Sooner or later, all military men must choose, as George C. Marshall and others—the Radfords and the Andersons—had to choose between “fusion,” that gray world where political and military expertise are no long distinguishable, and "autonomy,” the lonely world of the professional, wherein political temptations and rewards have to be refused.
There may never be a comprehensive and documented account available of the extraordinary attempts made throughout the 1960s to extend the influence of the military services at a time when civilian control became “civilian command.” The phrase, traceable to an article in this journal, captured the atmosphere of the times but, aside from a single example, did not spell it out in detail.[1] As Captain Ingram made clear, the Joint Chiefs and the military as a whole had very limited influence on the content of the Draft Presidential Memoranda (DPMs) which were the source documents for military policies. For some of us, it was saddening to watch the indirect dialogue between McNamara, his systems analysts, and the Services, as they tried to reach agreements on how JCS views would be paraphrased in the DPMs, the rule of the game being that the JCS were not to insert their own language.
The operationalization of civil-military relationships in those years seemed to follow prescriptions set forth by Colonel (now Brigadier General) Robert N. Ginsburgh[2] and Dr. Edward L. Katzenbach, Jr.[3] The former argued against a theory of political-military “fusion” which held that political and military factors had become so interlocked that separate military expertise or professionalism was no longer possible. It was both possible and necessary to maintain professional separation, he continued, but only if the military got on with the task of developing an overall expertise which transcended the parochial boundaries of the Services. This led him to argue for more responsibility and authority for the Joint Staff, gradual transformation of the Joint Chiefs into the equivalent of a “D-3” on a civil-military general staff, and widespread acquisition by the military of the special skills and techniques, e. g., systems analysis, then emerging from the “think tanks.” Katzenbach’s argument was aimed at the military war colleges which had become, so he argued, too “civilian” in their concentration on national and technological trends, and on intra-governmental affairs. His solution was to make the war colleges more “military,” in part by adding systems analysis to their curricula, perhaps even by combining the colleges.
The contradictions within these prescriptions seem obvious in retrospect. The Services were to accept “military management” as the wave of the future, thus wiping out most professional distinctions between the commanders and staffs of the U. S. Sixth Fleet, the Strategic Air Command, and the U. S. Army Vietnam, and they were asked to make sophisticated analytical techniques a new focus of professionalism. Translated into bureaucratic behavior, this led directly toward the “fusion” that supposedly was being avoided.
The most significant attempts at “fusion” paralleled organizational changes which involved the assistant secretaries of Defense and the specialized defense agencies, both traceable to the statutory revisions of 1958. Given delegations of authority from the Secretary, the assistant secretaries became line operating officials, and the geometrical increase in the number of deputy assistant secretaries in the 1960s reflected that change. The specialized agencies became at least semi-autonomous, as with the communications and intelligence agencies (partly subordinate to the JCS), or almost completely autonomous, as with the Defense Supply Agency (formally subordinate only to the Secretary). Perhaps the most intricate arrangement surrounded the Directorate for Inspection Services (DINS). As integral part of the office of the Assistant Secretary for Administration, the DINS inspected the operational readiness of the combat commands (PaCom, EuCom) and sent its reports of discrepancies to the JCS—who then had to report back to the Assistant Secretary on corrective action taken. In effect, this made the JCS line subordinates of the Assistant Secretary. The DINS was assigned to a high-ranking general or flag officer; the professional dilemmas which faced him and other officers in similar positions are worth further attention.
As it became clear that the assistant secretaries and the specialized agencies were becoming more important, all of the military services attempted to infiltrate those bureaucratic systems. Anytime it was known that a staff position was coming open, especially a deputy assistant-ship, each service nominated a military professional in the hope that his assignment to the position would materially increase that service’s influence in the decision process. Some of us were charged with maintaining a “score-board” on how well each service had done in the past few years, and with analyzing why our individual services hadn’t done better. It gradually became clear that, despite a number of apparent “successes,” overall policy results did not appear notably friendlier, but the military services could not see why.
The individual military professional assigned to such duty, whether on the Joint Staff, in the office of an assistant secretary, or in one of the agencies, found himself in a delicate situation. His service expected him to produce evidence that he had “influenced” certain decisions, but he found that he could best prove his objectivity by pointing out to his new superiors the flaws in arguments being advanced by his own service. If an Air Force officer in charge of the DINS, for example, found too many discrepancies in his inspection of the Strategic Air Command, he found himself in trouble both for criticizing JCS supervision of SAC and for colliding with superiors within the Air Force. If he found no discrepancies, he was in danger of losing his identification as an “objective” member of the OSD staff. Thus, all officers assigned to such positions discovered that the trick was to convince their services that they continued to exert “parochial” influence while convincing their new superiors of the objectivity.
The interactions were even more complex than indicated thus far, and extended far into the service staffs themselves. Each service developed its own group of “experts” in the new analytical techniques and, together with staff members interested in force structure decisions, they attempted to exert influence upon their counterparts on the office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD) staff who prepared the DPMs. While the environment was not one of “take your friendly systems analyst to a two-martini lunch,” there was some resemblance, for to convince the analyst that your force structure recommendations were sound was to virtually ensure the outcome of the DPM. To put it another way, the interactions involved in the analytical processes increased the budgets they were intended to reduce. Furthermore, it became increasingly attractive to tell OSD what it wanted to hear, even if this tended to vitiate earlier recommendations of the same service.
One crucial case involved the interrogations of prisoners conducted in Vietnam by the RAND Corporation. It was clear, of course, that the military course of the war did not follow recommendations handed up by professionals, and this was nowhere more the case than in bombing. There were those in the Air Force in those years, especially in the field, who expressed concern that inappropriate use of airpower was worse than no use at all, and that this might lead to widespread discrediting of airpower itself. As RAND interviewers produced evidence which seemed to demonstrate the effectiveness of air operations, however, RAND and the Air Staff could hardly wait to get the evidence as far up the chain of command as possible—including the President. There was considerable euphoria attached to a process whereby long-denied access to high-level officials suddenly became available. It might be postulated that long-term professional objectives lost out in competition with short-term budgetary and bureaucratic objectives.
The faddish expansion of systems analytical capabilities led sometimes to almost ludicrous results. As everyone involved well knew, all the agencies previously charged with “operations analysis” and “operations research” concentrated for the most part on future weapons systems, thus turning away from their original assignments. One outcome was that the Services and the JCS had to set up totally new agencies charged with “old-fashioned” operations analysis, in order to chart the detailed effects of military operations against North Vietnam. Because the titles had been pre-empted, however, the new agencies had to find new titles. This indicated the dangers inherent in hasty attempts to transform the basis of professionalism. To get at the broadest ramifications, however, it is necessary to look at civil-military relationships at the highest levels.
The extent to which things changed in the 1960s can best be demonstrated by a look at what had happened earlier. We know now that during World Wat II General George C. Marshall “felt that he had to hold the President at a calculated distance in order to keep his own freedom of action.”[4] Thus, Marshall consistently declined to visit President Roosevelt at either Warm Springs or Hyde Park, he attempted to avoid any informal confrontations with him, and he even took care not to laugh at F. D. R.’s jokes.[5] To do any of these, Marshall thought, would compromise his ability to express professional disagreement. Yet it is equally clear that few civil-military relationships ever were more productive than this one, and it did not suffer from Marshall’s maintenance of his autonomy.
During the 1950s and through the 1960s, however, there was a pronounced trend toward politicization of the military. Perhaps it began with Roosevelt’s use of military officers to staff his economic program, or in Truman’s reliance upon military men with foreign policy positions.[6] Marshall himself later held high presidential assignments, a point to be mentioned again. A major turning point seems to have been the stance taken by the JCS in 1951, when they became explainers and defenders of Administration policy in general and the dismissal of General Douglas MacArthur in particular. When Congressional Republicans expressed lack of confidence in the JCS, President Eisenhower apparently chose to replace all of them with appointees cleared personally by Senator Robert Taft.[7] Also during the 1950s, the JCS Chairman became more of a vehicle for relaying Administration views to the other chiefs than for relaying their views to the Administration.[8]
Admiral Arthur Radford was both an example of how the position of JCS Chairman transformed itself and of the rewards that can follow from protesting one Administration’s decisions, since he had taken a major role in the Navy’s 1949 attempts to increase its budget. During the 1950s, Generals Matthew Ridgway, James Gavin, and Maxwell Taylor led the “generals’ revolt,” and the latter two openly identified themselves as “liberals” when they retired to publish their dissents.[9] Taylor, of course, advocated a “Single Chief of Staff,” although he made it clear he did not have Radford in mind for the position. Thus, professional differences became partisan alignments, and Taylor and Gavin became campaign advisers to John Kennedy. This led to yet another cycle of politicization.
Gavin’s assignment as Ambassador to France was in accord with normal political behavior, but it had tangential effects upon professionalism. The recall of Taylor to become JCS Chairman, however, had far-reaching implications; his former JCS colleague, Air Force General Thomas White, labeled him a “political appointee” and added that this viewpoint was widespread among professionals.[10] Taylor, much more than Radford, was the White House representative to the Pentagon; one cannot imagine a harsher criticism than the one implicit in Taylor’s appointment—the President had no confidence in anyone on active duty.
Admiral George Anderson may have been appointed Ambassador to Portugal because of his dissent on the TFX/F-111, his confrontation with McNamara during the missile crisis, or both. It was acknowledged publicly that he had to be moved, and it did little for the professionalism of the military or the Foreign Service to send him to Portugal. Gavin’s reward was bad enough, but politically traditional; Anderson’s transfer was a new departure in how to “fire” military leaders.
To these instances must be added the historic tour of the United States undertaken by General William Westmoreland when he was commander in Vietnam. Apparently advised by Washington that he might accept an invitation, he used as the reason for his tour a speech and press conference involving journalists. He quietly visited the Council on Foreign Relations, addressed a state legislature, and made his three-salute speech to the Congress, but he declined invitations to appear before committees responsible for foreign and military affairs. After his return to Vietnam, the Administration made it known that the visit had not been used for an evaluation of manpower requests then being processed through channels, thus serving to emphasize the nonprofessional nature of his absence from his command. Few high-ranking officers have gone to such limits to defend policies which were not in accord with their own recommendations, so it comes as no surprise to see more recent speculation that Westmoreland and others have developed a “stab-in-the-back, or Versailles” complex.[11]
These are only the most obvious examples, of course. All during the 1960s, the common practice was for the JCS to travel as a body to Palm Beach or Johnson City during those weeks in December when the President was finishing his work on the forthcoming budget. Anyone familiar with the process knew full well that all the major issues had been decided and that it was unlikely that the JCS would press their individual claims with great vigor as they partook of the semi-vacation atmosphere. The contrast with Marshall’s behavior could not have been more striking.
Whether by accident or design, there have been hopeful recent signs. General Curtis LeMay’s abortive alliance with Governor George Wallace seems to have been based at least in part on nonmilitary considerations, and we were spared the suspense of waiting to see if a victorious Senator Barry Goldwater would turn to him as JCS Chairman. Since accession to office, President Richard Nixon and Secretary Melvin Laird seem to have altered management practices a great deal and without wholesale removal of the JCS they found when they arrived.
What should be clear by this time is that professional autonomy is the loser when too much of an attempt is made at fusion. When civilian and military attempt full-scale invasion of each other’s domains, the latter cannot win—and on professional grounds. How can a professional systems analyst, for example, be expected to admit that his military counterpart in the service is qualified to deal with him on the terrain of systems analysis? Beyond that, it has become distressingly obvious that whatever failures ultimately are held up to public scorn will be described as military responsibilities. Those who found military professionals to be expedient allies in 1960 later became the shrillest critics of the “military-industrial complex.”
The concept of professionalism seems to demand that professionals themselves be constantly aware of the delicate balance they must maintain in their own behavior between autonomy and fusion. They cannot be so totally separated as to become the proverbial “society within a society,” but neither can they afford total integration within the civilian overhead. The requirement is a stringent one, for it even runs counter to the notion that any President should be free to appoint to high office those in whom he has confidence—regardless of background. Even in the most defensible case, that of Marshall, military professionalism came out second best when Marshall was injected into the 1952 campaign; the issues connected thereto, moreover, led to the later problems involving Senator Joseph McCarthy and the Army. From this perspective, there is little doubt that Gavin, Taylor, Anderson, and Westmoreland should have declined appointments or invitations, or should have been less forthright in their public defense of policies they had not recommended. In other words, professionals may have little choice but to defend professionalism from their presumed friends.
The hallmarks of professionalism remain responsibility, corporateness, and an expertise which need not be as transcendent as Ginsburgh argued in 1964. If it is dangerous to have too much of those qualities, as it is, their abandonment means only the end of any professionalism at all. No matter how enticing, political temptations and rewards have to be refused, and faddish techniques approached with caution. This argument is made in realization of the intricate questions associated with it. To carry it too far is to deny second careers; yet they are more necessary now than ever. Current personnel policies would have forced Marshall into retirement in 1931. Further, the actions and reactions which emanate from high-level relationships and attitudes can carry through the ranks in dangerous ways. Effectiveness reports and promotion systems may become weapons with which “hawks” and “doves” attempt to punish each other, if steps are not taken to prevent it. Finally, academic and operational rebuttals have demonstrated that systems analysis can be a useful supplementary tool, but hardly a focus of military professionalism. Herewith one vote for continuing autonomy and depoliticization.
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A graduate of the U. S. Military Academy with the Class of 1945, Doctor Thayer was a colonel in the U. S. Air Force at the time of his retirement in 1969. His final military assignment was as Assistant Deputy Chief of Staff, Operations, Military Airlift Command. He served with the Directorate of Plans, Headquarters U. S. Air Force 1963-1966, and he was Visiting Fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations in New York City, 1966-1967. He holds advanced degrees from the Ohio State University (M.A.) and the University of Denver (Ph.D.) and is the author of Air Transport Policy and National Security, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1965. He is Associate Professor, Graduate School of Public and International Affairs, University of Pittsburgh.
[1] Samuel P. Ingram, “Civilian Command or Civilian Control?" U. S. Naval Institute PROCEEDINGS, May 1968, pp. 26-31.
[2] Robert N. Ginsburgh, “The Challenge to Military Professionalism,” Foreign Affairs, January 1964, p. 225.
[3] Edward L. Katzenbach, Jr., “The Demotion of Professionalism at the War Colleges,” U S. Naval Institute PROCEEDINGS, March 1965, pp. 34-41.
[4] Forrest C. Pogue, George C. Marshall, Education of a General (New York: Viking, 1963), p. 324.
[5] Ibid., George C. Marshall: Ordeal and Hope (New York: Viking, 1966), p. 23.
[6] Sidney Hyman, The American President (New York: Harper, 1954), p. 297.
[7] Glenn H. Snyder, “The ‘New Look’ of 1953,” in Warner R. Schilling, Paul Y. Hammond, and Glenn H. Snyder, Strategy, Politics, and Defense Budgets (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962), pp. 410-415.
[8] Paul Y. Hammond, Organizing for Defense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960), pp. 380-81. By statute, the Chairman is the only JCS member not directly involved in defense budgets, which remain the responsibility of the military services and their individual chiefs. Thus, as Hammond puts it, the Chairman was encouraged to become unresponsible, if not irresponsible.
[9] Maxwell D. Taylor, The Uncertain Trumpet (New York: Harper, 1959), pp. 102-03; James M. Gavin, War and Peace in the Space Age (New York: Harper, 1958), pp. 248-53. There is nothing new about the dichotomy of “conservatives” and “liberals” in the military, as it is known there are differences between “hawks” and “doves” at present. The Taylor-Gavin moves, however, went further than any other in recent years.
[10] Thomas D. White, “Strategy and the Defense Intellectuals,” Saturday Evening Post, 4 May 1963, p. 10.
[11] Time, 12 December 1969.