Wednesday, July 29, 2020
Wheels of War by Bob Gordon July 2020 From its playful origin as a “dandy horse” for idle Europeans, the bicycle has taken on increasingly serious military applications
In August 1887 the French scientific journal La Nature noted favorably the role the velocipede, or bicycle, was beginning to play in European military maneuvers: “For a few years past the Germans have been using the velocipede for the rapid carriage of dispatches, and on this side of the Vosges we have not neglected to put to profit the advantages of an analogous service, a corps of velocipedists having been organized in our army.…Our neighbors across the channel have gone beyond such a use of the velocipede for dispatch sending and have endeavored to use it for the carriage of ammunition.”
In the closing decades of the 19th century technological innovations made cycling more comfortable, more reliable and altogether more practical. Bicycles (aka “wheels”) and their riders (“wheelmen”) became a pop culture craze, and nations around the globe actively studied their application to military operations. For some 130 years the bicycle has remained militarily relevant. Indeed, it has recently emerged as an actual weapon system.
Among the earliest proposed uses of Drais’ invention was as a “military accelerator,” depicted in this 1820 cartoon. (Photo by Oxford Science Archive/Print Collector/Getty Images)
The earliest direct precursor to the modern-day bicycle was the Draisine, conceived in 1817 by namesake German inventor Karl Drais as a fixed-steering vehicle for use on rail lines. Military planners later devised two- and four-wheel versions of the vehicle for railborne reconnaissance and patrols. For off-rail use Drais developed the Laufmaschine (“running machine”), surviving examples of which look familiar to today’s riders. It featured a diamond-shaped frame, the rear vertical rising from the rear wheel hub to form the seat post, and the parallel front vertical rising from the hub of the swiveling front tire into a gooseneck with handles, allowing the rider to steer. Drais’ machine did differ from the modern bicycle in one key aspect—it lacked pedals. Riders used their feet to walk or run the Laufmaschine along the ground. Critics dubbed it the “dandy horse.” Iron-rimmed wheels made for a very rough ride, and pedestrians soon complained of the hazards posed by the veritable sidewalk missiles, spelling the demise of the fad.
Developed in France in the 1860s, the first commercially successful bicycles utilized a crude drive system, with pedals fixed directly to the front wheel hub, as on the modern-day tricycle. Increasing the circumference of the front wheel increased the distance traveled per pedal stroke and consequently the speed, resulting in a bicycle with an elephantine front wheel. Brits dubbed it the “penny-farthing,” as the penny coin of the era was far larger than the farthing coin. Though solid rubber tires and wire-spoked wheels offered a more comfortable ride than that of early “boneshakers,” penny-farthings proved difficult to mount and dangerous to operate.
Back-to-back technological innovations in the late 1880s made bicycling safer and infinitely more practical. Foremost was the development of a chain drive linking central pedals to the rear hub—a power-transfer system not contingent on wheel circumference. Smaller, equal-sized tires placed the rider within reach of the ground, resulting in a vehicle marketed as the “safety bicycle.” In 1888 Scottish inventor John Boyd Dunlop patented the pneumatic tire, which far surpassed the solid rubber tire for comfort. With that the basic elements of the present-day bicycle were in place.
Given the improvements, military planners began to consider the bicycle as an alternative conveyance to the horse, over which it has decided advantages.
After all, a bicycle requires neither fodder nor rest and is generally easier to maintain than a horse.
More critical from a military standpoint, a platoon of cyclists is quieter on the move than a squadron of cavalry.
While the American military was late to embrace cycling, it did so with a passion in the 1890s, due to the confluence of two enthusiasts’ careers. Major General Nelson A. Miles had pioneered military use of the heliograph in the 1870s, and after taking in an 1891 endurance race at New York’s Madison Square Garden, he became a staunch advocate of the bicycle. That fall he ordered the commander of the 15th U.S. Infantry at Fort Sheridan, Ill., to organize a detachment to field test the vehicle. Through the spring of 1892 nine cyclists under Lt. William T. May put the bicycle through its paces. While the results failed to move Miles’ superiors to action, the general later declared presciently, “During the next great war the bicycle, with such modifications and adaptations as experience may suggest, will become a most important machine for military purposes.”
Lt. James Moss and buffalo soldiers of the 25th U.S. Infantry demonstrate the bicycle’s military potential in 1896 / University of Montana
That same year May wrote the field manual Cyclists’ Drill Regulations, United States Army, catching the attention of 20-year-old West Point cadet James A. Moss. In 1894 Moss graduated last in his class from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, drawing an appropriately lackluster infantry assignment in the middle of nowhere (Fort Missoula, Mont.) as a second lieutenant in the 25th U.S. Infantry Regiment, one of four white-officered black regiments in the Army. Fortunately for the lieutenant, the posting placed him in the Military Division of the Missouri, overseen by none other than Miles. The following year Miles was named commanding general of the Army, and in his first annual report to the secretary of war he advocated formation of a dedicated bicycle regiment. In 1896 he granted fellow cycling enthusiast Moss permission to form an experimental bicycle corps and undertake long-distance rides to determine the vehicle’s feasibility for military use.
In July 1896 Moss selected eight men, including the indispensable Pvt. John Findley, an adept bicycle mechanic. On August 6, after three weeks of training, drills and increasingly longer rides, the group’s first significant trek took them to and from Lake McDonald in northern Montana, a roughly 280-mile round trip. In August 15, they again departed Fort Missoula, headed southeast to Yellowstone National Park. Strapped to the handlebars of each bicycle—provided gratis by A.G. Spalding Co. of Chicago—was a blanket roll wrapped around a shelter tent and poles, toiletries, spare socks and underwear, while rations hung from a hard leather case secured within the frame. Each fully loaded bicycle weighed just under 60 pounds. Each cyclist also carried a rifle and 50 rounds of ammunition in cartridge belts. The men covered the 400 miles outbound in 10 days, played tourist for five and made the return trip in eight days, arriving at Fort Missoula on September 8.
After a winter spent in consultation with bicycle designers, engineers and mechanics, Moss set his sights even farther in 1897. Departing on June 14, he led a squad of 20 riders accompanied by a surgeon on a 1,900-mile, one-way journey from Fort Missoula to St. Louis. They arrived 40 days later to popular acclaim and considerable media attention before returning to the fort by train. In 1898 Moss proposed to lead an expedition of cyclists across the Great Divide, from Fort Missoula to San Francisco and back again, a total of 2,000 miles. But that spring the Spanish-American War intervened, and the 25th Infantry shipped out to Cuba. The grand bicycle experiment was again placed on hold.
By the turn of the century the militaries of all the world’s leading powers were using the bicycle. Its first major test in combat came on the Western Front during World War I, though not until the closing days of the conflict. Given the static nature of trench warfare coupled with widespread use of the machine gun and industrial-scale artillery barrages, the scope of action for cyclists was initially limited. They often found themselves serving as rear-area scouts, messengers or ambulance carriers, or in a dismounted capacity as menial laborers.
But as the stalemate broke in August 1918 with the Allied offensive known as the Hundred Days, mobile units took on renewed importance. Among those sent into the maelstrom was a battalion of Canadian cyclists.
Italy developed a folding bike for use by its mobile Bersaglieri infantry units. Marka/Universal Images Group via Getty Images
Within weeks of the United Kingdom’s declaration of war in 1914 the Commonwealth government in Ottawa authorized creation of the Canadian Automobile Machine Gun Brigade—aka “Brutinel’s Brigade,” after commanding officer Brig. Gen. Raymond Brutinel. A forerunner of the modern-day armored division, the revolutionary force included a battalion of cyclists. But on their arrival at the bogged-down Western Front in 1915, the wheelmen found their mobility was of little use. In 1918, in anticipation of the Hundred Days offensive, the mobile forces under Brutinel reorganized as the amalgamated Canadian Independent Force, comprising six units: the 1st and 2nd Motor Machine Gun Brigades (each composed of five 40-gun batteries), the Canadian Corps Cyclist Battalion, a truck-based 6-inch trench mortar section, a motorcycle battalion and the Canadian Motor Machine Gun Corps Mechanical Transport Company (providing logistical and administrative support). During the forthcoming offensive the mobile units came into their own, and the cyclists finally got into the fight. In the words of Canadian Corps cyclist Captain Wilfred Dancy “Dick” Ellis, “The cyclist battalion cast off their role of corps handymen and engineer’s navvies [excavation crews] and assumed the character for which their training had prepared them.”
At Amiens, once the Canadian 3rd Division had taken its initial objectives, Brutinel’s mobile forces protected the advance’s right flank and provided liaison between cavalry and infantry. On that flank the French were also attacking, but their H hour came some 45 minutes later, leaving the Canadians vulnerable to counterattack in the meantime. The Canadian mobile forces filled the gap until the French caught up. Their fast reaction played a key role in the Canadian Corps’ unequaled 8-mile advance on the first day of the offensive.
In October, as the Canadian advance accelerated, the mobile forces were again parceled out. Said the history of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, “To increase the speed of the pursuit, the 1st and 4th Divisions each received a 69 squadron of the Canadian Light Horse, a company of the Canadian [Corps] Cyclist Battalion, two medium machine- gun batteries and two armored cars.” Weeks before war’s end 4th Canadian Infantry Division commander Maj. Gen. Sir David Watson wrote, “The cyclists have been most valuable in their excellent patrol duties as well as carrying dispatches and securing information regarding enemy movements and positions of our own troops.”
Though they would never mount a charge like their equine counterparts, the Canadian Corps Cyclist Battalion had demonstrated riders could pedal into the line and fight dismounted as light infantry troops.
During World War II, aside from the technological advances made in motorization and mechanization during the interwar period, the bicycle demonstrated its continuing value.
During Germany’s lightning invasion of Denmark on April 9, 1940, bicycle-mounted Danish infantry platoons met the invaders at several chokepoints. While there is little information in English on their activities, the 2015 Danish war film April 9th depicts one such platoon of cyclists meeting the German assault.
Japan, which had used thousands of bicycle troops during its 1937 invasion of China, also relied on bicycle mounted infantry during its February 1942 invasion of Singapore. In December 1941, just hours before the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese invaded British Malaya (present-day Malaysia) from their Indochinese territories. Off the southern tip of the peninsula, Singapore island was home to a major British naval base and well defended from amphibious assault. An attack from its northern, landward front was regarded as impossible due to Malaya’s seemingly impassible jungles. Tokyo exploited that presumption. In company with light tanks, Japanese cyclists traveled the length of the 500-mile peninsula on narrow trails. Strange as it may seem, they had not brought the bicycles with them. As planners were loath to tangle up their amphibious operations with ships’ holds full of bicycles, the riders confiscated the plentiful British Raleigh and BSA bikes from civilians on landing. Arriving by the tens of thousands on the south end of the peninsula by late January, the Japanese flooded across the narrow Johor Strait on barges and collapsible boats, swiftly overwhelmed the fortress and occupied the naval base.
Even the German Wehrmacht, vaunted for its mechanized blitzkrieg, found bicycles indispensable, so much so they seized bicycles across occupied Europe late in the war. Throughout the war the occupying authorities had acted to restrict civilian mobility. From residential registration to curfews, movement was monitored and restricted. A key component of that policy was the requisitioning of civilian motor vehicles, accompanied by restrictions on licensing and registration, augmented by the strict rationing of civilian gasoline supplies. “The bicycle—soon de rigueur for anyone not walking—became even more prevalent,” historian Ronald Rosbottom observes in When Paris Went Dark. “There was no way to forbid them, or Paris would have ceased to function.” For many a bicycle was essential, its loss an existential threat. “Their owners suffered from a paucity of tire rubber and oil,” Rosbottom notes. “A flat tire or stripped gears could be a major event in the life of a worker or a mother responsible for her children’s welfare.” That was as true in besieged London as it was in occupied Paris.
Across Britain airfields suffered from a shortage of vehicles with which to transport aircrews to their waiting planes. Enterprising personnel took to begging, borrowing and stealing bicycles to ride from the briefing room to their bombers. The stealthy cycles came in handy when slipping away for unauthorized visits to the pub.
The stealth nature of the bicycle also made it of particular importance to various European underground movements. The 2014 documentary My Italian Secret highlights road cyclist Gino Bartali, a two-time postwar Tour de France winner who during wartime training rides in full racing attire transported forged documents to the Jewish resistance during World War II, helping save the lives of countless Jews. In his memoir The Bicycle Runner author and chef Gian Franco Romagnoli recounts his youth as a courier for the Italian resistance. He recalls nearly useless synthetic rubber tires and tubes, patches on patches and eventually resorting to a length of garden hose stuffed with sawdust as a tire. He describes the reaction to a final, irreparable flat: “A grown man would simply sit on the curb near the dead, useless vehicle and cry.”
The bicycle played a role in irregular warfare during the far-flung wars of the 20th century, certainly in Vietnam, where bicycles have been common since the early 1900s. In rural areas they are able to navigate footpaths inaccessible to automobiles, such as those atop the dykes between rice paddies. The Vietnamese continue to use the bicycle as personal transportation as well as for haulage, often so laden with cargo its owner has to attach a bamboo extension to the handlebars in order to steer while walking behind the sagging, overburdened frame.
Not surprisingly, bicycles—albeit significantly re-engineered and strengthened to carry up to 500 pounds—were a mainstay on the Ho Chi Minh trail during the three decades of conflict that followed World War II. Until largely supplanted by trucks, bikes were essential during the 1950s and remained so anywhere trucks could not travel. More easily hidden and/or dispersed if targeted by aircraft or artillery, they were a key component of the logistical system that supplied the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese units operating in the south.
Random examinations of bicycles in Iraq helped thwart their use as improvised explosive devices. Essam Al-Sudani/AFP via Getty Images
In recent decades irregular forces have even weaponized the bicycle. On Sept. 17, 2006, Operation Medusa—a NATO offensive to drive the Taliban from a stronghold in southern Afghanistan’s Kandahar province—was declared complete, and Lt. Gen. David Richards, the British commander of NATO troops in Afghanistan, proclaimed it a “significant success.” A day later, in a gesture of defiance, a suicide bomber killed four soldiers on foot patrol in nearby Panjwai. The chosen delivery system? A bicycle.
Though hardly a new tactic (the IRA employed bicycle bombs on several occasions during the Troubles in Northern
Ireland), the attack illustrates a growing phenomenon. Throughout the strife-riven Middle East bicycles,ridden or pushed, are often laden with innocuous-looking bags and boxes. Replacing such cargo with explosives produces an IED that easily fades into the streetscape. Such devices have since killed or wounded scores of innocent bystanders in Afghanistan and Iraq alone.
Ireland), the attack illustrates a growing phenomenon. Throughout the strife-riven Middle East bicycles,ridden or pushed, are often laden with innocuous-looking bags and boxes. Replacing such cargo with explosives produces an IED that easily fades into the streetscape. Such devices have since killed or wounded scores of innocent bystanders in Afghanistan and Iraq alone.
Far from fading into irrelevance in its third century as a conveyance, the bicycle has a direct impact on the conduct of warfare. Needing neither fuel nor fodder and only rudimentary maintenance, faster and quieter than a man afoot, it will continue to find military applications. MH
Bob Gordon is a Canada-based historian whose work has been published in that nation, Britain and the United States. For further reading he recommends Bicycles in War, by Martin Caidin and Jay Barbree; Bicycle Troops, by R.S. Kohn; and Riding Into Battle: Canadian Cyclists in the Great War, by Ted Glenn.
A Postmodern Inquisition: Faculties of (Re)-Education? by CALUM ANDERSON
In 1633 the Inquisition charged Galileo Galilei with heresy and sentenced him to house arrest where he died nine years later. The heresy was published in Dialogues on the Two Chief Systems of the World which claimed that the earth is not the centre of the universe. Galileo’s willingness to pursue truth, even at great personal risk, paved the way for modern liberal education where the student is taught how – not what – to think. Today, teacher training programs have embraced a secular orthodoxy in postmodernism, an ideology which exalts activism and social justice to the detriment of discourse and critical thinking. Ironically, today’s activists closely resemble Galileo’s inquisitors. While dissenting voices may not face house arrest, they may well lose their careers and credibility. Prospective teachers must be made aware of this concerning trend, and work to foster a classroom culture where open debate and viewpoint diversity are championed; sadly, Faculties of Education are recommending that teachers do the opposite.
Premodern educators regarded learning as a painful duty to which children were naturally opposed; teachers championed obedience, and often used punishment to achieve and maintain it. The teacher’s responsibility was to imbue his students with the proper kind of knowledge, and to supress opinions which he regarded as improper. Conversely, a liberal education trains the student to think for himself, and to form opinions after having heard the best arguments articulated by their strongest advocates. Professors in today’s teacher training programs claim to oppose the premodern authoritarians whose methods are (often rightly) dismissed as ineffectual and old-fashioned. Discerning teachers know that most students enjoy learning if it is sufficiently challenging and engaging. They also know that students need not be inculcated with their teacher’s personal political or religious beliefs. It is confounding that principles of liberal education such as individuality, self-discipline and open discussion are being usurped by the tenets of postmodernism which are more similar to premodern notions than they are different.
Postmodernism is a collectivist ideology whereby people are viewed as members of groups and not as individuals. For the postmodernist, the world is divided into the oppressors and the oppressed, and one’s membership is determined by characteristics such as ethnicity and sex. The oppressors hold all of the power, and so educators are honour-bound to train students to fight for power’s equal distribution. Those of us who went through a Marxist phase as young teenagers – and those who have yet to outgrow that phase – may be familiar with this argument. As Stephen Hicks has said, “Postmodernism is the academic far-left’s epistemological strategy for responding to the crisis caused by the failures of socialism in theory and in practice.” If the intellectual foundations of postmodernism are the same as those which produced the murderous communist regimes of the twentieth century, what will happen when that same ideology dominates our schools and universities?
In my experience as an education student, postmodernism was never acknowledged or defined by professors whose courses were influenced by that ideology. Interestingly, Western University did not offer a course in the Philosophy of Education when I attended. It is unsurprising, therefore, that postmodern claims go unnoticed by many students. A common one is the contradictory rejection and acceptance of objective truth – that is, it is objectively true that truth doesn’t exist. As such, teachers are taught, we must be sensitive to alternate ways of knowing. Mathematical and scientific explanations are merely subjective narratives, as are modernist claims about progress and prosperity. Such claims have simply been fabricated by the powerful so as to justify the continued exploitation of the oppressed. In the West teachers are predominantly white (and thus privileged) so they have a moral obligation to train their students to fight against the oppressors. Speaking from a position of privilege, the teacher’s voice may be used to amplify the voices of oppressed minorities whose opinions will otherwise be dismissed by the powerful. Teacher candidates have been raised under the corrupt auspices of Western democracy and free-market capitalism which are patriarchal and systemically racist. Oppressor-students have been granted unfair privileges through these systems, while Oppressed-students have been unfairly disadvantaged by them. Prospective teachers are not aware of this fact, however, and must be re-educated so that they can, in turn, re-educate their future students.
Re-education begins with “reflexivity,” a practice whereby students acknowledge their group identity and think about how their privilege (or lack thereof) influences how they think, what they believe, and who they are. Western University’s mandatory Aboriginal Education course provides an example. My classmates and I were required to write a two-part “De-colonizing Autobiography” where we were asked to consider our “relationship to colonialism.” After having described (and presumably atoned for) this relationship, we were to explain how we would incorporate “de-colonizing pedagogy” into our classrooms, and why we felt such a pedagogy is important for all Canadians to be subjected to. The University of British Columbia defines de-colonizing pedagogies as “teaching and learning approaches that both acknowledge and deconstruct structures of power” in an effort to “create space for, and give legitimacy to, Indigenous ways of knowing.” The notion that Ontario teachers must accept “Indigenous ways of knowing” as legitimate is problematic. It is necessary for Indigenous ways of knowing to be taught in our schools. Indeed, the study of Canadian history would be incomplete otherwise. It is concerning, however, that some believe that the Indigenous worldview should be universally accepted and free from criticism.
In the second-year Research in Intercultural Contexts course, students are taught about the “critical cosmopolitan principles.” One of these principles is “historicity,” which teachers are taught to use to explain how past and present inequities are related. Disagreement with these principles was dismissed by one professor as “resistance to diversity issues” resulting from the subconscious desire to “defend discourses that privilege [voices] of the dominant culture.” This course is offered as part of a specialization in International Education which I registered for as a student who was interested in teaching abroad. Disappointingly, however, this specialization was devoted to furthering the narrative that Western colonialism and imperialism have shaped our education system which must now be reshaped to become more diverse, equitable and inclusive. Western liberal education thrived was because it was forced upon subjugated populations whose own ways of knowing are as legitimate. Teachers who choose to work abroad are engaging in colonialism by imposing Western ways of knowing on students. Canonical works of Western literature are studied not because of their enduring relevance, sophistication and beauty, but because of a Western superiority complex. Thomas Sowell has said of multiculturalism: “you can praise any culture in the world except Western culture—and you cannot blame any culture in the world except Western culture.” Through classroom discussions over the course of a two-year period, I can say that my experience was that many – if not most – education students had accepted the anti-Western narrative which Sowell describes. It seems reasonable to assume that this is the narrative that will be taught in future history, literature and politics courses.
Professor Ilana Redstone has referred to the “silent crisis in the classroom” – when the ideological underpinnings of influential theories are ignored, there is a “tacit substitution of theory for truth.” This is particularly problematic when it occurs in a teacher training program. Teachers are learning that it is acceptable to infuse course content with personal belief. Students may be chastised for questioning their teacher’s opinions. Perhaps they may even be punished if those questions are interpreted as racist, homophobic, or intolerant. There is no place for bigotry in our classrooms, but too often we see thoughtless accusations of bigotry leveled against discerning critics who are branded as heretics – or racists, in our modern parlance. Faculties of Education – and teachers as a profession – must stand against postmodern anti-intellectualism and authoritarianism if they wish to teach their students how to think. Galileo lived during a time when views that were contrary to certain universally accepted truths were censored, and their advocates punished. We, too, live in such a time where a slip of the tongue – not to mention reasonable and carefully articulated statements – can jeopardize one’s reputation and livelihood.
Democratic Socialism Doesn’t Work Any Better than Totalitarian Socialism July 26, 2020 by Dan Mitchel
When I write about socialism, I often point out that there’s a difference between how economists define it (government ownership, central planning, and price controls) and how normal people define it (lots of taxes, redistribution, and intervention).
These definitions are blurry, of course, which is why I created a “socialism slide” to show how countries oftentimes are an odd mix of markets and government.
But one thing that isn’t blurry is the evidence on what works. Simply stated, there is less prosperity in nations with big government compared to nations with small government.
And it doesn’t matter whether socialism is the result of democracy or tyranny.
Kristian Niemietz is with the Institute of Economic Affairs in London. He explained for CapX that mixing democracy with socialism doesn’t fix anything.
Mention the economic failures of the former Eastern Bloc countries, or Maoist China, or North Vietnam, or today, of Cuba or Venezuela or North Korea, and the answer will invariably be: “But that was a dictatorship! That’s got nothing to do with me, I’m a democratic socialist!” …“[S]ocialism means ‘economic democracy’…But the…economic failures of socialism never had anything to do with a lack of democracy. Democratisation improves many things, and is desirable for many reasons. But it does not, in and of itself, make countries richer. …The empirical literature on this subject finds no relationship either way between economic development, and the system of government. …If socialists want to make the case that democracy was the magic missing ingredient… How exactly would democracy have closed the economic gap between East and West Germany, or North and South Korea, or Cuba and Puerto Rico, or Maoist China and Taiwan, or the People’s Republic of Angola and Botswana, or Venezuela and Chile?
Meanwhile, Kevin Williamson pointed out in National Review that post-war socialism in the United Kingdom failed for the same reason that socialism fails anywhere and everywhere it is tried.
History counsels us to consider the first adjective in “democratic socialist” with some skepticism. …the socialism that reduced the United Kingdom from world power to intermittently pre-industrial backwater in the post-war era was thoroughly democratic. …In the United States, we use the word “democratic” as though it were a synonym for “decent” or “accountable,”but 51 percent of the people can wreck a country just as easily and as thoroughly as 10 percent of them. …The problems of socialism are problems of socialism — problems related to the absence of markets, innovation, and free enterprise… Socialism and authoritarianism often go hand in hand (almost always, in fact), but socialism on its own, even when it is the result of democratic elections and genuinely democratic processes, is a bottomless well of misery. …rights — property rights and the right to trade prominent among them — also find themselves on the wrong side of majorities, constantly and predictably. But they are…necessary for a thriving and prosperous society. Socialism destroys societies by gutting or diminishing those rights. Doing so with the blessing of 50 percent plus one of the population does not make that any less immoral or any less corrosive.
Thankfully, Margaret Thatcher saved the United Kingdom from socialism.
But other nations haven’t been so lucky. Democratically elected governments adopted socialism in Greece and Argentina, but neither country found a savior to restore economic liberty (or maybe voters didn’t want to reverse the failed policies).
What about the United States? Will we vote ourselves into socialism?
Given the wretched track records of Wilson, Hoover, FDR, Nixon, Obama, etc, I’m tempted to say that we’ve been doing that for more than 100 years.
But I don’t want to be unduly pessimistic. America hasn’t slid too far down the socialism slide. Indeed, we’re actually ranked #6 in the world for economic liberty.
That’s the good news. The bad news is that there are lots of proposals for additional bad policy and plenty of politicians clamoring to move in the wrong direction.
To see what that might mean, I’ll close with some polling data that the Washington Examiner shared earlier this year. Here are things that might happen if socialists (however defined) get power in the United States.
And here are things that the American people say would qualify as socialism.
Ugh, that’s a recipe for the Venezuela-fication of the U.S. economy.
P.S. For what it’s worth, notwithstanding his statist platform, I think Joe Biden only intends to incrementally go down the slide (whereas Bernie Sanders would have greased the slide for a rapid descent).
Sunday, July 26, 2020
OPERATION RED WINGS THROUGH THE EYES OF THE NIGHT STALKERS By Joshua Skovlund
The sun was fading behind Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush mountains the evening of June 27, 2005, as a team of four U.S. Navy SEALs walked up the ramp and into the back of U.S. Army Captain Matt Brady’s MH-47 Chinook helicopter on Bagram Air Base.
Tasked with inserting the SEAL special reconnaissance (SR) team deep into enemy territory in unforgiving terrain, Brady knew the SEALs — Lieutenant Michael Murphy, Petty Officer 2nd Class Danny Dietz, Petty Officer 2nd Class Marcus Luttrell, and Petty Officer 2nd Class Matthew Axelson — had a difficult mission ahead. Marines in the area knew it was an extremely dangerous place filled with Taliban fighters.
Brady had no way of knowing at the time, but it would be the last time anyone at Bagram would ever see three of those four Americans alive.
The Army’s elite 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) is known for having some of the most skilled aviators in the world, who fly the most elite special operators into some of the most austere environments on earth using the most advanced aircraft in the U.S. military inventory. They are famous for the roles they played in both the Battle of Mogadishu and the mission to kill Usama Bin Laden but are revered throughout the special operations community for acts of valor that often never see the light of day due to the classified nature of their work.
As a pilot in the 160th, Brady was the air mission commander for the operation. He and some of his fellow “Night Stalkers” felt the SEALs’ plan was too risky.
The mission was to capture or kill Ahmad Shah, a Taliban commander. The three-phase plan called for inserting a four-man SR team the first night, then inserting the second element of SEALs the following night to establish an isolation zone around Shah. Finally, 150 U.S. Marines would come in to establish blocking positions for the SEALs’ assault on Shah’s compound.
The Night Stalkers’ job was to insert the SEALs on a ridgeline where the terrain left few options for landing zones. The commandos would have to descend from a rope — fast-rope — while the helos hovered high above the trees. That meant if the SEALs got into trouble, extraction would potentially require the use of a hoist to pull the SEALs out, which was a time-consuming and dangerous option.
As he approached the insertion site, Brady could see lights dotting the mountains below through his night-vision goggles.
“This was a desolate part of the Hindu Kush, and at night, you wouldn’t really expect to see much,” Brady told Coffee or Die. “Not really sure who they were, but there was more activity than I expected.”
As the pilots climbed the last 1,000 feet of elevation, the AC-130 crew providing overwatch on their destination radioed to say they had to leave their position due to a mechanical issue. Brady knew that surveillance aircraft going off station without backup was supposed to result in aborting the mission.
He asked the AC-130 crew for one final report on the four potential landing zones the Night Stalkers had identified for the mission.
“We’ve got two military-aged males, possibly armed, on the northernmost LZ,” the crew reported. “Primary and secondary zones appear to be clear of potential threats.”
Believing the gunship could make it back on station in time for the insertion, Brady made the call to continue the mission.
Approaching the insertion point, the pilots flared the Chinook and came into a hover. As the lead aircraft descended, it became clear the LZ was on a steep slope of the mountain, making descent difficult due to the front rotors approaching the mountainside faster than the rear of the aircraft.
“Hold your right and left; hold your front and rear,” came the internal radio traffic from the flight engineer to Brady.
There were 100-foot-tall trees on all sides of the Chinook, and they were so close the pilots had no room to sway as they descended.
“When you hear all four directions, everyone gets pretty tense,” Brady said. “It means you can’t drift any direction without crashing.”
The pilots descended to the point where the Chinook’s front rotor was just a few feet away from the mountainside with tall trees all around the aircraft. The flight crew kicked out the ropes, and the SEALs fast-roped down.
When the crew chief tried to pull the rope up, they found it was entangled below. After several tense moments of struggling to bring in the rope, they decided to cut it loose. The odds of enemy fighters hearing the echo of the dual-rotor helicopter increased every second it remained in a hover. The SEALs did their best to hide the rope and keep their presence on the ridgeline hidden from enemy fighters.
It wasn’t an ideal insertion, but the Night Stalkers had accomplished their mission. They ascended and flew back to Jalalabad to link up with another group of SEALs and standby as a quick reaction force (QRF) in case the SR team was compromised.
At Jalalabad, Brady was approached by SEAL Commander Erik Kristensen in the command operations center. Kristensen confronted him about the decision to cut the rope at the LZ and asked if the Night Stalkers would go back and retrieve it.
“We would have to drop a man down with a hoist in that hole of an LZ,” Brady explained. “Hoisting a man at that altitude on that kind of terrain at night is a dangerous operation. Once on the ground, they’d have to pick up the rope, hook it to themselves, and get hoisted back up. Hovering for that long over the same spot would burn the LZ and likely alert the enemy to the SR team’s presence.”
Kristensen agreed with Brady’s evaluation, and after the SR team radioed that they would be laying down for the day in their hide site, Brady and Kristensen called it a night.
Walking toward the flight line, the SEAL commander quipped, “What made you want to fly such ugly helicopters?”
“They’re not much to look at, but they get the job done,” Brady fired back. “Kind of like SEALs.”
They shared a laugh as they loaded up for the flight back to Bagram.
At the Bagram operations center, Major Stephen Reich approached Brady urgently, asking why he didn’t follow abort criteria and fly back with the SR team after the AC-130 had to leave the airspace.
Brady said he estimated the AC-130 would only be off station briefly and that the crew had reported no hostile activity on the LZ. He told Reich pushing the mission back would allow Shah to continue his terrorist activities, likely leading to the death of locals and U.S. military in the area.
“Good,” Brady recalled Reich saying. “I’m glad you’re a thinking air mission commander and not simply one that takes a black-and-white view of the situation.”
With that, they retired to their rooms to rest for phase two of the operation the following night.
As the Night Stalkers slept, the SR team was discovered by a numerically superior force of enemy fighters. They engaged in a fierce firefight, and at some point the task force lost contact with them.
Brady’s maintenance officer woke him and said the SR team was in trouble and the Night Stalkers had orders to spin up and pull the team out.
“That’s not possible,” Brady replied, confused at how quickly the SEALs had become compromised. “They’ve got their own quick reaction force. We’re completely separate commands. It doesn’t make sense.”
But he knew and lived by the Night Stalkers’ promise to every customer: “If we put you in, we’ll stop at nothing to get you out — even if it’s technically someone else’s job.”
Brady rushed to the operations center where Chief Warrant Officer 4 Chris Eicher was telling the task force commander that they should wait until dark before sending the QRF because going in during daylight would subject them to more danger. The 160th had only lost helicopters during daylight missions at that point — they’re called Night Stalkers for a reason.
The commander explained that the ground force commander had already rejected that plan and didn’t want to wait any longer.
Brady ran over to where his platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Mike Russell, was sleeping and updated him on what had unfolded.
“Are you serious?” Russell replied.
Russell went to work right away getting the crews together to prep the aircraft for the mission.
Back in the operations center, leaders were busy trying to figure out the SEALs’ last known location and calculating how many soldiers each helicopter could fly with. They finalized plans and sent the Night Stalkers on their way.
As Brady approached the Chinook he’d be flying, he noticed the tail number: 1-4-6. The bird’s call sign was Turbine 33. Kristensen and his SEALs were waiting on the ramp, standing in a circle.
“Our plan of action is for you to get us to the high ground as close to the troops in contact as you can, and we’re going to fight our way downhill,” Brady recalled Kristensen saying.
Since the SEALs weren’t sure where exactly the compromised team was located, Kristensen believed inserting at a position of tactical advantage was the best option.
“Drop us on the high ground, and we’ll make our way to our swim buddies,” Kristensen told Brady.
As Brady climbed into Turbine 33 and started strapping in, Reich tapped his shoulder and asked what the plan was. Reich, who had been designated mission commander for phase two of the operation, felt the QRF was his responsibility.
“We argued for what seemed like 10 minutes but was actually about 30 seconds,” Brady recalled.
But Reich cut the debate short. “I don’t really care, Matt,” he told Brady, “just get your stuff and get off the airplane. This is my mission.”
Brady said he pleaded with Reich to at least let him come with and act as an extra gun and set of eyes.
“Nope, I want you to take my spot as the operations officer and monitor from here,” Reich replied.
Disappointed, Brady followed the order and got off the aircraft. As he watched the two Chinooks taxiing onto the runway, he locked eyes with Russell, his platoon sergeant.
“He had a look of competence and professionalism — like he was ready to live out the Night Stalker creed,” Brady said.
He walked back to the operations center to monitor the situation and provide support from Bagram.
The two Chinooks — Turbine 33 and Turbine 34 — were packed with 16 SEALs each, plus the Night Stalker pilots and crewman. Flying toward Jalalabad en route to the last known position of the SEALs, they received word from Bagram on the number of men they could have on board each aircraft and still fly at the extreme elevation. They would have to offload eight SEALs from each helicopter before continuing.
“A lot of guys really wanted to stay on the mission,” recalled Chief Warrant Officer 3 Tim Graham, one of the pilots on Turbine 34.
The plan was for the SEALs to fast-rope onto the ridgeline above the original LZ. The Night Stalkers would then circle back and pick up the remaining SEALs who offloaded at Jalalabad.
During the flight, the Night Stalkers passed two Apache gunships whose pilots asked if they wanted to slow down so they could provide surveillance and support for the operation. Not wanting to burn valuable time waiting on approval from the task force commander for the audible, the Night Stalkers continued on without the Apaches.
Arriving at the insertion point on the ridgeline, Turbine 33 descended into a hover. Graham watched from Turbine 34 as Turbine 33’s ramp lowered and the crewman walked onto it to observe the landing zone below. Graham’s aircraft pulled off to the right to circle around and insert their payload of SEALs after Turbine 33 moved off to allow their entrance.
That’s when Staff Sergeant Steven Smith, the flight engineer in the rear of Turbine 34, saw a smoke trail emerge from the tree line directly toward Turbine 33. The projectile flew through the open ramp of the Chinook and exploded inside. Turbine 33’s nose dipped down, and the aircraft slid to the left, appearing to almost recover. Then the helo’s blades started hitting each other, and the aircraft rolled to the right before inverting as it descended to the mountainous terrain below.
Smith and the others in Turbine 34 watched helplessly as the Chinook full of their fellow aviators — their friends — crashed into the mountain and erupted in a ball of flames.
“Al and Kip were on the ramp when the RPG impacted,” Smith, who witnessed the horrific event, recalled. “They rode it all the way in that way.”
Graham and his co-pilot whipped their Chinook around to look for survivors. As they were turning around, Graham saw five Black hawks performing a star-cluster evasion. Turbine 34 started taking heavy gunfire from unseen fighters below. They broke off and flew out of reach of the enemy fire.
Graham reported the situation back to Bagram. Receiving the transmission, Brady couldn’t believe it. He would have been on that bird were it not for the last minute change. He asked Graham to repeat, unable to register what he had just heard.
One of Brady’s soldiers in the operations center was asking him a question, but Brady was momentarily frozen with shock. Then the realization hit: He was now in charge.
Brady told his operations NCO to give him a minute to gather more information to get the next plan of action in place. He walked out of the operations center and found Eicher.
“Chris, Turbine 33 has just been shot down,” he told Eicher, who earned the nickname “Iceman” for his always cool demeanor.
Eicher looked at Brady and said, “Nah, they probably put down for maintenance.”
Brady persisted with the details. He and Eicher hurried back to the operations center.
The two Apaches had arrived on station, drawing heavy gunfire, but nonetheless giving Turbine 34’s crew back in the operations center a good look at the crash site.
“It didn’t look like there was any way anybody could have survived,” Graham said. “You hope they could. It just didn’t look good.”
They ascended back into orbit and remained there for an hour until the task force commander ordered them back to Jalalabad. Not wanting to leave their brothers, the SEAL team commander hatched a plan with the Night Stalkers to insert higher up on the ridgeline and fight their way down to the crash site so Turbine 34 could fly back to Jalalabad, pick up as many SEALs as he could, and fly back to reinforce the eight SEALs. The task force commander denied the request and ordered Turbine 34 back to Jalalabad. Frustrated and angry, Graham followed the order.
Smith said everyone on the Chinook was angry. One of the SEALs even drew his pistol and attempted unsuccessfully to force the Chinook to land so they could try to save their friends.
Graham made a stop at a Forward Arming and Refueling Point (FARP) just outside of Jalalabad. After landing, Graham saw the same five Black Hawks that had peeled off earlier parked on the runway. He didn’t think much of it at the time, but many years later he found out a new platoon leader came into their company within the 160th and was responsible for those Black Hawks.
Each of the five Black Hawks was loaded with Marines and had flown out thinking they were the QRF for the SR team. When Turbine 33 was shot down, they received orders to fly back along with Turbine 34 and the Apache gunships until the next phase of the mission was developed.
After refueling, he continued on to Jalalabad and off-loaded.
“When I met him there on the ground in Jalalabad, Graham was fairly shaken to say the least,” Brady recalled.
The task force commander debriefed the men and then focused on planning their next steps.
Smith said he saw a line of armored vehicles full of troops.
“I could see a lot of vehicles with troops armed to the damn teeth,” Smith recalled. “They rolled out with a convoy and with some vengeance, and they fought their way up that mountainside, all the way up to the crash site.”
The remaining Night Stalkers prepared for a rescue operation. Navy SEALs, Army Rangers, and other Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) personnel loaded onto five Chinooks. All the men were anxious, angry, and ready to retrieve their brothers in arms.
The Chinooks took off toward the mountains once again, but as they climbed in elevation, severe weather rolled in. Thunder boomed as lightning struck all around them.
“So the enemy is one factor, but the terrain and weather are now a huge factor, and they’re starting to overtake the enemy in terms of danger to the force,” Brady said.
He said visibility got so bad that he couldn’t see the heat glow of the engines from the Chinook in front of him. The order was given to again abort the mission and return to base. It was a gut-wrenching decision for everyone on the mission, as they knew the original SEALs on the SR team were fighting for their lives and one of their own aircraft and crew was burning on the side of a mountain.
Back at Jalalabad, the commanders decided they had no choice but to wait for better weather and try again the next night.
As the storm raged, the members of the task force — haunted with thoughts of their brothers on the mountain — tried to sleep.
As the next night approached, the task force went to work, planning another insertion onto the deadly ridgeline. The Night Stalkers again loaded their Chinooks with Rangers and SEALs and took off toward the mountains.
Arriving on site, the task force members fast-roped in. The extreme height of the trees made the full length of rope — approximately 90 feet — necessary. Many of the men suffered scorched hands from gripping the rope through gloves for such a long descent.
Once on the ground, they started their search for casualties, potential survivors, and sensitive equipment.
As the Night Stalkers flew back to Bagram, the JSOC ground force that had convoyed to the crash radioed to the task force that they had secured the site. There were no survivors.
The JSOC troops, along with their newly arrived reinforcements, went to work recovering those killed in action as well as sensitive equipment that could not fall into enemy hands. They then used explosives to clear out a large enough area for Chinooks to land when they came back.
Chief Warrant Officer 4 Matt Rogie arrived in Bagram just before the Night Stalkers came back after dropping off the recovery force. Assigned to replace Eicher as senior flight lead, he was trying to learn as much as he could before hopping into an aircraft and joining the mission.
Rogie met Eicher on the flight line when he landed after returning from the mission.
“I’m glad you’re here because I am spent,” Eicher told him.
The Night Stalkers flew back to their newly forged landing zone the following night. The weather was turning bad again as they offloaded Marines to assist with security.
“I could see the grass being blown by the rotor wash and all the remains bags being lined up in a row — 16 of them,” Rogie recalled. “There was still some smoldering from the crash site, and I could see the glow from the heat through my night vision.”
One by one, the Rangers and SEALs loaded the fallen onto the Chinooks and headed back to Bagram with their brothers. The flight back was pure silence. The loss weighed heavy on the men.
As the Night Stalkers approached Bagram they could see what looked like everyone on base standing outside, showing their respect for the fallen.
“When we landed, we just saw a row of Night Stalkers and Rangers and SEALs for as far as I could see, lined up and ready to help transport the remains off and take them to the mortuary affairs section,” Brady recalled.
When the ramp lowered, the Night Stalkers on the Chinooks stood tall and proud for their fallen brethren as task force members boarded and began solemnly moving each remains bag to the mortuary affairs building.
“All of us were pretty broken up at that point,” Rogie said.
The C-17 sat on the runway with the ramp down, waiting to receive the 16 interment cases containing the fallen warriors. Brady stood next to a SEAL commander — both had to take command of their respective units when Reich and Kristensen were killed on Turbine 33. Their war-weary faces were chiseled stone as they watched the task force solemnly load 16 flag-draped internment cases into the C-17.
Brady said it seemed like the whole base turned out to give the fallen a proper sendoff. As the cases were being loaded, a SEAL ran up to the new SEAL commander and placed a written note in his hand. The note said that Marcus Luttrell was alive at a nearby village. The SEAL commander broke down and cried at the desperately needed positive news.
The fallen Night Stalkers of the 160th SOAR included:
Staff Sergeant Shamus O. Goare
Chief Warrant Officer Corey J. Goodnature
Sergeant Kip A. Jacoby
Sergeant First Class Marcus V. Muralles
Major Stephen C. Reich
Sergeant First Class Michael L. Russell
Chief Warrant Officer Chris J. Scherkenbach
Master Sergeant James W. Ponder III
The members of the task force said their final goodbyes. The C-17 closed its ramp and taxied down the runway and took flight. The fallen warriors were now on their way home.
The lone C-17 aircraft lumbered through the sky after departing Germany, a necessary stop on the way back to the United States. The back of the aircraft contained the flag-draped coffins of 16 great Americans: the fallen Night Stalkers and SEALs from Turbine 33.
Children of varying ages ran around the coffins, playing and yelling, not yet old enough to understand the sacrifices these warriors made. A Taliban high-value target (HVT) sat tucked into the corner away from them all, guarded by other soldiers.
Three war-weary escorts — one of them a SEAL and the other two Night Stalkers Daniel Bell and Chris Eicher — sat off to the sides, grimly staring off into space. They were exhausted and angry with the mistake the U.S. Air Force had made when they allowed Space-A seating to be filled on this leg of the flight home.
The rescue operation, known as Operation Red Wings II, continued for weeks. Almost every variety of special operations troops in the U.S. military inventory participated in a coordinated effort through some of Afghanistan’s most dangerous and austere terrain during the search for their brothers — both alive and fallen.
Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell was the only survivor from the initial four-man SEAL reconnaissance element.
For the Night Stalkers of the famed 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the war on terror continued.
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