Communications Directorate) strategy and policy

analyst for the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

529

power as prescribed by Mahan. If the popular Mahanian

theoretical base and presidential endorsement were not

enough, technological growth (smokeless guns, turbine

engines, and submarines), naval successes in the

Spanish-American War (1898), several South American

ventures, and a growing threat of German naval power in the

Pacific all gave impetus to the production of a very capable

Navy. The rise of American sea power pushed the United

States onto the international stage.

The lesson is clear: if

those periods possess (1) the necessary resources, (2) an

unencumbered economy, (3) an immediate motivation (here,

an immediate threat), and (4) a common vision that supports

specific technologies, they are temporary and present windows

of opportunity.

At the turn of the century, the United States stood poised

on the threshold of a great era: the preeminence of sea power.

We are again at the turn of a century and again at the

threshold of another great era: the preeminence of space

power. The question is no longer one of “if” but “when.” Is the

time right for the US military to follow suit with a

Mahanian-type book outlining The Influence of Space Power

upon History? Are airpower theory and doctrine logical points

of departure? The answers to these questions lead directly to

key military issues dealt with in this chapter: What impact

can current airpower theory have on space power theory? Is a

separate Space Force required? If so, when?

To determine the potential impact of airpower theory upon

space power theory, one must understand current Air Force

thinking, which is offered here as an “aerospace power

conjecture”—to wit, one should build space power theory and

doctrine upon airpower theory and doctrine. Current Air Force

doctrine strongly indicates acceptance of this conjecture.

Specifically, Air Force Manual (AFM) 1-1, Basic Aerospace

Doctrine of the United States Air Force, states that “the

aerospace environment can be most fully exploited when

considered as an indivisible whole. Although there are

physical differences between the atmosphere and space, there

is no absolute boundary between them. The same basic

military activities can be performed in each, albeit with

different platforms and methods.”

Air Force Space

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530

Command’s practice of distinguishing between the two media,

however, apparently has had some impact on Air Force

doctrine. Air Force Doctrine Document (AFDD) 1, “Basic Air

Force Doctrine,” the yet-to-be-published replacement for AFM

1-1, recognizes some distinction between air and space forces,

although the latest version of that doctrine still reflects the

“aerospace power” mentality: “The distinguishing qualities of

aerospace power are flight and the ability to rise above the

earth’s surface and operate in three dimensions through and

above the atmosphere.”

This essay does not accept the aerospace power conjecture

at face value but examines its plausibility by evaluating both

airpower and space power against a backdrop of the roles,

missions, and characteristics of each. The examination of

roles and missions is relatively short because roles and

missions have typically not served as the primary justification

for establishing separate theories for the application of

military power

(vested, in turn, in separate services).

Differences in land power, sea power, and airpower stem from

distinctions in characteristics—that is, the different means by

which one prosecutes the roles and missions. Correspond-

ingly, the Army, Navy, and Air Force organize, train, and equip

the joint war-fighting command.

If an examination of the characteristics of airpower and

space power shows great similarity among them, one can

accept the aerospace power conjecture—which would prove

extremely useful, since one could build space power theory

upon 50 years of airpower theory.

One could embed space

responsibility in the very strong culture of the Air Force—

currently the de facto approach. If, on the other hand,

examination of the characteristics of airpower and space

power yields significant differences, then one must reject the

aerospace power conjecture. Perhaps drawing from the more

general principles of airpower, land power, and sea power

theory, one would then have to build space power theory from

its foundations. The most prudent, unbiased means of

accomplishing this would require a distinct Space Force. In

the following discussion, the novelty—not the relative

importance—of space power warrants the emphasis on space-

related issues.

DEBLOIS

531

Roles and Missions

A role is a general military objective, while the mission is

the means of accomplishing it. Missions are options—not

laundry lists of what forces always do—and the role/mission

pairing is not exclusive.

Current Air Force doctrine

emphasizes war-fighting roles and missions

but overlooks

the operationalization of the strategic aspects of the “global

presence” concept. “The foundation of this approach is

power projection. Power projection is a means to influence

actors or affect situations or events in America’s national

interests. It has two components: warfighting and

presence.”

The concept of presence used here explicitly

connotes the idea of being in the environment (physically or

virtually). Further, it implicitly connotes the idea of global

watchfulness or vigilance. The following six roles and

missions, created from a base of doctrine and literature,

facilitate comparison between the air and space realms.

They reflect the need to recognize both the peacetime and

wartime operational roles that support the strategic concept

of global presence. The first two deal specifically with

ongoing peacetime operations while the last four deal with

conventional war-fighting operations:

1. role: realm presence.

mission: posturing the full complement of military

capability and/or maintaining the recognized capability

to access and dominate a particular realm with the

intent to deter or compel allies and adversaries in

consonance with US national objectives.

2. role: realm vigilance.

mission: continuous monitoring and analysis of and

from the realm in support of global awareness. This

includes a subset of information operations (weather,

intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance).

3. role: realm control.

mission (“counterrealm”): discriminating application of

combat power against enemy forces within the realm or

against their infrastructure supporting the realm.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

532

4. role: force application.

mission: discriminating application of combat power

from the realm against critical nodes of an adversary.

5. role: force enhancement.

mission: enabling military functions in order to multiply

combat effectiveness. This includes refueling, special

operations, and information operations (electronic

combat; weather; intelligence; command, control,

communications, and computers [C

]; precision

navigation; surveillance; and reconnaissance).

6. role: force support.

mission (“sustenance of assets; defense”): logistical

support (lift, deployment of forces, maintaining/

replenishing/sustaining deployed forces, and base

operability) and defense of assets to support sustained

combat operations.

Although the details of prosecuting the missions may vary

due to the characteristics of the realm, these roles and related

missions apply equally to airpower, land power, sea power,

and space power. All forms of military power have the

peacetime responsibilities of presence and vigilance. Primary

wartime objectives of airpower, land power, sea power, and

space power include providing force enhancement and force

support to facilitate both realm control and the potential of

force application. If one can find a distinction between space

power and the other forms of military power within the context

of general roles and missions, it lies in the role of force

application.

Airpower, land power, and sea power are all currently

capable of force application and have historical precedents for

its use. Furthermore, although aircraft were initially used for

surveillance and reconnaissance in a support role, ever since

the strategic doctrinal conception of airpower, people have

viewed it primarily as an offensive application of force.

But

the capability of space power force application remains

unproven, and no precedent exists for its use. The force

application role from space may never be politically palatable

because it is “unilaterally forbidden by congressional mandate

DEBLOIS

533

(e.g. prohibition against deploying an anti-satellite system),

and curtailed by international treaties (e.g. the Anti-Ballistic

Missile Treaty).”

Even as a mental construct, force

application from space does not begin with the primacy of the

offensive. In fact, current technological pursuits and funding

emphasize the use of space weapons in defensive roles—for

example, the ongoing discussion about employing space

weapons for ballistic missile defense.

These roles and missions, though sorted, are complementary

in practice. Clearly, realm presence, force enhancement, and

force support facilitate realm control and force application.

Moreover, the six generic or “joint” roles and missions are not

unique to airpower and space power but apply equally to land

power and sea power.

Apart from the minor distinction made in the force

application role, the objectives of the roles and missions of

airpower, land power, sea power, and space power are

indistinguishable. Whether or not the means of prosecuting

these objectives are similar or distinctive remains to be seen.

Historically, the specific means by which one pursues roles

and missions have distinguished airpower, land power, and

sea power. These means traditionally appear as rules of

employment, tenets of military power, or capability to achieve

the immutable principles of war. To avoid debate, one can use

the general term characteristics of military power to

accommodate all of these notions.

One can place various characteristics of military power in a

taxonomy of politics, development and employment, realm

access, realm environment, and realm-afforded capability.

Such characteristics provide the basis for distinguishing

among airpower, land power, and sea power. The purpose

here is to determine whether these same characteristics

distinguish or unify space power and airpower. Before

proceeding, however, one would do well to briefly examine US

space policy.

Space Policy

Emotional, legal, and rational political considerations

directly affect the will to use space power and, as such,

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

534

influence standing US space policy. Indeed, they have the

effect of putting the political will to weaponize space very

much in question.

Emotional Factor

Competing schools of thought lie at the root of the debate

over space weaponization. In his book On Space Warfare,

Col David Lupton summarizes four competing schools of

thought that surfaced during the 1980s, when the issue of

weaponizing space received a great deal of publicity.

The Sanctuary School views space as a realm free of

military weapons but allows for military-related systems that

provide the functions of treaty verification, intelligence

activities, and so forth. Advocates maintain that the only way

to ensure the legal overflight aspect of current space treaties is

to declare space as a war-free zone or sanctuary. This school

calls for virtually no funding of military space programs aimed

at weaponizing space. The Sanctuary School of thought has a

substantial following in the domestic and international

populace, though many people within the military see it as a

“head in the sand” approach to national security.

The Survivability School also argues that military forces

should deemphasize space access, but for less idealistic

reasons. It assumes that space forces are inherently exposed

and vulnerable. Survivability adherents assert that the

probability of using nuclear weapons in the remoteness of

space is higher than in other media. This notion—along with

the fact that weapons effects have longer ranges outside an

inhibiting atmosphere, as well as the inherent vulnerability of

predictable orbit locations—supports the survivability

position. Remoteness also allows for plausible deniability of

the attacker, which increases the probability of attack. The

Survivability School calls for recognizing that space forces are

not dependable in crisis situations. Thus, one should limit

military space missions to communications, surveillance,

reconnaissance, and weather reporting. From this perspective,

investment strategies ought to fund those missions, along

with redundant space/terrestrial programs and perhaps

ground-based antisatellites (ASAT).

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The Space Control School recognizes space power as

coequal with airpower, land power, and sea power; thus,

military space policy must balance investments in airpower,

land power, sea power, and space power to meet the

anticipated threat. The Department of Defense (DOD) and the

Air Force have favored the Space Control School since the

1980s. Current political emphasis on jointness and the

mentality that “everybody has a hand in space” prompt a

Space Control School approach, as clearly reflected in

published and proposed Air Force and joint doctrine.

The High-Ground School advocates space as the high

ground—the location from which a nation will win or lose future

wars. Using space-based ballistic missile defense (BMD) to

convert the current offensive stalemate of mutually assured

destruction to mutually assured survival has some appeal. The

supporters of this school advocate the militarization of space

and the adoption of a corresponding policy. In their view,

investments ought to focus on both offensive and defensive

space systems at the expense of air, land, and sea systems.

Funding would include space-based ASATs, directed-energy

weapons (DEW), and BMD with maneuverable, space-to-space,

space-to-air, and space-to-ground capability. Air-to-space

(airborne laser or kinetic miniature homing vehicle ASATs)

and

ground-to-space (direct-ascent ASATs) systems would also

warrant investment.

Objecting to the weaponization of space on moral grounds

(Sanctuary School) or on grounds of space systems’ vulnerability

(Survivability School) may seem as unrealistic as objecting to

maintaining a military at all. Yet, space power advocates must

appreciate that objections made from an emotional perspective

are a real issue—one that could manifest itself in policy as

dictated by the democratic process.

Legal Factor

In addition to the various schools of thought, several

important treaties have made a significant impact on military

space policy. Of note are the following:

1. The Outer Space Treaty (OST) of 1967 states that

international law applies beyond the atmosphere. The

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536

treaty reemphasized standing international laws (e.g.,

one sovereign state cannot threaten the territorial

integrity or political independence of another—United

Nations [UN] Charter, 1947) and initiated new space-

related laws (e.g., free access to space and celestial

bodies for peaceful intent, prohibitions on national

appropriations of space or celestial bodies, prohibitions

on putting any weapons of mass destruction in space or

on celestial bodies).

2. The Antiballistic Missile (ABM) Treaty of 1972 (United

States and USSR only) banned the development, testing,

and deployment of space-based ABMs.

3. The Convention on Registration (1974) requires parties

to maintain a registry of objects launched into space and

report orbital parameters and general function of those

objects to the UN.

4. The Environmental Modification Convention (1980)

prohibits the hostile use of environmental modification.

What is not stated in international law is probably more

important than what is; legal interpretation follows the

convention that if the law does not explicitly prohibit something,

it implicitly allows it.

One must also understand that treaties

are just mutual agreements between signatories—they hold in

peacetime but not necessarily in wartime.

Given these

considerations, weapons of mass destruction, ABMs, and

environmental modification weapons are all prohibited, but

many conventional weapons (including ASATs) and tests of

those weapons are allowed in space. The appropriation of

space or any celestial body is illegal. Military maneuvers,

bases, or installations on celestial bodies (the Moon) are also

illegal; however, military maneuvers, bases, and installations

in space (artificial satellites) constitute legal uses of that

realm. Unreported space vehicles are prohibited, but reporting

vague functional specifications and changing orbital

parameters after launch are not prohibited.

In addition to international law, several domestic laws affect

how the military might use space, although they certainly

do not inhibit the use of space. They include the

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Communications Act of 1934, whereby the president can

commandeer private communications assets in times of crisis,

and the Commercial Space Launch Act of 1984, which

provides commercial customers access to military space-

launch facilities (at a price). Taken as a whole, international

and domestic law limits but does not preclude the

conventional weaponization of space.

Rational Factor

Military space policy, which derives from national security

policy, must support national security and international

collective security interests and remain consistent with

domestic economic and social interests. Any treaty negotiation

aimed at bolstering national security would have to consider a

variety of factors. To name a few, current military space

capabilities along with the corresponding dependencies of the

United States, our allies, and our potential adversaries are of

primary importance. From a broader perspective, investment

in expensive space weapons creates an opportunity cost;

trade-offs with more conventional military systems become a

significant consideration. The difficult matter of verification,

which remains a concern, was a prime motivator behind the

US rejection of several Soviet treaty proposals to control space

weapons in the early 1980s.

The bureaucratic decision process that combines the

emotional, legal, and rational factors into a coherent space

policy is complex. Analysis of bureaucratic decision making at

the level of national policy is a science (or an art) unto itself.

Certainly, personal agendas, timing, and organizational

structures all play a role in such decisions. This essay

assumes that a rational decision-making authority recognized

national security and/or international collective security as

primary drivers, understood the emotional perspective and

legal limitations, and subsequently produced the current

space policy. The unilateral congressional moratorium on the

funding of space-based weapons resulted from that rational

process, which is not mandated by law but perhaps by better

judgment.

Emerging from this decision process are the

national, DOD, and Air Force policies pertaining to the

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538

military use of space. National space policy includes the

following points:

1. The United States is committed to the exploration and

use of outer space by all nations for peaceful purposes

and for the benefit of all mankind. Peaceful purposes

allow for activities in pursuit of national security goals.

2. The United States will pursue activities in space in

support of its inherent right of self-defense and its

defense commitments to its allies.

3. The United States rejects any claims to sovereignty by

any nation over outer space or celestial bodies, or any

portion thereof, and rejects any limitations on the

fundamental right of sovereign nations to acquire data

from space.

4. The United States considers any space systems of any

nation to be national property with the right of passage

through and operations in space without interference.

DOD space policy calls for fulfilling the military space

functions of space support, force enhancement, space control,

and force application,

whereas Air Force space policy offers

the following provisions:

1. Space power will be as decisive in future combat as

airpower is today.

2. We must be prepared for the evolution of space power

from combat support to the full spectrum of military

capabilities.

3. The Air Force must integrate and institutionalize space

throughout its operations.

4. The Air Force must accomplish four missions.

a. aerospace control (acquire and operate ASATs [battle

management and command, control, and communi-

cations (C

) for space control operations]).

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539

b. force application (develop, deploy, and operate BMD if

the United States decides to pursue it [battle

management and C

for force application]).

c. force enhancement (acquire and operate navigation,

meteorology, tactical warning and assessment,

nuclear detonation detection, and multiuser

communications systems).

d. space support (provide launch support).

The policies do not read congruently; that is, the national

space policy reads as if it is of the Sanctuary School (subtly

leaving an option to weaponize), while the DOD and Air Force

policies read as Space Control School perspectives,

anticipating space weaponization. Air Force policy even seems

to suggest that current space control doctrine might

appropriately shift to a high-ground doctrine in the future.

Although the policies are not congruent, they make sense.

National policy typically reflects the posture of where the

United States would like to see the world community proceed,

while DOD and service policies reflect the military’s role of

anticipating and preparing for aggressive action in defense of

US national security interests.

Political Characteristics of Military Power

Three characteristics of military power that directly affect

political decisions regarding the use of a particular realm

include political access to the realm, sovereignty, and the

likelihood of reduced casualties. Political access refers to

domestic and international attitudes and agreements that

have the potential of inhibiting access to a particular realm.

Sovereignty addresses the issue of national claims in the

realm, whereas likelihood of reduced casualties concerns the

emerging idea that a combination of (1) precision lethality

bolstered by technology and (2) the media’s access to the

battlefield has reduced American and international tolerances

of casualties.

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Political Access to the Realm

Political access to the realm does not show up in current

literature on airpower, land power, and sea power because in

times of crisis, people rarely call into question the political will to

dominate those realms.

Political control—imposing limitations

on the application of military power—is a constitutional reality.

Limitations placed on the employment of airpower—rules of

engagement (ROE)—particular to each situation distinguish

airpower from space power. Air campaign planners have the

freedom to plan for the full exploitation of the air realm and

recognize that ROE may constrain the use of the plan in a given

situation. Space campaign planners must recognize

fundamental limitations on the exploitation of the space realm,

even in the planning phase.

Rational, emotional, and legal factors, discussed above,

produce these limitations, which affect current policy as well

as transient actions such as the current bans on ASAT

production and testing, in place since 1985. Rational and

emotional factors currently dominate; that is, the limitations

do not affect what we can do but what we have the will to do.

The distinction between the access of airpower and space

power to the respective realms stems from political limitations

placed upon military access and use of space, referred to here

as “political access.” A political limit to the access of military

space has existed since the 1960s and is not likely to

disappear in the near future. Airpower does not have such a

limitation on access. Therefore, political access to the realm is

a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Sovereignty

Nations retain sovereignty over their air realm, but by virtue

of the Outer Space Treaty of 1967, they can claim no

sovereignty of the space realm—sovereignty rests with the

spacecraft and not the medium.

Although this situation

imposes some limitations since no national borders protect

space assets, it facilitates most operations. Unrestricted

access to and overflight of every nation on Earth exist for

space operations but not for air operations, a situation that

poses advantages for a nation with superior space power and

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541

disadvantages for less capable space powers. International

agreements supporting free rights to the space realm are a

characteristic advantage of space power.

Likelihood of Reduced Casualties

Operation Desert Storm evidenced at least two new facets of

warfare: extensive media coverage, which brought the war into

people’s living rooms, and unprecedented precision-strike

capabilities. The combination of witnessing both unjust

collateral damage and having a capability to avoid it has

placed another political constraint on American involvement

in military ventures: reduced casualties.

Calls to limit

casualties have currently made airpower the military

instrument of choice. Precision capability affords limited

collateral risk, while stealth and the remoteness of the

airborne platform minimize operator risk. Space power, as

opposed to airpower, offers a remoteness/precision trade-off.

By virtue of being even further removed from the battlefield,

space power provides lower operator risk

but higher risk of

collateral casualties (due to less precision caused by that

remoteness). The concept of requiring reduced casualties

distinguishes airpower and space power on two counts:

1. The remoteness of space affords reduced operator

casualties: limited risk to US personnel is a characteristic

advantage of space power.

2. The proximity of the air affords reliable precision and

reduced collateral damage: limited risk to collateral

personnel is a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Political characteristics of military power are transient; that

is, they exist by human convention and are subject to change.

Although the similarities or distinctions between airpower and

space power suggested by these characteristics remain

transient, they are currently real considerations and will

probably not change significantly in the near future. Several

more characteristics, which owe their existence to human

convention, involve the way people have chosen to develop

and employ military systems and operations.

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542

Development and Employment

Characteristics of Military Power

After considering the political merits of airpower and space

power, one may logically begin analyzing them by examining

their technological development and the means by which one

uses them (employment). Research, development, operational

insertion, and command/control/execution constitute the

process by which emerging technologies integrate with and

contribute to military power. Basic research and development

(R&D) and operational insertion methods are similar for air,

land, and sea services, as dictated by the DOD acquisition

system. Features of this process that could highlight

similarities or distinctions between airpower and space power

include relative technology dependence and philosophies of

command and control (C

) and execution.

Technology Dependence

The development of air and space technology is virtually

synonymous with high technology. Humans have existed in

the land and sea realms for thousands of years. Although

technological advance remains crucial to exploiting both

realms, people do not need it to access them. In contrast,

people have needed high technology to provide air and space

access from the outset. Investment in high-technology R&D is

essential to the progress of both airpower and space power.

More so than on land or at sea, where technology is a force

multiplier and numbers are often the determinant, in air and

in space, technology is not just the force multiplier but the

force itself. In the future, the role of humans will remain

essential, but their primary value will lie in the preparation

and orchestration of assets before the fight—not in a fight that

will occur at speeds beyond human comprehension. Exposure

of expensive technological assets may distinguish airpower

and space power in terms of environmental characteristics

(see below). Insofar as both airpower and space power heavily

depend on advanced technology for access and manipulation

of air and space, technology dependence is a characteristic

similarity of airpower and space power.

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Command and Control

Parceling out ground or sea forces may seem realistic—for

example, one cannot immediately move the Pacific Fleet to

support an Atlantic crisis. Air and space forces do not have such

a constraint on speed of response: they can affect any part of the

battle space within much shorter time spans. Experience

dictates that optimum use of air forces requires centralized C

orchestrate limited resources. The same ubiquity of capability

driving high demand on a limited supply of assets exists for

space forces. Additionally, the current space architecture of

predominantly unmanned space assets efficiently linked to

centralized ground control stations strongly suggests that

centralized C

is the most prudent option.

Although current Air Force doctrine calls for it,

centralized

space C

simply doesn’t exist. Gen Charles A. Horner, USAF,

Retired, former commander in chief (CINC) of US Space

Command (USSPACECOM), when asked by Sen. Sam Nunn,

chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, “Are you in

charge of space?” felt compelled to reply, “That depends.” It

depends because CINCSPACE is the one CINC who exercises

little control over his or her own command. The National

Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), Defense

Information Systems Agency, Ballistic Missile Defense Office,

Central Intelligence Agency, Central Imagery Office, National

Reconnaissance Office, National Oceanographic and

Atmospheric Administration, Departments of Commerce/

Transportation and Interior, National Science Foundation, and

White House Office of Science and Technology Policy all intrude

upon CINCSPACE’s budget, and many of the same organizations

intrude upon his or her launch, on-orbit control, R&D, and

acquisition authority.

The ubiquity and responsiveness of air and space assets

both require centralized control in order to orchestrate

optimum allocation of assets throughout the battle space. In

this regard, centralized C

ought to be a characteristic

similarity of airpower and space power. Unfortunately, US

government bureaucracy has not permitted this level of

control of space assets or operations. Centralized C

is a

characteristic advantage of airpower.

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Execution

Air Force doctrine cites “effective spans of control,

responsiveness, and tactical flexibility” as justification for the

decentralized execution of airpower.

This essay does not

challenge the historical legacy supporting this air doctrine for

manned flight. Suffice it to mention that one may question the

value of decentralized execution when (if ) centrally controlled

unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV) come to dominate the air realm.

Ironically, experience in the space realm may provide insights

for those airpower theorists considering centralized execution.

Space provides for an ideal adaptation of centralized

execution. The tactical flexibility typically provided by

decentralized execution is not an efficient option for employing

centrally controlled, speed-of-light-responsive, unmanned

national space assets with global reach. Space power requires

centralized execution in order to orchestrate optimum use of

assets throughout the battle space. Tactical effectiveness will

rest on speed-of-light requests for support to some central

buffer, priority assignment (some automated, some screened),

and subsequent centralized execution. An extreme example

warranting decentralized execution might involve spaced-

based-laser close air support. But even though the

requirement is near instantaneous, a priority-one input by the

field commander would still have to go through a central

control node that would subsequently execute the command.

Assigning direct control of a satellite to the local commander

would waste the potential use of the asset in other areas of the

battle space at other times.

Air Force space doctrine currently under development

agrees. For example, in the draft version of AFDD 4, “Space

Operations Doctrine,” Gen Thomas D. White comments that “a

lack of centralized authority would certainly hamper our

peaceful use of space and could be disastrous in time of war.

Failure to properly coordinate peaceful space activities under

common direction could cause confusion. . . . In war, when

time is of the essence and quick reaction so necessary,

centralized military authority will surely be mandatory.”

Further, with regard to unity of command, the document

observes that “centralized control and decentralized execution

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are essential to the successful and optimal use of space

power. Since space forces are global in nature and include

critical national assets, they should be tasked and assigned

from a global perspective. In a regional conflict, the theater

commander should have control over accurate and timely

products from space but should not have actual physical

control of the satellite, its control systems, or ground control

nodes.”

This view marks a significant departure from air doctrine,

which calls for the regional commander’s complete physical

control of assigned air assets. Ironically, Air Force doctrine

maintains that this is still decentralized execution—but

nowhere does that doctrine explain decentralized execution.

This situation clearly results from force-fitting a basic tenet of

airpower onto space power. If the regional commander “should

not have actual physical control of the satellite, its control

systems, or ground control nodes,” where does that control

lie? The answer is that the centralized control of space

assets—and the controlling element for remote space

assets—is almost always the executing element.

General White’s comment strongly supports “centralized

military authority.” The span of “military authority”

encompasses C

and execution. Decentralized execution

requires both a clear understanding of the mission and the

autonomy to carry it out. The price of optimally applying

space assets across the worldwide battle space is a centralized

buffer with automated or screened prioritization, which

detracts from the autonomy of any one regional commander.

Both cost and capability optimization of space assets drive

centralized control and centralized execution. Airpower, on the

other hand, does not have to make the autonomy/efficiency

trade-off. Most airpower assets are not national assets with

near-instantaneous global reach. As such, efficient operation

warrants assigning air assets to regional commanders, an

arrangement that affords both efficient centralized control and

offers lower-level commanders/operators the tactical flexibility

of decentralized execution. Decentralized execution is a

characteristic advantage of airpower.

Consideration of the political and development/employment

characteristics of military power has revealed several

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distinctions and similarities between airpower and space power.

But these characteristics have resided in human creations—

politics, laws, development methods, and employment plans.

More fundamental to the comparison is the physical nature of

the two realms.

Realm-Access Characteristics

of Military Power

Technological advances in aerodynamics, materials,

propulsion, guidance, and control all facilitated access to the

air realm at the turn of the twentieth century. Similarly, in

astrodynamics, ongoing studies of forces and motion in space

suggest that proliferated access to the space realm is near at

hand. But one should remain cautious about such

technological optimism: “Scientists and engineers now know

how to build a station in space that would circle the Earth

1,075 miles up. . . . Within the next 10 or 15 years, the Earth

will have a new companion in the skies, a man-made satellite

that could be either the greatest force for peace ever devised,

or one of the most terrible weapons of war—depending on who

makes and controls it.”

Surprisingly, those comments came from Wernher von

Braun, speaking in 1952. Relatively recent experience with

understanding the air realm, together with the ability to

rapidly overcome air-flight-related technical obstacles,

naturally led to the same expectation for spaceflight-related

technical obstacles. The experiences of the last 45 years with

space research have emphasized a real difference between

understanding a theoretical environment and building

systems to gain physical access to it. The air access–space

access analogy breaks down for several reasons: access to the

air realm, at the lowest technological level, is as easy as

throwing a rock or glider. But space is not a realm to which

we have immediate access or in which we have experience.

Prior to specifically addressing the realm-access

characteristics of airpower and space power, therefore, one

needs some background regarding space-lift efforts, including

significant technical hurdles to space lift, technological

development designed to negotiate those hurdles, and the

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means by which the United States nurtures that technological

development.

Boost to the space realm requires a large amount of energy

that must be generated, harnessed, focused, and stabilized.

To illustrate the difference in energy requirements for

aircraft-type and spacecraft-type operations, one should

consider the thrust required to place an F-16 aircraft in to

low Earth orbit (LEO). Scaling the thrust-to-(weight-to-orbit)

ratio of the space shuttle down—or scaling the Atlas

thrust-to-(weight-to-orbit) ratio up—yields roughly 1.15

million pounds of thrust required to get an F-16-sized vehicle

with a reasonable payload to LE0.

Current air-breathing

F-16 engines produce 29,000 pounds of thrust

—roughly

one- fortieth the amount required by an F-16-sized, space-

capable, non-air-breathing, rocket-powered spacecraft.

Thus, thrust requirements provide one indication of the

drastic differences between aircraft and spacecraft

technologies.

Furthermore, to make the space vehicle F-16-like for

operations, one would need to reconfigure and pull the

external, expendable booster stages inside the craft and

drastically reduce the elaborate ground-support infrastructure

required by current space operations. Aircraft-type operations

for a spacecraft are easy to imagine, but the analogy hides the

fact that from an engineering perspective, aircraft operations

and spacecraft operations differ not merely in the degree of

advanced technology required but differ fundamentally in the

kind required. As a further complication, any means of gaining

access to the space realm must work equally well in the very

different environment of the air realm, since one must traverse

the atmosphere in order to reach space.

The remoteness of space also causes serious maintenance

and supportability problems. When aircraft components

malfunction, the aircraft lands to be fixed. When aircraft run

out of fuel, tankers refuel them in the air, or they land for

refueling. Spacecraft currently have neither of these options.

Whether the motive is operations or maintenance and

support, access to space becomes a matter of getting

there—and that requires space lift.

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One use of the term lift involves moving something from one

place to another. Airlift and space lift are similar in this

regard. A fundamental difference, however, exists between the

two. Physical access to the space realm is the objective of

space lift, while the objective of airlift is not one of physical

access to the air realm but one of delivering materials to

different points on the ground. Two technological methods for

gaining space access are afoot: better propulsion and lighter

payloads. Each appears to hold promise; indeed, an entire

community has dedicated itself to achieving physical access to

space. Such access to the air and space realms remains

distinct and affects both operations and maintenance/

support.

Physical Access to the Realm (Operations)

Intense efforts are under way to overcome the very daunting

task of cheap, on-demand access to space—a task that is

orders of magnitude more complex and fundamentally

different than that which allowed access to the skies.

Regardless of technical advances, access to the space realm

requires mastery of the air and space realms, which is

inherently much more difficult than the mere mastery of the

air realm. Access to the realm (operations) is a characteristic

advantage of airpower.

Physical Access to the Realm

(Maintenance and Support)

The maintainability and supportability aspects of airpower

depend upon a ground-based infrastructure that deals with

assets on the ground. Maintainability and supportability of

space power, at least for the foreseeable future, require a

ground-based infrastructure to deal with assets orbiting in

space. In addition to this complication, space systems are

technically more complicated than air systems and will require

more sophisticated maintenance and support operations.

The real problem, though, lies in fixing these technologically

advanced spaceborne systems when they fail. That task often

requires access that is far and away more difficult than

returning an aircraft to the maintenance shop.

In addition to

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the cost of access, one requires significant technological

improvements in communications, rendezvous docking, and

space-robot technology for future resupply activities in space.

No matter the state of technological advance, the maintainability

and supportability of space systems as compared to that of air

systems are destined to be much more technically difficult, as

well as much more costly. Access to the realm (maintenance and

support) is a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Realm-Environment Characteristics

of Military Power

Methods of operations within the air and space realms are

drastically different. The underlying cause of this difference

lies in the unique composition, size, and position of the

respective realms—characteristics that have significant impact

on the employment of military power.

Composition of the Realm

Space is both a more threatening environment to life and a

more difficult environment in which to operate. The

fundamental difference between air and space is composition:

air is a medium of substance, whereas space is void of

substance. Altitude provides the one measure that correlates

with the presence of that substance which defines our

atmosphere. Air density drops off exponentially with

altitude,

as does a human’s ability to exist and function

there (table 1).

If the lack of necessary elements for human survival is not

threatening enough, the presence of harmful elements ought

to be. Although mass in space is rare, energy is not. The most

dangerous effect of solar radiation is its capacity to produce

heat. Since a satellite in space is thermally isolated, it has no

natural means to vent excess energy absorbed from the sun.

Without the screening and natural cooling capability of the

atmosphere, an object in space quickly overheats on the sunlit

side. Resolution requires a technological means of collecting

excess energy and radiating it back into space. Balancing the

level of heat in any spaceborne system presents a difficult

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problem—even more so if that system must meet the very

narrow tolerances for sustaining human life.

Aside from heat, surges of electromagnetic energy—often due

to solar flares associated with solar or cosmic radiation, radio

bursts, proton events, and geomagnetic storms—can also pose a

threat. High-energy solar or cosmic radiation can prove lethal to

humans, while radio bursts, proton events, and geomagnetic

storms can interrupt communications. Another space hazard

involves energetically charged particles that often become

trapped in magnetic fields associated with planets or stars (such

Table 1

The Changing Atmospheric Medium

Altitude (km) Density (d)/Density at Sea Level (d

)

0 d

= 10

particles/cm

5 d = .492 x d

(one-half of Earth’s

atmosphere is below this)

10 d = .242 x d

(supplemental oxygen

required for respiration)

15 d = .119 x d

(supplemental pressure and

oxygen required for respiration)

24 d = .033 x d

(compressing external air is

no longer economical; humans

require self-contained environments)

32 d = .011 x d

(operating limit of turbojet

engines)

45 d = .002 x d

(operating limit of ramjet

engines)

100 d = 10

particles/cm

(aerodynamic

effects become insignificant)

1,000 d = 10

particles/cm

2,000+ d = one particle/cm

(the “hard vacuum”

of space)

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as Earth’s Van Allen radiation belts). These particles can pose

serious threats to space systems and humans. Due to the

amounts of electromagnetic radiation in space, unfiltered by the

atmosphere, all space-faring systems require a variety of

thermal and radiation shields—but shields may not be enough.

In many cases, shielding will not protect a space vehicle

from micrometeoroid impacts. The Pegasus Explorer XVI

satellite reported 62 penetrations in its seven-month space

mission during 1963. Although the impacts did not seriously

hamper operations, the sheer number of strikes was

surprising. The extremely small size of most space meteors

(10

-5

grams) is offset by their incredible speeds (between

30,000 and 160,000 MPH). Coupled to this naturally

occurring problem is the growing amount of man-made space

debris. Over seven thousand objects larger than 10 cm and an

estimated 30,000 to 70,000 smaller objects between 1 cm and

10 cm have been deposited into Earth orbit. But the real

problem may be the 10 billion objects in the .1 mm to 1 cm

range that we currently have no means of tracking.

For

example, a .2 mm paint-chip impact on a side window

necessitated a $50,000 shuttle window replacement following

shuttle mission STS-7. The high velocity and relative

permanence of most spaceborne platforms make them

extremely vulnerable to space-faring debris. In addition to

thermal and radiation shields, debris shields—as well as

continuous long-range monitoring and maneuver capability—

reduce the risk of impact damage.

Perhaps the most distinctive feature between the air and

space environments is not a matter of the threat that the space

medium poses to human life, but a matter of physical operations

allowed by the composition of the air realm: aerodynamics and

the two fundamental forces afforded by the air medium—drag

and lift. In space, there is no cushion of air (i.e., drag) upon

which to float and maneuver; further, there is no lift to gain

altitude.

For example, the terminal velocity of a free-fall

parachuter is between 100 and 120 MPH. By contrast, no

terminal velocity exists in space. If a person were to free-fall in

the Earth’s gravitational field

without the benefit of an air

cushion, his or her velocity after traversing 20,000 feet in 35

seconds would amount to an astonishing 770 MPH.

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One cannot overstate the benefit of lift within the

atmosphere.

Mankind has known of rockets for thousands

of years yet forsook the question of flight until the discovery of

lift. Aircraft require propulsion for manned flight, but the real

test of flight rests with the ability to manipulate that

propulsion in a manner that optimizes lift. To illustrate the

benefits of lift, one should consider a situation that uses no

lift. Fuel consumption rates of a British Aerospace Sea Harrier

on a typical combat air patrol (CAP) mission allow a

90-minute flight. The same aircraft can stay airborne in a

fixed location (no lift, thrust only) for approximately 23

minutes.

Lift quadruples the flight time and adds the benefit

of maneuver. Had the same Harrier required thrust capability

(without lift) to maneuver in a CAP role at standard aircraft

speeds, its flight time would amount to just a few minutes.

Obviously, the lift/glide factor in our ability to man the skies

remains very significant—a factor not available in space.

Space maneuver requires one of two modes: free fall in orbit

or thrust-powered maneuver. Both modes differ drastically

from maneuvering through the air. From the reference frame

of the satellite, orbits are simply the right combination of

lateral velocity and altitude that allow the Earth to move out

from beneath the free-falling satellite. Thrust-powered

maneuver from a fixed orbit position requires an incredible

amount of thrust for altitude changes, as illustrated by the

example above and by previous discussions of space lift.

Lateral changes are permanent; that is, the atmosphere exerts

no damping effects once the satellite is in motion. A lateral

move to a fixed distance in space requires thrust in the

opposite direction to initiate the move—and an equal amount

of thrust in the same direction to halt the move.

The operating medium of space differs dramatically from the

air realm. People cannot live in the medium and cannot “fly” in

it. If humans are to realize the advantages offered by space, they

must continue to develop technological solutions that

accommodate them and their systems in that hostile

environment. Those solutions, along with the nature of the

environment, will dictate the need for unique operations and

corresponding doctrine. The composition of the space realm

bears absolutely no resemblance to the composition of the air

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realm. Composition of the realm is a characteristic advantage

of airpower.

Size of the Realm

One may locate a conservative air-space boundary at an

altitude of 100 km, the point beyond which aerodynamic

effects become negligible (see table 1). The volume of

atmosphere encompassed by this boundary is roughly 5.18 x

. Near Earth space, from the 100 km altitude out to

geosynchronous earth orbit (GEO), encompasses roughly 3.13

x 10

—more than six thousand times the operating

environment of the atmosphere.

As technology advances and

“near Earth” comes to encompass the Moon, the operating

space environment increases a thousandfold beyond GEO.

The larger the size of the realm, the more potential for freedom

of movement and military operations. The size of the realm is a

characteristic advantage of space power.

Position of the Realm

The relative position of the realm with respect to other

realms is an important environmental characteristic. Because

the space environment encloses the air environment, space

operations have a tactical advantage over air operations. The

space environment also has an energy advantage because it

maintains the high ground. If one overlooks the access

problem previously addressed, space power enjoys an obvious

advantage due to elevation. The relative position of the realm is

a characteristic advantage of space power.

If the environmental characteristics of the air and space

realms are so drastically different, why such a strong effort to

merge the two? In order to justify exploitation of the aerospace

environment as a unified whole, AFM 1-1 points to the fact

that no absolute boundary exists between air and space. The

authors erroneously assert that the distinction between land,

sea, and aerospace forces is attributable to a clear boundary

between each. They further propose that since a clear

boundary does not exist between air and space, one can make

no such distinction.

But the distinction between military

realms is based on the nature of the environment—not on the

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554

boundaries between them. The flawed logic of AFM 1-1

probably results from creating evidence to support a decision

already made—specifically, consumption of space roles and

missions by the Air Force. Unsurprisingly, an initial draft of

AFDD 1, which clearly separated air and space without ever

using the term aerospace, was disapproved. But the term

dominates the latest draft version of AFDD 1 (14 May 1996),

which is now on the verge of acceptance.

The only difference between the air and space environments is

altitude and/or level of technology required to operate within the

realm. The fundamental flaw in such an argument rests in the

very different mediums. The air realm, which varies

continuously with altitude, is dense with substance, screened

from cosmic radiation, and confined to an area within 100 km of

the Earth’s surface. The space realm, however, is a constant,

void of substance, immersed in radiation, and literally infinite in

dimension. If substance density is a valid gauge, the difference

between the air and space realm is a factor of 1,018; if size is the

criterion, the difference is far greater. Differences in composition

and size require significant differences in the technological

means of conquering those mediums. The technological

requirements that distinguish flying in air from traversing space

are more profound than the distinction between motion in water

and traversing the atmosphere. Both sea and air travel involve

progressing through a medium of substance, whereas space

travel involves motion within a void. Scientists and engineers

have a more difficult time merging air and space environments

as compared to merging air and sea environments, yet one hears

nothing of “aerosea” power.

The man-made political, development, and employment

characteristics, as well as the inherent realm-environment

characteristics of military power significantly distinguish

space power from airpower. Correspondingly, these differences

drive different capabilities.

Realm-Afforded Capability

Characteristics of Military Power

Autonomy of operation, surveillance and reconnaissance,

duration (staying power/presence), range, maneuver, flexibility

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of response, precision, speed of response, firepower, and

stealth are all capability characteristics of military power. As

one might expect, differences in political, logistical, and

environmental characteristics between the air and space

realms dictate differences in the ability to project military

power from those realms. In order to make a fair comparison

of air and space capability, one must assume the existence of

a reasonable number of space-based surveillance and

strike-capable assets. Clearly, a capability comparison

between an existing developed force (airpower) and an existing

but immature force (space power) would not prove very useful.

Decisions made today will influence force structure and

capabilities 20 years from now. Assuming a more mature

space power appropriately levels the playing field upon which

those decisions are made.

Autonomy

Evaluation of this characteristic assumes that system

dependence on external information is undesirable. Lack of

autonomy represents vulnerability. This view does not advocate

complete decentralization but simply recognizes the fact that,

necessary or not, external dependence further exposes the

system. Considering just the communications aspect of any

spaceborne system, one notes that large-scale data transmission

capacities will require innovations in both data transmission

(bandwidth and data-link security) and processing (expert

systems for data synthesis and computing power). The advent of

remotely piloted airborne vehicles will place the same

requirements on many airborne platforms. The critical element

in the evaluation of this characteristic is not whether the system

is airborne or spaceborne but whether the system is manned or

unmanned. Unmanned systems inherently lack autonomy and

critically depend on secure, high-transmission data links.

Because spaceborne systems are much more difficult to man,

autonomy is a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Surveillance/Reconnaissance

The idea that space assets provide omniscience/omnipresence

is a common one: “24 hours-a-day, 365 days-a-year, continuous

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multispectral sensor data, instantly fused and synthesized

into processed information” represents a typical

embellishment of the real situation.

Computing power

becomes the means to achieve this goal.

But military planners do not realize that although “24

hours-a-day, 365 days-a-year, continuous multispectral

sensor data” is within reach, the ability to instantly fuse and

synthesize it into processed information is a myth. Military

war games continue to overlook the very difficult problem of

processing, assuming it to be a simple matter of computing

power. Typically, planners summarize the concept as a “data

fusion” black box and summarily dismiss it.

A brief examination of the “data fusion myth” requires

familiarity with the following terms:

• data - raw perception of the environment by any variety of

means: sensed, encoded, and communicated.

• information - decoded and collected data by a few simple

categorizing algorithms or methods.

• knowledge - the recall of information as it applies to a

specific situation.

• understanding - coordination of many groups of

knowledge as they may apply to a variety of situations.

• wisdom - coordinated understanding in the context of a

lifetime of experience.

• vision - use of wisdom to construct a path to the future.

The data fusion myth blindly assumes the potential of

complete automation at all levels, from data acquisition

through insightful decision making (e.g., data - information -

knowledge - understanding - wisdom [“genius”] - vision).

Automation of these functions diminishes as the process

proceeds from data to vision. Wisdom and vision simply are

not programmable. Computers do not make decisions; they

can only follow the algorithms—programmed paths that lead

to decisions. The data fusion accomplished by any computer

will be only as good as the decision paths previously coded

into it by the programmer, who is removed in time, space, and

responsibility from the very decision being made (i.e., he or

she has no particular situational awareness). One cannot

synthesize massive amounts of data in a variety of forms, from

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a variety of platforms, in order to tailor the results for a

particular application, by massive computation alone.

Advances in computing power have facilitated the potential for

processing, but computing power does not equate to

processing. Inflated expectations of data fusion provide more

of a problem for space power simply because experience has

tempered airpower expectations.

In spite of this weakness, one must not understate the impact

of space surveillance and reconnaissance capabilities—

highlighted by the Gulf War. A host of US and foreign

communications, navigation, surveillance, early warning, and

meteorological satellites contributed to the coalition war

effort.

In the future, such support will proliferate,

one-meter resolution will become available commercially by

1997,

and one can only imagine the real limit of resolution

capability. Very fine resolution and wide-area coverage,

multiplying current levels of data flow, only complicate the

problem of data fusion. If planners continue to dismiss data

fusion simply as a computing-power problem, massive

amounts of data flow will leave the analyst or operator

drowning in data but starving for knowledge. Data obtained

from airborne platforms bears the same burden; space-based

systems simply afford a wider range of data opportunities. The

persistence and position afforded by space platforms present

the opportunity to collect huge quantities of surface data; the

difficulty lies in deciding what data to collect, how to process

it, and what to do with the processed information. Given the

benefit of position, surveillance and reconnaissance capability

provides a characteristic advantage of space power.

Duration

Geosynchronous satellites provide a persistent and

continuous presence. One can also arrange satellites in LEO

to provide a similar presence.

Aircraft presence is transient,

and even though long-loiter UAVs may extend aerial presence

significantly, aircraft presence requires sortie generation

and support—satellites do not. Duration is a characteristic

advantage of space power.

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Range

Airpower and space power both have global range. Either

medium provides access to any surface target. The range of

space power extends beyond the near-Earth environment,

currently out to GEO. Although airpower assets such as

airborne lasers or kinetic miniature homing vehicle ASATs

may soon offer regular access to LEO, they will not have

access to deep-space locations. Considerable time may pass

before the range extension of space power exceeds that of

airpower, particularly in a strike capacity. Inherently, though,

range is a characteristic advantage of space power.

Maneuver

A satellite in LEO (200 km) travels at roughly 7,790 meters

per second (17,425 MPH).

A small satellite (100 kg) traveling

at this speed has the kinetic energy roughly equivalent to an

F-16 traveling at Mach 2 (sea level).

Unlike the F-16,

however, the satellite has no air on which to maneuver or slow

down, and because it is so expensive to lift fuel to space,

satellites typically have very little energy available to provide

on-orbit thrust, which in turn equates to maneuverability. The

cross-range capability of satellites is so low, in fact, that the

most maneuverable, powered, space concepts—the current

reusable launch vehicle (RLV) designs—allow only for eleven

hundred miles of lateral maneuver capability.

This essay

has already mentioned the incredible costs incurred by lifting

mass (fuel) to orbit for such maneuvers. These are daunting

obstacles; as such, the virtual immobility of spaceborne assets

from fixed orbit stands as their biggest drawback. Maneuver is

a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Flexibility

System flexibility equates to options. Spacecraft options as

compared to aircraft options are severely limited on several

counts:

1. As discussed, the energy cost of maneuvering space

assets reduces the number of target options.

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2. The energy cost of access to space inhibits satellite

reconfiguration, resulting in a lack of reconnaissance

and strike options. One can reconfigure aircraft prior to

launch in order to meet particular situational needs. In

the event of a crisis, most of the space power available is

already present; satellite strike and reconnaissance

capabilities are not reconfigurable without high-cost

space lift and/or on-orbit maneuver.

3. The absence of autonomy (unmanned) requires spacecraft

to rely on data-linked decisions regarding available

options. The time delay or data-link vulnerabilities could

limit options.

The flexibility that characterizes military power is not

merely a summation of maneuver, access, and autonomy

characteristics. Maneuverable, autonomous systems with easy

realm access could conceivably lack flexibility. The combi-

nation of extreme limitations on autonomy, maneuver, and

access characteristics of space power severely constrains

flexibility. Flexibility is a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Precision

Automated terminal guidance and control are equally

applicable from the air and space. Remote, data-linked

terminal guidance provides its own inherent limitations,

however. Because data-link vulnerability is always an issue,

as are weather restrictions, the Air Force continues to retain

manned aircraft with ballistic bombing capability. Typically, in

the absence of terminal guidance, the precision of ballistic

weapons is directly related to release range—and release

range from terrestrial targets is less for air assets as compared

to the further-removed space assets. The proximity of the air

realm provides precision as a characteristic advantage of

airpower.

Speed of Response

If one removes the three previously considered limitations of

space power (maneuver, flexibility, and precision) from the

calculation,

space-based response time can become almost

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560

instantaneous. Airpower response time can occur as quickly

as putting F-117s on target anywhere in the world within 24

hours of notification; however, providing sustained airpower

(limitation of duration) requires extensive mobilization—

witness the huge buildup prior to the onset of Desert Storm.

The potential for immediate response of space-based platforms

makes speed of response a characteristic advantage of space

power.

Firepower

An Mk 84 two-thousand-pound all-purpose bomb without

any explosive charge, released at 30,000 feet and 530 knots,

carries the energy equivalent to roughly 145 pounds of TNT.

The same Mk 84 dumb bomb in LEO carries one hundred

times the energy—the explosive power of seven tons of TNT.

This may seem like a great deal, but several mitigating factors

come into play:

1. If that energy is employed, most is lost due to drag

effects upon reentry.

2. The explosive power of modern conventional weapons

comes from their explosive filling rather than their

kinetic energy: the explosive charge of an Mk 84—428 kg

of Tritonal

—is equivalent to roughly nine hundred

pounds of TNT. Other conventional explosives marginally

exceed Tritonal capacity.

3. Many lofted weapons (e.g., cluster bombs) require

specific velocities for employment, completely negating

the space-stationed energy advantage.

4. The cost of putting “dumb” energy in orbit is prohibitive

(at $10,000/pound, putting a “dumb” Mk 84 in orbit

would cost an astronomical $20 million).

As far as mass is concerned, firepower from space has

significant limitations. Directed energy weapons provide

another option. Currently, concerted efforts are under way to

produce high-powered lasers with very significant atmospheric

range. The Phillips Laboratory’s airborne laser program has

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pushed laser state of the art to new levels: megawatt power,

submicroradian beam control (one-foot “wiggles” at 200 km),

and lethal ranges extending out to hundreds of kilometers.

Beaming energy to a spaceborne platform, storing it, and

reradiating it from a satellite DEW becomes at least plausible. Of

course, whatever one can do from the remoteness of space, one

can also accomplish from the air, without the need to radiate the

energy to the platform—exactly the approach of the airborne

laser. Although space strike may prove more responsive,

firepower capability from space has significant limitations.

Assuming a surface target, the proximity of the air realm

provides firepower as a characteristic advantage of airpower.

Stealth

Because of their close proximity to the surface, aircraft are

exposed to low-technology, surface-based threats such as

antiaircraft artillery and surface-to-air missiles. Their

exposure, however, is transient and limited by various

unpredictable factors: timing, flight path, velocity,

maneuverability, stealth technology, and weather.

The high speed and remote aspects of spacecraft clearly

provide certain security advantages. A spacecraft in near-

circular LEO with an apogee and perigee of approximately

2,128 miles travels a set path at a known velocity of roughly

17,420 MPH, while a satellite in a near-circular GEO (22,241

miles) requires a velocity of 6,880 MPH to remain stationary,

relative to the Earth’s surface.

But as technical access to

space proliferates, the advantages of remote speed give way to

the disadvantages of predictable locations and paths. Physical

cluster areas at LEO, GEO, and Lagrange points

also add to

the exposure of space assets. Additionally, the absence of an

inhibiting atmosphere greatly extends space-based sensing

capability and weapons effects, further complicating the

space-security issue. Historically, space support based in the

continental United States has remained more centralized than

air-support infrastructure, thus increasing its vulnerability.

After defining stealth as a military term referring to the

difficulty of acquiring, locking, and killing a potential target,

and after comparing the transient, maneuverable, low-level

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capabilities of airpower with the predictable, continuous

exposure of space assets, one concludes that stealth is a

characteristic advantage of airpower.

Summation and Integration

of Characteristics

To support military decisions regarding the employment of

airpower and/or space power, one must integrate capability

characteristics in the context of the current situation. An

inherent limitation of examining each of these characteristics

independently is that, in reality, one must consider them in

total. One makes trade-offs between positive and negative

attributes in order to determine the correct response,

depending on the situation. For example, a skirmish halfway

around the world may require immediate response time, light

firepower, and extreme precision. A directed-energy,

space-to-surface, strike-capable satellite may provide the

appropriate speed of response, but due to its remoteness and

weather limitations, the satellite may not provide the required

precision. In terms of the assessment of characteristics, this

circumstance is reflected by both space power’s advantage in

speed of response and airpower’s advantage in precision. The

decision maker must trade off these advantages required by

the given situation and choose the best approach. As

discussed above, planners often overstate the concept of data

fusion, which will not supplant a continued requirement for

military genius.

Conclusion

Clearly, the characteristics of airpower and space power are

quite different, as indicated by highlighting their relative

advantages (table 2). Only the characteristic of technological

dependence shows a significant similarity between airpower

and space power. One should note, however, that techno-logical

advances will mitigate some of the differences in

characteristics. Unfavorable characteristics of airpower may

change significantly with the advent of long-loiter UAVs , while

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unfavorable characteristics of space power may change with

the advent of transatmospheric vehicles (TAV). Determining

whether or not a given characteristic is advantageous to

airpower as opposed to space power—or vice versa—is

debatable and not critical to the argument. The significant

differences between airpower and space power discussed

within the context of each characteristic, however, are critical

to the argument. In spite of the potential for some

technological mitigation of the vast differences in the

characteristics of airpower and space power, one must

conclude that the aerospace power conjecture is false.

That is, one cannot build space power theory and doctrine

in general upon airpower theory and doctrine. Theories and

doctrines of airpower, land power, and sea power may

Table 2

Characteristic Advantages of Airpower and Space Power

Airpower Space Power

Politics Political access to the realm Sovereignty

Likelihood of

reduced casualties

Development/

Employment

Centralized C

Decentralized execution

Realm Access Access to the realm

(operations)

Access to the realm

(maintenance/support)

Realm

Environment

Composition of the realm Size of the realm

Position of the

realm

Realm-Afforded

Capability

Autonomy

Maneuver

Flexibility

Precision

Firepower

Stealth

Surveillance and

reconnaissance

Duration

Range

Speed of response

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contribute significantly to the development of the theory and

doctrine of space power, but space power clearly requires

fundamental, bottom-up, theoretical and doctrinal

development. The most conducive environment for such

development remains a separate space corps or service.

Before completely dismissing the aerospace power

conjecture, one might articulate a consistent argument that

favors it: the merging of airpower and space power as

aerospace power is based upon their functional equivalence

(employing military power from the third dimension). No

distinct boundary exists between the two, and they both afford

the same elevated perspective of the battlefield. Technology

will eventually overcome the significant environmental

distinctions between the air and space media. The

technological pursuit of space planes provides evidence that

once technology overcomes the space medium, military

function will blur any environmental distinction.

This argument is compelling and has its merits. The

counterargument, however, is at least as compelling: the

merging of land and sea power as “surface power” is based

upon their functional equivalence (employing military power

from the two-dimensional surface). The boundary between the

two is not so distinct, and they both afford the same surface

perspective of the battlefield. Environmental distinctions

between land and sea media are significant, but technology

has overcome them. So why is there no surface power

following? The answer is that five hundred years of Western

experience have demonstrated that the argument, though

consistent, is wrong. Despite the existence of a functional

equivalence between two forms of military power (accepted as

the roles-and-missions equivalence at the outset of this essay)

and the existence of the technical means to accomplish those

functions, the fact remains that the environment and the

technological means that posture us in those environments

remain different. This is true of land and sea power; the

examination of characteristics indicates that it is also true of

airpower and space power.

The additional argument posed by advocates of the space

plane is beside the point. Should a space plane actually come

to exist, it would merely reflect the capabilities of both

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airpower and space power. Historically, though, dual-

environment vehicles have proved more expensive and less

capable than separate vehicles designed especially for each

environment—witness the failure of the national aerospace

plane (NASP). (One should note that there are few, if any,

sea-capable tanks.) Such experience should at least call into

question the wisdom of pursuing a space plane in the first

place. Thus, doctrinal unification of aerospace power is no

more justifiable than doctrinal unification of surface power.

In spite of compelling evidence that airpower and space

power remain distinct, one can argue credibly that the Air

Force, in practice, ought to manage both. The current,

battle-proven emphasis on jointness runs counter to splitting

off another component of the joint force and thereby providing

one more seam in the battlefield. Fiscally, a separate space

organization would require more overhead—a distinct

bureaucracy, independent R&D, test and evaluation programs,

and another acquisition stovepipe. The counterargument

concedes that any new capability necessarily entails a cost.

Because the United States could not exploit the new strategic

capabilities offered by airpower in the confines of Army

culture and doctrine, it paid the cost of producing a separate

Air Force. Likewise, we cannot exploit the new capabilities

offered by space power in the confines of Air Force culture and

doctrine. We need only decide whether that capability justifies

the cost.

Roles, missions, and basic tenets have always served as

unifying themes across the services. Joint doctrine reflects

common roles, missions, and tenets. Land, sea, and space

power, as well as airpower, are functionally equivalent, based

upon these common roles and missions. Furthermore,

airpower and space power are closely tied by their mutual

strategic function of effecting the use of military power from

the third dimension. But airpower, land power, and sea power

part company in the pursuit of those common roles, missions,

and tenets. Realm-unique characteristics have justified the

segregation of the air, land, and sea services. Comparing and

contrasting the characteristics of airpower and space power

serves to highlight the fact that space power is also a unique

form of military power. Space power—as much as airpower,

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land power, and sea power—warrants separate development of

theory and doctrine, as well as a separate service to organize,

train, and equip forces to support that doctrine. It’s a good

news/bad news situation for the Air Force.

First, the bad news (and the answer to both questions put

forward at the outset): once technological development allows

us to pursue the full spectrum of roles and missions from space,

and the domestic will recognizes that the capability justifies the

cost, the Air Force will have to cut its child loose in the form of a

new Space Force.

Ironically, this essay has repeatedly cited

Joint Doctrine Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures (JDTTP)

3-14, Space Operations, to support many statements made

herein, even though the essay’s conclusion is diametrically

opposed to Rear Adm Richard Macke’s opening statement in

that publication:

Space cannot be considered a separate warfare arena. It crosses all

warfare areas and all warfare services. Just as space surrounds and

encompasses the entire globe, it surrounds, encompasses, and

supports all warriors. To say space is the battleground of any unique

warfighting group is paramount to disaster. All warfighters, regardless

of the device on their chest or color of their uniform, must embrace

space, understand space, and use space or be destined not to enjoy

the tremendous advantage space can give.

This is simply wrong. If one subtracts 50 years and replaces

space with air, the same old flawed argument presents itself. It

became apparent then, as it does now, that the characteristics

of the new realm differed so dramatically from those of the

current realms, that one needed a new service to organize, train,

and equip forces in order to employ the tenets and satisfy the

roles and missions assigned to joint military forces.

The statement in JDTTP 3-14 indicates an attitude of

responsibility sharing that has forced the military away from a

basic tenet of space power—centralized control. An elite Air

Force Association (AFA) advisory group made the statement,

“Who’s in charge of the space program is the fundamental

problem” (emphasis in original). That is on target. However,

the group erred in concluding that “the solution lies in vesting

R&D and acquisition functions for military space

requirements of all services in the Air Force” (emphasis in

original).

The distinctions between airpower and space

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power, as well as the service infighting that would result,

suggest that such a solution is simply unworkable. A more

palatable solution lies in the creation of a Space Force. The

entire argument made in the AFA report supports such a

move and eliminates many of the drawbacks mentioned. In

any event, given the major differences in airpower and space

power, such a Space Force is clearly on the horizon. The

question is no longer if but when and how.

When

As mentioned above, we should create a separate Space

Force when the technological development and domestic will

allow pursuit of the full spectrum of roles and missions from

space (i.e., not yet). Apparently, a compelling immediate

motivation is missing. We find ourselves in a period that

possesses (1) the necessary resources, (2) an unencumbered

economy,

(3) a weak immediate motivation (here, the threat

of proliferated space access), and (4) a common vision that

supports specific technologies. It may be temporary, but it

presents a window of opportunity.

The lack of centralized control—which results in service

infighting, inefficiency, and duplication—may warrant a move

now. A reasonable compromise would entail creation of a

Space Force whose roles and missions statements do not

include force application but whose theoretical and doctrinal

development ought to include the potential for force

application from space. Aspects of each service culture should

contribute to that theoretical and doctrinal development: we

must plan to fight while living and operating in a hostile

environment (Navy), from a fixed, possibly fortified

position/orbit (Army), and achieve the objective by force

application from the third dimension (Air Force). The

dominant nature of the last element, together with the fact

that one must traverse the air in order to reach space,

currently gives the Air Force a lead role in developing space

systems.

The Air Force is clearly the primary player in

military space, having an estimated budget of $2.6 billion for

fiscal year 1996, as compared to projected Army spending of

$110 million and Navy spending of $120 million.

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An often overlooked spin-off of the notion of a separate Space

Force, however, carries good news for the Air Force. As noted,

space power has some attributes that airpower cannot match,

but the opposite is also true. The danger of the Air Force’s

holding on to responsibility for space is that it will lose sight of the

very necessary and unique capabilities that airpower, apart from

space power, provides. In addition to losing focus on airpower

organization and doctrine, the Air Force will inevitably

shortchange airpower if it tries to hold on to space in terms of

organizing, training, and equipping space forces, despite limited

funding.

Segregating airpower and space power is a good move

for both, leaving experts in each to decide how best to develop

theory and doctrine and subsequently invest in supporting

organization, training, and equipment.

How

Because the standard military acquisitions approach for

investment in space power may be premature, the following

suggestion may have some merit: Given the enormity of the

physical problems discussed and the opportunity afforded by

the collapse of a major threat, perhaps the United States ought

to spend more of its current space budget on space-related

education, training, and R&D, as opposed to operations and

procurement. If technological difficulties are enormous now

and if theoretical technical advances continue at the current

pace, it makes sense that access to space will become much

cheaper in the future. Rather than producing next-generation

dinosaurs, it is better to put money into R&D that will benefit

the United States 25 years from now.

Objections to the effect that this would mean abandoning

the defense technological and industrial base (DTIB) are

unfounded. All fiscal decisions affect the DTIB. The question

is not one of supporting the DTIB but of deciding what part of

the DTIB to support: near-term manufacturing/production

lines and operations or education, science, and R&D leading

to long-term capabilities. The idea of a flawed approach that

leads to the misallocation of limited military resources (i.e.,

trying to do too much too soon) is not new. The Third Reich

made enormous investments in rocket technology—to the

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569

benefit of technology and to the detriment of Germany: “The

technical fascination of being able to break through traditional

limits . . . had overwhelmed any rigorous analysis of its likely

impact. The most fundamental flaw in their thinking lay in the

lack of any well-thought-out strategic concept of how the

missile could actually affect the course of the war. It was the

product of a narrow technological vision that obscured the

strategic bankruptcy of the concept.”

At many military “futures and technology” conferences, the

space technology of choice always assumes space weaponization

in the form of various systems, such as TAVs. Why? The

international community seems strongly opposed to the

weaponization of space. Might an investment now to produce

military space systems in the near term be a narrow

technological vision that obscures the strategic bankruptcy of

the concept? Some of the futures studies directed by the Air

Force chief of staff are seriously considering the possibility of

moving funds away from systems and toward basic research.

We are on the threshold of a new era—the preeminence of

space power. One should note that the preeminence of sea

power did not immediately follow the ability to access the seas

but required prolific, developed access to the realm, as well as

domestic will, economic capability, and an accommodating

international environment. The convergence of these factors

for space has not occurred but seems close at hand. Any

examination of the characteristics of airpower and space

power shows that the two are not identical. The time is right

to establish an organizational structure that can plan for our

future in space but not inhibit the unique and necessary

development of airpower. When the worldwide technological,

economic, and political environment does converge—and

space power becomes preeminent—will the United States be

an economically burned-out nation that boosted the world

into space 20 years early, or will it lead the world into space

when the forces converge naturally?

Unity of command and unity of effort are basic military and

managerial concepts that date from antiquity. For a brief

period in the 1960s, President John F. Kennedy provided that

unity, and it propelled us to the Moon. Such unity in the

space community is sorely lacking today. The Air Force is the

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

570

wrong place to focus that unity. To do so constitutes an attempt

to force the merger of two unique realms. That is bad for space

power and bad for airpower. The Air Force ought to be a major

player—but not the only player. A unifying, independent space

organization—drawing on the experience of NASA, the three

armed services, and industry—has the best chance of making

the right investment choices today that will put the United

States at the forefront of space power tomorrow.

Notes

1. E. B. Potter, ed., Sea Power: A Naval History (Annapolis: Naval

Institute Press, 1981), chap. 18. The notion of motivating discussion by

alluding to the emergence of sea power at the turn of the century comes

from a paper by Lt Col R. Pelligrini, prepared for a course in Science,

Philosophy, Military Theory, and Technological Investment Strategy, School

of Advanced Airpower Studies, Maxwell AFB, Ala., April 1995.

2. AFM 1-1, Basic Aerospace Doctrine of the United States Air Force, vol. 1,

March 1992, 5.

3. AFDD 1, “Basic Air Force Doctrine,” draft, 14 May 1996, 1.

4. As used here, military power is synonymous with land, sea, and space

power, as well as airpower. The four realms recognized here are air, land,

sea, and space; the prospect that information constitutes a fifth realm is yet

to be confirmed and is not assumed.

5. One should note, however, that despite the publication of a variety of

airpower theories, there is no comprehensive theory of airpower on par with

the land power theory of Clausewitz or the sea power theory of Mahan. See

H. Winton, “Air Power Theory: A Black Hole in the Wild Blue Yonder,” Air

Power History 39 (Winter 1992): 32.

6. As noted in AFM 1-1, a strategic attack (e.g., bombing an aircraft

factory) can be a vital part of the realm-control mission, even if people

typically see it as a force application mission.

7. AFDD 1 states that global reach/global power is supported by five

war-fighting pillars: air superiority, space superiority, precision

employment, information dominance, and global mobility (page 11). AFDD

4, “Space Operations Doctrine,” 22 May 1996, states that Space Force

operations should gain space superiority, which is further broken down into

the conventional roles of control, force application, force enhancement, and

force support (pages 6–10).

8. Department of the Air Force, Global Presence (Washington, D.C.:

Department of the Air Force, 1995).

9. For example, air presence includes forward basing of airpower assets,

the recognized projection capability of US airpower, involvement of airpower

in humanitarian efforts, and the strategic role of the Air Force’s

intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) force.

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10. The definition provided here is consistent with Air Force and joint

doctrine on the subject of air and space forces: “Aerospace Control,” role no.

1 in AFM 1-1, vol. 1, 7; “Counterair, Counterspace, and Counter-

information” in AFDD 1, 42; “Space Control” (assure friendly use while

denying use to the enemy) in AFDD 4, 4; “Space Control” in Joint Doctrine

Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures (JDTTP) 3-14, Space Operations, April

1992; and “combat against enemy forces in space and their infrastructure”

in the latest draft of JP 3-14, 13 March 1996. As used here, the term

discriminate emphasizes US tendencies to avoid the use of indiscriminate

weapons (weapons of mass destruction, various “nonlethal” weapons, etc.).

11. Subtle but important differences exist between Air Force and joint

doctrine regarding force application. While joint doctrine focuses only on

attack against enemy forces, Air Force doctrine allows for the possibility of

attacking enemy critical nodes or key targets, including both enemy forces

(interdiction, close air support, and C

attack) and strategic critical nodes

(strategic attack) that are not necessarily part of the enemy force.

12. The definition provided here is consistent with Air Force and joint

doctrine on the subject of air and space forces. The one internal

discrepancy involves lift. AFM 1-1 includes lift in force enhancement, while

JDTTP 3-14 puts it under force support. This essay assumes that lift falls

under support, not enhancement, as does AFDD 4 (see page 9). As noted

earlier, though, the role and mission matchups are not exclusive. Further,

although one typically assumes that space assets will support terrestrial

military functions, force enhancement could eventually cut both ways—that

is, terrestrial assets may support space warfare.

13. The definition provided here is consistent with Air Force and joint

doctrine on the subject of air and space forces.

14. See Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air, trans. Dino Ferrari

(1942; new imprint, Washington, D.C.: Office of Air Force History, 1983);

and Phillip S. Meilinger, Ten Propositions Regarding Air Power (Washington,

D.C.: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1995), 14–19.

15. AFDD 4, “Space Operations Doctrine,” draft, August 1995, 5.

16. “Defining Missile Defense: What Missile, Which Defense?” Military

Space 13 (8 January 1996): 1–5. Current budget debates focus on the level

of Department of Defense (DOD) ballistic missile defense (BMD) spending.

This is not a question of whether or not to pursue BMD but one of how

much and how soon. President William Clinton recently vetoed the $3

billion proposed by Congress, which exceeded his request of $2.44 billion.

17. The outdated AFM 2-25, Air Force Operational Doctrine—Space

Operations, March 1991, sorted Space Force characteristics into environ-

mentally, logistically, and politically influenced characteristics. The

taxonomy used in this essay renames these as realm environment, realm

access, and political characteristics, and adds the categories of

development/employment and realm-afforded capability.

18. Lt Col David Lupton, On Space Warfare: A Space Power Doctrine

(Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, 1988), 33–46.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

572

19. AFM 1-1; AFDD l; AFDD 4 (1995); JDTTP 3-14; FM 100-5,

Operations, 14 June 1993, 2-16 through 2-18; JP 3-14 (“purpose: to

present a framework for thinking about future space control operations”).

One should note that although capabilities-based planning has merit,

threat-based and objective-based planning are other options worth

consideration.

20. Paul Stares, The Militarization of Space: US Policy, 1945–1984 (New

York: Cornell University Press, 1985), 206–7. As early as 1978, miniature

homing vehicles were successfully launched from F-15 platforms, using

first-stage boost via a modified Boeing short-range attack missile (SRAM)

and second-stage boost via a Vought Altair III.

21. Maj Ronald M. Reed, USAF judge advocate, Maxwell AFB, Ala.,

interviewed by author, January 1996. Additionally, “as with all other

branches of international law, space law is based on the premise that

conduct is presumed to be lawful in the absence of prohibitions.” C.

Christol, The Modern International Law of Outer Space (New York: Pergamon

Press, 1982), 59–60.

22. “Legal writers differ greatly in their views of the effect that the

outbreak of war between parties to a treaty has on that instrument. A

general statement on the subject would have to mention that certain

treaties, such as those regulating the conduct of hostilities, actually come

into full effect at the outbreak of war; that treaties of friendship or alliance,

as well as all other agreements classifiable as political in nature, concluded

between opposing belligerents prior to a war, come to an end at the

beginning of the conflict; that nonpolitical agreements are suspended for

the duration of the conflict; and that a certain few types of treaties involving

matters such as private property rights and possibly also boundary

agreements not related to frontiers involved in the conduct of hostilities

remain in force during the war. Similarly, agreements that by their very

nature were final in character would not be affected at all by the outbreak

of war.” Gerhard von Glahn, Law among Nations: An Introduction to Public

International Law (New York: Collier-Macmillan, 1981), 623–24.

23. Air University (AU)-18, Space Handbook: A Warfighter’s Guide to

Space, vol. 1, December 1993, 41.

24. Several well-known texts include G. Allison’s Essence of Decision

(New York: HarperCollins, 1971); and J. March’s A Primer on Decision

Making (New York: Free Press, 1994).

25. Not published as official US space policy, the unilateral move not to

fund the production of ASAT weapons and their testing in space occurred in

the late 1980s in response to a similar move by the Soviets. Current US

funding decisions do not favor the weaponization of space.

26. National Space Policy, National Security Directive 30 (Washington,

D.C.: Office of the White House Press Secretary, 2 November 1989).

27. Department of Defense Space Policy (Washington, D.C.: Government

Printing Office, March 1987).

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28. Findings of the Air Force Blue Ribbon Panel on the Future of the Air

Force in Space, as reported in AU-18, vol. 1, 73.

29. See C. McKinley, “Air Force Space Command’s High Ground

Strategy,” draft, AFSPACECOM/XPX, 23 February 1996.

30. P. Calvocoressi and G. Wint, Total War: The Story of World War II

(New York: Pantheon Books, 1972), 522. One should note that the political

will to dominate a particular realm has historically been a “touchy” issue

when humanity is on the threshold of gaining significant access to a new

environment. The Hague Convention of 1899 prohibited the bombardment

of cities from aerial balloons at the outset of mankind’s accession to the air.

This prohibition, however, was not renewed in 1907.

31. The Navy means of satisfying its role of forward presence

(demonstrating national commitment) differs somewhat from the air or land

means. Freedom of the seas does not require negotiated forward basing of

air and land assets on sovereign territory. By virtue of the Outer Space

Treaty of 1967, the means of satisfying forward presence in space is much

more akin to the means of doing so on the sea.

32. One can argue that this is simply the result of recent US fighting for

matters of less than “vital” interests. It does not detract from the

significance of the characteristic, because American military involvement in

foreign ventures that require fighting for less than vital interests will no

doubt continue.

33. Space operators are typically “remote”—data-linked to the space

asset but physically isolated from the battlefield by virtue of being based in

the continental United States.

34. AFDD 4, 22 May 1996, 3.

35. See Air Force Association Special Report, Facing Up to the Space

Problem, 1 November 1994.

36. AFM 1-1, 8.

37. AFDD 4 (1995), 3.

38. Wernher von Braun, “Man Will Conquer Space Soon,” Collier’s, 22

March 1952, 1. One should note that, at the time, the Van Allen radiation

belts had yet to be discovered. Von Braun did not realize that an orbit at an

altitude of 1,075 miles would be a dangerous place to put a space colony.

This raises another caution regarding our lack of experience in space: what

else don’t we know?

39. The shuttle carries its empty weight of 105,000 kg and a maximum

payload of 21,140 kg to LEO (204 km, 28.45°) and uses a total launch

thrust of 7,781,400 pounds (6,600,000 pounds in the first two minutes

contributed by the solid-rocket expendables, and 1,181,400 pounds over

the first eight minutes and 50 seconds by the orbiter main engines). An

Atlas II can place 6,000 kg in a similar orbit with its 485,000 pounds of

launch thrust. Jane’s Space Directory (Alexandria, Va.: Jane’s Information

Group Ltd., 1995), 274.

Placing an empty F-16 (11,300 kg) and a reasonable payload (3,700 kg)

in the same location via a shuttle-type approach requires 15/105 the thrust

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

574

of the shuttle—roughly 1.1 million pounds. Placing an empty F-16 and

reasonable payload in the same location using an Atlas-type approach

requires 15/6 the thrust of the Atlas—roughly 1.2 million pounds.

40. The 29,000 pounds of thrust of the F-16’s General Electric

F110-GE-129 engine is at sea level; thrust declines slowly with increasing

altitude, and the mass density of air above 20 miles will cause the engine to

flame out.

41. The space shuttle does have a capability to service and/or retrieve

spacecraft, but it is neither efficient nor responsive.

42. One can make a good argument that if spacecraft are small and

cheap and if launch is fast and cheap, satellites ought to be replaced—not

recovered and repaired. The counterargument is (1) those are big ifs and (2)

one would eventually have to deal with an abundance of throwaway space

systems because they would clutter LEO.

43. Theo Pirard, “Space Ambitions in a Changing World,” Spaceflight,

January 1996, 2.

44. Density = exp(–mgz/kT), where z is altitude, m is the molecular

weight in kg of air, g is the local acceleration of gravity, k is Boltzmann’s

constant, and T is temperature (degrees Kelvin).

45. R. McNutt, “Orbiting Space Debris: Dangers, Measurement and

Mitigation” (Hanscom AFB, Mass.: Phillips Laboratory Directorate of

Geophysics, 1992).

46. Although the “air” has one-millionth the density at LEO as opposed

to sea level, the net accumulation of drag effects at LEO can become

significant over the extended duration of satellite lifetimes.

47. Integrating acceleration of 32 ft/s

with respect to time (t), velocity =

32t ft/s, and integrating this again with respect to t, distance = 16t

ft.

Note: 88 ft/s = 60 MPH.

48. The propulsion benefit of lift in the atmosphere does come at the

cost of drag. The example demonstrates that the benefit clearly outweighs

the cost.

49. Harrier in CAP: 1.5 hrs. Stationary Harrier, with the same fuel load

as the CAP Harrier (2 x 228 gal external tanks + 757 gal internal) = 1,213

gal, at ~ 6 lb/gal ⇒ ~7,300 lb of fuel. The Harrier’s Pegasus 11-61 engine

takeoff performance rating is 23,800 lb of thrust, while an optimistic

estimate of its specific fuel consumption is .8 lb/hr for every pound of

thrust. The burn rate for a stationary Harrier is about .8 x 23,800 = 19,040

lb per hour. With 7,300 lb of fuel, the Harrier could stay in such a position

for roughly 23 minutes. Jane’s Atlas of the World’s Aircraft (Alexandria, Va.:

International Thomson Publishing Company, 1995).

50. The volume of a sphere of radius r is V

= (4/3)7 πr

. Using the radius

of the Earth r

= 6,371 km, the volume of the atmosphere below 100 km is

100

= V

6,471

-V

6,371

= 5.18 x 10

, and the volume of space out to GEO

is V

GEO

= V

42,157

– V

6,471

= 3.13 x 10

51. AFM 1-1, vol. 2, 63–70.

52. See AFDD 1, draft, 15 August 1995 and 14 May 1996.

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53. J. Hyatt et al., Space Power 2010 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University,

May 1995), 32.

54. The aerospace control war game, held at the Air University

Wargaming Center, Maxwell AFB, Ala., August 1995, and the Navy’s

technology initiatives game (TIG)-95, National Maritime Intelligence Center,

Suitland, Md. (attended by this author).

55. P. Anson and D. Cummings, “The First Space War: The Contribution

of Satellites to the Gulf War,” in Alan D. Campen, ed., The First Information

War: The Story of Communications, Computers, and Intelligence Systems in

the Persian Gulf War (Fairfax, Va.: AFCEA International Press, 1992), 130.

56. N. Hudson, “Air Force Researching Ground-Based Lasers,” Air Force

Times, 30 May 1993. Air Force Space Command estimates that 30 countries

will have satellite reconnaissance capability by the year 2000.

57. For information about the USA Eyeglass Satellite, see Berner,

Lanphier, and Associates, “Many Nations Feed Commercial Imagery

Market,” Space News, 6 March 1995.

58. That is, in coordinated orbital paths and networks.

59. Circular Keplarian Orbital Velocity: V

= (m

G/r

)

1/2

where Earth

mass: m

= 5.974 x 10

kg,

Earth radius: r

= 6,371 km,

Satellite orbital radius: r

= r

+ altitude, and

Newton’s gravitational constant G = 6.673 x 10

–11

/(kg

)

Orbital Velocity LEO (200 km): 7,789 m/s ~ 17,425 MPH

60. Kinetic energy, or work done against inertia, is the appropriate

measure since the inertia of the satellite must be maneuvered.

Mach 2 at low altitude ~ 1,440 MPH or ~ 645 m/s

Kinetic energy KE = (1/2)mv

sat

= (1/2) x 100 kg x (7,800 m/s)

~ 3 x 10

F-16

= (1/2) x 14,625 kg x (645 m/s)

~ 3 x 10

61. M. Rampino, Maxwell AFB, Ala., interviewed by author, January

1996. The figure mentioned is not an eleven-hundred-mile lateral movement

in orbit capability. It refers to lift-and-drag-aided RLV maneuverability

within the atmosphere, minimizing the more expensive proposition of

spending fuel to change orbit.

62. This assumes that the right satellites are in the right orbit (limitation

of maneuver) with the right capability (limitation of flexibility) and that

those satellites can precisely acquire the right target (limitation of

precision).

63. Thomas A. Keaney and Eliot A. Cohen, Gulf War Air Power Survey,

vol. 3, Logistics and Support (Washington, D.C.: Department of the Air

Force, 1993), chap. 3.

64. Total Energy = Kinetic + Potential Energy

sat

= (1/2) x 908 kg x (7,800 m/s)

~ 2.762 x 10

sat

= 908 kg x (9.807 N/kg) x 200,000 m ~ 1.781 x 10

sat

= 2.94 x 10

A one ton (2,000 lb) TNT explosion equates to 4.184 x 10

Nm.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

576

530 knots ~ 608 MPH ~ 272 m/s

30K

(1/2) x 908 kg x (272 m/s)

~ 3.359 x 10

30K

908 kg x (9.807 N/kg) x 30,000 m ~ 2.671 x 10

30K

= 3.007 x 10

65. Duncan Lennox and Arthur Rees, eds., Jane’s Air Launched

Weapons, no. 19, Low Drag General Purpose Bombs (Alexandria, Va.: Jane’s

Information Group Ltd., 1992).

66. Lt J. Wesson, Air Force Wright Labs, Eglin AFB, Fla., telephone

interview by author, February 1996. Tritonal has 120–125 percent of the

explosive power of TNT, while state-of-the-art conventional

explosives—including experimental APET-257 and PWX MOD19—have

demonstrated explosive capability on the order of 140 percent of TNT.

Surprisingly, few if any new explosive materials have presented themselves

since World War II. Current research efforts basically address evolutionary

improvements to TNT derivatives.

67. Joseph Anselmo, “NASA Issues Wake-Up Call to Industry,” Aviation

Week & Space Technology, 19 February 1996.

68. Lt Col Stephen A. Coulombe, “The Airborne Laser: Pie in the Sky or

Vision of Future Theater Missile Defense?” Airpower Journal 8, no. 3 (Fall

1994): 62.

69. Circular Keplarian Orbital Velocity calculation yields

Orbital Velocity GEO (35,786 km): 3,075 m/s ~ 6,880 MPH

Orbital Velocity LEO (204 km): 7,787 m/s ~ 17,420 MPH

70. Lagrange points are gravity wells in space—equilibrium points that

remain stationary with respect to the rotating coordinate frame. Five

naturally occur in the near-Earth/Moon environment.

71. As defined by Carl von Clausewitz, genius affords human decision

making based on wisdom and requires intellect, experience, and bold moral

character. On War, ed. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton, N.J.:

Princeton University Press, 1976).

72. One could also make a good argument that functional commands

could take on the responsibility of organizing, training, and equipping all

forces (i.e., provide the money). This would be a dramatic shift, since the

services would be relegated to operational corps status. As such, the new

Space Force already exists in the form of US Space Command. This essay,

however, does not address this level of the organizational argument.

73. JDTTP 3-14, 1.

74. Gen Russell E. Dougherty et al., Facing Up to the Space Problem, Air

Force Association Special Report, 1 November 1994, 12.

75. The present economy is at least as “unencumbered” as that of the

late nineteenth century. The lack of an immediate threat actually affords

the luxury of redirecting funds toward new environment exploits.

76. Dougherty, 14.

77. “Military Space $ on Rise in FY96,” Military Space, 20 February

1995, 1.

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78. From the space power perspective, space systems will also find it

difficult to compete with air systems in an Air Force environment.

79. Michael Neufeld, The Rocket and the Reich: Peenemünde and the

Coming of the Ballistic Missile Era (New York: Free Press, 1995), 52.

80. Revolutionary planning efforts include New World Vistas: Air and

Space Power for the 21st Century (Washington, D.C.: USAF Scientific

Advisory Board, 1995–1996), which seriously considers basic research as a

funding priority; and 2025 (Maxwell AFB, Ala.: Air University Press, 1996),

consisting of three monographs and four volumes of white papers.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

578

Chapter 15

Reflections on the Search

for Airpower Theory

Dr. I. B. Holley Jr.

Technology advances—novel weapons as well as ancillary

equipment—are devised, but until suitable doctrines are

formulated to optimize their potential, they remain under-

exploited. In short, there is an intellectual dimension to every

significant advance in weaponry. The Paths of Heaven is about

that intellectual dimension, beliefs, and the manner in which

military people and scholars have conceptualized the way they

would exploit the air weapon as it has evolved in the twentieth

century.

Some people have been rigorously disciplined in their

thinking; others have not, clearly reflecting the limitations of

their thought processes and, by implication, their deficiencies

in education. When one attempts to grapple with the problem

of how these thinkers, especially officers in the different

services at various times, have tried to integrate technological

innovations effectively in their organizations, the crucial

importance of professional military education becomes clear.

A service that does not develop rigorous thinkers among its

leaders and decision makers is inviting friction, folly, and

failure.

In an attempt to embrace all these varied individuals, this

book’s subtitle promises that The Paths of Heaven is an

account of “the evolution of airpower theory”—a survey of

some of the leading thinkers. In studying the foregoing

chapters, this author was struck by the unsystematic,

undisciplined thinking that all too often characterized the

writings of the “theorists” described. Establishing a baseline

against which to measure the thinkers in question may be

useful.

579

One can classify ideas by the way they are authenticated.

The following array of terms gives us a useful spectrum

against which to set our airpower thinkers:

• Theories are ideas that are systematically prepared for

authentication.

• Visions are ideas not systematically prepared for authen-

tication.

• Illusions are ideas that could not survive systematic prepar-

ation for authentication.

• Myths are ideas that exempt themselves from any sys-

tematic authentication.

• Facts are ideas that have already passed the authentication

process.

• Falsehoods are ideas certain to fail the authentication

process.

Clearly, Gen Giulio Douhet was a visionary. With only the

scantiest empirical evidence to go on, he visualized the

concept of strategic air war. By sheer imagination, he also

recognized the necessity of air supremacy or what he called

“command of the air”—all this before Italy had even entered

the war in 1915. Not surprisingly, these profound visions of

what the future would bring were, when it came to details,

seriously flawed. Douhet failed to anticipate the character of

air-to-air combat, vastly overestimated the impact of

conventional bombing, and misunderstood the importance of

aircraft other than bombers. In these and many other

respects, Douhet’s vision was decidedly flawed. But the

evidence of experience would overcome these details. The

significance of visionaries lies not in the details but in the

stream of thought they set in train.

Although Douhet’s works were not widely used by military

schools in other countries, his vision of strategic airpower

undoubtedly was a significant inspiration to Edgar Gorrell and

Gen Billy Mitchell, who carried his ideas to the United States

and ran with them in their own way. We may conclude, then,

that Douhet had a grand vision of airpower, but—lacking the

factual evidence of experience—his vision was not

systematically prepared for authentication. It would remain

elusive and difficult to assess.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

580

The British thinkers about airpower, Hugh Trenchard and

Jack Slessor, had an advantage over Douhet in that they had

more extensive experience in the application of the air

weapon. Given the fragile condition of British ground forces,

Trenchard early defined the offensive character of airpower,

concentrating on air superiority and interdiction. But he also

visualized the importance of strategic bombing and late in the

war had the opportunity to organize an independent air force

to that end. In contrast to Douhet, he specified appropriate

industrial targets big enough to be identified from the

air—evidence of practical realism born of experience.

Thus far, Trenchard would seem to rank as a theorist,

resting his ideas on factual evidence, but like so many

airpower thinkers, he indulged in visions or even illusions.

When he claimed that the psychological effects of bombing

outweighed the material as 20 to one, he was speculating—

with no whit of factual evidence to support his contention. If

this had been an ill-judged remark casually tossed off, one

would attach no great significance to it, but his belief that

airpower could break the morale of enemy populations—which

in turn would force the hostile government to sue for

peace—became one of his basic tenets. This view of “war [as]

largely a psychological effort” (p. 54)

found its way into Royal

Air Force (RAF) manuals throughout the interwar period—an

example of an unsupported belief or supposition becoming the

basis of service doctrine.

The idea that war was largely a psychological effort reached

even more deeply into British thinking. Given the vulnerability

of London, so accessible by air from the Continent, and given

the British propensity to be repelled by the thought of

indiscriminate bombing of cities (read “women and children”),

responsible RAF officers were at pains to insist that their

targets would be legitimate industrial sites supporting the

enemy war effort. Even from the vantage point of hindsight, it

is easy to see how completely this line of thinking under-

estimated the scope of population control in an authoritarian

state.

Although RAF thinking about airpower contained flaws,

there was also a good deal of sound thinking based on the

experience of World War I—as revealed by Jack Slessor’s

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writings. His perceptions on the need for close cooperation

with ground forces and the utility of collocating air and

ground headquarters were fully certified by World War II.

Nonetheless, one is left aghast at the extent to which

unchallenged assumptions permeated RAF official thinking,

given that the very survival of the nation almost certainly

hinged on the soundness of its airpower.

Was Billy Mitchell, “the messiah of American airpower” (p.

80), any more rigorous in his thinking than his RAF

contemporaries? The present-day United States Air Force has

made an icon of Mitchell, but a close reading of his writing

shows how shallow his analysis actually was. Moreover, his

most spectacular accomplishment, sinking the battleship

Ostfriesland, involved—as his naval critics charged, not to put

too fine a point on it—cheating.

The whole story of the battleship trials is more complex

than the popular image of Mitchell’s triumph. To begin with,

the Navy offered as a target the obsolete battleship Iowa,

unmanned and radio-controlled, steaming off the Virginia

Capes. Mitchell, well aware of how difficult it would be to find

a moving ship, let alone hit it, declined the offer. He preferred

a sitting duck.

By the agreed-upon terms of the Ostfriesland trial, Air

Service bombers were to make a series of attacks with

different weights of bombs, allowing for inspection between

bombings. Attacks were to be carried out at a prescribed

altitude, above the probable volume of antiaircraft fire if the

vessel actually had been manned and defended. Mitchell

ignored these terms, especially the altitude stipulations, and

dropped his bombs from an unrealistically low level to ensure

fatal hits. He got what he wanted—those wonderful

photographs of the Ostfriesland, keel up and about to plunge

to the bottom.

In short, were Mitchell’s claims to have replaced the Navy

mere illusions (ideas that could not survive systematic

preparation for authentication) rather than sound theories?

Should we knock him off his pedestal with the righteous

indignation of iconoclasts? Perhaps so on the facts of the

matter. But there’s another perspective. Like Douhet, Mitchell

was more visionary than theorist. He was a careless and

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unsystematic thinker, but he inspired men with his vision.

Hap Arnold, Carl Spaatz, and Ira Eaker—to name only the

obvious individuals—were among his votaries, carrying the

torch for strategic airpower and an independent air force

through the difficult interwar years. Sometimes visions and

even myths are more powerful than the most meticulously

and rationally supported theories.

Mitchell brought trouble on himself needlessly. In calling for

a single air arm that would include the air components of the

Navy, he aroused the implacable opposition of the sailors. Had

he given even superficial thought to British experience—the

failure that followed the absorption of naval air assets by the

RAF—he could have avoided the opposition on the part of the

Navy that has persisted in some quarters even to the present.

Ironically, Mitchell may have been the unwitting agent in

creating the carrier Navy. Although all battleship admirals

were by no means as reactionary and opposed to aviation as

sometimes pictured, the Ostfriesland sinking clearly played

directly into the hands of the small coterie of naval aviation

pioneers. Even the most obdurate mossback admirals could

scarcely reject the naval pilots’ contention that the Navy would

be far better off developing its own air arm than allowing the

task to slip into the hands of Mitchell and his congressional

allies, who were calling for an independent air service with a

monopoly of all military aviation.

The Navy’s success in developing aviation appears to hinge

on two fortuitous events. The first was the decision to put

William Moffett, a “safe” and experienced battleship admiral,

in charge of aviation. The second was the unintended

consequence of the naval disarmament treaty of 1922. Forced

to discontinue construction on two unfinished battle cruisers,

the Navy, at the instigation of Moffett, converted these hulls

into the carriers Lexington and Saratoga. Is it too much to

suggest that the doctrinal development and training of naval

aviators provided by these two carriers in the interwar years

were crucial to the Navy’s role in winning the war in the

Pacific in World War II? By the end of that war, carrier

admirals were governing the Navy in much the same way

bomber generals would govern the Air Force a few years later.

In this respect, one might say that naval aviators were

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somewhat more successful than their Air Force colleagues in

bringing their organization and airpower theory together.

French aviation fared badly in World War II. Several factors

contributed to this; the political upheavals of the Popular

Front and the labor unrest that followed, as well as the

nationalization of the aircraft industry, all took their toll. The

root cause, however, lay in the prevailing perception of

airpower. Senior army leaders saw support of the army as the

primary mission of aviation. Moreover, the high command was

defense oriented, so even after the air arm became a separate

service in the 1930s, even modest attempts to foster a

strategic role were blunted.

Some airmen, inspired by Douhet’s vision, articulated the

notion that strategic bombardment might have a major role in

bringing victory. But in the prevailing climate, which frowned

on dissent from established doctrine, scant support existed for

any radical shift to offensive strategic aviation. This chill on

free discussion is all the more curious in light of the superb

educational infrastructure the French military possessed in

the École Superior. Was it actually as good as people perceived

it to be? Whatever the shortcoming of French theory and

practice with regard to aviation, no evidence shows that it had

significant impact one way or another on airpower theory in

the United States during the interwar years.

Although Douhet’s vision of strategic bombardment had both

direct and indirect impacts on US thought, this was not true for

most other Italian theory and practice during the interwar years.

In a cynical display of early “political correctness,” Air Marshal

Italo Balbo paid lip service to Douhet, who was a favorite of

Mussolini, but put into practice the concepts of Gen Amedeo

Mecozzi, which favored army support over an independent,

strategic role for aviation. The Italian air force performed

effectively in its army-support role in Spain , thus seeming to

confirm the validity of Mecozzi’s theories.

A massive strategic bombardment of Barcelona, ordered by

Mussolini, not only failed to break the will of the Catalonians

but stiffened their resistance. This may have persuaded

Mecozzi that he was on the right track in downplaying

Douhet’s ideas, but from the vantage point of the present it is

of particular interest, for it was a lesson that seems to have

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584

had no impact whatever on the British belief that strategic

bombing would result in the collapse of civilian morale. This

British failure to derive much benefit from the air operations of

the Spanish Civil War, a neglect roughly paralleled by the United

States, raises questions about the character and effectiveness of

the attaché and observer systems then in place—not to mention

the whole question of military intelligence.

Soviet influence on US airpower theory in the interwar years

was virtually nonexistent. This is scarcely surprising, given

the language barrier, the long delay in establishing formal

diplomatic recognition, and the country’s general remoteness.

Because of the backwardness of Soviet industry, one doubts

whether the USSR could have fielded an effective strategic

bomber force, even if Stalin’s paranoia had not liquidated

such promising theorists of strategic air war as Mikhail

Tukhachevsky and A. N. Lapchinsky.

Of all the European powers, Germany was in the best

position to perfect airpower theory. Even though denied an air

force by the terms of the Versailles Treaty, the country had

already established a firm tradition on which to mount an

independent air arm. During World War I, it acquired a

centralized air command and a separate air general staff.

During the Weimar years, the Germans kept these alive with a

shadow staff and their curious eight-year expatriate operation

in Russia. With the Luftwaffe’s strong tradition of objective

after-action reporting and thorough analysis of foreign

airpower theories, its officers in the 1930s came up with a

remarkably broad-gauge doctrine that stressed the primacy of

strategic bombardment but did not neglect the importance of

tactical support of the armies.

Thus by 1936, Luftwaffe doctrine called for a bomber-heavy

force. Several circumstances were to warp this orientation

substantially. Because the Luftwaffe lacked an adequate

bombsight in quantity production, its experience with

high-level bombing proved disappointing. Further, thinking

largely in Continental terms, especially of France and Poland

as enemies, the Germans designed their bombers for relatively

short-range flights. And just at this juncture, Gen Ernst Udet

witnessed the effectiveness of US Navy dive-bombers and

returned home to insist on converting the Luftwaffe to a

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dive-bomber force. The success of Condor Legion dive-bombers

against Republican ground forces in Spain exercised a subtle

but powerful reorientation of Luftwaffe thought toward support

of the army.

What then was the message that all the Continental powers

displayed on the eve of World War II to any potential inquirer?

All gave lip service to the possibility of a strategic strike force,

but they configured their air arms and oriented their doctrine

largely in terms of support for ground arms. Little in the

surviving record suggests that US officers of the interwar

years engaged in any serious inquiry into European air theory.

It seems clear, however, that with the exception of the RAF,

the air arms of the great nations of Europe offered substantial

affirmation to the prevailing notion of the US Army General

Staff that the principal function of aviation was to support

ground forces.

In the United States, the air arm was still a part of the

Army. The experience of World War I had convinced Army

leaders that aviation remained a vital component—absolutely

necessary to survival. For that reason, they clung tenaciously

to retaining control of air assets. They were not totally blind to

the concept of strategic bombing, but their views of what this

constituted tended to be more restricted to Army concerns

than were the views of airmen.

If Army leaders seemed less than enthusiastic about

strategic air, one must admit that they had some good reasons

for their stand. During the war, strategic bombing had failed

to measure up to the brash claims and expectations of Billy

Mitchell and others. In one notable incident, a flight of

American Expeditionary Force (AEF) bombers into Germany

had become disoriented and mistakenly landed on a German

airfield. The Germans, with an uncharacteristic sense of

humor, sent a message across Allied lines saying, “Thanks for

the airplanes, but what should we do with the flight

commander?” The nub of the difficulty, of course, lay in the

fact that the claims of strategic bombing visionaries far

outstripped the technical capabilities of equipment then

available. The situation persisted almost down to the

beginning of World War II, when long-range, high-altitude

bombers such as the B-17 became available.

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586

With the Army clinging to the air arm as essential to its

operations, votaries of Mitchell’s vision came to believe that

only by creating a separate service would aviation ever be able

to prove that it could provide a more efficient route to victory

than that offered by conventional surface forces. A rational

approach to this goal would seem to call for a campaign to

convince the Army that aviation could accomplish the

strategic mission without jeopardizing the support function.

Unfortunately, Mitchell’s followers were, for the most part,

zealots who sponsored bills in Congress to establish a

separate air force with its promise of a strategic raison d’être.

This only hardened Army determination to hang on to its air

arm. The very word strategic became anathema, making it

increasingly difficult for airmen to secure funds for

ever-heavier, long-range, high-altitude bombers rather than

aircraft more suited to Army support roles. With some justice,

the Army could complain that airmen were ungrateful. After

all, the War Department spent an increasing percentage of its

funds on the air arm—more than a quarter of its annual

outlay by the eve of World War II. From the perspective of the

infantry, artillery, and all the supporting services, the Air

Corps seemed to be getting more than its fair share—

especially in proportion to the small number of air officers

involved.

Why were the airmen so blind? Why did they fail to see that

the situation called for subtle tactics and a better

understanding of Army sensibilities? The answer appears to

lie in the institutional arrangements established to develop Air

Corps leaders. In its final configuration, the nearest thing

airmen had to a think tank was the Air Corps Tactical School

(ACTS)—supposedly their premier educational institution—at

Maxwell Field, Alabama. Sadly, ACTS was more oriented to

training than to true education, as revealed by the doctrines

devised there.

The faculty of ACTS were, for the most part, hardworking

officers, brave men, and able pilots. They were not, on the

whole, broadly educated. They turned out doctrines that

pursued the Mitchell vision but largely lacked the necessary

authentication. In many respects, their doctrinal pro-

mulgations were illusions (ideas that could not survive

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systematic preparation for authentication). The meandering

positions taken by both sides in the debate over the issue of

escort fighters for strategic bombers, described in an earlier

chapter, are but one example that illustrates the lack of rigor

in the thinking of airmen. They confused supposition with

fact, and they left unexplored and unanswered assumptions

floating in midair. To be sure, some perceptive individuals—

students as well as faculty—did on occasion raise skeptical

challenges, but these seldom seem to have led to any

significant reworking of the official line. In sum, although

official and unofficial historians laud ACTS, a close study of

the thinking done there in the interwar years can often be an

embarrassment to the present-day Air Force.

Isn’t it ironic that one finds the portrait of Muir “Santy”

Fairchild, the man who had the vision to establish Air

University after World War II, in an obscure position at the

back entrance to the magnificent Air University Library. By

contrast, Claire Chennault, whose shoddy thinking and

self-serving retrospective distortions muddied the doctrinal

picture so badly, is memorialized with a prominently placed

granite monument. One can only hope that the monument

reflects his World War II leadership of the Flying Tigers—not

the quality of his thinking at ACTS as an airpower theorist.

In sum, the officers who advanced airpower theory at the

interwar Air Corps Tactical School were undoubtedly on the

right path when they defined the primary objective of the air arm

as strategic. But their thinking on how best to implement that

faith was seriously flawed. Their assumptions about bomber

defense were unrealistic, as were their assumptions about the

accuracy of precision bombing, which largely ignored

considerations of weather and the difficulties of navigation and

target identification. For all their talk about the “industrial web,”

when the war came, their target folders, for the most part, were

empty. Given the paucity of funds for experimentation, one

could forgive them for many shortfalls if the record showed that

they were asking searching questions on these topics, even if

they lacked the resources to answer them. But they were not

asking such questions, and that is the lesson that should goad

future generations of Air Force officers.

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Among all the notable airpower thinkers, Alexander de

Seversky is one of the most interesting. He is the outsider.

Although he had a spectacular career as an air officer in the

Russian service in World War I, his advocacy for airpower

came many years later, when he was a civilian and successful

aircraft designer. So he came to his role from a rather different

context than did virtually all the other advocates of strategic

air. In point of fact, de Seversky was not really an original

thinker and contributor to theory but a publicist,

propagandist, and purveyor of the ideas of others.

De Seversky is, however, well worth consideration, for his

career sheds a good bit of light on the very shortcomings that

this chapter addresses. He was a brilliantly creative engineer

and aircraft designer whose P-35 fighter represented a great

stride forward in its day; it proved especially noteworthy for its

influence on the mighty “Jug”—the P-47 of World War II. But

de Seversky’s brilliance extended beyond designing aircraft.

He was certainly on the right track when he patented a

scheme for air-to-air refueling and formulated big plans for

internal tankage to extend the range of fighter aircraft. To be

sure, a patent on air-to-air refueling is not the same thing as a

fully perfected system in actual use after much trial and error.

Of interest here is the brush-off he received from Air Corps

officials when he proffered these ideas.

Airpower theory is not just a matter of defining the various

roles and missions of air weapons. Such theory requires the

conceptualization of ways to implement it. De Seversky saw the

need for bomber escorts to accompany strategic bombers, which

would require long-range capabilities. He turned to increased

internal tankage and the notion of air-to-air refueling. At the

time, neither possibility may have been an entirely satisfactory

solution to the problem, but he was thinking toward a solution,

whereas Air Corps leaders were not.

The ultimate solution to the escort fighter was, of course,

the drop tank. Here, too, Air Corps leaders were so narrowly

committed to the mission of fighters in their fighter-versus-

fighter role that they refused to visualize them functionin g

as escorts. Long after the need to extend fighter range was

manifest, no less an individual than Carl Spaatz

recom-mended against the adoption of drop tanks. Curious

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about the seeming blindness on the part of an unquestionably

able officer, this writer sought out the staff correspondence on

this issue. Sure enough, Spaatz signed the document, but it

was drafted by one of his subordinates—Hoyt Vandenberg. Is

it not ironic that the two men who later became the first and

second chief of staff, respectively, of the newly established US

Air Force both displayed so little imagination in grappling with

this critical problem?

De Seversky was a brilliant designer but a mediocre

businessman, so nudging him out of control of his company

so that it could achieve a high level of production was

probably a prudent move. But did Hap Arnold handle the

transition as tactfully as he should have? The depth of

Arnold’s involvement remains unclear, but given the assault

on de Seversky’s self-esteem, not only ousting him from his

position but also wounding his pride by changing the name of

his company to Republic Aircraft was probably a mistake.

Surely, Arnold might have expended greater effort in

assuaging de Seversky’s damaged ego. This too was an aspect

of airpower thinking. Arnold’s failure would cost him—and the

air arm—dearly.

Was de Seversky a good publicist and propagandist? He was

certainly indefatigable, and undoubtedly he had a profound

impact upon public opinion in the United States. Nonetheless,

he too was a flawed thinker. His petty vindictiveness toward

Arnold was counterproductive, and his public criticism of the

Air Force would have been more productive if done privately.

Even more serious was his unexplained but implacable

criticism of the Navy, which was rapidly turning into an

effective carrier service, even as he lambasted battleship

dogma.

Did the atomic bomb substantiate Douhet’s and Mitchell’s

claims about strategic bombing? Well, yes and no. On the one

hand, the atom bomb certainly made it possible to destroy a

nation. On the other hand, nations soon learned that the

balance of terror—usually presented as the doctrine of

mutually assured destruction (MAD)—gave political and

military leaders reason to peer over the abyss and draw back.

This was deterrence, an aspect of airpower theory not

envisioned by the early military theorists. Curiously enough,

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590

theory in the nuclear world has remained largely the product

of academic scholars rather than military officers and has

involved a subtlety of reasoning far more sophisticated than

that of the early airpower thinkers.

The scholars seemed to turn the equation upside down.

Intercontinental missiles for destroying enemy weapons

destabilize because they offer a first-strike threat, but their

launching facilities are vulnerable. By contrast,

submarine-launched missiles, though less accurate, pose a

real threat to civilian populations. Thus, they become a

stabilizing force because their relative invulnerability makes

them available for a second strike. As Karl Mueller observes,

this amounts to saying that “being able to kill weapons is bad,

while being able to kill people is good” (p. 303). After coming to

the obvious conclusion that antiballistic missile (ABM)

defenses are destabilizing, we enter treaties to curb their use.

This is not a characteristic posture for military men who have

generally favored more weapons rather than fewer.

But wait. As George Orwell might have put it, some

weapons—at least in the eyes of airmen—seem to be more equal

than others. Despite the success of the German V-2, the Air

Force was slow to enter the missile field. Just before stepping

down at the end of World War II, Hap Arnold was willing to leave

missile development to the Army and the Ordnance Department,

saving for the Air Force only those aircraft that depended upon

wings for sustentation. This was but a flagrant example of what

Carl Builder later called the “Icarus Syndrome”—the Air Force’s

love affair with the airplane.

The story of the Air Force’s

reluctance to fund missile research, even up to the appearance

of the capable Minuteman in the 1960s, underscores this failing.

The Soviet success with Sputnik I in 1957 jarred Air Force

thinkers into a reappraisal of intercontinental missiles. Perhaps

even more significant in changing Air Force thought was the

Navy’s success in developing submarine-launched inter-

continental missiles.

A cynic might be inclined to suggest that interservice rivalry

may be a more powerful incentive to realistic thinking about

airpower than the traditional goad of hostile threat. By the

same sort of reasoning, the intense desire to hang on to the

airplane has led to some wonderfully imaginative innovations:

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stealth, standoff weapons, and a whole range of electronic

devices to suppress enemy measures, which have certainly

gone far in prolonging the useful life of manned aircraft.

When low intensity conflicts (LIC) became especially acute

in the 1960s, some casting about occurred in the Air Force to

define the role of airpower in relation to such threats. Not

surprisingly, however, given their preoccupation with strategic

air war à outrance, especially against the Soviet Union, Air

Force officers showed remarkably little interest in devising

doctrines appropriate for LIC. No significant airpower thinker

emerged with a particular interest in this area. At best, the Air

Force seemed to see its tasks primarily in a supporting role,

although the gunship perfected during operations in Vietnam

showed promise for the future. The shallowness of the air

arm’s interest in its LIC role may well have stemmed from the

fact that the preeminent air weapon for LIC operations is the

helicopter. Since Army helicopters satisfied that need, air

officers seemed to lose interest.

If Air Force officers showed little interest in the air aspects

of LICs, this did not in any case signal declining interest in

airpower theory. With the Vietnam quagmire behind it, the

nation welcomed two significant airpower theorists—Col John

Boyd and Col John Warden. Both were far more sophisticated

in their reasoning than most of their predecessors. Along with

the officer corps as a whole, both were also better educated

than those who had gone before them.

Taking his cue from Basil H. Liddell Hart (“think in terms of

paralyzing”) and J. F. C. Fuller (“brain warfare, a shot through

the head”), Boyd conceived of proper strategy as one that

disrupted or incapacitated the enemy’s ability to cope by

forcing him to operate at a tempo beyond his ability to

respond effectively. Success favors the side that can observe,

orient, decide, and act (OODA) sooner than the enemy. Which

is to say, one must get inside his “OODA loop” or

decision-making cycle. In sharp contrast to the fatally flawed

“methodical battle” of the French, with its carefully planned

time-phased actions, Boyd’s thinking required the exercise of

initiative at low echelons—opportunistic, fast-breaking,

imaginative leadership. He saw any single doctrinal path to

victory as predictable and therefore vulnerable. For Boyd, the

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issue was not a matter of doctrine, but of doctrines—a whole

quiver full of options to be applied in rapid, staccato thrusts. His

approach to strategic paralysis did not entail battering the

enemy’s economy but his leadership and its control over the

country.

In a similar vein, John Warden’s conceptualization of the air

campaign was more political than economic.

His scheme for

translating national political objectives and strategic goals into

theater air campaigns involved identifying the enemy’s center

of gravity—the point where he is most vulnerable to air attack.

Although Warden visualized five concentric rings—targets in

descending order of priority—he leaves no doubt that

leadership at the national center, and in each successive ring

or target, is always the preferred objective.

The beauty of Warden’s work for the strategic planner is the

way he relates ends (political objectives), ways (strategies to

attain those ends), and means (identifying specific targets to

execute the chosen strategy). Because his well-trained team

carried out this process in planning air operations for Operation

Desert Storm, we have a helpful degree of authentication for

Warden’s airpower theories. Taken together, the work of Boyd

and Warden offers an impressive index of the remarkable

advance in airpower thinking beyond the crudities of Douhet

and Mitchell. However, that both Boyd and Warden retired as

colonels strongly suggests the marginal status of airpower

theorists in the contemporary Air Force.

The increasing sophistication of airpower thought

represented by the work of Boyd and Warden had parallels in

many respects elsewhere in the Air Force. One sees a notable

instance of this in the greater willingness of airmen to work

constructively with the Army to resolve the long-standing

problem of hammering out an effective air-ground

relationship. Many factors contributed to this “partnership”;

indeed, the very use of the term seemed to signal a new set of

attitudes in both parties. In part, the shift in attitude may

have reflected the rise of the “fighter mafia ,” replacing the

“bomber mafia” in Air Force command circles. The net result

was a mutual recognition that the Army and the Air Force

depended upon one another. The Army knew that it could not

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operate without air cover, and the Air Force understood that it

depended heavily upon ground forces to screen its air bases.

The Army and Air Force achieved much of the

rapprochement between 1946 and 1986, culminating in major

doctrinal promulgations by both services. These specified the

roles of each service in the new partnership called “AirLand

Battle,” even though in actual fact the devised doctrines

extended beyond any given “battle” to the campaign as a

whole. Confidence in the viability of the concept of AirLand

Battle increased as a result of the authentication it acquired

from repeated testing of its features in Red Flag force-on-force

air combat trials and Blue Flag air-ground command post

exercises.

Although the services achieved heartening advances in

harmonizing air-ground cooperation by tactical units, agreement

proved harder to obtain at the operational level of command.

Airmen have long insisted that, for optimum effect, the character

of airpower demands centralized control and decentralized

execution. But should this leave every decision on the allocation

of sorties—for interdiction, by way of example—entirely to the

judgment of the air component commander? Understandably,

Army corps commanders, under heavy pressure from the

enemy, objected to being left to the mercy of a decision by a

distant air component commander—especially since the

intelligence for making such decisions would have to come from

ground sources. Experience from World War II had shown that

collocation of higher command headquarters could resolve many

of these tensions, but the manpower-saving decision to

eliminate Army headquarters threatened this promising

solution—at least temporarily.

If the Army–Air Force turf battle had remained merely a

debate over theoretical control procedures to be defined in

doctrinal manuals, the issue might have continued endlessly.

But the issue was not theoretical. The two services operated in

an active theater, in NATO, with a realistic cold war enemy

across the border. Further, living within the political realities

of multinational NATO made the Air Force acutely aware of

Clausewitz’s definition of war as an extension of politics. This

may not have induced Air Force officers to give up their

convictions or rewrite their doctrinal manuals, but it certainly

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594

did force them to accommodate, at least within NATO, an

approved doctrine on interdiction.

The old saw “he who is persuaded against his will is of the

opinion still” may be pertinent here. The Air Force made

concessions in the NATO context but probably did not

significantly alter its theory of airpower in so doing.

Characteristically, bureaucratic fiefdoms—when confronted

with intractable differences—defer rather than resolve them.

Were the procedural adjustments—the agreements

hammered out between the Army and the Air Force and

among the constituent member nations of NATO—an

expression of airpower theory? Or were they merely an

incremental accommodation arrived at by the labors of a

multitude of staff officers—conferring, bargaining, and

adjusting—with all sides making good-faith efforts to find

acceptable common ground, only occasionally digging in their

heels when they sensed some vital interest to their service was

at stake. Does this mean that airmen become recalcitrant only

when some fundamental tenet of their perception of airpower

theory is threatened?

In such negotiations, no individuals stand out as

preeminent theorists. Staff assignments rotate; generals come

and go. Procedures to ensure control, coordination, and

synchronization are contrived. One may consider these

adjustments advances in airpower theory only insofar as one

extends the definition of that theory to include means as well

as ways and ends.

Although the Soviet threat that originally mobilized NATO

has diminished—for the moment at least—studying how the

Soviets and their successors think about airpower remains

worthwhile. Any such study should begin with a caveat. The

Soviet Union was never really an integral part of Europe. One

should expect differences from a nation that failed to

standardize the gauge of its railroads in conformity with the

nations of Western Europe. In the USSR the term doctrine, for

example, was not at all the same as what it meant in Western

culture. Doctrine for the Soviets was mandatory and carried

the sanctions of law. What the Soviets called military art

comes closer to what the West called doctrine.

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During World War II, the Soviet air arm was essentially a

ground-support force, an orientation continued until the

death of Stalin in 1953. Under his successor, Nikita

Khrushchev, Soviet airpower theory changed drastically. He

pushed for greater emphasis on strategic air war, with aircraft

capable of delivering nuclear weapons. More importantly, he

downgraded conventional ground forces and moved the major

share of the defense budget to strategic rocket forces, with an

eye toward preemptive strikes. But the realization that NATO

nuclear forces were at least a generation ahead of the Soviets’

led to a gradual shift from offensive thinking to defensive.

The war in the Gulf had a chilling impact on Soviet

thinking. The miserable performance of Soviet arms in Iraqi

hands proved profoundly disturbing. The tank-heavy Soviet

army found it especially disconcerting that tanks had become

“an endangered species without control of the air” (p. 508).

Although senior Soviet officers, in characteristic authoritarian

fashion, tended to stifle criticisms arising from elaborate

analysis of the Gulf War experience, younger officers managed

to come up with a realistic assessment of the future character

of air war that parallels US airpower theory in many respects.

Notably, the pendulum of theory once again swung back from

Mikhail Gorbachev’s “defensive doctrine” to an appreciation

for the primacy of the offensive. The collapse of the Soviet

Union leaves the significance of this shift very much in

doubt—especially insofar as it relates to investments in

research and development for space.

The final substantive chapter in this volume attempts to

provide a rigorous analysis of the comparative characteristics

of airpower and space power. The analysis is indeed

illuminating, dealing as it does with the radically different

characteristics of the air and space realms. However, in

contrast to the earlier chapters of this book, which treat their

subjects historically and descriptively, this chapter sets up

what its author calls a space power conjecture, positing that

space power is merely an extension of airpower. Major DeBlois

then sets out to demonstrate that the conjecture is false. The

Air Force, he concludes, will eventually have to cut loose its

child and create a separate Space Force.

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

596

Whether one accepts or rejects the author’s thesis depends

upon one’s willingness to recognize his conjecture as the

operative question. Certainly, the characteristics of the air and

space realms pose drastic differences that will undoubtedly

produce acute tensions in contests for funding between the

two realms. But does it inexorably follow that such differences

must lead to separate institutions? The continued existence of

the Marine Corps within the Navy shows just how malleable

the armed services can be in the face of logic to the contrary.

As the Air Force moves increasingly toward unmanned

vehicles and as the Icarus Syndrome weakens, will not the

thrust for institutional survival virtually dictate a drive to

retain space as an appropriate responsibility?

What, then, do the foregoing chapters tell us about airpower

theory? Much of what has been written on the subject is not,

strictly speaking, airpower theory at all but descriptions of

varied efforts to implement the then-current conception of

such theory. Across the decades from the Wright brothers’

first powered flight, theorists have generally promised more

than they can deliver. The frictions and uncertainties of war,

described so well by Clausewitz, persist in emphasizing the

distance between theory on the one hand and actual

execution in war on the other. Even the advent of nuclear

weapons, for all their destructive potential, has not brought

complete fulfillment to theorists’ claims. This has resulted not

from any limitation on the awesome power of the weapons but

from the fear of comparable retaliation.

What insights emerge from this survey of airpower

thinkers? First and foremost is the troubled and erratic

development of the concept of the air weapon as primarily a

support for ground arms. This is understandable in light of

the centuries-long history of surface warfare, with its deeply

embedded traditions, slowly evolved doctrines, and elaborate

systems of officer education and training. Moreover, the fact

that early visionaries such as Douhet and Mitchell made

sweeping claims for airpower that reached far beyond the

then-available technology tended to induce skepticism in

traditionally conservative military circles. As the capabilities of

the air weapon improved, surface forces became increasingly

anxious to control this new weapon. The more persistent their

HOLLEY

597

grasp, the more insistent the airpower advocates became in

claiming that aviation was primarily an offensive strategic

weapon with an independent role in war. This unfortunate

tension, which still lingers in some measure, became muted

with the post-Vietnam air-ground “partnership”—a coming

together significantly hastened by the necessity of cooperating

in a NATO context.

The airpower advocates themselves caused some of the

difficulty encountered in winning acceptance of their strategic

vision when they disagreed over the nature of their targets.

Those who visualized civilian morale as the primary target

differed from those who saw the industrial web—the economic

infrastructure—as the main objective. Both views suffered

from lack of evidence. Those who favored morale as the target

did so as an act of faith; those who favored economic targets

displayed a surprising lack of effort in defining and refining

their target folders. This, in turn, suggests the generally

flawed character of air-arm intelligence efforts.

Yet another common thread that runs through the history

of airpower theory is the Icarus Syndrome, mentioned earlier.

The enthusiasm of pilots for flying, although understandable

in itself, has led to a persistent downgrading and neglect of

many supporting aspects of the air weapon. The stunting of

bomber self-defense during the interwar years offers a classic

illustration, as does the treatment of logisticians and other

groundlings in the same period. But the most striking

instance of the Icarus Syndrome is the Air Force’s long delay

in putting major resources into missiles. One may well ask

whether the resistance of so many people to the acceptance of

space weapons as a logical extension of the Air Force sphere of

operations is yet another manifestation of the lack of rigor in

the service’s professional education system.

Finally, can any survey of airpower be truly comprehensive

if it neglects to consider the role of carrier aviation and

submarine-launched strategic missiles? Interservice rivalry is

a valuable goad to progress. True, it can be wastefully

duplicative, but one should never overlook the value of

competition.

The airplane has been around for nearly one hundred years,

but, given its remarkable potential, surely one is surprised by

THE PATHS OF HEAVEN

598

the dearth of really comprehensive thinkers and theorists on

airpower. Science and technology have made enormous

strides—putting people on the Moon and precision-guided

weapons into the third window to the left in the designated

target—but has our professional military education system

kept pace?

The more than nine decades of air-arm thought depicted in

this volume lead to one rather obvious conclusion: airpower

theory, aerospace power theory, is forever unfinished. The

challenge to a rising generation of air officers is manifest. Will

they develop the rigorously authenticated theories required by

successive advances in technology, or will they be satisfied

with ill-supported visions or even suffer illusions?

Notes

1. Thomas Sowell, Knowledge and Decisions (New York: Basic Books,

1980), 4–5.

2. Parenthetical page references in the text are to The Paths of Heaven.

3. See Carl H. Builder, The Icarus Syndrome: The Role of Air Power

Theory in the Evolution and Fate of the U.S. Air Force (New Brunswick, N.J.:

Transaction Publishers, 1994).

4. See John A. Warden III, The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat

(Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1988).

HOLLEY

599

Contributors

Lt Col Mark A. Clodfelter was a professor of airpower history

at the School of Advanced Airpower Studies (SAAS) from 1991

to 1994. He received his BS from the US Air Force Academy in

1977, MA from the University of Nebraska, and PhD from the

University of North Carolina. He is the author of the critically

acclaimed The Limits of Air Power: The American Bombing of

North Vietnam (Free Press, 1989), as well as numerous articles

dealing with military and airpower history. A weapons

controller with a tour in South Korea, he is currently professor

of aerospace studies at the University of North Carolina at

Chapel Hill. His latest project is a history of American

strategic bombing, to be published by Free Press.

Dr. James S. Corum has been a professor of comparative

military studies at SAAS since 1991. After completing his

undergraduate education at Gonzaga University, he received

an MA from Brown University, an MLitt from Oxford

University, and a PhD from Queen’s University in Canada. A

major in the US Army Reserve, he has served as an

intelligence officer in Germany and Honduras. His

award-winning book The Roots of Blitzkrieg: Hans von Seeckt

and German Military Reform (University Press of Kansas,

1992) was a History Book Club selection. He has also written

numerous articles on the Luftwaffe, military history, and the

role of airpower in peacekeeping operations. His forthcoming

book on the Luftwaffe will soon be published by the University

Press of Kansas.

Maj Bruce M. DeBlois has been a professor of air and space

technology at SAAS since 1994. After receiving a BS and an

MS in mathematics from Union College, he attended Oxford

University, where he received his doctorate in computational

fluid mechanics in 1991. He has served as a research analyst

at Nellis Air Force Base (AFB), Nevada, and as a research

601

astrophysicist in Sunnyvale, California. He is the author of

several articles on scientific and engineering subjects, as well

as “Dropping the Electric Grid,” the top research project at Air

Command and Staff College in 1994. He is currently editing a

book on space theory and doctrine.

Prof. Dennis M. Drew was the dean of SAAS in 1991–92 and

has been the assistant dean of SAAS since his retirement from

the Air Force in 1992. He completed his undergraduate work

at Williamette University and earned graduate degrees at both

the University of Wyoming and the University of Alabama.

During his 28-year career in the Air Force, he served as a

personnel officer, missile crew commander, staff officer at

Headquarters Strategic Air Command, and director of the

Airpower Research Institute at Maxwell AFB, Alabama. One of

the world’s leading authorities on airpower doctrine, he is the

author of three books, dozens of articles, and a biweekly

column in Air Force Times. In addition, he was the primary

author of the 1992 edition of AFM 1-1, Basic Aerospace

Doctrine of the United States Air Force.

Lt Col Peter R. Faber served as a professor of airpower

history at SAAS from 1992 to 1994. After completing his

undergraduate work at UCLA in 1976, he went on to receive

graduate degrees from the University of Arkansas and the

University of Alabama, and is completing his PhD at Yale

University, under the guidance of Sir Michael Howard and

Paul Kennedy. He is the author of numerous articles on

airpower history and theory, and in 1989 was chosen as the

outstanding instructor in the History Department at the US

Air Force Academy. He has served as a missile crew

commander and is currently a student at the US Naval War

College.

Lt Col David S. Fadok graduated from SAAS in 1994. He was

a distinguished graduate of the US Air Force Academy in

1982. Selected as a Rhodes Scholar, he graduated from

Oxford University in 1984 with a master’s degree in

psychology, philosophy, and physiology. He has flown as an

602

aircraft commander and instructor pilot in both EC-130s and

C-5s, and has served in the Plans Division on the staff at

Headquarters Air Mobility Command, Scott AFB, Illinois. At

the present time, he is the commander of the 2d Air Refueling

Squadron at McGuire AFB, New Jersey.

Lt Col Edward J. Felker graduated from SAAS in 1994. He

has an undergraduate degree from the University of Maine

and graduate degrees from Ball State University and the US

Army’s Command and General Staff College at Fort

Leavenworth, Kansas. He has served as a logistics officer in

Turkey and Germany, as an analyst in the Checkmate

Division on the Air Staff in the Pentagon, and as a

maintenance squadron commander. He is currently assigned

to the Doctrine Division in the Joint Warfighting Center at

Fort Monroe, Virginia.

Dr. I. B. Holley Jr. was one of the founding fathers of SAAS,

recognizing early on the importance of airpower education

within the Air Force. The dean of American military airpower

historians, he is professor emeritus at Duke University and

has also taught at West Point and National Defense

University. During his prestigious academic career, he has

published three books, including the seminal Ideas and

Weapons: Exploitation of the Aerial Weapon by the United

States during World War I (Yale University Press, 1953—now

in its third edition) and dozens of articles on military and

airpower history, theory, and doctrine. After receiving his PhD

from Yale University, he enjoyed a long and distinguished

career in the Air Force Reserve, retiring in 1981 as a major

general.

Col Maris “Buster” McCrabb was professor of economic

warfare at SAAS from 1994 to 1996. After completing his

undergraduate work at Bowling Green State University, he

received an MS and MPA from Troy State University and then

completed his DPA at the University of Alabama. A fighter

pilot and Fighter Weapons School graduate, he has flown F-4s

and F-16s in the Philippines, Germany, and Korea, as well as

603

in combat during the Persian Gulf War. He is one of the Air

Force’s leading experts on air campaign planning, has

published extensively on the subject, and is currently chief of

the Command and Control Integration Division at

Headquarters Air Combat Command, Langley AFB, Virginia.

Col Phillip S. Meilinger was the dean of SAAS from 1992 to

1996. He graduated from the Air Force Academy in 1970 and

the University of Colorado in 1975. He received his PhD from

the University of Michigan in 1985. A command pilot, he has

flown C-130s and HC-130s in both Europe and the Pacific,

while also serving a tour on the Air Staff in the Pentagon from

1989 to 1991. He is the author of Hoyt S. Vandenberg: The

Life of a General (Indiana University Press, 1989), as well as

over 20 articles on airpower theory, history, and employment.

At present, he is a professor in the Strategy and Policy

Department at the US Naval War College in Newport, Rhode

Island.

Dr. David R. Mets has been a tenured professor of technology

and innovation at SAAS since 1990. After graduating from the

Naval Academy in 1953, he transferred to the Air Force, where

he spent 27 years, including a tour as commander of an

AC-130 gunship squadron during the Vietnam War. He

received his master’s degree from Columbia University and his

PhD from the University of Denver. Between 1976 and 1979,

he was editor of the Air University Review at Maxwell AFB,

Alabama. He has written three books, including a biography of

Gen Carl Spaatz—Master of Air Power: General Carl A. Spaatz

(Presidio Press, 1988)—and dozens of articles and reviews

dealing with airpower history. He is currently completing

histories of air-delivered munitions and of Air Force–Navy

rivalry over aviation issues.

Dr. Karl P. Mueller has been a professor of comparative

military studies at SAAS since 1994. After finishing his

undergraduate work in political science at the University of

Chicago, he received his MA and PhD in politics from

Princeton University. Before coming to SAAS, he taught

604

political science at Kalamazoo College and the University of

Michigan. He has authored several articles on alliance and

deterrence theory, and his book on that subject will soon be

published by Cornell University Press.

Dr. Harold R. Winton has been a tenured professor of

military history and theory at SAAS since 1990. He graduated

from West Point in 1964 and served a distinguished career in

the Army, including three tours in Vietnam as a Green Beret

and as deputy director of the Army’s School of Advanced

Military Studies. He received his MA and PhD from Stanford

University in 1977, studying under Peter Paret. He is the

author of To Change an Army: General Sir John Burnett-Stuart

and British Armored Doctrine, 1927–1938 (University Press of

Kansas, 1988) as well as numerous articles on military history

and theory. He is currently completing a manuscript on the

Battle of the Bulge that will be published by the University

Press of Kansas.

605

Index

Abrams, Creighton W., 411–12, 430

Achromeyev, S., 506–7

acquisitions/policy, 127, 543–44, 566–67, 569

advanced conventional munitions (ACM), 500, 507, 514

Aegean Sea, 456

aerial

refueling, 282

spotting, 121–22, 125–26, 129, 152, 170–71

aerospace control, 539

Aerospace Studies Institute, 335

Afghanistan, 49, 340, 342, 347

air

attack, 10, 13–16, 20, 26–27, 32, 43, 46, 50, 52, 54, 56–57, 59,

93, 95, 97, 99, 106, 120, 123, 166, 197, 203, 215, 217,

220–21, 255, 259, 265, 345–46, 383–84, 447, 468, 471, 593

base defense, 421

battle, 10, 14, 23–24, 30, 52, 67, 93, 98, 101, 129, 156, 253–54

campaign, 12, 29–30, 45, 51, 108, 166, 220, 255, 334, 344, 371,

504, 506, 593

combat, 63, 98

commander, 11, 22, 28, 65, 107, 168–70, 457, 459, 466, 502

command operations center (ACOC), 454, 459

component commander, 338, 412–13, 421, 594

control, 49, 54–56, 58, 70, 98

defense, 9–10, 16, 26–27, 42, 51, 54, 67, 93, 155, 157, 160, 196,

198, 217, 220, 282–85, 288, 304, 402, 407, 409–11, 418, 421,

423, 426, 446, 448–49, 451, 455, 460, 468, 470, 504, 507–8,

518

defense commander (ADC), 465

interdiction (AI), 400, 402, 407–8, 415, 418, 421–24, 448,

456–58, 465, 467, 471, 504

offensive, 30, 60, 84, 87, 502

operations, 10, 45, 47, 50, 55, 58, 151, 184, 193, 199, 208, 333,

335–36, 339, 402, 411, 423, 427, 446, 449, 451–53, 460,

465–67, 497, 501–4, 507–8, 541, 585, 593

operations center, 467

plans, 209, 225

607

policing, 264–65

reserve, 10, 160

strategy, 28, 54, 57–60, 67

strikes, 15, 50, 60, 62, 371, 427, 503, 505, 514

superiority, 24, 45, 51–54, 59, 62–63, 65–66, 93–94, 122, 128,

156–57, 169–70, 196, 199, 250, 253, 260, 264, 267, 338, 371,

374, 448–49, 453–54, 466, 470, 490, 498, 502, 504–5, 581

support, 87, 159, 401

support operations center (ASOC), 424, 457, 459

supremacy, 10, 62, 98, 170, 214, 503, 580

tasking message (ATM), 459

tasking order (ATO), 459

warfare, 14, 16, 29, 31, 34, 51, 54, 60, 64–66, 68, 82, 86, 90,

131, 163, 165–66, 169, 171–74, 176, 186–87, 211, 215–16,

220, 224–25, 239, 249, 252–53, 291, 305, 337, 342, 382, 400,

428, 503, 592, 596

air-to-air refueling, 242–43, 453, 589

Air Campaign, The: Planning for Combat, 343, 371–72, 428

Air Command and Staff College, 344

Air Corps, 33, 52, 64, 105–8, 120, 184, 186–93, 195–210, 219,

222–25, 243–45, 247, 255, 266, 587, 589

Air Corps Act, 105

Air Corps Board (ACB), 200–203, 211

Air Corps Reserve, 243

Air Corps Tactical School (ACTS), 28, 71–72, 108, 115, 187–88,

192–95, 198–201, 206, 210–12, 214–24, 264, 266, 291, 371,

383, 587–88

aircraft

A-10, 409–11, 420, 423, 425, 450

AH-1 Cobra, 413

AH-64 Apache, 413–14, 427

airborne warning and control system (AWACS), 450

Allied bombers, 24

armed helicopters, 431

Army helicopters, 429

assault, 162, 167

attack, 95, 209, 285, 459

attack helicopter, 411, 413–14, 420

B-2, 285, 287

B-17, 106, 201, 203–4, 243, 269, 586

B-18 Bolo, 106

B-19, 254, 268

608

B-24, 269

B-29, 31, 132, 268

B-36, 134, 264, 269

B-52, 336

battle plane, 7, 14–16, 19, 24, 99, 154, 222

Boeing 247, 17

bomber, 4–6, 14–15, 18, 20, 27, 46–47, 52, 54, 57, 67, 71, 79,

87–88, 90, 93, 95, 98–100, 102, 105, 108, 133, 135, 155–56,

158–59, 162–63, 167, 170, 172–73, 175, 183–84, 187, 196,

198–99, 201–3, 206, 211, 214, 216, 218–21, 224, 242–44,

254–55, 258, 264, 268–69, 281–89, 296, 303, 307, 430–31,

449, 580, 582–83, 585–89, 598

bombing, combat, and reconnaissance (BCR), 154

Breda 65, 161

Breguet XIV, 152

British Aerospace Sea Harrier, 553

BT-8, 243

Caproni bomber, 4, 6–7

cargo, 7

carrier, 93, 121–23, 127, 197, 248, 583

De Havilland D.H.4, 185

De Havilland D.H.4B, 185, 188

dive-bomber, 123, 128, 158, 161, 173, 175, 246, 585–86

Douglas DC-3, 17

E-3, 450

escort, 14, 18, 22, 98, 132, 167, 172, 220, 242, 244, 258, 588–89

F-4G Wild Weasel, 455

F-14, 451

F-15, 450–51

F-16, 450, 548, 559

F-86 Sabre, 363

F-111F, 450

F-117, 24, 561

fighter, 42, 52, 67, 98, 155–56, 158, 162, 167, 173, 214, 242–44,

249, 251–52, 269, 285, 288, 346, 430, 449, 451, 462, 589

German, 12, 24, 27, 154

Giant, 42

Gotha, 42

Handley Page, 86

helicopter, 341, 414, 497, 592

HH 53-H PAVE LOW III helicopter, 421

Hind helicopter, 412

609

Hurricane, 67, 249

interceptor, 27, 52, 258, 284, 288

Ju-88, 175

Lockheed Vega, 17

Messerschmitt, 252

MiG, 430

MiG-15, 363

Mi-24 Hind, 342

NATO airborne early warning (NAEW), 450, 463

night bomber, 88

P-35, 243, 246, 589

P-40, 252

P-47 Thunderbolt, 221, 243, 246, 589

P-51 Mustang, 221

pursuit, 93–95, 196, 209

reconnaissance, 14, 155–56, 162, 173

SEV-3, 243

SM 79, 161

Spad VII, 152

Spad XIII, 152

Spitfire, 67, 125, 249, 252

stealth, 108, 285, 287

Stuka, 159

tactical, 85, 463

tanker, 17

TB3, 166

Tornado, 450–51

aircraft carriers, 92–94, 119–20, 122–23, 127–29, 131, 134, 136,

196–97, 248, 250, 583, 590

aircraft industry, 10, 100, 152, 156, 165

Air Force Association (AFA), 333, 567–68

Air Force Course, 215

Air Force Doctrine Center, 465, 467

Air Force Space Command, 531

air-ground operations, 400, 402, 409, 412, 417, 419, 421–23, 429

AirLand Battle, 417

air-land battles, 166

Air-Land Forces Application (ALFA), 411–12, 415, 423

Air-Land Forces Program Office (ALPO), 411

airlift, 330, 408, 420, 549

airmail service, 192

air-mindedness, 101, 188–89, 204

610

Air Ministry, 48, 66, 68

Air Ministry (French), 153–54, 157

Air Ministry (Italian), 161, 176

airpower

American, 79–80, 83, 88

as artillery, 26, 64, 186

atomic, 346–47

attributes of, 9, 15, 23, 26, 254, 371, 418

British, 72

carrier, 126–27

conventional, 288, 294, 307–8

counterguerrilla, 329

decisiveness of, 19–20, 79, 269

defensive, 26

effectiveness of, 256, 268

French, 328

global, 263–64, 267

land based, 126, 129, 184, 197

limits of, 28

long range, 197

missions, 157

nonnuclear, 280

offensive, 70, 86

operational, 279

peaceful applications of, 265

peacetime roles of, 187

as propaganda, 257, 265

psychological effects of, 51

Russian, 166, 519

strategic, 12–14, 18, 41, 44, 51–52, 65, 72, 164, 171, 202, 206,

214, 250, 252, 255, 261, 269, 279, 290–93, 306–7, 331, 334,

357, 385, 580, 583, 586, 589

tactical, 12–13, 30, 65, 171, 255, 328, 334, 426

Air Service, 33, 80, 85–91, 96, 99, 101–2, 104–5, 107, 119–20, 124,

184–92, 196–97, 204–10, 212–14, 242–43, 383, 582

Air Service Field Officers’ School (ASFOS), 186, 211, 213–14, 216

Air Service Information Office, 188

Air Service Tactical School (ASTS), 33, 187, 198, 211, 213–14, 216

Air Service Technical Section, 85, 383

Air Service Training and Operations Group, 213–14

airships, 43, 93–94, 103, 119, 122

air-space boundary, 530, 554, 565

611

airspace control, 455–56, 466

airspace control authority (ACA), 455, 465–66

airspace control system (ACS), 466

Air Transport Command, 217

Air University, 329, 331, 335, 337, 588

Air War College, 336, 344

Air War Plans Division, Plan 1 (AWPD-1), 187, 224–25

Algeria, 335–36

Alksnis, Ya. I., 167

Allen, Lew, 423

Allied Air Forces Central Europe (AAFCE), 422–24, 457, 460

allied

armies, 170

tactical air force (ATAF), 455, 457, 459–60

tactical operations center (ATOC), 454–55, 459–60

Allied Command Europe, Mobile Force (AMF), 463

Allied Forces Central Europe (AFCENT), 422–24, 451, 455

American Expeditionary Force (AEF), 85, 87, 184–85, 197, 213, 586

amphibious operations, 135–36

Andrews, Frank, 108, 207

annihilation, 4, 23, 215, 299, 308, 361

Anthis, Rollen H., 336

antiaircraft artillery (AAA), 168, 218, 220, 288, 562

Antiballistic Missile (ABM) Treaty, 534, 537

antisatellites (ASAT), 535–37, 539, 541, 559

antisubmarine warfare (ASW), 119, 135, 263

apportionment, 454, 467

Arab-Israeli War, 406

armistice, 7, 17, 35, 48, 74, 87, 91, 127, 184–85

Armor Center, 415

arms

control, 131, 287, 303–4

race, 290, 450, 500

Army Air Corps, 199

Army Air Forces (AAF), 83, 201, 203, 212, 225, 247, 251–52, 256,

258, 263

Army Air Service, 216

Army Command and General Staff College, 211

Army League of the United States, 195

Army War College, 199, 205, 210

Arnold, Henry H. “Hap,”47, 83, 104, 106–8, 186–90, 198, 200–201,

203, 207, 217, 224–25, 245–47, 251, 256, 258, 266, 583, 590–91

612

Arquilla, John, 386

Asia, 269, 327

assured destruction, 295–99, 301, 303–4

Atlantic Alliance, 443

Atlantic Command, 470

Atlantic fleet, 197

attrition warfare, 23, 45, 183, 215

Austria, 11, 13

aviation

Army, 94, 105, 125, 188, 191, 205, 207, 209, 507, 587

assault, 160

attack, 158–59, 414

auxiliary, 13–14, 18, 30, 208

carrier, 132, 196–97, 598

ground attack, 161, 164, 177

industry, 16, 155, 162

land based, 197–98, 202

legislation, 207

long range, 202–4

naval, 94, 119–20, 125, 127, 136, 172, 191, 198, 248, 583

pursuit, 214, 241

strategic, 170, 177, 584

support, 153, 156, 158, 160, 170–71, 176–77

tactical, 153, 156, 160, 167

transport, 175

Axis, 71, 224

Baker Board, 106, 192, 200, 210

Baker, Newton D., 87, 105, 208

Balbo, Italo, 18, 160–61, 584

Baldwin, Hanson, 205

Baldwin, Stanley, 20, 57, 288

Balfour, Harold, 50

Balkans, 461–62

ballistic missile defense (BMD), 290, 304, 536, 540

Ballistic Missile Defense Office, 544

Barcelona, Spain, 162, 584

Barents Sea, 305

Barker, J. D., 183–84

Battle of Britain, 24, 67, 250–51

battle coordination element (BCE), 413

613

battlefield air interdiction (BAI), 421–24, 426, 456–57, 459–60, 465,

467

battle fleet, 122, 127

Battle of Guadalajara, 158

Battle of Jutland, 119, 126

battleships, 100–101, 105–6, 118, 120–24, 126–30, 136, 196–97,

248, 250

Beatty, David, 48–49

Belgium, 22

Bell, Alexander Graham, 195

Bellinger, Patrick N. L., 116, 120, 122

Berlin blockade, 445

Berlin, Germany, 84

Betts, Richard, 295

Bishop, William, 188

Bismarck, 125

Bismarck, Otto von, 462

Bissolati, Leonida, 5

Blue Flag, 413, 419, 594

Boeing Company, 185

Bolling, Raynal, 6

Boll, Michael M., 493

Bolshevism, 165

Bomber Command, 69–71, 253

Bomber Mafia, 187, 193–94, 206, 211, 215–18, 220–21, 224, 593

bombing, 21, 46, 53, 61, 67, 86–87, 154, 157, 170, 258, 334

aerochemical, 25

area, 68

atomic, 291

British policy on, 69

civilian, 46, 55–56, 68–69, 71, 96, 162, 173–74

conventional, 285, 291, 294, 580

daylight, 253

dive, 174–75

high level, 585

indiscriminate, 70, 581

industrial, 66, 88, 97

of Japan, 132

long range, 47, 172, 175

morale, 21, 64, 70

precision, 25, 383, 449, 588

psychological effects of, 20, 43, 46, 221, 268, 581

614

strategic, 7, 17, 22–23, 33–34, 42, 44–46, 54, 61, 64, 71, 79, 87,

132, 134, 136, 154–56, 161–62, 164–65, 167, 171–73, 221,

249, 268, 292, 294, 327, 334, 347, 383, 449, 503, 581,

584–86, 590

terror, 12, 56

urban, 12, 57, 70–71, 268

bombs

aerochemical, 15, 22, 30

electro-optical guided, 450

gas, 15, 30

glide, 82

high explosive, 15

incendiary, 15

laser guided, 450

Bosnia-Herzegovina, 472

Boxer Rebellion, 81

Boyd, John, 357–58, 363–70, 379, 381–82, 384–89, 592–93

Bradley, Omar, 264

Brant, G. C., 223

Braun, Wernher von, 547

Brezhnev, Leonid, 490–91, 493, 512

Briey Basin, 152

British Army Staff College, 42

Brodie, Bernard, 24, 28, 266, 279

Brooke-Popham, Robert, 58–59

Brooks Field, Texas, 190

Brown, George S., 411, 430

Brussels, Belgium, 446

budget

aviation, 14

defense, 263–64, 432

military, 48, 106, 190, 327

Russian defense, 490, 507, 515–16, 596

space, 569

Builder, Carl, 591

Bullard, Robert Lee, 197, 204

Bülow, H. D. von, 377

Bureau of Aeronautics, 124, 131

Bureau of Navigation, 124

Cable, Larry, 340–41

Cadorna, Luigi, 5

615

Canada, 464

capital ships, 100, 120, 128–29, 136, 242, 250

Caproni, Gianni, 3, 6, 98, 184

carrier task force, 129, 136

Carter, Jimmy, 408

Catalonia, Spain, 162

Center for Low Intensity Conflict, 344

centers of gravity (COG), 57, 64, 66, 195, 198, 216, 325–26, 339,

343, 365, 371–74, 376–78, 386–88, 466, 471, 496, 504, 593

Central Army Group (CENTAG), 422–23

Central Imagery Office, 544

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 410, 544

centralized

control, 283, 338, 421–22, 454, 457, 466, 544–46, 567–68, 594

execution, 545–46

military authority, 546

Central Powers, 83

Chain, John T., 420

Chassin, G. J. M., 328

Checkmate Division, 370, 373

Chennault, Claire, 52, 188, 244, 588

Chernyshev, Vladimir, 503

Chess Air, 188

Chief of Naval Operations (CNO), 118, 123, 131, 134

China, 81, 92, 369

China-Burma-India theater, 324

Churchill, Winston, 48–49, 258, 298

civil

aviation, 16–17

defense, 289–90, 303–4

civilian

casualties, 25, 469

morale, 20–21, 30, 585

Clausewitz, Carl von, 96, 34, 116–17, 220, 268, 360, 364–65, 372,

374, 377–81, 388, 416, 443, 594, 597

close air support (CAS), 152, 158–61, 171–75, 338, 342–43, 400,

405, 407–10, 414, 421–26, 429, 448, 456–57, 459–60, 465, 472,

545

coalition forces, 1, 25, 197, 385, 433, 463, 502, 504–8, 510–11, 558

Coastal Command, 258

coastal defense, 120, 199, 202

Coffman, Robert D., 467

616

Cohen, Eliot, 376

cold war, 31, 217, 279–80, 287–88, 295–96, 306, 485, 490, 508,

512, 594

collateral damage, 25, 307, 341, 485, 542

combat air patrol (CAP), 553

Combined Air Force Course, 215

Combined Arms Center (CAC), 412, 416, 426

Combined Arms Combat Development Activity, 410

Combined Bomber Offensive, 292

Command of the Air, The, 8, 13–15, 17–18, 23, 26, 31–33, 98–99,

153, 159

command and control (C

), 28, 296–97, 302, 307, 328, 338,

384–85, 450, 452–57, 466, 471, 504, 513, 543–44, 546

command, control, and communications (C

), 297, 495, 539–40

command, control, communications, and computers (C

), 533

command, control, communications, computers, and intelligence

I), 386, 515

command, control, communications, and intelligence (C

I), 466,

507, 511, 514

command and control warfare (C

W), 465

Commercial Space Launch Act, 538

Communications Act, 538

Communism, 461, 485, 494, 515

Communist Party, 369, 519

Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), 508

Condor Legion, 586

Confederation of Independent States (CIS), 510, 515, 520

Congress (US), 94, 101–2, 105, 131, 133, 185, 190, 206–9, 222,

265, 412, 432, 587

Congress of People’s Deputies, 509

conventional warfare, 263, 280, 300, 321, 323–25, 327–28, 330,

333, 337–39, 341–43, 347, 489, 510

Convention on Registration, 537

Cook, Orvel, 222

Coolidge, Calvin, 103, 197

Cot, Pierre, 154–58, 176

counterair operations, 202, 338, 407, 421, 423, 453–56, 459–60, 466

counterforce battle, 23–24, 54, 253, 300

counterinsurgency, 322–23, 329, 332–33, 335–39, 341–43, 345

Crabb, Jarred, 206

Creech, Wilbur L., 419, 423, 425, 430

Crete, 250–51

617

Cuba, 80, 82

Cuban missile crisis, 19, 450

Curry, Charles, 207

Curry, John F., 101

Curtiss Aviation School, 83

cyberwar, 386

Czechoslovakia, 445

Dargue, Herbert, 107–8, 209

data fusion myth, 557–58, 563

Dean, David, 342

decapitation, 300, 305, 371

decentralized

command, 117

control, 452

execution, 421, 454, 545–46, 594

decision makers/making, 127, 130, 367, 386–87, 488, 491, 538,

557, 563, 579, 592

Deep Attack Program Office, 426

deep battle, 163–64, 400, 417, 425–27

Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA), 409

Defense Information Systems Agency, 544

defense technological and industrial base (DTIB), 569

defensive counterair (DCA), 451, 455, 466, 468–69

Delbruck, Hans, 358, 360

Demain, Victor, 155

Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRVN), 403

Department of Aeronautics, 99, 207

Department of Commerce, 544

Department of Defense (DOD), 108, 128, 133, 536, 538, 540, 543

Department of the Interior, 544

Department of National Defense, 99, 207–9

Department of Transportation, 544

DePuy, William E., 404–6, 411, 413, 415–16, 430

Dern, George, 192

De Seversky, Alexander P., 28, 239–69, 248, 292, 428, 589–90

De Seversky, Evelyn, 244–45, 266

deterrence, 66, 135, 293–95, 297–99, 301–2, 304, 306–7, 328, 464,

500, 590

Dick, C. J., 486, 512, 514

Dickman Board, 209

Dien Bien Phu, 327

618

Dinger, H. C., 125

directed-energy weapons (DEW), 536, 562

dirigibles, 2, 4, 82, 94, 102, 195

disarmament, 131, 492

Disney, Walt, 256–58

Dixon, Robert J., 411–12, 419, 430

doctrine, 42, 127, 403–5, 424, 431, 454, 471–72, 487, 491, 532,

553, 569, 579

Active Defense, 400, 405, 407, 414–17, 431

ACTS bombardment, 222–23

Air Corps, 255

Air Force, 214–15, 322, 331, 333, 337, 339, 344–47, 400, 403–4,

407–9, 414–15, 419, 421, 425, 429, 444, 448, 451, 453, 455,

465, 469–71, 530–32, 536, 544–46, 566

Air Force writers of, 418

AirLand Battle, 400, 414–17, 420, 425, 427, 431, 433, 456, 458,

503, 507, 594

airpower, 151–52, 176–77, 185–87, 211, 213, 216, 322, 337,

342, 451, 473, 530, 545–46, 569, 584, 586–87, 593

Army, 214, 400, 402–4, 414, 566

economy of force, 219

flexible response, 490

foreign military, 488

French, 152–53, 155–59, 176

German, 153, 169–76, 446, 585

Gorbachev, 513–15

interdiction, 595

Italian, 160–62

joint, 408, 414, 432, 444, 453, 465, 467, 470–71, 536, 566

LIC, 592

Luftwaffe, 174, 585

manuals, 42

massive retaliation, 444, 469, 490, 516

military, 168, 486–89, 491, 500

mutually assured destruction (MAD), 590

NATO, 421–24, 443–45, 448–49, 451–55, 459–61, 464–65,

467–73, 499

naval, 115–17

negotiated, 444, 460

nuclear, 281, 302, 449

operational, 151

preemptive, 492

619

RAF, 42, 53–54, 60, 70–71, 382

reasonable sufficiency, 499, 513

Russian, 486, 488, 498, 508–20

Soviet, 163, 167, 410, 485–95, 498–99, 500, 502–4, 508–9,

512–13, 517, 519, 595–96

space control, 540

space power, 530, 564, 567

strategic airpower, 222, 362–63, 382

strategic bombing, 332, 383

war fighting, 301

Dodd, Townsend F., 99

Doolittle, Jimmy, 188, 190, 245

doomsday machine, 299–300

Douhet, Giulio, 1–34, 46, 55, 61–62, 71, 80, 92, 95, 98–99, 121,

130, 153–54, 157, 159–61, 171–72, 174, 176, 183, 246, 253,

255, 259, 261, 264, 266, 268, 279, 281, 288, 291–92, 329, 357,

428, 503, 580–82, 584, 590, 593, 597

Dowding, Hugh, 52, 67

Dresden, Germany, 70

drop tanks, 108, 589

Drum Board, 201, 210

Drum, Hugh, 205–6

Dugan, Michael, 503

Dunkirk, France, 70, 250

Dutch East Indies, 92

Eaker, Ira C., 107, 187–90, 266, 583

Earhart, Amelia, 190

Easter offensive, 334

East Germany, 410, 444, 448, 468

economy of force, 206, 359, 428

Eglin AFB, Florida, 331, 363

Eighth Air Force, 221, 253

8th Pursuit Group, 223

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 263–65, 327, 408

electromagnetic pulse (EMP), 297

electronic

countermeasures (ECM), 426

fire operation, 512

jamming, 511

warfare (EW), 24, 288, 453, 455, 494, 502, 514

Eller, Deryck, 340

620

El Salvador, 340, 347

encounter battle, 163

Environmental Modification Convention, 537

Estes, Howell, 205

Ethiopia, 161, 204

Eurocorps, 462

Europe, 33, 62, 66, 70, 81, 83, 85, 119, 151, 159, 184, 213, 224,

245, 249, 251, 269, 305, 327–28, 339, 347, 400, 405–7, 409,

413–15, 430, 433, 443, 446–47, 451, 461–62, 464, 467–68, 470,

489, 494, 510, 586, 595

European Command, 470

Fairchild, Muir, 216–17, 219, 588

Falk, C. E., 190

Fall, Bernard, 335

Far East, 510

Far East Air Forces (FEAF), 331

Farley, James A., 192

Fascist Party, 8, 160

fast transient maneuvers, 363–64

Fechet, James E., 108

Federal Aeronautics Administration,108

Federal Republic of Germany, 445

Felmy, Helmuth, 170, 172

Ferrying Command, 217

Fiebig, Martin, 165

Field Officer’s School, 194

5th Bomber Command, 217

V Corps, 415

Fifth Fleet, 131

Fighter Command, 52, 67, 125

fighter mafia, 593

Fighter Weapons Center, 410, 412

firebombing, 281

fire support coordination line (FSCL), 427, 457

1st Aero Squadron, 89

I Air Corps (French), 155

First Army, 86, 89

1st Brigade, 86

I Corps, 86

1st Infantry Division, 87

FitzGerald, Mary C., 499–500, 516

621

Five Power Treaty, 120

five-rings model, 373–74, 376–77, 381, 385–87, 428, 593

Flanders, 51

fleet defense, 47

flexible response, 460, 469

flying boat, 121–22, 254, 268

Flying Tigers, 588

follow-on forces attack (FOFA), 456, 458–59, 469

force

application, 533–34, 539–40, 568

enhancement, 533–34, 539–40

multiplier, 507, 543

structure, 52, 505–6, 516–18, 529, 556

support, 533–34

Forces Command (FORSCOM), 411

foreign internal defense, 339, 345

Foreign Military Studies Office, 494, 498

foreign policy

Russian, 518, 520

US, 510

Forrestal, James V., 133–34

Fort Benning, Georgia, 411

Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, 82, 211, 412, 426

Fort Monroe, Virginia, 411

Fort Riley, Kansas, 83

Fort Sam Houston, Texas, 102, 108

42d “Rainbow” Division, 91

forward line of own troops (FLOT), 467

Foulois, Benjamin “Benny,” 47, 80, 89, 91, 108, 186, 192, 204, 207–9

4th Allied Tactical Air Force (4ATAF), 422, 455, 460

4400th Combat Crew Training Squadron (CCTS), 331–32

France, 22, 26, 32, 43–44, 46–47, 50, 58, 61, 69–70, 80, 85, 89, 94,

151–52, 154–55, 159, 171, 176, 249–51, 284, 297, 370, 383–84,

445–46, 462, 471, 585

air force, 50, 121, 152–59, 171, 176

army, 26, 153–59, 171, 250

navy, 155

Franco, Francisco, 174

French

Plan I, 155–56

Plan II, 156

Plan XVII, 45

622

Frunze, Mikhail, 163

Fullam, William, 120

Fuller, J. F. C., 171, 358–59, 361, 371, 592

future war, 321, 382, 385, 387, 401, 407, 430–31, 485, 487–89,

496, 498–502, 506, 510, 517, 519, 536

Gabriel, Charles A., 420, 430, 432

Gallery, Dan, 134–35

Gamelin, Maurice-Gustave, 153, 157–59, 176

Gareyev, M. V., 488

gas warfare, 25, 57

Gaulle, Charles de, 157, 446

General Board of the Navy, 121, 125

General Headquarters (GHQ)

Air Force, 105–6, 108, 201–4, 209–11, 222–23

Brigade, 84

Reserve, 88

General Staff Academy (Soviet), 165

Geneva Disarmament Conference, 57, 204

Geneva Protocols, 25

geopolitics, 517

George, Harold Lee, 107–8, 194, 216–18, 224

geosynchronous earth orbit (GEO), 554, 559, 562

Germany, 7, 11–12, 20, 22, 24, 30, 42–44, 46–47, 69, 71, 85,

87–88, 121, 135, 151, 168–69, 171, 176, 185, 221, 224, 249–50,

257, 260, 288, 307, 384, 449, 510, 570, 585–86

air force, 161, 165, 168–69, 173–76

air service, 168–69

army, 46, 82, 84–85, 165, 168–71, 173–74

military, 168–69, 171

navy, 119, 168, 175, 240

rearmament of, 204

Gilkeson, A. H., 223

Glantz, David M., 498–99

global

awareness, 532

presence, 532

reach, 545–46

war, 328

Goldwater-Nichols Department of Defense Reorganization Act, 432,

444, 467, 470

Golovine, Nicholas N., 22

623

Goodpaster, Andrew, 451, 460

Gorbachev, Mikhail, 491, 494, 508–9, 512–14, 519, 596

Göring, Hermann, 175

Gorrell, Edgar “Nap,” 6–7, 80, 85–86, 88, 183, 186, 383, 580

Gothlin, Oliver P., Jr., 223

Grachev, Andrei S., 507

Grau, Lester, 494

Great Britain, 7, 20, 30, 32, 41–43, 46, 48, 50–51, 57, 61–62,

67–71, 84, 94, 119, 123, 125, 172, 175, 249, 251, 261, 281, 284,

306, 336–37, 382, 451, 529

air force, 50, 121

army, 45–47, 49, 61, 63–64, 70, 250

navy, 49, 63, 119–20, 125, 250

Great Patriotic War, 302, 511, 517

Greely, Adolphus, 81

Green, John, 342

ground

attack, 154

battle, 90, 157, 160

campaign, 153, 511

commander, 65, 82, 84, 422–23, 427, 429, 457–58, 460

defenses, 183

forces, 12–13, 20, 47, 55, 65, 94, 107–8, 152, 158, 164–65, 166,

170, 184, 202, 206, 212–13, 250, 265, 372, 402, 408, 414,

418–19, 427, 448, 456, 468–70, 488, 490–91, 497, 502,

504–5, 518, 581–82, 586, 594

operations, 62, 429, 519

support, 421

warfare, 96, 265, 489, 508, 512

Guadalajara, Spain, 166

Guatemala, 340, 347

guerrillas, 324, 333, 335–36, 340–42

operations, 336

tactics, 324, 329, 331, 341

warfare, 322, 402

Gulf War. See Persian Gulf War

Gullion, Allen, 103–4

Haig, Douglas, 45, 47

Halsey, William, 130–31

Hammes, Thomas, 340

Hammond, Grant, 341, 382

624

Hannibal, 19

Hanoi, North Vietnam, 335

Hansell, Haywood, 206, 210, 216–17, 224

Harbord, James G., 85

Hardie, Robert L., 336

Harmon, Millard F., 198, 223

Harris, Arthur, 70–71

Hay, James, 83

Henderson, David, 43–44

high-altitude precision daylight bombardment (HAPDB), 186, 192,

211–12, 216–17, 219–22, 224

Hines, John, 493

Hirohito, 258

Hiroshima, Japan, 259, 281

Hitler, Adolph, 33, 70, 133, 249

HMS

Prince of Wales, 129, 250

Repulse, 129, 250

Ho Chi Minh, 331

Horner, Charles A., 544

House Military Affairs Committee, 101

Howard, Michael, 400

Howell Commission, 184, 210

Hukbalahaps (Huks), 322, 326, 328, 330

Hurlburt Field, Florida, 419

Hussein, Saddam, 433, 499, 502

hyperwar, 378

Ia Drang Valley, 402

Icarus Syndrome, 591, 597–98

Iceland, 463

immediate-reaction forces, 464

incendiary attacks, 87

independent air force (IAF), 14, 23, 49, 79–80, 86, 88–91, 94–95,

99, 102–8, 125, 128, 133–34, 136, 151, 153, 169, 176, 186–87,

208–10, 225, 256, 267, 291, 322, 333, 346, 581, 583, 587

Independent Force, 44, 46–47, 52

India, 48–49, 61, 81, 92

Indochina, 326, 328, 405

Indonesia, 330

industrial

revolution, 4

625

triangle, 193–95, 197

Information Age, 384, 387, 389

information dominance, 385–86

Inskip, Thomas, 67

insurgency, 322–26, 328–33, 335–36, 338–41, 343–47, 462

insurgent forces, 324

integrated air defense system (IADS), 454

intelligence, 60, 67, 324–25, 407, 424, 532–33, 535, 594, 598

air, 66

Army, 426

economic, 55

industrial, 64

military, 29, 585

strategic, 219

interdiction, 62, 64–66, 106, 152, 158, 160–61, 166, 170, 173, 214,

325, 328, 338, 405, 408, 418–19, 422, 424, 427, 429, 451, 453,

460, 466, 504, 581, 594

atomic, 447

close, 342

deep, 327, 422

inter-German border (IGB), 468

internal defense and development (IDAD), 344–45

international

law, 53, 56, 68–69

politics, 308

relations, 298, 408

interservice rivalry, 48, 591, 598

Iran, 510

Iraq, 49, 265, 285, 290, 306, 344, 373, 385, 463, 499, 501–2, 504–5

Iraqi army, 13

isolationism, 100, 117, 186, 262

Israel, 30–31, 306

Italy, 1–6, 13, 17, 19, 25, 29, 32, 46, 92, 98, 151, 159–62, 176,

249, 580

air force, 3–4, 6, 8, 160–62, 584

army, 2, 6, 31, 160–62

Nationalist air force, 61

Nationalist army, 162

navy, 31

Japan, 2, 20, 30–31, 81, 92, 96, 123, 126, 132, 135, 204, 254,

257–60, 369–70, 510

626

army, 370

carriers, 130

navy, 126–27, 129–30

Jervis, Robert, 302

Jeschonneck, Hans, 175

Jimmie Allen Flying Club, 189

joint

air-ground operations, 166

campaign, 63

force, 54, 164, 420

force air component commander (JFACC), 465–67, 471

operations, 417, 465

surveillance, target attack radar system (JSTARS), 421, 426

task force, 417

Joint Board, 197–98, 203

Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS), 129, 322, 432, 452

Joint Low Intensity Conflict Project, 344

jointness, 269, 432, 536, 566

Joint Strategic Survey Committee, 217

Jomini, Henri de, 34, 116, 268, 377, 379, 381, 389

Jones, R. M., 200

Jungle Jim, 332

Junior Birdmen of America, 189

Kahn, Herman, 266, 299

Karp, Aaron, 42

Kauch, Robert, 200

Kennedy, John F., 329, 331, 570

Kenney, George C., 199

Kerensky, Alexander E., 241

Key West Agreement/Conference, 133–34

KGB, 491

Khrushchev, Nikita, 489–90, 596

Kilbourne, Charles E., 106

King, Ernest, 130–31, 134

Kipp, Jacob, 516

Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, 104

Klingaman, Jerome, 341

Klokotov, N., 502

Knerr, Hugh, 205, 223

Kokoshin, Andrei, 517

Korea, 25, 92, 262–64, 269, 327–28, 339, 412, 446

627

Korean War, 134, 262, 331, 327, 363

Kubrick, Stanley, 280

Kugler, Richard L., 444

Kuter, Laurence, 200, 216–17, 224

Kutsenko, N., 506

Kuwait, 373, 433, 463, 501

Kzheb, K., 504

Lagrange points, 562

Lahm, Frank, 209

Lambeth, Benjamin, 486, 498, 507–8, 515

Lampert Board, 208–9

Lampert, Julian, 101

land

battle, 87, 119, 267

campaign, 61–62, 65–67, 267

force commander, 14, 79, 247, 252, 456, 460

forces, 10, 12–13, 16, 19, 29, 32, 53, 63, 72, 79, 96, 252, 254,

261–62, 267, 269, 371–72, 408, 419, 456, 503, 597

operations, 61, 339, 423

power, 16, 18, 183, 195, 531, 533–34, 536, 541, 565–67

warfare, 9, 17–18, 23, 30, 62, 68–69, 72, 95, 117, 119, 151, 251,

400, 597

Langley AFB, Virginia, 411, 465

Langley Field, Virginia, 187, 211, 213

Lansdale, Edward, 337

Laos, 329

Lapchinsky, A. N., 164, 166–67, 585

Lassiter Board, 209

launch under attack (LUA), 297

LeChambre, Guy, 158–59

Leites, Nathan, 343

LeMay, Curtis E., 332, 403–4

Leningrad, USSR, 489

Leyte, 130

Libya, 3

Libyan War, 3, 23

Liddell Hart, Basil H., 20, 358, 361–62, 592

Liggett, Hunter, 89

limited

conventional war, 340

nuclear options (LNO), 300

628

war, 108, 263, 269, 322, 328, 331–32, 340

Lindbergh, Charles, 190, 250

lines of communications (LOC), 130, 156, 199, 202, 336, 343,

345–46, 383, 468

Lipetsk, USSR, 165

Lloyd George, David, 47

logistics, 324–25, 329

London, England, 43, 50, 57, 60, 71, 121, 581

Lovell, George E., Jr., 223

low earth orbit (LEO), 548, 558–59, 561–62

low intensity conflict (LIC), 269, 321–23, 331, 340, 342–44, 592

Luce, Stephen B., 117

Ludendorff, Erich, 174, 176

Ludlow-Hewitt, Edgar, 56, 59–60

Luftwaffe, 24, 33, 59, 67, 70, 154, 159, 172, 174–75, 221, 249–50,

585–86. See also Germany

Lupton, David, 535

Luxembourg, Belgium, 463

MacArthur, Douglas, 129, 198, 262

MacArthur-Pratt Agreement, 199–200, 203

Macke, Richard, 567

Macmillan, Harold, 291

Maginot Line, 153, 250

Mahaffey, Fred K., 420

Mahan, Alfred Thayer, 34, 101, 116–17, 119, 123–24, 130, 261,

529–30

Mahoney, Donald, 493

major subordinate commander (MSC), 455, 471

Malaya, 326, 328, 335–36, 342

Malayan Emergency, 337, 342

Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army, 326

Maliukov, A. E., 502–3

Manchuria, 204

maneuver

battle, 361

forces, 471, 493

war, 166, 170, 364

Manhattan Project, 281, 292

Manila, 326

Mao Tse-tung, 323, 369–70

March, Peyton, 87

629

Mariana Islands, 130

Marshall, George, 264

Marshall Plan, 446

massive retaliation, 265, 300

Maxwell AFB, Alabama, 266, 329, 344

Maxwell Field, Alabama, 28, 71, 187–88, 192, 200, 211, 587

McAndrew, James W., 88

MccGwire, Michael, 488

McCook Field, Ohio, 242

mechanized warfare, 62

Mecozzi, Amedeo, 160–62, 584

Mediterranean, 162, 456

Menoher Board, 208

Menoher, Charles T., 91, 94, 127, 196, 208

Mesopotamia, 56

methodical battle, 152, 592

Metz, France, 87

Mexico, 119

Meyer, Edward C., 415–16, 420, 423

Meyer, Luigi, 465–66

Middle East, 55, 58, 61, 264

Middle East War, 405–6

MiG Alley, 363

Military Agency for Standardization (MAS), 451–52

Military Airlift Command, 217

military art, 487–88, 500, 595

Milling, Thomas, 183, 185–86, 195–96, 199, 206, 213–16

Ministry of Air, 47

Ministry of the Interior (French), 157

Ministry of War, 47

missiles, 283–84, 288, 485, 489, 598

air to air, 288

air launched cruise (ALCM), 296

antiballistic (ABM), 283, 288–90, 303–4, 537, 591

Army tactical system (ATACMS), 426–27

Atlas, 548

ballistic, 283, 286, 288–89, 534

cruise, 82, 285, 516

ground launched cruise (GLCM), 450, 463

guided, 266

Hellfire, 413

infrared-guided antitank, 450

630

interceptor, 289

intercontinental, 591

intercontinental ballistic (ICBM), 135, 283–88, 295–96, 303

intermediate-range ballistic (IRBM), 283

joint tactical system (JTACMS), 421

land based, 283, 287

long-range guided, 264

medium-range ballistic (MRBM), 283

Minuteman, 591

mobile, 287, 296

mobile ICBM, 285

MX (Peacekeeper), 287, 296

nuclear, 284, 286, 289

Patriot, 451

Pershing II, 450

Polaris, 135

precision television guided, 450

Scud, 31

sea-launched ballistic (SLBM), 134, 283–88, 296, 303

short range, 285

short-range ballistic (SRBM), 283

Soviet, 299, 305, 450

submarine launched, 591, 598

submarine launched ballistic (SLBM), 134

surface to air (SAM), 282, 284, 288, 342, 562

surface to surface, 463

Trident D-5, 284, 296

V-2, 591

Mitchell, Elizabeth, 92, 102

Mitchell, William “Billy,” 28, 33, 47, 61, 79–108, 121, 124–25,

128–30, 133, 171, 183, 186, 191, 195–96, 207, 213–14, 242,

246–49, 253, 259, 261, 266, 268, 343, 362–63, 371, 383, 428,

580, 582–83, 586–87, 590, 593, 597

Mitscher, Marc, 131

Moffett, William A., 116, 120, 124, 127–28, 583

Moiseyev, Mikhail, 498, 508

Momyer, William, 337

Monroe Doctrine, 203

Moon, Odas, 216

morale, 52–53, 55, 60, 63, 70–72, 98, 121, 128, 173, 215, 221, 268,

383, 581

Morgan, J. P., 103

631

Moris, Maurizio, 2, 4

Morocco, 153

Morrow Board, 90, 103–5, 204, 209

Morrow, Dwight, 103

Moscow Academy for Air Commanders, 165

Moscow, USSR, 461, 489, 506

mujahideen, 340, 342

multiple independently targeted reentry vehicle (MIRV), 284, 287,

303

multiple launch rocket system (MLRS), 427

Mussolini, Benito, 8, 18, 162, 584

Mustin, Henry, 118–19, 124

mutual assured destruction (MAD), 10, 292, 295–98, 300–302,

304–7, 536

Nagasaki, Japan, 259, 281

Naisbitt, John, 387

Napoléon, 8, 133, 378

National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), 544, 571

national

aerospace plane (NASP), 566

defense, 193, 197–200, 210, 249, 430

objectives, 119, 265, 532

policy, 407, 540

security, 79, 115, 118, 124, 136, 306, 405, 535, 538–39

National Defense Act of 1916, 83

nationalism, 193

National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, 544

National Reconnaissance Office, 544

National Science Foundation, 544

National Security League, 197

National Security and Strategic Stability Studies Center, 506

National War College, 371

nation building, 333, 338

naval

blockade, 116, 128, 130, 132–33, 135, 294

commander, 467

forces, 36, 103, 107, 123, 184, 197, 202, 250, 408

operations, 197, 305

thinking, 136

warfare, 41,115, 119, 151

Naval Academy, 117–18

632

Naval Aircraft Factory, 125

Naval On-Call Force Mediterranean, 463

Naval War College, 116–17, 120, 124, 126–27, 131, 335

Nazi

Germany, 66, 69

ideology, 174

Nellis AFB, Nevada, 410, 412, 419

Netherwood, Douglas B., 200

Newport Agreement/Conference, 133–34

Nicaragua, 340

Nimitz, Chester, 131, 133

XIX Tactical Air Command, 412

Nivelle, Robert, 83

Nixon, Richard M., 334, 403

Nolan, Kimberly, 455, 472

North Africa, 71

North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), 217

North Atlantic Council, 463

North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 327, 405, 408, 410,

413, 415, 421, 430, 443–56, 458–73, 490, 492–94, 498–99, 510,

518, 594–96, 598

Central Region, 424, 445, 448, 456–57, 467

Northern Region, 445, 456

Southern Region, 445, 456, 462

Tactical Air Working Group, 424

Northern Army Group (NORTHAG), 422, 457

Northrop Corporation, 285

North Sea, 42

North Vietnam, 334

North Vietnamese Army (NVA), 402

Norway, 250–51, 456

nuclear

age, 294

arms control, 280

attack, 282, 286, 289, 308, 447

decapitation, 307

deterrence, 299

employment, 451

energy, 513

escalation, 300–301, 304, 491–92, 514

first strike, 289–90, 295–97, 300–301, 303–7, 591

fission, 281

633

fusion, 282

proliferation, 298, 306

retaliation, 289, 293–97, 299, 303–6, 597

second strike, 296, 299, 303–6

strike, 300

superiority, 301

triad, 287, 297

war, 290–91, 296, 300–302, 304–6, 308, 337, 513, 516

Nunn, Sam, 544

observation, orientation, decision, and action (OODA) loop, 366–67,

369, 381, 384, 386, 388, 592

offensive air support (OAS), 423–25, 453, 456, 459, 465, 467,

471–72

offensive counterair (OCA), 449, 455, 458, 469

Office of the Chief of the Air Corps (OCAC), 200–201, 210–11

Office of Technical Development (German), 175

Ogarkov, N. V., 500, 514

Okinawa, Japan, 132

Olds, Robert, 107–8, 193, 195, 207, 216–17

Olson, William, 340, 342

operational

art, 428, 486–87, 494, 502–3, 511, 518,

control, 455, 466

level of war, 64

operations

Barbarossa, 22

Deny Flight, 472

Desert Shield, 399, 405, 409, 429, 433, 498, 517

Desert Storm, 25, 29, 34, 371, 374, 378, 386, 388, 433, 498,

507, 512, 514–15, 519, 542, 561, 593

Farmgate, 332

Linebacker, 334

Linebacker 2, 335, 403

Ranchhand, 329

Rolling Thunder, 334

Ordnance Department, 591

Orwell, George, 591

Ostfriesland, 90–91, 94, 102, 242, 582–83

Outer Space Treaty (OST), 285, 536, 541

Pacific

Command, 131, 470

634

fleet, 197, 544

theater, 217

war, 123, 127, 131, 135–36, 583

Palestine, 49

Panama, 20, 499

Panama Canal, 123, 194, 197, 529

Pape, Robert, 368

parallel

attack, 307, 375–76, 382, 388

operations, 15–16, 63

warfare, 365, 374

paralysis, 15, 52, 60, 65, 217–18, 264, 358–63, 365–66, 368–69,

373, 375–76, 379, 382–84, 387–89. See also strategic

paratroop force, 173, 175

Paret, Peter, 330

Paris, France, 83, 446

parochialism, 196

Parsons, David, 343

Partnership for Peace (PFP), 462, 464–65

Partridge, Earl “Pat,” 188

Paschall, Rod, 340

Patrick, Mason, 89, 91–92, 107–8, 185–86, 191, 198, 204, 242

Patton, George, 412

peacekeeping, 322, 464

peacemaking, 322

peacetime contingency operations, 322

Pearl Harbor, 120, 122–23, 127, 129, 131, 248

Pentagon, 301, 370, 372, 402

Pentland, Pat, 377

People’s Anti-Japanese Army, 326

People’s Liberation Army, 326

Perera, Guido, 208, 210

perestroika, 491, 500, 512

Perry, Robert, 455, 472

Pershing, John J., 85–89, 184, 186, 209

Persian Gulf War, 1, 13, 20, 24, 30–31, 285, 306, 321, 344, 374,

385, 414, 444, 461, 463, 467, 471, 485–86, 496, 498–509,

511–18, 558, 596

Peru, 340, 347

Petain, Philippe, 153, 176

Philippines, 81–82, 92, 126, 322, 326, 328, 337, 340

Phillips Laboratory, 561

635

Pike, Douglas, 324

planners/planning/plans, 459

air campaign, 541

Air Force, 409, 413, 451

airpower, 221, 255, 264, 292, 468

Allied, 220

Army, 413

campaign, 372

military, 373, 461, 492, 557–58, 563

mobilization, 506

NATO, 446–48, 464, 470

Russian/Soviet, 490, 496, 508

space campaign, 541

strategic, 373, 593

TRADOC, 424

war, 280, 292

poison gas, 87, 90, 96

Poland, 69, 250–51, 384, 585

policy

Air Force, 540

defense, 262, 264

foreign, 486

limited war, 262

military, 249, 292

national, 249, 262, 538

national security, 538

nuclear, 279, 286

public, 267

security, 294

Soviet foreign, 491

space, 535–36, 538–40

policy makers/making, 292, 294, 340, 374

Politburo, 491

Popular Front, 584

Posen, Barry, 305

Post, Wiley, 190

power projection, 134, 532

Pratt, William V., 120, 126, 198

precision-guided munitions (PGM), 108, 307, 410, 450, 494, 501,

511

precision location strike system (PLSS), 426

preemption, 490, 492, 495, 501

636

preemptive attack, 287, 289, 301, 304–5

Preparedness Movement, 195

Primary Flying School, 188, 190

principal subordinate commander (PSC), 455, 467, 471

Pritchard, Gilbert L., 332–33

professional military education, 579, 598–99

Progressivism, 186, 220

Project Control, 265

propaganda campaigns, 174

protracted revolutionary war, 325–27, 329–31, 334–40, 343–47,

369–70

psychological operations (PSYOP), 330, 338, 343

Pujo, Bertrand, 152

Pustay, John, 335

Rabaul, New Britain, 217

RAF Staff College, 32, 42, 72

Ramstein Air Base, West Germany, 460

RAND, 286, 292, 301, 386, 409–10, 486

Randolph Field, Texas, 190

rapid-deployment force, 506

rapid-reaction force, 464, 506

rapid response, 511

Reagan, Ronald, 290, 305

reconnaissance, 3, 14, 23, 82–83, 121, 127, 129, 152–54, 157,

170–71, 186, 196, 332, 341–43, 407–8, 418, 427, 453, 493, 502,

532–33, 555

Red Flag, 419, 594

reentry vehicle (RV), 284, 289

Reichswehr, 171

Reid, Frank, 103

remotely piloted vehicles (RPV), 108, 410, 556

Republic Aircraft, 246, 590

research and development (R&D), 16, 192, 507, 517, 543–44,

566–67, 569, 596

reserve forces, 464

Return of Forces to Germany (REFORGER), 411

reusable launch vehicle (RLV), 559

revolution

airpower, 294, 307

aviation, 281

industrial, 384

637

information, 384–86

in military affairs, 485, 514

military-technical, 501

nuclear, 280–81, 294, 303, 307

technological, 280

Reynolds, Clark, 128

Richardson, William R., 416

Rickenbacker, Eddie, 190

Ritter, Hans, 172

Rodionov, Igor, 519

Rogers, Bernard, 458

roles and missions, 193, 195, 197–98, 204, 207, 531–34, 555,

565–68, 589

Ronfeldt, David, 386–87

Roosevelt, Franklin D., 192, 200, 203–4, 224, 245, 247, 258

Roosevelt, Theodore, 529

Root, Elihu, 186

Rothermere, Lord, 43–44

Rougeron, Camille, 157

Royal Air Force (RAF), 24, 32, 41–43, 46–58, 60, 66–72, 94, 125,

191, 249–50, 253, 258, 264–65, 337, 342–43, 362, 382, 385,

422, 452, 455, 457, 581–83, 586. See also Great Britain

Royal Air Force Staff College, 53

Royal Flying Corps (RFC), 43, 46–47, 84

Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS), 43, 46

rules of engagement (ROE), 541

Russia, 11, 240–41, 461, 510, 513, 515–20, 585

air force, 167, 518

army, 512

Russian

Federation, 494, 509–10, 513, 516, 520

military-industrial complex (VPK), 517

Russo-Japanese War, 2

Russ, Robert D., 425–26

Saint-Mihiel, France, 86

Salvaneschi, Nino, 6–7, 184

Sarkesian, Sam C., 340

satellites, 286, 537, 545–46, 550, 552–53, 558–59, 562–63

Saudi Arabia, 501

Scapa Flow, 123

Schelling, Thomas, 279, 294, 307

638

Schlesinger, James, 412

Schweinfurt, Germany, 27

Scotland, 119

sea

battle, 118, 120, 127–30

forces, 32, 72, 79, 254, 372

lanes of communications (SLOC), 195–96

power, 16, 18–19, 101, 117, 124, 127–29, 183, 195, 248, 250,

258, 261, 529–31, 533–34, 536, 541, 565–67, 570

warfare, 128, 251

seaplanes, 188

search and rescue, 453

II Air Corps (French), 155

2d Air Division, 336

2d Allied Tactical Air Force (2ATAF), 422, 455, 457, 460

Second Army, 197

Second Indochina War, 220

sector operations center (SOC), 455

Seeckt, Hans von, 169–71

Senate Armed Services Committee, 544

Seventh Air Force, 336–37, 411

Seversky Aircraft Corporation, 243, 245

Shaposhnikov, Y., 506

Shenandoah (dirigible), 102–3

Sherman, William, 107–8, 183, 186, 206, 212–16

Shevardnadze, Eduard, 491

Shy, John W., 330

Siam, 92

Signal Corps, 80–83, 85

Signal Corps Aviation Section, 83

Sims, William, 120

single air commander, 403, 467

Slessor, John “Jack,” 28, 42, 61–66, 68, 72, 258, 385, 581

Slipchenko, Vladimir, 501, 505

Smuts, Jan, 43, 47

Somaliland, 49

Sorensen, Edgar B., 200

South Africa, 43

Southeast Asia, 326, 328–31, 339, 341

Southeastern Aviation Conference, 190

South Lebanon, 499

South Vietnam, 334, 336

639

Southwest Pacific Area, 129

Soviet air defense organization (PVO), 507

Soviet threat, 269, 337, 347, 595

Soviet Union, 22, 133, 135, 151, 162–63, 165–67, 171, 176,

260–62, 265, 281, 283, 287, 289–90, 295–97, 302, 305, 334,

445, 447, 449, 460–61, 485–86, 489, 491–92, 494, 498, 505,

508–9, 515, 518, 520, 537, 585, 592, 595–96

air force, 162–64, 167, 502, 506

army, 163–65, 261, 596

military, 163

navy, 504

Spaatz, Carl “Tooey,” 107, 583, 589–90

space

access, 535, 541, 547–50, 554, 560, 562, 568–69

control, 539

corps, 565

forces, 535

hazards, 551

lift, 547–49, 553, 560

operations, 541, 548, 554

plane, 565–66

policy, 534

power, 518, 530–31, 533–34, 536, 539, 541–47, 549, 554–56,

558–61, 563–71, 596

reconnaissance, 535, 558, 560

research, 547

shuttle, 548, 552

strikes, 562

support, 539–40

surveillance, 535, 556, 558

systems, 549–50, 552, 556, 568, 570

threats, 552

vehicles, 537

weaponization, 535–36, 538, 540, 570

spacecraft, 541, 548, 552, 559–60, 562

spaceflight, 266

Space Force, 530–31, 567–69, 596

Spain, 80, 158–59, 161–62, 166–67, 174, 176–77, 472, 584, 586

Spanish-American War, 530

Spanish Civil War, 161, 585

Spanish War, 162, 174, 177

special air warfare, 338–39

640

Special Air Warfare Center, 331–33

special operations, 331, 339, 342, 344, 408, 418, 453, 533

special operations forces, 421

Sperrle, Hugo, 170, 172

Spruance, Raymond, 130–31

Sputnik I, 283, 591

Stalingrad, USSR, 489

Stalin, Joseph, 163, 165, 167, 302, 489–90, 585, 596

standoff munitions, 410

Starry, Donn A., 415–16, 419, 423, 430

stealth, 374, 507–8, 516, 542, 556, 562–63, 592

Stein, David, 452, 454–55, 472

Stirling, Yates, Jr., 123

Strait of Dover, 119

Strategic Air Command (SAC), 292, 328, 332, 336

strategic

air force, 47

air war, 580, 585

attack, 325, 334, 374, 403, 407, 465–67, 471

aviation, 85

decapitation, 297

defense, 302–5

paralysis, 307, 357–63, 368, 370, 376–77, 382–84, 386, 388–89,

593. See also paralysis

posturing, 505

strikes, 47

superiority, 332

thinking, 120

triad, 135

Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty (SALT), 289

Strategic Bombing Survey, 217

Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), 290

strategists

airpower, 373–74, 376–77, 388

civilian, 286

military, 381

NATO, 469

nuclear, 286, 292, 328

strategy

airpower, 185, 268, 444

annihilation, 360, 375

attrition, 360

641

battle, 360

counterinsurgency, 340

counterrevolutionary, 340

defensive air, 169

flexible response, 450–51

French military, 446

German, 175

imposed cost, 375

insurgent, 323

maneuver, 360

maritime, 305

massive retaliation, 263

military, 358–59, 361, 374–76, 402, 408, 419, 443–44, 486–87

national security, 407

NATO, 445, 447, 450–51, 461, 463–64, 468

nuclear, 279–80, 292–93, 297, 300, 305–6

revolutionary, 340

security, 293

Soviet, 499–500

targeting, 264

war, 248, 379–80

Student, Kurt, 170

Submarine Officers’ Conference, 132

submarines, 107, 117, 119, 121, 132, 135, 284–85, 287–88, 297

fleet ballistic missile (SSBN), 297, 299

German, 71

nuclear, 134, 286

Soviet, 134–35

warfare, 82

Sub-Saharan Africa, 340

Sudan, 49

Sukarno, 330

Sun-tzu, 364, 384

suppression of enemy air defenses (SEAD), 408, 420–21, 423,

429–30, 453–55, 460

Supreme Allied Commander, Atlantic (SACLANT), 445, 452

Supreme Allied Commander, Europe (SACEUR), 445, 451–52, 458

Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE), 452, 455,

506

surprise attack, 488, 491, 500–504, 512

surveillance, 341, 408, 453, 532–33, 555

Sweden, 297

642

Sykes, Frederick, 44, 47–48

Tactical Air Command (TAC), 331, 405, 409–11, 414, 419, 421,

423–25, 432

tactical

air control center (TACC), 412–13

air control system, 338

air coordination element (TACE), 413

air forces, 490

airlift, 400

air operations, 453–54

air reconnaissance (TAR), 400, 456

air support, 426, 445

aviation, 85

control, 455

superiority, 496

Tactical Air Working Party (TAWP), 444, 452, 456–57, 464–65,

472–73

Taranto, Italy, 125

targeting/targets,11, 14, 25, 28–29, 53, 60, 64, 255, 304, 459

civilian, 55–56, 68, 264, 298, 308, 598

countervalue, 295

economic, 449, 511, 514, 598

guerrilla, 335

identification, 46, 338

industrial, 41–42, 45, 60, 68, 70–72, 85, 156, 255, 267, 382–83,

388, 449, 466, 581, 598

information, 382, 388

interdiction, 45

leadership, 371, 377

military, 42, 46, 55, 57, 61, 68, 71, 504, 511, 514

morale, 51, 55

priorities, 225

selection, 52, 54

strategic, 64, 85, 215, 219, 221, 252, 325, 330, 511

strategic nuclear, 307

tactical, 215, 330

target lists/sets, 28, 64, 68, 202, 211, 219, 221, 268, 292, 375, 403

technology, 8–9, 24, 31, 82, 90, 95, 99, 117, 119, 134, 161, 167,

171, 173, 184, 219–20, 240, 261, 267, 323, 342, 346, 357–58,

376, 379, 382, 389, 422, 427, 431, 458, 471, 485, 487–88, 492,

643

494–95, 500–501, 505, 511, 514, 516–17, 530, 540, 543, 548,

554–55, 565, 568, 570, 579, 597, 599

aerial, 165

aeronautical, 260

aerospace, 519

airpower, 340–41

air and space, 516, 543

aviation, 151

flying boat, 121–22

German, 173, 175

high, 543

jet engine, 266

military, 516

missile, 287

naval, 103

nuclear, 134, 279–82, 284, 290, 294

rocket, 570

smart, 459

space, 548, 550, 570

stealth, 24, 284, 288, 307, 562

submarine, 135

weapons, 516

Tedder, Arthur, 56, 60

terrorism, 340, 462

theater

air commander, 422

commander, 65, 132

of military operations (TVD), 490, 496–97, 501, 505

theorists, 281

ACTS, 264

Air Corps, 196

airpower, 32, 44, 61, 168, 240, 246, 253, 255, 258, 268–69, 291,

345, 357–58, 545, 579, 581–82, 585, 588, 593, 595, 597, 599

insurgency, 336

MAD, 300–302

mechanized warfare, 157

military, 163, 265, 590

nuclear, 29, 280, 291–93, 302, 328

Soviet, 164, 500, 502–3

strategic, 167, 298

strategic paralysis, 381

644

theory

bombing, 55

classical military, 268

conflict, 357, 363–64, 368, 388

deterrence, 280, 291, 298, 305, 307

energy maneuverability, 363

European airpower, 586

German airpower, 169–70, 172, 174–75

insurgency, 336, 338

Jominian, 379–80

land power, 531

military, 380, 485

naval, 115, 132

nuclear, 280–81, 290, 306, 591

paralysis, 385

sea power, 531

Soviet airpower, 596

space power, 530–31, 564, 567

strategic airpower, 264

strategic attack, 357, 388

strategic bombardment, 160, 165, 218, 323, 334, 347

strategic nuclear, 295

strategic paralysis, 376–77, 382, 387

war, 380–81

Third Army, 412

Third Reich, 570

Third World, 298

Thomas, Timothy, 487

Tinker, Villa, 192

Tirpitz, Alfred von, 123

Toffler, Alvin and Heidi, 384, 387, 389

Tokyo, Japan, 92, 281

total

quality management, 387

war, 269, 293, 341

Towers, John, 124, 131

Training and Doctrine Command (TRADOC), 344, 404–5, 409–11,

413–16, 419, 421, 423, 425, 432

transatmospheric vehicle (TAV), 564, 570

Transjordan, 49, 265

transportation nodes, 28

treaty negotiation, 538

645

Trenchard, Hugh, 28, 41–53, 56–58, 61, 63, 65, 70–72, 79–80,

84–85, 95, 125, 130, 171, 266, 362–63, 382–83, 581

trench warfare, 83, 90

Truman Doctrine, 446

Truman, Harry S, 133, 262, 265

Tsygichko, V., 506

Tukhachevski, Mikhail, 163–64, 166–67, 585

Turkey, 3, 463, 472, 510

Twentieth Air Force, 132

21st Bomber Command, 217

Twining, Nathan C., 124, 205

U-boats, 119, 125

Udet, Ernst, 175, 585

Udorn AFB, Thailand, 423

Unification Act of 1947, 133

United Kingdom, 444–45, 452, 454, 457, 471

United Nations (UN), 131, 462, 499, 537

United States, 6, 14, 25, 30, 33, 70, 79, 81, 83, 87, 89–90, 92,

97–101, 104–5, 108, 115–17, 125, 133–35, 183, 185, 187,

189–90, 192–99, 204, 212, 239, 242–43, 249, 251–52, 254, 257,

260–64, 267–69, 283–84, 286–90, 295, 297, 299–300, 302, 306,

327, 332–33, 337, 347, 370, 382–83, 399–400, 403, 407,

443–46, 450–52, 454, 457, 462, 464, 467, 471, 490–91, 498–99,

503, 510, 516, 529–30, 532, 537–40, 548, 562, 566, 569–71,

580, 584–86, 590

United States Air Force, 79–80, 109, 124, 134–35, 209, 212, 224,

258, 263–64, 286, 321–22, 330–34, 338–40, 342, 344–46, 357,

370, 399–405, 407–16, 418–33, 444, 450–53, 455–58, 465,

468–70, 531, 536, 538–40, 555, 560, 566–71, 582–84, 588,

590–98

United States Air Service, 6–7

United States Army, 81–82, 85–90, 94–96, 99–100, 102–4, 106–7,

117, 119–20, 124–26, 131, 184–87, 191–92, 194, 198–99, 201,

203–11, 213–15, 219, 258, 263–64, 327, 344, 371, 399–433,

451–52, 458, 531, 566, 568–69, 586–87, 591–95

United States Army Air Service, 185

United States fleet, 134

United States Marine Corps, 117–18, 124, 134, 330, 419, 452, 597

United States Naval Institute, 117

United States Navy, 82, 90, 93–94, 99–103, 106–7, 115–20, 122,

124–29, 131–36, 184, 186, 188, 191–201, 203–4, 206–9, 222,

646

247–48, 256, 258, 263–64, 419, 452–53, 529–31, 568–69,

582–83, 585, 590–91, 597

United States Senate, 262

United States Space Command (USSPACECOM), 544

United States Strategic Bombing Survey, 132, 136

unity

of command, 88, 206, 208, 545, 570

of effort, 570

unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV), 545, 558, 564

USS

Chicago, 116

Langley, 93, 126

Lexington, 93–94, 115, 122, 126–27, 583

Ranger, 127

Saratoga, 93–94, 115, 122, 126–27, 583

Utz, Curtis, 127

Vandenberg, Hoyt, 590

Vauthier, P., 33, 157

Versailles Conference/Treaty, 169, 585

Vessey, John W., Jr., 423

Victory through Air Power, 251, 254–56, 265

Vietcong, 25

Vietminh, 327–29

Vietnam, 25, 269, 327, 329–30, 332–33, 335–37, 347, 399, 402–3,

405, 407, 409–11, 413–14, 431–32, 455, 592, 598

Vietnam War, 31, 243, 333, 339, 346, 399, 403, 405, 409, 412–14,

423, 429–30, 458

vital centers, 1, 11–14, 17, 28, 53–54, 59, 62–63, 95–96, 98–99,

101, 128, 186, 198, 215–17, 221, 252, 255, 259, 268, 334, 362,

371, 383

Vorobyev, I., 504

Voroshilov Lectures, 486

Vuillemin, Joseph, 155

Walker, Kenneth, 107–8, 193, 212, 216–18, 224

war

of attrition, 8–9

fighting, 66

games, 123, 132, 165, 171–72, 176, 212, 417, 557

Warden, John M., III, 343, 357–58, 363, 370–79, 381–82, 384–89,

425, 428–29, 592–93

647

War Department, 83, 102–3, 105–8, 191, 197–98, 201, 205–9, 211,

213–14, 224, 247, 587

warfare

aerial maneuver, 363

chemical, 410

control, 358, 382, 384–85, 387–89

economic, 358, 382–85, 388

incapacitation, 384

information, 387

psychological, 503

revolutionary, 370

strategic nuclear, 347

tactical nuclear, 333

unconventional, 338

War Plans Division, 106

Warsaw Pact, 31, 400, 405–7, 409–10, 414, 430, 445–51, 458–63,

468–70, 490, 493–94, 505, 520

Washington Conference, 132

Washington, D.C., 81, 92, 123, 136, 241, 262, 295

Washington Naval Conference of 1922, 92

Washington Treaty, 204, 463

weapons

advanced technology, 501

antisubmarine, 135

atomic, 31, 259–60, 265, 281–82, 291, 293, 449, 489, 590

ballistic, 560

biological/chemical, 306–7, 463, 513

conventional, 282, 285, 307, 489, 537

directed energy, 290, 500, 561

environmental modification, 537

future, 501

high tech, 507, 509, 514, 517

high-tech conventional, 502

of mass destruction, 307, 463, 469, 513, 537

nuclear, 10, 30, 34, 130, 133–34, 260–61, 264, 268, 280–82,

284–86, 288, 292–94, 296–99, 302–6, 327, 329, 332–33, 443,

447–49, 461, 463, 469, 485, 489–91, 494, 497, 502, 513–14,

516, 519, 535, 596–97

precision, 29, 374, 599

smart, 307, 513, 515

Soviet, 500

space, 285, 534, 538, 598

648

standoff, 284, 288, 592

strategic, 267

strategic nuclear, 285, 287, 489

tactical nuclear, 281, 285, 491

thermonuclear, 282, 289, 293, 296, 308

Weaver, Walter “Buck,” 188

Webster, Robert, 183, 194, 196, 216, 219

Weeks, John W., 102

Wehrmacht, 167–68

Weir, Gary, 119

Weir, William, 44

Western European Union (WEU), 462

western front, 47, 62, 84, 86, 90, 119, 126, 362

Westervelt, George, 120–21, 125

West Germany, 443, 445–46, 448, 457

Westover, Oscar, 108, 189–90, 198, 201, 207

West Point, 82, 89, 420

Wever, Walter, 172–73, 175

Weygand, Maxime, 153, 176

Weyland, O. P., 412

White House, 334

White House Office of Science and Technology Policy, 544

White, Thomas D., 546

Wickham, John A., 420, 430, 432

Wilberg, Helmut, 169–71, 173

will, 55, 66–67, 97, 162, 194, 218, 255, 268, 359, 364

civilian, 28

enemy, 10–12, 15, 41, 59–60, 79, 96, 101, 174, 259, 264, 268,

360, 374

to fight, 97, 217, 466

to resist, 194, 197, 219, 221, 359, 361, 365, 378, 381, 383, 388

Wilson, Donald, 193, 216–19

Wilson, Henry, 48–49

Wimmer, Wilhelm, 172

Wingate, Orde, 324

Winged Defense, 100, 102–4

Wohlstetter, Albert, 286

Wolf, Charles, Jr., 343

World War I, 4, 8–9, 11, 13, 16–17, 19–20, 23, 25–27, 30, 33,

41–42, 50, 54, 58, 61, 66, 71–72, 79, 89, 91, 106, 115, 117–19,

121, 123, 125, 128, 151–52, 160, 164, 168–71, 174–76, 183–84,

649

188, 195, 206, 212, 214, 240, 250, 291–93, 303, 358, 361–62,

383, 388, 529, 581, 585–86, 589

World War II, 15, 20, 23, 25, 27, 29–34, 42, 46, 60, 66, 70, 72, 83,

115, 123–24, 127, 129–31, 133, 135, 151, 155, 158, 160,

162–63, 168, 173–74, 187, 204, 212, 216, 219–21, 224, 239,

257, 259, 262–63, 267, 281, 288, 291, 293, 307, 321–22, 324,

326, 328, 331, 384, 406, 412, 427, 445, 449, 468, 488, 499,

582–84, 586–89, 591, 594, 596

Wörner, Manfred, 463

Wright brothers, 82, 89, 104, 187, 597

Yazov, Dimitriy, 493

Year of Mass Surrender, 327

Yeltsin, Boris, 494, 518–19

Yevseyev, A. I., 502

Yom Kippur War, 458

Yugoslavia, 443, 461–62

zeppelin, 7, 42

Zhurbenko, V., 499

Zone of the Advance, 86

650

The Paths of Heaven

The Evolution of Airpower Theory

Cover Design

Phil Meilinger

Air University Press Team

Chief Editor

Marvin Bassett

Copy Editors

Debbie Banker

Lula Barnes

Joan Dawson

Cover Illustration

Steven C. Garst

Illustrator

Susan Fair

Composition and

Prepress Production

Linda C. Colson