Operational code names used to preserve secrecy. Today, more often than not, they give potential adversaries information about the nature and location of operations—and provide grist for the propagandists and cartoonists.
By designating the recent intervention in Haiti Operation Uphold Democracy, the U.S. military continued the recent—and potentially dangerous-trend of assigning politically evocative names to military operations. A relatively new technique, the use of operational code names did not come into general use until World War II. During that conflict, the need to distribute large numbers of plans and orders, particularly by radio, highlighted the need for security. Code words provided one means of protecting operational secrecy.
During World War II, most operational code names were neutral words with no emotional content, such as Torch (invasion of North Africa), Iceberg (assault on Okinawa), and Matterhorn (strategic bombing of Japan). Winston Churchill nevertheless was concerned about the potential consequences of saddling operations with what he termed “facetious” names. Churchill’s Chief of Staff General Hastings Ismay recalls his boss asking, “How would a mother feel if she were to hear that her son had been killed in an enterprise called Bunny Hug?”1
From a motivational point of view, code names seem to have little impact on performance. During World War II, Allied fighting men managed to make extraordinary sacrifices during operations with such mundane names as Galvanic (Tarawa), Overlord (Normandy), and Detachment (Iwo Jima). Despite this record, concern about the motivational effect of code names has remained. When the 1989 intervention in Panama was being planned, for example, the combat part of the operation was called Blue Spoon. General James Lindsay, commander-in-chief of the U.S. Special Operations Command, expressed concern about what U.S. soldiers would think of the name, and the title was changed to Just Cause.2 The premise that code names somehow influence troop performance is debatable to say the least. On the other hand, the disadvantages of using code words that somehow relate to the mission or its location are relatively clear.
A code name can send an unintended message about the nature of the operation. Realizing this, planners generally have avoided overly aggressive sounding names. The U.S. military encountered such a situation during the Korean War. Following the retreat of U.N. forces from northern Korea after the intervention of the Communist Chinese, the U.S. military launched a major counteroffensive designed to inflict as many casualties as possible on the Communist forces. In keeping with what the troops called a meat-grinder strategy, the planners named the counteroffensives Operations Killer and Ripper. The U.S. State Department objected to the implication of the names, however, and the military changed the name to Operation Courageous. In one sense, the fuss seems silly, but imagine how the name would have played in the press had Operation Killer resulted in an incident such as the one that occurred at My Lai during the Vietnam War.
Code names expressing high ideals also can backfire, providing material for enemy propagandists and domestic opponents alike. What happens, for example, if Operations Restore Hope or Uphold Democracy don't live up to their lofty aspirations? The troops themselves are quick to pick up on such inconsistencies. During the invasion of Panama, for example, Operation Just Cause quickly became known as Operation Just Because.
The most important reason for avoiding politically evocative code words, however, reflects the purpose for which code words were created—security. Even the most sophisticated ciphers can be broken. A correctly chosen code word, on the other hand, retains its hidden meaning even if an encrypted message is intercepted and broken. Early in 1942, for example, U.S. code breakers intercepted a Japanese message indicating a planned invasion of “AF.” Although the Americans had broken the Japanese naval encryption system, their accomplishment was of absolutely no use in determining the meaning of the code word AF. The problem eventually was solved—Commander Joseph J. Rochefort, one of Admiral Nimitz’s code breakers, directed Midway to broadcast a radio message stating that its distillation plant had broken down, and within 24 hours, U.S. code breakers had intercepted a Japanese message stating that AF was suffering a water shortage—but the Japanese code word gave nothing away.
During Operation Just Cause in Panama, some U.S. forces were given code names that could have allowed an enemy to determine their identities. Elements of the 1st Battalion, 508th Infantry (Airborne), assigned to make an air assault into Fort Amador at H-Hour were designated Task Force Red Devil. Anyone aware that the term “Red Devils” is a long-standing nickname for British airborne forces might reasonably have guessed the general nature of the task force. The designation of Marine Corps forces as Task Force Semper Fi was even more revealing.
As a personal example, in 1969 as the senior advisor to the 5th Battalion of the Vietnamese Marine Corps, my radio call sign was Leatherneck Five. Use of the Leatherneck call sign for all Marine advisors was a long-standing tradition of which most of us were inordinately proud; it also was completely contrary to good communications security practice. During my tour, the Marine Advisory Unit abandoned the Leatherneck call sign, and we were assigned meaningless, uninspiring replacements and were required to change them periodically. At the time, most of us regarded the move as unnecessary and potentially disastrous. I knew, for example, that I could awake suddenly from a sound sleep into sheer chaos and still remember Leatherneck Five. I was not so confident of my ability under similar circumstances to remember some name like Barbell Dancer—particularly the day after it had changed. I also didn’t believe that our North Vietnamese enemies had the capability of intercepting and exploiting our radio traffic in real time, regardless of whether they knew who Leatherneck Five was. Had I known then what I know now about communication security, I would not have been so reluctant to abandon my Precious Leatherneck call sign.
Those responsible for choosing operational code names not only should avoid selecting names with obvious connections to the operation involved but also should screen names for any unintended connections. Such screening averted possible embarrassment in naming a U.S. Army civic action operation to build roads in Honduras. An alert planner noticed that the proposed name, Blazing Trails, when translated into Spanish was remarkably similar to “Shining Path,” the Maoist terrorist group in Peru.3
The Germans paid a price for failing to screen their code names carefully during World War II. During the Battle of Britain in 1940, the Royal Air Force and the Luftwaffe fought an electronic war in the skies over Britain and in the laboratories of both countries. To guide their bombers to assigned targets at night, the Germans employed a variety of electronic navigational aids. A typical system involved electronic beams projected from stations in Europe and aimed to cross at designated points, including at the intended target. Using special receivers, German air crews would fly to the target along one beam and drop their bombs when their equipment told them they had crossed the intersecting beam marking the target. The British devoted a great deal of effort to detecting the beams and jamming or otherwise reducing their effectiveness.
By early 1941, British experts possessed two seemingly unrelated pieces of information regarding the so-called battle of the beams. One was a secret intelligence report that the Germans were constructing “Wotan” transmitters near Cherbourg and Brest. Unfortunately, the report gave no clues as to what these transmitters were. The second piece of information came from the Royal Air Force’s electronic intelligence unit that intercepted and analyzed the German beams. They had detected a new, complex signal that was unlike the ones used to operate known German navigational systems. Armed with the knowledge that Wotan was a one-eyed god in Nordic mythology, Dr. R. V. Jones surmised that such a name might refer to a system that used only one beam.4 Pursuing that line of reasoning in analyzing the new signal, the British experts discovered that the Germans had, in fact, developed a single-beam guidance system.
Much later, Dr. Jones learned that the Germans used the name Wotan for both single- and multiple-beam systems; its use in reference to the new single-beam system had nothing to do with its mythological namesake’s having had only one eye. The British may have drawn the correct conclusion for the wrong reason, but the Germans had unwittingly given them an invaluable piece of information through their careless selection of a code name.
Today, the U.S. military routinely gives potential adversaries information concerning the nature and location of operations through code names such as Provide Comfort (aid to the Kurds in Iraq), Eastern Exit (evacuation of U.S. citizens from Somalia), and Deny Flight (air operations over Bosnia). Given the nature of these operations and the capabilities of the potential adversaries, the lack of operational security probably will have little effect on either the accomplishment of the mission or the safety of U.S. forces. In other cases, however, the lack of a secure code name might have serious consequences. During Operation Desert Shield, for example, anyone discovering the date of D-Day for something called Desert Storm would have known immediately what was about to happen. If the name had been less revealing, the nature of the operation might have remained hidden.
Even a negligible risk is not worth whatever benefits may result from the use of the current crop of stirring but security-compromising code names. Would the bombing of Libya and the invasion of Grenada have been more effective had they been named Avenge Terrorism and Restore Democracy rather than Eldorado Canyon and Urgent Fury? To answer yes certainly would reflect an uncomplimentary view of U.S. fighting forces. A similar case can be made for the argument that popular support or the lack thereof—for a military operation will not be affected significantly by the choice of a code name.
With no real benefits to counterbalance even the negligible risks, politically evocative operational code names are both unnecessary and potentially dangerous. The sooner the U.S. armed forces stop using them, the sooner they will reduce the risk of Americans dying for Bunny Hug, Stirring Appellation, or any other military operation.
1 Hastings Ismay, The Memoirs of General Lord Ismay (New York: The Viking Press, 1960), p. 189.
2 Thomas Donnelly, Margaret Roth, and Caleb Baker, Operation Just Cause: The Storming of Panama (New York: Lexington Books, 1991), p. 101.
3 D. Miles and P. Swan, “What’s In a Name?” Soldiers, February 1992, p. 48. Wlfred Price, Instruments of Darkness (London: Panther Books, 1979), pp. 51-53.
Colonel Gatchel retired in 1991, after 30 years of service that included command of infantry units, two tours in Vietnam, and chairmanship of the Operations Department at the Naval War College. He has written on military topics and is working on a book on amphibious warfare.