The 2020 and 2021 winters have been good to me – with many spectacular ice routes climbed in The Rockies and on the West Coast. Swinging tools into frozen waterfalls never gets less fun. Below is a selection of some of my favourites from the last two winters.
On 19 November 2020, a redacted version of the Brereton Report was released to the public. While it satisfactorily vindicates years of media reporting, it is sad to reflect on how long it has taken the Australian public to believe what happened.
With the recent establishment of the Office for the Special Investigator, the reckoning for these crimes is finally beginning and many in Australia are now coming to terms with what the report’s findings mean.
My most recent commentary is available here but my voice is not the most important voice. We need to start listening to the Afghan victims. They were never believed. In some ways, they’re still not. From hereonin, this must change.
Four years into a constant stream of misconduct allegations, it’s hard to know how to process thelatest revelations about the actions of Australia’s special forces in Afghanistan.
In village after village — in places like Darwan, Sara Aw, Zangitan, Patan, Sola, Shina, Deh Jawz-e Hasanzai and Jalbay — we have seen plenty of evidence to support allegationsthat some Australian special operators committed war crimes in Afghanistan. These stories are now a well-entrenched part of the Australian news cycle.
Some defence commentators seem to cling to the strange fiction that if an allegation has not been rubber-stamped by the inspector-general of the Australian Defence Force (IGADF) or proven in a court, we cannot decide for ourselves whether or not it is true.
But this is not enough. Rather than a solution, the special forces selection ritual is actually part of the problem — designed as it is to elevate and separate an anointed few from the rest of the military.
This process, which concludes with the receipt of a specially coloured beret, has many of the classic features of a cult initiation — a central part of the “code of silence” that prevented whistleblowers from coming forward for so long.
Then there is the fact that key figures behind the new ethics training were early critics of the media’s reporting on alleged misdeeds in Afghanistan — with the coverage described as “cheap shots” against Australian soldiers. This denialist viewpoint has remained strong within the command until only recently and seems to persist among some sectors of the public.
Indeed, the most prominent factor that led to these incidents in Afghanistan is the decoupling of special forces from the command relationships and discipline structures of the conventional army.
Currently, Special Operations Command (the umbrella organisation that manages Australia’s special forces) recruits and trains completely separately from the rest of the Army — deploying small groups for a variety of sensitive tasks abroad. But this step away from the rest of the Army (and its long-tested disciplinary norms) appears to have led to all sorts of improprieties in Afghanistan.
Also problematic is the fact those who are implementing the new changes (the chief of the defence force and chief of army) are both ex-special forces officers. This is not to suggest generals Angus Campbell and Rick Burr are compromised in some way — only to point out that extant unit loyalties are formative in any soldier’s thinking.
There are also signs that Burr, in particular, does not understand the cause of the problem.
For example, despite strong evidence that the practice of giving excessive authority to junior leaders created an unaccountable “brotherhood” and a general culture of impunity, Burr continues to describe this “command and control philosophy” as an “imperative” for the special forces.
Disbanding the special forces
Naturally, the fate of Australia’s special forces should ultimately be a captain’s call from Australia’s civilian leadership — perhaps the prime minister himself. And here, there is a compelling argument to be made that the command be disbanded.
To some, this might appear a radical suggestion — a sweeping change without precedent. But military units have been moved, shuffled, re-branded, disbanded and reactivated frequently throughout Australia’s history. Surely, a pattern of war crimes allegations is as good a reason as any to make some major institutional changes.
The Australian Defence Force will, of course, still require a special operations capability for complex operations abroad. Special forces do provide an advanced infantry skill set that is sometimes useful for policymakers — be it for a counter-terrorism raid or light-footprint reconnaissance tasks.
But these needs can be met without continuing to feed billions of dollars to an elite force that is isolated from the rest of the military.
Instead, the Australian Defence Force could create special operations-capable companies in the conventional infantry battalions. This would mean teams of highly-qualified soldiers who are rapidly deployable, but still governed by traditional “green army” rules and strictures.
Rather than being “selected” and cloistered away from the rest of the force, these soldiers would simply be “trained” — that is, up-skilled and returned to line units, ready for special deployments abroad.
Whatever our leaders decide — and again, it should be stressed the Cabinet must be front and centre in these changes – Australia’s sullied special forces are not salvageable, at least in their current structure.
Irrespective of what the IGADF and Commonwealth prosecutors are able to prove, the organisation has lost its credibility. It must be disbanded.
Between September 30 and October 2, climbers Ethan Berman (US) and Uisdean Hawthorn (Scotland) completed a new line on the Emperor Face of Yuh-hai-has-kun (Mt. Robson, 3954m), the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies. Their climb, Running in the Shadows (VI AI5 M6 A0, 2000m), follows a distinctive gully on the right side of the face.
Running in the Shadows is the culmination of three years of thoughtful preparation. The idea for a new route on the mountain’s most impressive aspect began in the fall of 2017 when Berman, a remote sensing scientist who splits his time between Squamish and Canmore, hiked out to Berg Lake during a work trip to Alberta.
“It was a bluebird and pretty cold day and the wind was just howling over the ridge,” he says of the first time he laid eyes on Mt. Robson’s northwest (Emperor) face. “It was the most beautiful and intimidating face that I’d ever seen and I could just imagine how terrifying it would be to be on the mountain that day. That’s when I spotted the line.”
The line he reconnoitered shares its initial approach pitches with the Kruk-Walsh Route (VI M6, 2000m) before entering a right-trending gully system once the true difficulties of the face begin.
Ethan Berman high on the face, shortly before falling onto his tool leash. [Photo] Uisdean Hawthorn
Logging this information for later, Berman spent the next three seasons honing his skills on classic waterfalls in the Rockies and big routes in Alaska. By the 2020 winter’s end, Berman felt ready to try the unclimbed line, which he attempted in the spring with partner Pete Hoang. Denied by warm temperatures and unfavorable snow conditions, the pair retreated.
After waiting for the fall weather window, on September 29, Berman returned to the mountain with Uisdean Hawthorn, a Scottish climber currently living in Canada. On the walk out to the backside of Robson, rain and billowing clouds hampered the pair’s motivation.
“It dried up by the time we got to [Berg Lake],” says Hawthorn. “But the upper third [of the face] where the harder pitches were, we couldn’t see that at all. That was a bit daunting because that could have been covered in snow.”
A discussion about the feasibility of the objective followed that night. In the end, inspired by glimpses of dry conditions on the lower face and with a promising forecast ahead, they decided to attempt the route. The pair set their alarms for 1:30 a.m. and began climbing at 3 a.m. It was their first day on ice tools for the season.
Uisdean Hawthorn enjoying neve in the upper gullies of the Emperor Face. [Photo] Ethan Berman
After ascending rock bands low on the route, Berman and Hawthorn moved quickly through the infamous “Jaws”—an intersection of multiple gullies where debris flushes down from the upper face. At the top of this feature, they roped up and veered right into completely new terrain—a prominent gully that enfolds a series of neve-choked goulottes, broken up by incipient sections of rock and thin, laminate ice.
“Really reminded me of Scotland,” Hawthorn said of the climbing.
The crux of the route, as it turned out, was high on the face—approximately six pitches from the exit onto the Emperor Ridge. Up front on the sharp end, Berman attempted a direct line through a thinly iced face but was unable to find adequate protection. He backed off.
Unsure if the pitch would go, Hawthorn stepped up next. Moving right towards a steep, snowed-in dihedral, Hawthorn found that with enough excavation, a splitter crack and stances for feet could be reached at the back, permitting a cam to be placed, and progress to continue.
Hawthorn excavating a snow-choked dihedral near the Emperor Ridge. [Photo] Ethan Berman
Partway up a mixed section on the next pitch, Berman fell onto a tool-leash when his left tool ripped from a tenuous hook. Below him, a “good” cam and the full expanse of the Emperor Face. Regaining his position, Berman continued upwards into the guts of a long pitch, connecting runneled sections of ice separated by run-out, psychologically taxing rockbands.
Reaching the crest of the Emperor Ridge at 10:30 p.m., the pair stamped out a bivy platform, rehydrated and went to sleep after a total of 23 hours on the move. The next day, with a forecasted mass of clouds socked in around them, Berman block-led the upper section of the mountain to the summit, avoiding the rimed gargoyles guarding the upper ridge by traversing beneath them on the west face. Low-visibility route finding across convoluted terrain was a persistent challenge that day but the clouds also offered protection from the worst of the midday sun, which helped minimize the objective hazard posed by falling rime. 11 hours later, the pair reached the summit.
Berman and Hawthorn on the summit of Mt Robson. [Photo] Uisdean Hawthorn
Alone on the highest point in the Canadian Rockies, Berman and Hawthorn watched the last glow of redness in the west, while behind them, a full and luminous moon hung in the east. They bivied there in a sheltered depression in the snow. A 10-hour 3000-meter descent the next day brought the team to the valley and to their car in a pullout on the Yellowhead Highway.
Staying true to what Berman calls “the Robson experience” was central to the team’s approach during this ascent. By walking the whole way into Berg Lake, climbing a new route on Mt Robson’s most intimidating feature, linking the upper Emperor Ridge and west face traverse to the summit, only to then descend the southeast ridge, the Kain Face and the Resplendent Glacier to reach the Kinney Lake basin, Berman and Hawthorn pulled off a circumambulation of the peak that involved a human-powered interaction with almost every aspect of the mountain. The pair’s fealty to everything-on-foot ethics is notable in a time where the approach to the Emperor Face is frequently cut-cornered with the assistance of helicopters.
Running in the Shadows is named for a lyric from Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” and follows 14 full-length pitches of independent climbing to reach the Emperor Ridge and, ultimately, the summit of Mt. Robson.
After more than a month of blocked gates, taped-off trailheads and padlocked parking lots, on May 14, British Columbians woke to the news that BC Parks was rescinding an earlier decision to ban all access to our public lands.
As the subject of widespread dismay when the policy was first implemented, that the system-wide closure has now been reversed even before the provincial state of emergency is over shows just how arbitrary this decision was in the first place. article continues below
In ordering all parks to close, executive director of BC Parks, Robert Austad claimed that he had done so on the advice of the B.C. government’s medical experts —asserting that his department was closely “following the recommendations set out by the provincial health officer and the minister of health.”
But this does not seem true.
The Provincial Health Officer Dr. Bonnie Henry’s messaging on the public health benefits of outdoor recreation has been consistent since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic.
On March 13, while opining on the importance of spending time in the open air, Dr. Henry noted that “this virus does not transmit when people go outdoors.”
On April 29, she echoed this statement, stating that the overwhelming majority of COVID-19 cases had been traced, not to outdoor settings, but to clusters of people “in close proximity indoors.”
Asked about it again on April 30, Dr. Henry made the point even clearer. “Being outside is important for us to be able to release when we’re going through stressful times,” she said, adding, with special emphasis, “it was not me who closed the parks.”
Given then that Dr. Henry’s evergreen advice clearly contradicts Austad’s justifications, one wonders why this decision was made in the first place — especially on grounds of public health. Some observers have retrospectively speculated that the decision to close was a staffing or budgetary issue (a “clean washrooms” problem) — but this week’s re-opening seems to disprove that.
Even more damning for BC Parks, a May 12 response to a freedom of information request for communications to and from BC Parks and the Ministry of Health show that neither medical experts nor the BC Centres for Disease Control epidemiologists had been consulted in the months prior to the closure of the parks — a remarkable revelation when one considers the enormous social impact of this decision.
So why was this recreation-preventing decision made? One logical possibility is that instead of seeking out sage medical advice on viral transmission in green spaces (“infinitesimally low,” according to Dr. Henry), the system-wide closure was a knee jerk response to mounting community hysteria that outdoor activities, in and of themselves, were an imminent threat to public health.
Throughout March and April in B.C., the COVID-19 information environment was even more feverish than it is today. On social media, Facebook pages, outdoor users groups and lifestyle magazines had begun issuing their own “advisories” beyond and on top of the BC Centre for Disease Control official advice. Meanwhile, social media influencers had deployed to trailheads and to Instagram in order to spread the word about the novel coronavirus — posting incorrect information about the stability of SARS-CoV-2 on surfaces like bin lids, handrails, and access ladders. Much of this vigilante advice spread quickly — often outpacing the speed with which official information could be disseminated.
In my capacity as a working anthropologist, my job during this crisis has involved monitoring the impact of misinformation on our society as we ride out the COVID-19 pandemic.
Much like an infectious disease, one thing we know about misinformation is that it can transmit “virally” through networks, undergoing rapid mutation (like a game of broken telephone) as it spreads. In the context of COVID-19, the impact of misinformation has been observed prominently in the proliferation of online conspiracy theories among anti-lockdown activists. At their most extreme, these warped ideas have led to the destruction of 5G cell phone towers.
But misinformation can also be less insidious — as seen, for example, in the public’s confusion about social distancing versus self-isolation versus isolation (which are all different prevention categories). It’s worth pointing out that no one is immune in this eco-system of misinformation. Indeed, even within government, the interdepartmental transmission of error-laden information seems to have been something of a problem during this emergency, such that Dr. Henry’s advice to stay local led to BC Parks construing that the entire system should be closed immediately.
The social repercussions of this closure, hidden though some may be, should not be understated. Certainly, in some communities, the consequences of this decision have been more than unfortunate. With park closures forcing the population indoors, health-promoting outdoor activities have been taboo for months — even when done safely, socially-distantly and locally. In particular, social media is now a platform for publicly shaming “selfish” recreators — an unfortunate development, which has ramped up local anxiety and compounded the effect of an emergent mental health crisis whose curve we are only now beginning to model.
The worst thing about BC Parks’ closure then is that it vindicated this misbegotten behaviour, providing a thin veneer of officialdom to a growing public attitude that was thoroughly antithetical to the common good. In times of crisis, the role of government is to be a steadying force in society: a steely-eyed quantum of evidence-based policy-making where the advice of specialists is valued first and foremost. In this, BC Parks has decisively failed. Indeed, that a public body was seemingly more attentive to the whims of social media influencers than it was to the advice of the provincial health officer speaks not only to a deafness to expertise but also to a fundamental failure of government.
The following first appeared in Medium in December 2019
CONTENT WARNING: Graphic descriptions of murder and sexual violence
Kenneth Hodges, 73, is a Vietnam veteran from Brewton, a rural town in southern Georgia.
A man of mostly quiet ways, his life today follows something of a loosely-scheduled routine — a dressage of tasks to be completed between moments of boredom. Mornings are slow, evenings he attends a spiritual group and on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays — as has been his habit for the last thirty-nine years — he loads the household garbage into the back of his pickup truck and drives the lonely mile from the family farmhouse to the county recycling centre down the road.
For the most part, when driving the highway he knows best, he follows the rules. Trundling past row crops of cotton, corn and peanuts, he stays in his lane, stops at all the red signals, and pulls over promptly when he sees flashing blue lights in any of his three rear-view mirrors.
Sometimes however, he slips. Usually, it’s speed related. A few miles-per-hour here, a few miles-per-hour there. Nothing unconscionable.
At his worst though, he’s been known to drink behind the wheel. On one occasion, between his first and second tours of Vietnam, he left Fort Hood for a thirty-day leave and drove from Texas to Georgia with a half-gallon of bourbon and a full case of beer in the front seat. He drank and drove the whole time, he says, an inebriated demi-traverse of the United States without so much as a driver’s license on his person. The recklessness aside, his luck held and nothing terrible befell him during the drive. Nor did anything terrible happen to anybody else. So, after his arrival in the Peach State, life carried on as ever.
Though the details of his great American road trip are unflattering, in Kenneth Hodges’ mind the cause of this errant behaviour is unclear. In his view, he’s been a law-abider his whole life.
“If I go to a nightclub, I don’t congregate outside,” he says. “I follow the dictates of those who are in charge. If the policeman says move on, I move on.”
The suggestion is clear. In Hodges’ analyses of his own actions, cause and effect is derived from superior authority — all of it ultimately traceable to God. Everything is pre-determined and he’s only ever done exactly what he was supposed to do, precisely as it was set out to be done. Nevertheless, the larvae in the darkest boroughs of his sub-conscious — the urge to drive while he drinks, for example — have occasionally wheedled their way into being over the years. “Drinking takes you to crazy places,” he ruminates.
The exact places — both topographic and psychologic — he visited behind the wheel on that drive across the American Southeast are unknown, though one can reasonably assume that his first tour of Vietnam was fresh on his mind as he hurtled past the row crops. The violence, the anger, the frustration. It was all very nearby in the summer of 1968.
Today, of course, his life is far remote from those memories of war. Geospatially, the farmland of southern Georgia couldn’t be further from the paddy fields of Quảng Ngãi province. Nor, for that matter, could his tri-weekly garbage run be any further from the moment in 1969 when, as a platoon sergeant in South Vietnam, he returned from an overnight patrol, was placed under armed guard and given 24 hours to process out and leave the country. The ensuing chain of events was apparently a surprise to Hodges at the time. Arriving stateside and reporting to Fort McPherson, he was read his rights under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Contained within the general court marshal? Two separate charges. “One charge of murder. One charge of rape,” he says. Both of them relating to the massacre at Mỹ Lai.
Revisiting a War Crime, 50 Years On
Much has been written about the Mỹ Lai massacre. The mass killings in the drainage ditch on the south side of the village. The burning huts. The criminal callousness of LieutenantWilliam ‘Rusty’ Calley. The macroscopic summary of events has been revisited again and again by journalists, historians and moral philosophers the whole world over.
On the morning of March 16, 1968, three platoons of American soldiers from Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 20th Infantry Regiment landed in a cluster of hamlets collectively referred to as Mỹ Lai.
Arriving just west of the Tu Cung hamlet at 7:30am, each platoon spread out — 1st Platoon headed east through the population centre, 2nd Platoon north to an outlying sub-hamlet called Binh Tay and the 3rd hanging back for “mop ups”. By lunchtime, between 374 and 504 civilians had been murdered.
Kenneth Hodges was a member of 2nd Platoon — a sergeant in command of six soldiers — and the charges eventually laid against him reflected this field seniority.
In the end however, neither the rape nor the murder allegations went to trial — both were dismissed for lack of evidence. Of course, it’s not as if there was no evidence to justify a military trial. Indeed, in some respects, the reasons for the dismissal are unclear. Where the murder charge is concerned, Hodges agrees that he personally killed two unarmed Vietnamese with two consecutive well-aimed shots in the paddy fields outside Tu Cung. He has publicly admitted to this.
Similarly, where the rape charge is concerned, Private First Class Leonard Gonzales and Private Dennis Bunning both witnessed Hodges forcing a young girl into a hut where he allegedly violated her. Although PFC Gonzales did not actually see penetration take place, according to Private Bunning’s eyewitness account, Hodges forced the girl onto the floor after which “the sergeant’s head and the top of his body were visible [through the doorway] as he rocked back and forth”. A few minutes later, another soldier, Specialist James McBreen, would witness the same woman emerging from the hut, naked from the waist down.
For the most part, the testimony is unequivocal and this was not the only rape allegation levelled against Hodges. During a later incident involving multiple perpetrators, a thirty-eight-year-old woman named Nguyen Thi Cuong was forced to strip naked before being sodomized, raped and shot in the arm. Hodges was allegedly among the rapists. As Howard Jones writes in his definitive history of Mỹ Lai: “There were at least two gang rapes in Binh Tay… perhaps both of them involving a sergeant, Kenneth Hodges, and eight subordinates”.
Immediately after Mỹ Lai, Hodges disavowed knowledge of the slaughter. But his denials to investigators notwithstanding, that the evidentiary value of Bunning’s, Gonzales’ and McBreen’s testimony was never taken seriously raises legitimate questions about the Army’s handling of the case.
In setting out to speak with Kenneth Hodges, I of course knew some of this history — including what had happened in the judicial proceedings. I knew what Mỹ Lai had come to mean in the public’s memory.
The moral nadir of the war in Vietnam. The ordinary American boy’s unbridled capacity for barbarism. The grim spectre of inhumane possibility when structures of universal morality cease to matter.
I also knew that in spite of all the blood and ink spilled over the events of March 16, 1968, the courts martial had never reckoned with the complete catalogue of crimes. But for the 22 victims covered by William Calley’s presidentially-commuted conviction, where the US military justice system is concerned it is as if the Mỹ Lai massacre — a historical moment summatively comprising gang-rape and the mass murder of hundreds — never happened.
Moreover, where Hodges was specifically concerned, I knew that he still felt no remorse.
The villagers were all “VietCong or VietCong sympathizers,” he opined in another interview for a PBS documentary.“Maybe some see it differently. That’s the way I see it.”
Brazen, I’d thought as I watched these clips. But also strangely forthright.
“Dear Kenneth,” I wrote him. I was writing a story. “Let me know if you would be available to talk. Best, Chris”.
A short delay followed. And then: “Dear Christopher,” he wrote back. “I would welcome the opportunity to talk to you. Call me at this #.”
For a day or so I stewed on Hodges’ well-known willingness to talk, still undecided about rehashing these horrors with somebody I knew I’d struggle to relate to.
When I did reach out however, he replied immediately — as if he’d been waiting by the keyboard. “OK Christopher, that will be great.”
Lies & Denials
Calling Kenneth Hodges at his hometown in Brewton, I found that it was a perfectly personable human being who answered — a first impression that did not surprise me. It was now well-established that Mỹ Lai had been the work of ordinary men, not monsters.
“Call me Kenneth. ‘Mr Hodges’ is dead and gone,” he said — the ‘e’ of ‘dead’ and the ‘o’ of ‘gone’ gliding as diphthongs atop a Southern drawl.
On the other end of the line was an unassuming Georgia man, not a brilliant psychopath. An aging veteran marking time in retirement, not a criminal mastermind so skilled at artifice that he could make you love him. A liar yes but not an unusual liar, nor a very good one.
Indeed, it was immediately clear that the lies he told were only those he needed to tell in order that he could live with himself. For example, when the Army finally moved to discharge Hodges (administratively, as a catch-all convenience for “substandard conduct at Mỹ Lai”), he pushed back through the court system, appealing what he perceived as an unfair dismissal. In Hodges’ words: “I took it all the way to the Supreme Court of the United States… but I lost.”
Hodges went on, describing the orders that Captain Medina had issued to the company on the morning of the massacre. “The order was to kill and destroy everything in the village,” he said. “The chickens. The pigs. Throw them in the well water. Pollute the well water. Cut down the banana trees and destroy the hootches after searching ‘em.”
And the villagers? “Everyone in the village was either VietCong or VietCong sympathizers,” he repeated the line he’d given to many interviewing journalists. For Hodges, the innate guilt of the villagers had been a given — their deaths guaranteed the moment he and his men had boarded those helicopters.
In defending his actions to me, Hodges claims to have told US Army investigators that Captain Medina issued orders to kill women and children — including in an interview with General William Peers, the head of the Pentagon’s inquiry into Mỹ Lai.
“But General Peers did not like my answer,” Hodges cinematically recalls. “He jumped up and beat on the table and said ‘dammit Sergeant I asked you a question’ and I come up on the other side and I said ‘dammit general I answered your question… I was not ordered to kill women and children. The order was to kill everything that was there.”
Over the phone, I registered Hodges’ vivid tale with a heavy dose of skepticism. The version of Medina’s orders that Hodges claims to have relayed to General Peers did not match the sworn testimony he had provided to the Army inquiry in 1969.
“We were to go in and seek out [VC sympathizers] and more less find these personnel out. And that was it,” he had told Army investigators in publicly-available records.
“We were told that we would have National Police along with us and… that they were going to question them… I don’t know what would have taken place after that… a ‘mama-san’ [a Vietnamese female], if she looked like she was hiding something, we were to take her over to the National Police and have him search her.”
In the transcript, the Army interrogators had pressed Hodges on Captain Medina’s exact words: “did you receive any instructions to destroy all the bunkers, burn all the hootches [military term for hut or shelter], destroy all the crops and kill all the livestock?” he was asked.
“I was given no instruction as to that, no, sir,” was Hodges’ recorded reply.
“Sergeant, were any of your people given the job of cutting down corn or other food supplies?” he was asked later in the testimony.
“How about shooting livestock?”
These glaring discrepancies aside, I was interested in the motivations behind the lies, not in fact-checking each and every lie. For my own part, I believed that Hodges believed that the innocents killed were all “sympathizers” and that this was the “general consensus” within Charlie Company at the time. (Of course, it was conveniently unclear how the colloquial term “sympathizer” related to the Geneva Convention-enshrined “combatant” concept, about which, Hodges acknowledged, “there was some training”). I also believed that it was possible that Captain Medina had ordered the massacre, as some of the history written about Mỹ Lai suggests.
The relative truth-value of all these claims aside, I understood the context of Hodges’ account — including why, for example, he placed special emphasis on the claim that when they returned to base, Captain Medina demanded that everyone re-direct all questions about the killings to him. Jurisprudentially, and indeed morally, Hodges wanted to re-assign blame, an overture to what was known as “the superior orders defence” — the belief that one should not be held accountable for actions dictated from above, and derivations thereof.
The “Situationist” Perspective
According to this view, Hodges had only ever done what he was told to do, exactly as it was set out to be done. Thus, the apparently-rhetorical question: “If I go out on an operation how do I end up getting charged with murder [if] I’m following orders?“
Even though the judges at Nuremberg established that it was a soldier’s duty to disobey manifestly criminal orders, deflections to superior authority have some sympathy among behavioural psychologists — especially those belonging to what is called the “situationist” school of thought. Per the situationist view, war crimes committed by military personnel are best understood as the result of “an intrinsically pathological situation” instead of an underlying urge to hurt — as explains the actions of a serial killer.
By this reading, the obedience-demanding, group-conforming pressures of the military weaken a soldier’s capacity to make what would ordinarily be a moral decision. Soldiers will do as they are told, argue the situationists, and the drive to obey can be so strong as to supersede ordinary moral aversions, even as they relate to murder.
Experimentally, there is data to support the existence of a cognitive module for strong obedience in humans. In one famous experiment conducted by Yale psychologist Stanley Milgram, test subjects in a “teacher” role were ordered to administer an electric shock on a “learner” subject every time a question was answered incorrectly (unbeknownst to the “teachers”, shocks weren’t actually applied). Despite predictions that only a few “teachers” would administer the shocks when ordered, Milgram’s tests revealed that nearly two-thirds of subjects were “fully obedient” to a command-and-control situation, continuing to apply the shocks even as the voltage went up. The results, wrote Milgram, suggested that “ordinary people, simply doing their jobs, and without any particular hostility on their part, can become agents in a terrible destructive process”.
Hodges himself had suggested this in an interview for the documentary FourHours inMỹ Lai: “If one of my soldiers had refused to shoot, I shudder to think… what I would have done.”
The experiments of the hardline situationists notwithstanding, the jagged, mismatched nature of the facts on the ground at Mỹ Lai — including the fact that not all soldiers killed, or the fact that not all soldiers raped — also seems to show that the “dark traits” of some individuals, deeply-nested in the sub-conscious though they may be, were still important in how the horror unfolded.
As the moral philosophers Jessica Wolfendale and Michael Talbert argue in War Crimes: Causes, Excuses, and Blame, excusing military personnel on the basis of situational pressures alone is “unacceptably exculpating” because such explanations cannot account for “the smile problem… the difficulty in accounting for the varying degrees of enthusiasm that perpetrators display for their tasks”. Where some of the soldiers at Mỹ Lai had outwardly refused to join in the slaughter, others participated with exuberance. In talking to Hodges for example, I knew he was among this latter category. I knew this because he’d told me so.
“What were your thoughts when Medina issued you those orders?” I asked of the alleged command to ‘search and destroy’ everyone in the village.
“We had never got an order to ‘search and destroy’,” Hodges replied. “So we were excited to say the least.”
Excited (adjective): “very happy and enthusiastic because something good is going to happen”. The word twanged through the phone line as he said it, hanging in the air like the sound of a broken string. Indeed, the more I spoke with Sergeant Kenneth Hodges about his actions at Mỹ Lai, the easier it was for me to imagine him as a smiling “centurion”, gleefully discharging his duties on the firing line.
“Were there people killed under similar circumstances by your platoon as by Calley’s platoon?” I asked him of 2nd Platoon’s north-easterly sweep through Binh Tay as away and to the south, 2nd Lieutenant William Calley’s platoon was famously shooting villagers in ditches.
“Oh yes,” Hodges replied. “That was the order — kill and destroy everything that was in the village.”
“As a Sergeant were you issuing orders as well?” I asked. “Did you re-issue those orders?”
“Oh yes,” he replied. “I repeated those orders to soldiers who had questions.”
2nd Platoon was walking through the village “on line”, he said. “Like a giant police column.” There was no more than two arm’s distance between each soldier, he explained. As a sergeant in charge of a squad of six — it was his responsibility to issue fire control orders — verbal commands which harness the rate of fire of the squad’s heavy weapons.
“Just keep it on line,” he recalls of his exact words. “You don’t wanna get behind the others for safety reasons… let’s keep moving through the village and keep firing as you see ‘suspects’”.
Those “suspects”, it perhaps goes without saying, were unarmed Vietnamese, and contrasting as it did with his sworn testimony to the Peers Inquiry in 1969, legally this was new and incriminating information. Apart from the man he had shot in the paddy fields outside Binh Tay, Hodges had never confessed to other killings.
“The people were dead when we moved up into that area,” reads the transcript of Hodges’ original testimony to investigators. “I didn’t see anyone in my squad kill anybody… the [dead] that I saw, some of them that I saw was by possibly helicopter and 5-inch rocket and minigun fire”.
Despite these denials, it doesn’t seem like the investigators in 1969 believed him, even if at the time they were unable to relinquish a confession.
“Inside the subhamlet of Binh Tay, the 2nd Platoon continued the pattern of burning, killing and rapes,” concluded the Report of the Department of the Army Review of the Preliminary Investigations into the My Lai Incident. “A group of Vietnamese women and children (approximately 10–20) were rounded up, brought to the southern end of Binh Tay, and made to squat in a circle. Several 40mm rounds from an M-79 grenade were fired into their midst”. Most of the dead, determined the military historian William Allison, were forced to strip naked before they were killed.
The seriousness of these crimes notwithstanding, for some reason, Hodges was finally telling partial truths. 2nd Platoon had fastidiously participated in the slaughter, he now agreed. And as a sergeant — a modern-day centurion issuing fire control orders on the battlefield — he also claimed that he was not merely obeying his superiors like “a good soldier” but also re-issuing those same killing orders to soldiers attempting to conscientiously object.
“Is this what’s supposed to be going on?” He recalls one of his men asking him.
“Yes,” he replied. “How many VietCong or VietCong sympathizers do you want to leave alive?”
The Army investigators seemed to have suspected that Hodges had had a decisive role in the kill chain, even without an admission of guilt. According to the Army’s report, when Private Bunning refused to partake in the initial killings in the fields outside the village, Hodges moved him “to the extreme left flank of the platoon”.
Bunning would later testify that “[Hodges] gave me hell for not shooting. And I gave him hell because I wasn’t going to”.
In his conversations with me, Hodges’ contempt for other on-scene conscientious objectors was also clear. When asked about Warrant Officer Hugh Thompson, the helicopter pilot who instructed his door gunner to fire on the 2nd Platoon massacrists if they killed any more civilians, Hodges disbursed the following: “if [the pilot] interfered with an operation that was going on he should have been shot down,” he told me. “That’s my feelings on it now.”
The operation, in Hodges’ view, was Captain Medina’s to run. It was therefore Captain Medina’s to end.
Leaving aside the obvious dissonance of placing the Mỹ Lai massacre at the feet of Captain Medina despite having issued murderous orders himself, for Hodges, the barbarous beauty of the superior orders defence lay in its seeming unimpeachability. If what happened at Mỹ Lai was a collective endeavour — the splenetic consequence of a chain of command inhumanly working together — then it was all too easy for each individual chain-link to unshackle from the burden of blame. The senior officers had killed nobody, the privates were just doing as they were told and the sergeants were merely repeater stations between the two. Therefore, any single chain-link could argue, no one was to blame — and it would be unfair for anyone to suggest otherwise.
It required no great feat of moral reasoning to conclude that this was philosophically indefensible, even if this was Hodges’ firmly-held belief. As Wolfendale and Talbert argue, to say that we cannot blame soldiers for obeying criminal orders is to say that victims cannot blame their own aggressors for the outrages committed upon them — “a thoroughly unappealing conclusion”.
The Question of Responsibility
With the issue of blame in mind, there is little doubt that many things occurred in Mỹ Lai which the soldiers were explicitly told not to do — corpse mutilation chief among them. Oddly, Hodges agrees with this assessment — even though it seems to undermine the superior orders defence. “The Vietnamese were superstitious people,” Hodges explained. “So if you cut off a finger or cut off an ear, that person’s spirit did not go to heaven… none of this was sanctioned by our unit or any other unit”.
According to Hodges, it was also against the rules to pose for photographs with corpses — a practice that has recently been in the news following the well-publicized war crimes trial of a US Navy SEAL. In the latter case, Chief Petty Officer Eddie Gallagher was controversially acquitted for the murder of a teenage ISIS fighter but convicted on a charge of posing for a gruesome photo with the boy’s corpse. Among the evidence was a text message from Gallagher — the image attached — in which he bragged “I got him [the teenager] with my hunting knife”.
“You don’t mutilate bodies, you don’t take pictures of enemy dead,” said Hodges of the orders he and the other soldiers of Charlie Company received in Vietnam. “And you don’t take those pictures and send them out to anyone.”
The on-scene rapes too, seemed to further nullify the superior orders defence. Hodges’ appeal to Medina’s authority aside, it was obvious that if the Binh Tay rapes had occurred as alleged, then the impulse to rape had come not from on high but as decided upon by the rapists themselves.
Hodges agreed with this assessment. “It would not have come from any orders,” he said. “[Rape] was just something that some soldiers chose to do on their own.”
Or, as the Army investigators concluded: “even after the order to stop the killing came the raping [in Binh Tay] continued.”
In one of the incidents allegedly involving Hodges, Private Dennis Bunning recalled: “I think that one of them started, and the other two got into the action all at the same time… a guy would just grab one of the girls there and in one or two incidents they shot the girls when they got done”.
Though he was evasive with some of the details, I asked Hodges if it was true that he had been seen in a hut with a woman at the moment of an alleged rape.
“As I was checking the village, following my men around, making sure that they were doing what they were supposed to be doing… yes,” he said. “I was in the hootch with the young woman. I was in several hootches with several women… and other Vietnamese”.
And the claims made against him? How did Hodges feel about the soldiers who had accused him of rape and murder? “They were just relating the fact that they saw things go on in the village. The things they did, the things they saw other people do… which is the same thing that I had done.”
The polarity, in moral terms, between conscientious objectors like Bunning and the rapists at Mỹ Lai could not have been more distinct.
Rape and America’s Vietnam War
With the cultural impact of #MeToo still reverberating in percussive waves across society, it’s worth considering how today’s reckoning with sexual violence might be extended to historically-distant battlefields where war crimes suspects are still alive.
The Binh Tay rapes, after all, were not isolated events. The Peers report is littered with geographically- and temporally-disinct gang-rape allegations — from Duc Pho to Co Lay.
According to whistleblower Ronald Ridenhour:“rape was not at all unusual… it was committed by a great many members of our forces… not a majority of the members of the companies, but too large a minority… the officers looked away if they could.”
Or, as Sergeant Michael Bernhardt put it: “if we were any distance from Highway 1, there wasn’t too much chance that the woman wouldn’t be raped… it was predictable. In other words, if I saw the woman, I’d say, ‘well it won’t be too long’”.
Or, in the words of Specialist Joseph Konwinski: “Honestly rape [was] such an everyday thing. It got to be such an everyday thing over there”.
More yet, many of these allegations, far from being general descriptions of an ill-defined cultural malaise are highly specific — with details of time, place and personage all attached. And yet, none of these crimes have ever been prosecuted.
One notorious member of Charlie Company, according to Ridenhour: “admitted to me himself that he had committed rape more than once… he said — he almost boasted about it — if he got horny, he wanted a little, he just picked out a likely little girl in a village and raped her… he told me that it wasn’t an uncommon event in his platoon”.
Understanding and reckoning with the sum total of the above testimony was a challenging task. At first, I assumed that the massacrists must have been led astray or collectively mentally-defective — or both — in some unseen but measurable way. If the men of Charlie Company were simply “an average cross-section of American society”, as Ken Burns put it in a recent documentary series, then the overall awfulness of the Vietnam War must hold at least some explanatory power. There was nothing uniquely evil in the psyche of the average American GI, I knew, so it followed that the events at Mỹ Lai were somehow traceable to an environmental cause — in this case, war.
Certainly, at least in Hodges’ opinion, everything that happened in that village could be explained by the situation — the booby traps, the minefields, the seemingly-sympathetic villagers leaving rice out for the VietCong.
“It’s easy to sit back and analyse things and maybe even pass judgement if you were not there,” he told me. “If you have not been to Vietnam, out in the field, if you have never been in a war it’s easy for you to say ‘oh my God, how could you do this?’… [But] you really have to have been there”.
Of course, the “you had to be there” argument was an argument I’d heard before. Indeed, in some “fog of war” cases, it was certainly an argument I was willing to countenance. And yet in his re-telling of the Mỹ Lai massacre, Hodges’ extreme situationism was so thoroughly antithetical to the common good that it demanded a rejoinder.
As the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote of a similar defence evoked by Adolf Eichmann, the Nazi war criminal, at his trial in Jerusalem: “the argument that we cannot judge if we were not present and involved ourselves seems to convince everyone everywhere, although it seems obvious that if it were true neither the administration of justice nor the writing of history would ever be possible”.
Be that as it may, what the dismissal of Hodges’ charges in the Article 32 hearing means is that legally he didn’t do any of it. Even if the whispers of history hold otherwise, Kenneth Hodges is, on paper, an innocent man.
Even so, if Hodges was right and Mỹ Lai had unfolded precisely as Medina had ordered it to unfold, then in surrendering himself whole-bodily to the whims of his superiors, he, like Eichmann, had ceased to be “the principal legislator” of his own will. Prostrating himself before a captain’s rank, he had mortgaged his own humanity, leaving his conscience with no moral scruples to spare. The end result? A black-heartedness defined by absence, possessing “neither depth nor a demonic dimension” — as Arendt had written of Eichmann.
The conclusion then, was obvious. If evil was nothing more than the absence of good, then the evil at Mỹ Lai didn’t require a great deal of explanation. What constitutes morally-appropriate decision-making can sometimes be culturally- and contextually-dependent. But the immorality at Mỹ Lai was simple. The men of Charlie Company had simply ceased trying to be good. And so, inside the micro-culture they had constructed in Vietnam, “good” behaviour had simply ceased to be.
Hodges, therefore, was not “evil” as a theologian might wonder. Evil, after all, was a phenomenon of absence — the end result of a hollowing-out process. Thus, the evil that had swept through Mỹ Lai had no malevolent personification, only the potential to manifest.
Perhaps this “absencing” had begun earlier in Hodges’ life — the dark matter reaching critical mass amongst the carnage of Binh Tay. The precise chronology was still unclear.
As for redemption, I supposed it was hypothetically possible. If the axiom that everyone is redeemable holds true, then the possibility of redemption for Kenneth Hodges had to be entertained.
I doubted the hole could be filled, but such predictions weren’t mine to make. Legally and morally, it was significant that Hodges was now willing to admit to some of what he had done. In the interim though, Kenneth would continue to live on the land he grew up on. The 100 acre lot once farmed by his father has since dwindled down to 10.
Some of the ethical chat surrounding lethal autonomous weapon systems is morally bankrupt. I’m sorry, but it is.
Specifically, I’m referring to the arguments of those that would have us remove “human dignity” from the debate.
“Dignity” of course – wound up as it is in the preamble of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights – is that which deals with the inalienable worth of a person.
What’s more, as a concept that has informed the wording of the Geneva Conventions in definite ways – say, in prohibitions against torture and corpse desecration – the codification of “dignity” into the laws of war has served as an excellent barrier against the worst of war’s excesses.
Even though war, as organized murder, is probably the best illustration of institutionalized indignity-dealing one can think of, it’s not hard to see why deifying the concept is a good stop-gap against the worst war can deliver.
Without an acknowledgment for the enemy’s dignity – the intrinsic worth derived from his humanity – then the enemy is just the enemy, his corpse is just his corpse and his children just his progeny.
“May as well gas him with sarin, piss on his corpse, and neuter his children – just for good measure,” a soldier lacking an appreciation for basic human dignity might conclude.
As applied to the drone debate, the “dignity objection” is prefaced on the assumption that only a human being is capable of seeing the intrinsic worth of another human being. A drone, meanwhile, sees only a “target” – ones and zeros.
Indeed, that lethal autonomous weapons could one day be deployed on a future battlefield to make life-and-death decisions without a human in the loop is worrying almost solely because that machine lacks the ability to compute dignity.
And yet, here we are, on the cusp of a paradigm shift in war, and some would have dignity stripped away from the regulations – the government of China most notably.
“… What is it about AWS [autonomous weapon systems] that renders them particularly reprehensible from the point of view of human dignity? I fail to see what the relevant argument could look like and have also not found any satisfactory explanation in the literature.”
In Baker’s view, “human dignity” is a malleable, new-ish concept – only as old as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Therefore, he argues, it is “awkward” and we shouldn’t really worry about it when crafting “rugged and realistic rules by which self-interested states might actually abide”.
“Exquisite ideals are anomalous” to the ethics of war, Baker proposes. As such: “they inevitably end up in a position of pacifism”. Though I suppose this is Baker’s way of suggesting we omit “exquisite ideals” from our efforts to regulate war, it’s not entirely clear why exquisite ideals “inevitably” end up in pacifism (I for one know plenty of idealistic warfighters). But these views are what they are.
On the whole then, the moral gymnastics flowing like liquid mercury through the discourse is breathtaking. All of these philosophers are capable, well-mannered people, I assume. And yet… Gyrating between consequentialist approaches and deontological approaches – dazzling each other with jargon and the names of various Enlightenment luminaries, the arcana of the academy – at the end of all this we are left, finally, with something like: “we don’t really need to think about human dignity when regulating lethal autonomous weapons”.
Ummm wot? The absurdity of it is astounding.
More specifically, it immediately summons Hannah Arendt’s Eichmann in Jerusalem***. The banality of evil, and so on. How could it not, when a basic value like “dignity” – the inherent worth of a person – is under assault?
Eichmann, of course, was the Nazi bureaucrat tried and hanged for his role in the transportation of Jews to the concentration camps in the East. For the most part however, Eichmann was removed, both physically and emotionally, from the killing taking place – not unlike the remoteness of most of us from what is taking place in Yemen, Pakistan, Afghanistan et al.
Neither did Eichmann have an overriding hatred of the Jews – his role was simply that of facilitator and logistician – a lifelong mid-ranker for whom, as Arendt puts it:
“… the most potent factor in the soothing of his own conscience was the simple fact that he could see no one, no one at all, who actually was against the Final Solution”.
Eichmann’s mediocrity aside, the most interesting part in all this is the awful philosophical method by which “the group” (and therefore Eichmann) arrived at the Final Solution.
As Horkheimer and Adorno have pointed out, the Nazis rationalized increasing levels of wrong-doing with the progressive logic of a syllogism. First came the confiscation of property. Then came the evacuation. Then came the concentration.
For the average Nazi, once human dignity was taken out of the equation and the basic worth of a person was removed from strictures of how to act – the final step, extermination, logically followed.
Thus, the Final Solution.
This is not to say, of course, that the philosophical discourse surrounding autonomous drones is identical to the method followed by the Nazis. Even if the theme of “progressive levels of bad ideas” is the same, the actual content is different.
Nor is this to say that inhuman rationalization of the unthinkable always leads to evil. A disinterest in “human dignity” does not “inevitably” lead to genocide in the same way that an interest in “exquisite ideals” does not “inevitably” lead to pacifism. The evolution from bad logic to mass killing is not an orthogenesis with an inevitable end-point. As Charles Darwin showed us, from a common ancestor there are infinite possible outcomes.
Secondly, before deciding if we should discard “human dignity” from the debate, it’s worth stewing on Eichmann’s claim that he lived his life according to Kant’s categorical imperative. Eichmann’s “approximately correct” description of the imperative was as follows:
“… the principal of my will must always be such that it can become the principle of general laws”.
Which is to say that Eichmann believed that Man must act in accordance with what makes the most sense as a “general law” for acting.
For Arendt, Eichmann’s absurd suggestion that participation in genocide would make for a good general law was “outrageous, on the face of it, and also incomprehensible”. Still, as she worked her way through Eichmann’s stupidity she realized there was something resembling a “household” logic to it.
For Eichmann, the most sensical “general law” was the same as “Führer’s law” so Eichmann’s decision-making was, in fact, rational – at least insofar as it followed on from an initial (mis)interpretation of the word “general”.
But returning to drones, let’s work the categorical imperative into a thought experiment and apply it to our own actions – the act of actually having this debate about “dignity” and drones. Meta, I know.
If we are bound to act as if the action makes for a good “general law”, then imagine for a moment we are not only the ones having the debate about drones but also the ones who are on the receiving consequential end of the debate about drones.
Imagine, for instance, that rather than blogging this blog and reading this blog and producing criteria for the International Panel on the Regulation of Autonomous Weapons, there was a reasonable chance that we could be on the receiving end of one of these lethal autonomous weapons – a drone whose existence is, in part, the consequence of the laws this debate will produce.
Imagine, for example, that we are Yemeni villagers in Abyan Governorate listening to the BBC disseminate news about what kinds of weapons might be headed our way. How would we feel, for example, if in the process of regulating autonomous lethal killing objects, the relevant panel had decided that the “dignity objection” was irrelevant?
“Why,” the panel had decided, “is it important that a human pilot knows that another human should be ‘valued and respected for their own sake’ but a drone does not?”
“Killing itself is an indignity,” said the panel. “So we may as well discard human dignity altogether. Dignity is just too ‘awkward’ to be worth paying much attention to.”
As a Yemeni villager soon to receive the thermobaric consequences of this debate, we’d probably feel like our dignity had already been taken from us.
But I digress. Philosophical debates and momentary empathy with the Other aside, let’s think about some actual case studies. Case studies which show why “dignity” is important to the debate about drones – especially when it comes to the unique human capacity to exercise that intangible thing called “discretion”. The International Committee for the Red Cross, for one, has offered that many of the ethical concerns about dignity “are about process as well as results“. So let’s have a look at this process.
Case Study #1 – Counterinsurgency Operations
Imagine for a moment, that a 5-strong reconnaissance patrol is posted in a mountain layup point overlooking a village in, say, Afghanistan’s Uruzgan province.
In Scenario #1, the patrol is manned entirely by humans – fully bombed up with a double load and ready to break contact in the event that the position is compromised.
Presently, a juvenile is seen ascending the hill beneath the position. Clearly moving with purpose, the juvenile walks over to a pile of boulders, reaches between the rocky gaps and procures a small bundle. Inside the bundle is a military-style bandolier, a high-powered spotting scope and a walkie-talkie. Although not armed, the child is quite clearly a “spotter” for the enemy. Therefore, by most interpretations of international humanitarian law, he is “directly participating in hostilities” and can legally be shot.
Then, something unfortunate happens. The boy spots the patrol. The patrol now has two options. Option #1 – they can legally kill the boy. Option #2 – they can peel-back with a “tunnel of love” back to a previously-designated rally point.
For a patrol manned entirely by human beings this is something of a moral dilemma. Killing the boy could easily be justified before a court of law. Still, some in the patrol might object to killing the boy on the basis of his age or the fact that the boy’s reasons for directly participating in hostilities may be unknown. The boy could be the victim of coercion. And, the boy is a human being with inherent dignity – taking away his life is something that should be stewed on before pulling the trigger. More yet, killing an unarmed juvenile could lead to moral injury for the shooter – undermining the tactical health and well-being of the patrol for future operations.
There may also be another tactical reason not to shoot the boy. The muzzle flash could compromise the patrol’s position. Thus, regardless of the option chosen, the patrol might be doomed for “a compromise” anyway. In any case, legally the decision is the patrol’s but it is up to the humans on the ground to decide what is the rational and-or humane thing to do.
In Scenario #2, the reconnaissance patrol is manned entirely by ground combat drones. As soon as the walkie-talkie and spotting scope are seen, the boy is marked for death. There is no dignity objection here for lethal autonomous weapons. No discretion awarded either.
Lights out, see you later, someone down in the valley below lost their son today.
Case Study #2 – Violent Protest
Changing scenes now, let’s move to a civil disturbance scenario – say, a violent protest at the Gaza-Israeli border fence.
In Scenario #1, after receiving information that a specific telephone number is linked to a recently-stitched suicide vest, a team of electronic warfare (EW) operators triangulates the position of the bomber among the crowd.
The EW operators, in turn, pass the information onto a sniper in an overwatch position. The sniper, in turn, locates the bomber with his telescopic sight and sees that the bomber is a woman. The woman is also carrying a radio, a backpack and looks terrified. The woman is an imminent threat. But then… she’s a woman with inherent human worth. What does she know about the local terror networks? Perhaps she might defect. Is there some way the sniper could spare her, in order to glean information from her?
The sniper has two options here. Option #1: he can legally shoot the woman – she is a suicide bomber after all. Or, Option #2: he can request that the EW team jam the signal, which, they assure him, is technically possible. Then, once she reaches the border fence, authorities can pick her up and learn something from her.
By contrast, in Scenario #2, a future variant of today’s IAI Harop – a so-called “loitering munition” – has been loitering in the skies above the protest. As soon as the suspect telephone number is input into the drone’s system it geo-locates the number and flies into the woman, self-destructing with a high-explosive warhead.
An avoidable death probably, but with the drone set free to do whatever it will do, the call to end that life was only the drone’s to make.
Case Study #3 – Conventional War
Now, finally, let’s move away from so-called “low-intensity conflict” and look at a hypothetical large-scale conventional war between two states – let’s say between a Western country and Donovia.
In Scenario #1, a helicopter gunship has been dispatched to destroy an enemy command and control position in support of an advancing infantry company. Taking out the central nervous system will leave the enemy nodes situationally blind. After the Hellfire is fired and the command post destroyed, the human pilot sees someone crawling away from the position. It is unclear who the individual is. The individual might, for example, be an enemy intelligence officer or, even the commanding officer – a possible treasury of information.
It is also unclear if the person is still armed. He may, for example, still have his sidearm on him.
Per Protocol 1 of the Geneva Convention the person would be deemed hors de combatif (i) he’s detained; (ii) he’s surrendering; or (iii) he’s incapacitated by his injury.
Because of the pilot’s physical remoteness from the gruesome scene, the level of incapacitation of the wounded man is unclear. It is also unclear if the wounded man has surrendered. To whom would the man have surrendered to? There is no one on-scene (another ethical problem offered by remote warfare).
Anyway, with the available information, the wounded man who might still be armed is probably not quite “out of combat” perse – killing him could probably be justified before a court of a law. The pilot then has two options. Option #1 – the pilot could legally kill the man. Option #2 – the pilot could spare him, with the full knowledge that the man is a human being with inherent dignity and the infantry company down the road will probably be able to pick him up for tactical questioning.
Discretion. The main job was to wipe out the CP anyway.
In Scenario #2, there is no helicopter but a lethal autonomous weapon. The dignity of a human doesn’t get a say here so the drone deems the wounded person a combatant and double-taps him.
Thanks for playing but you lost the war. All that time you spent reading Clausewitz doesn’t mean much anymore, champ.
The point of these case studies is that every single option chosen would have been lawful according to the Geneva Convention. But would the decision to kill have been ethical? Maybe or maybe not. Depends on the moral code of the individual. Either way though, it seems like a good idea to have a human make that call.
Additionally, all of these case studies involve physical distance between the killer and the victim – the patrolman from the juvenile spotter, the sniper from the suicide bomber, the helicopter pilot from the enemy commander. In some ways, the remoteness – the physical separation between targeter and target – is part of the problem. If the spotter, the suicide bomber or the enemy commander were in close enough proximity that they could be bear-hugged and put in handcuffs, then there would be no moral dilemma.
In the last case study, it’s quite clear that remoteness was particularly problematic for defogging “the fog of war” for the pilot. Remember, it was unknown whether the wounded enemy was still armed – though it could be reasonably presumed.
It follows then, that on some level, making war more and more remote will also make war more and more “grey” – exponentially increasing the amount of unknowns when determining the morality of an action. But “remoteness” is not the silver bullet for lethal autonomous weapons that many anti-drone activists imagine it is. The advent of the bow and arrow, after all, has already made “remoteness” possible.
Indeed, as seen in the above case studies, the real problem here isn’t the drone’s “remoteness” per se but rather the drone’s “lack of humanness” – the drone’s inability to ask the big questions about the worth of a human, factoring in the inherent dignity of Man.
As a collective action that involves the deliberate killing of individuals by other individuals, war is the most intimately-violent act of social behaviour observed in humans. Why one would wish not only to maximize the remoteness of warfighting but also to vest a silicon-based life-form with the in-built autonomous capacity to kill a living breathing human without asking permission first is beyond me. More yet, why one would think it a good idea to remove “dignity” from the discussion altogether – to nullify human discretion and to treat humans simply as another carbon-based life form with no inherent worth – seems even more alien to me.
But such is the moral bankruptcy of the philosophical discourse surrounding drones – a demiurgic piling-on of increasingly bad ideas.
No doubt, in some distant, future battlefield, a soldier will be lying on his back, machinegun just out of reach, with blood and viscera slopping from his stomach cavity onto the ground. The drone bearing down on him has not determined that the soldier is hors de combat. A mere momentary glitch.
“Have you no dignity?” the wounded man will ask the machine as a gun barrel is levelled at his head. “And what about my dignity?”
But the word will not register with the machine. The “dignity objection” , after all, was struck off during the proceedings of the International Panel for the Regulation of Autonomous Weapons. The machine knows nothing of human dignity.
Then, echoing Baker’s words perhaps, the machine will reply: “an invisible dignity violation is an uncomfortably ethereal basis for regulating as crude and base a practice as the use of violence in war”.
*** = Side note: you’ll be hearing more about Eichmann in Jerusalem from me shortly.
Martin, M. 2018. Why We Fight: The Cognitive Basis of War. London: Hurst & Company. 224 pages (HC), $25.78. ISBN-10: 9781849048897
Scholarly attempts to understand aggression in homo sapiens are probably as old as the human sciences themselves. From the labors of IR scholars studying interstate conflict at the level of whole political systems, to micro-level examinations of the psychological structures that impel individuals towards violence, the existing literature on the subject is fatiguing even to summarize. The story of Cain the farmer and Abel the herdsman can convincingly be read as a retelling of a land war between agriculturalists and pastoralists at the dawn of civilization. Later, in ancient Greece, Thucydides surmised that the Peloponnesian Wars were explicable by three thematic motives: fear, honor, and interest. Looking inwardly, Sigmund Freud imagined aggression as a death instinct which arose in direct opposition to the creative, life-producing drive exemplified by sex.
Continuing unto the present, others, from Konrad Lorenz, with On Aggression, to Azar Gat, with War in Human Civilization, have also tried to answer the fundamental question – why do humans set out, purposefully, to kill each other? In the same scholarly tradition is Mike Martin’s Why We Fight. From the outset, and writing as a war studies scholar with expertise in biology and social psychology, Martin’s thesis is bold and clear. “Status and belonging are the two main drivers of human conflict,” he contends – a claim evidenced by examining the neurological and evolutionary impulses that steer all homo sapiens in analogous directions.
Central to the study of violence, Martin argues, should be a mutual agreement that humans, as animals, are subject to the fundamental laws of natural selection – a biological fact that frames his status-and-belonging model. In then rejecting “group selection” – a Darwinian theory which posits that evolution can also occur at the level of the group – Martin adopts the gene-centred view of evolution, whereby selfish genes are replicated across generations by the vehicle of status-seeking individuals.
An organism’s primary prerogative, Martin argues, is to propagate its genetic material. This means that in a state of natural competition, humans will seek first to maximize two important quantities: status (which helps one to secure mates and resources) and belonging (which helps one to form war coalitions in order to stave off the violent ambitions of aggressors). At a neurochemical level, Martin asserts, status and belonging are underpinned by the release of two hormones – testosterone, the hormone which spurs intraspecific competition and hierarchy-climbing; and oxytocin, the bonding hormone which strengthens in-group impulses and generates hostility towards out-groups.
In also examining wartime self-sacrifice, Martin argues that combat altruism in early hunter-gatherer bands originally evolved because of “inclusive fitness” – the notion that genetically-related kin were included, consciously or otherwise, into an individual organism’s survival calculus. By this reasoning, a warrior should be willing to die for two brothers or eight cousins because kin persistence would guarantee his genes’ survival. As societies then grew larger, the kin identification-and-preferencing mechanism came to apply to non-kin such that modern soldierly “bands of brothers” now resemble “imagined” or “fictive kin.” In-group-out-group divisions meanwhile, continue to cause wars, while the risk of dying in battle is seen, in biological terms, as a soldier’s membership price for belonging to the group.
Implicitly, the group is understood here as a mere marriage of convenience for the individual’s genes – an obstinate rejection of the group selectionist view, which would see self-sacrificial war service as a group-level survival adaptation. As a neurological, psychosocial and genetic account of warlike behaviour from the perspective of the individual, Martin’s thesis is comprehensive – intuitively sound, tested empirically, and with anecdotes from his own experiences serving in the British Army on operations in Afghanistan. Moreover, his distilment of individual motivations for fighting down to “status” and “belonging” is nigh-on as good as we can ask for with currently-available research.
Full disclosure though… Mike Martin is currently co-supervising my doctoral studies at King’s College London. As such, and to put his theory into practice for a moment, there are both “status and belonging” considerations at play here which, all things being equal, will probably influence how I review Why We Fight. Having said that, it might surprise the reader to learn that although I see Martin’s book as an important addition to the sociobiological study of conflict, he and I furiously disagree on the role played by group selection (and by extension, ideology) in how and why conflict occurs.
Indeed, where Martin’s grappling with human aggression seems most inadequate is in his discussion of the role of ideology – here defined as the normative beliefs and values which adhere groups and which individuals within the group are socialized into holding as self-evident.
We know, of course, that ideology can be a potent shaper of behaviour in wartime. It was bushidowhich drove Japanese kamikazes to fly aircraft into Allied ships during the Second World War. It was the mere thought of having dishonoured the Führer which drove Hans Langsdorff, captain of the pocket battleship Graf Spee, to shoot himself after defeat at the battle of the River Plate. It is the utopian phantasm of a global “caliphate” which inspires a jihadist suicide bomber to blow himself up at a roadside checkpoint. And it is the esprit de corps – the spirit of the [group] body – generated by recruit training at Parris Island which, over the years, has propelledmore than one US Marine to dive on a grenade for his friends.
When influenced by deeply-embedded ideological structures, humans in the midst of fighting frequently put aside their own interests for those of the group. This seems obvious. Such frameworks of “moral sense,” as Darwin described them, can be weaponized to ensure that individual organisms are willing to serve the group, even to the detriment of genetic longevity. This is group selection at work. If not, then how could it be better or more parsimoniously explained?
The short answer is that most bona fide cases of combat altruism which result in the death of the individual probably cannot be explained in terms of individual, kin or “fictive kin” selection because when one’s comrades are not one’s relatives, there is no genetic advantage selecting in favour of self-sacrifice.
This applies especially to expeditionary wars, where the violence threshold is well below that of total war – i.e., where the survival benefit for one’s family back home is negligible. In these instances, social norms override the organism’s in-built gene propagation drive. Thus, the group and not the individual is the vehicle by which natural selection occurs. Although Martin’s individualist rationale probably holds true for many or even most explanations of conflict, the existence and persistence of combat altruism presents a puzzling outlier, as the earlier examples show. This is where recent research in the domain of “multilevel selection” – which posits that clusters of organisms can sometimes behave like a “superorganism” and that the process of natural selection can “toggle” between individuals and groups – might fill the gaps left by Martin. Individually-disadvantageous, group-advantageous behaviours among non-genetically-related kin are observed across the animal kingdom – from parasites living in the stomachs of cattle, to leaf-cutter ants, through to forest chimpanzees, and finally, to humans.
As such, and although Martin’s well-articulated status and belonging theory may explain many things about the ethological history of conflict in homo sapiens (and animalia, more broadly) the significant exceptions to the rule where altruistic ‘groupishness’ does exist requires more serious consideration. ‘Zooming out’ from the individual allows us to look in on the system-as-whole – allotting for holism and curiously, given the scale, greater detail. The question of ‘why we fight,’ it appears, will never be answered until we learn to see a war-band of humans, not just as a collection of individuals, but also as an occasional functional collective.
As 2018 comes to a tinsel-wrapped close, tis the season once again for lovers of the written word to share the contents of their year’s reading lists. I wouldn’t recommend all of the below books for my dear readers but I’m happy to report that I found something of value in each and every one of them.
Sometimes, I disagreed with the author’s conclusions. On occasion, I found the writing shit. Often though, I found myself nodding and acceding – awed by a particular turn of phrase and wishing I’d written it first.
I scribbled enough notes in side columns (connected with bedlamite arrows) to create a lengthy Word document – which I did, for scholarly purposes. The resulting annotated bibliography currently runs at 67 pages – which seems impressive but is not even enough words to passably analyse a Roman Quaedvlieg Tweet.
Are we measuring on a Freudian, Foucaltian, or Fyodorovian scale?
Some of these yellowing piles of paper were even re-reads, plucked and dusted from the bookshelf. The books that were “second-time-rounds” now bear the graffiti of two different pen nibs.
For better or worse, Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut was the only novel I read this year (I confess I only did so upon learning that Vonnegut was a trained anthropologist).
That said, my better half informs me that we’re celebrating Christmas this year Icelandic-style with a tradition called Jólabókaflóð. Preliminary research indicates that it basically consists of drinking lots of hot cocoa and reading books. This I can live with. Perhaps the Jólasveinn will leave a novel or two in my stocking.
Here it is. The list of 2018.
Politics & Society:
We Were Eight Years in Power, Ta-Nehisi Coates
Democratization in the Maghreb, JNC Hill
Bandits, Eric Hobsbawm
On Anarchy, Noam Chomsky
On Kings, David Graeber & Marshall Sahlins
The Revenge of Geography, Robert Kaplan
Earning the Rockies, Robert Kaplan
Algerian Sketches, Pierre Bourdieu
The Line Becomes A River, Francisco Cantu
Tribe, Sebastian Junger
The War is in the Mountains, Judith Matloff
War in the Tribal Zone: Expanding States & Indigenous Warfare, R. Brian Ferguson & Neil Whitehead
Why We Fight: The Cognitive Basis for War, Mike Martin
On Aggression, Konrad Lorenz
On Violence, Hannah Arendt
On Killing, Lt. Col. David Grossman
Storm of Steel, Ernst Junger
Goodbye to All That, Robert Graves
Biology & Evolution:
Unto Others: The Evolution & Psychology of Unselfish Behaviour, Elliott Sober & David Sloan Wilson
The Selfish Gene, Richard Dawkins
The Theory of Island Biogeography, David McArthur & E.O Wilson
The Social System, Talcott Parsons
The Social Conquest of the Earth, E.O Wilson
Mutual Aid: A Factor in Evolution, Peter Kropotkin