Covid-19 and armed conflict

The next installment of ‘Under Afghan Skies‘ will appear this week, but I’ve also been trying to pull together what information and insight there is on the impact of the pandemic on Syria (more on that soon too).  En route, these more general reflections provide some helpful context:

(A) International Crisis Group on Covid-19 and conflict: seven trends to watch is here. This was written late last month, and it’s clearly a rapidly evolving situation, but in brief the trends identified by the ICG are:

(1) The vulnerability of conflict-affected populations

The populations of conflict-affected countries – whether those in war or suffering its after-effects – are likely to be especially vulnerable to outbreaks of disease. In many cases, war or prolonged unrest, especially when compounded by mismanagement, corruption or foreign sanctions, have left national health systems profoundly ill-prepared for COVID-19… The areas of active conflict at highest immediate risk of COVID-19 outbreaks may be north-western Syria, around the besieged enclave of Idlib, and Yemen. Both countries have already experienced health crises during their civil wars, with violence impeding the international response to an outbreak of polio in Syria in 2013-2014 and cholera in Yemen from 2016 onward. UN officials have now raised the alarm about COVID-19 infecting the population of Idlib, where a Russian-backed offensive by government forces has systematically targeted hospitals and other medical facilities and led to the displacement of over one million people in the last six months alone. Many people fleeing clashes sleep in fields or under trees, and basic hygiene and social distancing practices are made impossible by the lack of running water or soap as well as cramped living spaces….

Also of concern are the Rohingya refugee camps in Bangladesh, where over one million people live in overcrowded conditions, with sanitation facilities and health care services limited to a bare minimum. A government ban on internet and mobile phone services in the camps limits access to vital preventive information, while high levels of malnutrition likely imply that both the refugees and local residents are more susceptible to the disease. Should COVID-19 reach the camps, humanitarian agencies expect it to spread like wildfire, potentially triggering a backlash from Bangladeshis who live in the surrounding areas and are already unnerved by the refugees’ prolonged stay.

In these cases – as for displaced communities in Iraq and elsewhere in the Middle East, Africa and Asia – there is a risk that IDPs and refugees facing large-scale outbreaks of COVID-19 in the camps where they reside may aim to flee again to safety, leading local populations or authorities to react forcefully to contain them, which creates the potential for escalating violence. States attempting to stop the spread of the disease are likely to view new refugee flows fearfully. Colombia and Brazil, for example, closed their borders with Venezuela after previously taking a relatively generous approach to those fleeing the crisis there, but the pressure to escape worsening poverty and health risks in Venezuela could force rising numbers of migrants to use illegal crossings.’

(2) Damage to international crisis management and conflict resolution mechanisms

‘One reason why refugee and IDP populations are likely to be especially vulnerable to COVID-19 is that the disease could severely weaken the capacity of international institutions to serve conflict-affected areas. WHO and other international officials fear that restrictions associated with the disease will impede humanitarian supply chains. But humanitarian agencies are not the only parts of the multilateral system under pressure due to the pandemic, which is also likely to curb peacemaking.

Travel restrictions have begun to weigh on international mediation efforts. UN envoys working in the Middle East have been blocked from travelling to and within the region due to airport closures. Regional organisations have suspended diplomatic initiatives in areas ranging from the South Caucasus to West Africa, while the envoy of the International Contact Group on Venezuela – a group of European and Latin American states looking for a diplomatic solution to the crisis there – had to cancel an already long-delayed trip to Caracas in early March for COVID-related reasons.

The disease could affect crucial intra-Afghan peace talks planned as a follow-up to the February preliminary agreement between the U.S. and the Taliban, at least reducing the number of those who can participate (although limiting the group to real decision-makers and essential support staff could be conducive to serious talks).

More broadly, the disease means that international leaders, focused as they are on dramatic domestic issues, have little or no time to devote to conflicts or peace processes…

The disease could also affect multinational peacekeeping and security assistance efforts. In early March, the UN secretariat asked a group of nine peacekeeping troop contributors – including China and Italy – to suspend some or all unit rotations to blue helmet operations due to concerns about the spread of COVID-19. UN operations have announced further limits to rotations since then, meaning that peacekeepers’ tours of duty will be extended for at least three months in tough mission settings such as the Central African Republic and South Sudan, potentially affecting their morale and effectiveness.’

(3) Risks to social order

‘COVID-19 could place great stress on societies and political systems, creating the potential for new outbreaks of violence. In the short term, the threat of disease is likely acting as a deterrent to popular unrest, as protesters avoid large gatherings. COVID-19’s emergence in China precipitated a decline in anti-Beijing protests in Hong Kong (although public discomfort with radical elements of the protest movement may also have been a factor). There has been a decline, too, in the numbers of protesters taking to the streets in Algeria to challenge government corruption. The Russian opposition largely acquiesced in the authorities’ move, ostensibly justified on health grounds, to block protests against President Vladimir Putin’s decision to rewrite the constitution to extend his tenure in office. At least one exception to this general caution occurred in Niger, where demonstrators took to the streets against rules barring protest, which the government extended by invoking COVID-19. Three civilians were killed by security forces on 15 March.

Yet the quiet in the streets may be a temporary and misleading phenomenon. The pandemic’s public health and economic consequences are liable to strain relations between governments and citizens, especially where health services buckle; preserving public order could prove challenging when security forces are overstretched and populations become increasingly frustrated with the government’s response to the disease….

More broadly, the disease’s catastrophic economic impact could well sow the seeds of future disorder. It could do so whether or not the countries in question have experienced major outbreaks of the disease, although the danger in those that have will be magnified. A global recession of as yet unknown scope lies ahead; pandemic-related transport restrictions will disrupt trade and food supplies; countless businesses will be forced to shut down; and unemployment levels are likely to soar.’

(4) Political exploitation of the crisis

‘Against this background of social pressures, there is ample room for political leaders to try to exploit COVID-19, either to solidify power at home or pursue their interests abroad…. Nonetheless, as the crisis goes on, some leaders could order restrictive measures that make public health sense at the peak of the crisis and then extend them in the hope of quashing dissent once the disease declines. Such measures could include indefinite bans on large public gatherings – which many governments have already instituted to stop community spread of COVID-19 – to prevent public protests. Here again there are precedents from West Africa’s Ebola crisis: local civil society groups and opposition parties claim that the authorities prohibited meetings for longer than necessary as a way of suppressing legitimate protests. A harbinger of what is to come may have appeared in Hungary, where Prime Minister Viktor Orban asked parliament on 21 March to indefinitely extend a state of emergency that prescribes five-year prison sentences for those disseminating false information or obstructing the state’s crisis response….

… the crisis may create openings for jihadist groups to launch new offensives against weakened governments in Africa and the Middle East. To date, neither ISIS nor any of al-Qaeda’s various branches has displayed a clear strategic vision relating to the pandemic (although ISIS has circulated health guidance to its militants on how to deal with the disease based on sayings by the Prophet Muhammad).’

(5) A turning-point in major power relations?

‘The potential effects of COVID-19 on specific trouble spots is magnified by the fact that the global system was already in the midst of realignment…

In 2014, the U.S. took charge of a belated multilateral response to the West Africa Ebola crisis helped by countries ranging from the UK and France to China and Cuba. Today, the U.S. – whose international influence already had considerably weakened – has simultaneously mishandled its domestic response to COVID-19, failed to bring other nations together and stirred up international resentment. President Donald Trump has not only harped on the disease’s Chinese origins but also criticised the EU for bungling its containment.

China, by contrast, after having to cope with the consequences of the initial outbreak, its early and costly decision to hold back information, and its own uneven response, and having sought at times to blame the U.S. by waging an irresponsible misinformation campaign, now sees in the health crisis an opportunity to gain influence over other states through humanitarian gestures’.

(6) Opportunities to be siezed

‘While the warning signs associated with COVID-19 are significant, there are also glimmers of hope. The scale of the outbreak creates room for humanitarian gestures between rivals. The UAE has, for example, airlifted over 30 tonnes of humanitarian aid to Iran to deal with the disease (Bahrain, by contrast, took the opportunity to accuse the Islamic Republic of “biological aggression”).

(7) Potential crisis mitigation measures

‘Looking ahead, governments will have to decide whether to support more cooperative approaches to handling the crisis, not only in global public health terms but also as a political and security challenge. All leaders face pressure to focus on and spend money and political capital on domestic priorities, and in particular to ignore conflict risks in weak states that may seem hard to resolve or simply not important enough to worry about. But there will be a day after, and if the coming period is not dealt with wisely, it could be marked by major disruptions in already conflict-ridden areas, the eruption of new violence and a far more fragile multilateral system…. The COVID-19 pandemic threatens to be long and draining. It will make diplomacy, and especially crisis diplomacy, harder. But it is crucial to keep channels of communication – and a spirit of cooperation – intact in a period when the international system seems as ready as ever to fragment.’

(B) International Committee of the Red Cross: Cordelia Droege‘s post on ‘COVID-19 response in conflict zones hinges on respect for international humanitarian law‘ is here.

‘…the extreme vulnerability of people in conflict zones to COVID-19, the culmination of degraded or collapsed essential services such as water, sanitation, and health care, is in significant part the result of a disregard over many years of States’ and other belligerents’ obligations – as set out in international humanitarian law and international human rights law – towards populations under their control.

Now we are here, at a new crossroads, but one with familiar signposts. In the long term, a public health response to a pandemic and respect for fundamental legal protections go hand in hand. To illustrate this, the ICRC Legal Division has produced a basic reminder of the key provisions of international humanitarian law, relevant to the COVID-19 pandemic in conflict situations, that we must all keep close at hand when a pandemic hits countries at war.’

She then lists in clear, summary form those key IHL provisions (which concern both rights and responsibilities) in relation to:

  • Medical personnel, provisions and transport
  • Water supply
  • Humanitarian relief
  • Persons specifically at risk
  • Detainees
  • Internally displaced persons, migrants, asylum seekers and refugees
  • Children and education
  • Sanctions regimes and other restrictive measures

(C) Christine Bell has another helpful post over at Just Security on ‘COVID-19 and Violent Conflict: Responding to Predictable Unpredictabilityhere.

She draws on ongoing research from the Political Settlements Research Programme to identify ‘baseline understandings are likely to be key in designing the most effective responses to the COVID-19 pandemic in conflict-affected regions.’

The PS Research Programme also has a useful list of resources on Conflict, Development and Covid-19 here.

(D)  In a previous series of posts I discussed the militarized response to Ebola – see here, here and here – and Diana Ojeda and Lina Pinto García have provided a chilling, illuminating commentary from Colombia on ‘The militarization of life under war, “post-conflict,” and the COVID-19 crisishere.

(E) Finally – essentially – three thoughtful reflections on the dangerous work done by deploying (sic) the rhetoric of war to discuss the novel Coronavirus (see also my post here):

  • Eve Fairbanks, ‘A pandemic is not a war‘, at HuffPost here;
  • Adriano Iaria, ‘We are not at “war” with COVID-19: concerns from Italy’s “frontline”‘, at ICRC’s Humanitarian Law and Policy blog here;
  • Federica Caso, ‘Are we at war?  The rhetoric of war in the Coronavirus pandemic‘, at The Disorder of Things here.

Under Afghan Skies (3)

Here is the third installment of my essay on an airstrike on three vehicles in Uruzgan, Afghanistan on 21 February 2010 that has become one of the central examples in critical discussions of remote warfare.  The first installment is here and the second is here.  The background to the essay is here.  And to be clear: many of the images I’ve used in this and the previous posts are taken from my conference presentation; some relate directly to this incident but others (as I hope will be obvious) are intended to be illustrative and do not portray the engagement under analysis.

***

0530

At 0531 the commander of the AC-130 warned that ‘we are right at the outer limit of our fuel’ and could only remain on station for another five minutes at most without a fire mission – and, like the JTAC, he plainly wanted one [101] – but the GFC decided that the distance was still too great so they would have to wait and ‘let things unfold.’  ‘We really need PID,’ the JTAC emphasised, ‘to start dropping.’

At  0534 the AC-130 reluctantly signed off.  ‘We knew that as soon as we left they would be in greater danger,’ the commander told McHale (p. 1420).  ‘Stay safe,’ he radioed the JTAC, and ‘we will try to send one of ours back out here for you tomorrow night.’   It was now down to the Predator.  ‘All right,’ the pilot told his crew, ‘so it’s us.’

By then, alarm bells were also ringing at the Special Operations Wing at Hurlburt Field in Florida where the screeners had been following the vehicles.  The Mission Operations Commander there ‘started beefing up the crew’ and ‘doubled up every position’ (p. 588). To increase the number of screeners was unusual, his commanding officer explained, but tracking two and eventually three vehicles and dozens of people needed ‘more eyes on the mission’ (p. 1412).  It was a wise move, but it could do nothing to increase their chronically narrow field of view.

As the situation developed, it gained interpretive momentum, shaded by increasingly ominous exchanges between the Predator crew and the JTAC.  These were reinforced by comments from the Afghan forces who accompanied the US Special Forces in Khod.   ‘If the Afghans see something that I don’t see because some of them had [local] knowledge,’ the ODA’s second-in-command told McHale, ‘they’ll let me know’, and as soon as his interpreter translated it he would put it out over the inter-team net to keep everyone in the loop.  ‘They were like nobody comes down from there at night with lights on,’ he explained, ‘announcing their presence.  They told us that [the vehicles] were coming in to reinforce here because they had seen in the past stuff like that.’  The upshot was that ‘we just felt like they were coming for us’, and as the night wore on that impression ‘kept on building, and building, and building’ (p. 1569).

At Creech the sensor operator had zoomed in to focus the Predator’s infra-red camera on the passengers travelling in the back of the pick-up, and commented that it was ‘weird how they all have a cold spot on their chest.’  ‘It’s what they’ve been doing here lately,’ the pilot told him, ‘they wrap their [shit] up in their man dresses so you can’t PID it.’ The slur about traditional Afghan attire, the shalwar kameez, should not distract from the implication that the failure to identify weapons was suspicious in itself, not an indication of innocence at all but evidence of a deliberate strategy to conceal weapons from their surveillant eye. [102]  So far the Predator crew had identified the people in their field of view as ‘individuals’, ‘passengers’ and ‘guys’, but their vocabulary became overtly prejudicial as they routinely referred to them as  ‘MAMS’: ‘Military-Age Males’. [103] The term is redolent of what Jamie Allinson identified as a necropolitical logic which mandates that all those assigned to this category ‘pose a lethal threat to be met with equally lethal violence.’ [104]

The switch to ‘MAMs’ was triggered at 0534 when the pilot and the sensor operator both thought they saw one of the men carrying a rifle and the sensor operator read out a mIRC message from the screeners calling ‘a possible weapon on the MAM mounted in the back of the truck.’  The pilot lost no time in sharing the sighting with the commander of the AC-130, who was about to sign off, and with the JTAC: ‘From our DGS, the MAM that just mounted the back of the Hilux had a possible weapon, read back possible rifle.’

But almost immediately the search for weapons and the age of the people collided as the screeners sent a stream of mIRC messages that were less well received by the Predator crew.  At 0536 they called ‘at least one child near [the] SUV’, and at 0537 they reported that ‘the child was assisting the MAMs loading the SUV’  (p. 1154).  When the MC read out these calls there was immediate pushback.  ‘Bull[shit],’ the sensor operator exclaimed, ‘where?’ ‘I don’t think they have kids out at this hour’, he continued, ‘I know they’re shady, but come on…’ The pilot looked over at the mIRC window and reinforced their presumptive ‘shadiness’: ‘[Assisting] the MAM, uh, that means he’s guilty.’  This was an open invitation to revise the age of the child upwards.  ‘Maybe a teenager,’ the sensor operator grudgingly conceded, ‘but I haven’t seen anything that looked that short.’  The MC reported the screeners were reviewing.  ‘Yeah, review that [shit]’,’ the pilot replied. ‘Why didn’t he say possible child?’ he fumed.  ‘Why are they so quick to call [fucking] kids but not to call a [fucking] rifle?’  The next mIRC message did nothing to settle him; at 0538 the screeners reported not one but ‘two children are at the red SUV… Don’t see any children at the pick-up’ (p. 1154).  Reading out their message the MC added his own rider: ‘I haven’t seen two children.’  Still, the pilot passed the call to the JTAC at 0538: ‘Our DGS is calling possible rifle in the Hilux and two possible children in the SUV.’  He seemed to have granted his own wish and turned ‘children’ into ‘possible children’. [105] (He later told McHale that ‘if the screener calls something and we are not sure we would tell the JTAC we had a possible….’ (p. 908)).  The JTAC acknowledged the pilot’s relay and repeated that ‘[the] Ground Force Commander’s intent is to monitor the situation, to keep tracking them and bring them in as close as we can [to Khod] until we also have CCA [Close Combat Attack] up and we want to take out the whole lot of them.’  The sensor operator was still grumbling about the screeners – ‘I really doubt that children call,’ he muttered, ‘I really fucking hate that’ [106] – when at 0539 the MC said he had been told to remind him ‘in case they do get a clear hostile, and they’re children, to remove our metadata so they can get a snap of it.’ [107]  Then he added, ‘But I haven’t seen a kid yet, so…’ At 0540 the screeners came back to report ‘One man assisted child into the rear of the SUV’ (p. 1154), which prompted the MC to ask: ‘Is this the child entering the rear of the SUV?’  As they watched their screens the occupants were all getting back into the vehicles, when they detected what they took to be a scuffle in the back of the Hilux.  It is impossible to know whether this was a (re)interpretation of the previous message, but they evidently saw it as an altercation rather than ‘assistance’.  ‘They just threw somebody in the back of that truck,’ the pilot claimed, while to the sensor operator it looked as though ’those two dudes [were] wrestling,’ and without consulting the screeners the pilot radioed the JTAC at 0541 to say that they had witnessed the ‘potential use of human shields’. [108]

All of these calls were at best circumstantial, and the evidential basis for most of them was exceptionally thin, but it was enough for the GFC to take pre-emptive action and initiate the call for more air support: and he wanted Close Combat Attack (CCA).  The Predator had only one AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missile left in its rack – the other had been fired earlier in its flight – and that would not be enough firepower to engage all three vehicles.  ‘I don’t think he’s gonna let us shoot,’ the pilot observed, ‘cause they wanna get all these guys – but still…’  The sensor operator wondered ‘who the next available CCA is gonna be’, because they might be able co-ordinate with them: ‘We’re gonna take this vehicle…’   While they were talking the GFC contacted SOTF-South’s Operations Center at Kandahar Air Field by satellite phone and asked for an ‘AirTIC’ to be declared. TIC stood for ‘Troops in Contact’ and immediately triggered aircraft to come to the aid of ground forces who were exchanging fire with the Taliban; the average response time in Afghanistan then was around 8-10 minutes.  But an AirTIC was a purely precautionary measure intended to bring aircraft on station in anticipation of an engagement; it had no official status and was not part of established military doctrine but had become standard operating procedure for Special Forces. [109]

At 0545 the JTAC told the Predator pilot ‘we’ve opened an [AirTIC] and we’re going to get additional air assets on scene’.  As expected, the GFC requested Close Combat Attack – helicopters – and not Close Air Support, and the Fires Officer at SOTF-South immediately contacted the Air Support Operations Center (ASOC) at Kabul, an Air Force unit attached to the Army to coordinate tactical air support (both CAS and CCA), which informed him that ‘the only thing they could get off the ground in a timely manner was a Scout Weapons Team’ (SWT) (p. 721).  This consisted of two OH-58 Kiowa helicopters tasked for armed reconnaissance. [110]   When the GFC called back to chase progress on his request, the Fires Officer told him the SWT would be coming, but added that it might be possible to bring in A-10 ‘Warthogs’ too, heavily armed gunships built around a high-speed 30mm rotary cannon that were often called on to support troops in contact because they had a long loiter time (compared to helicopters) and enhanced visibility of the ground (compared to other strike aircraft). The ASOC had already referred SOTF-South’s request for CCA back to Regional Command–South at Kandahar Air Field, and at 0541 its Duty Officer contacted the 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade (also at Kandahar Air Field) and authorised its Task Force Wolfpack – Alpha Troop from the 1st Squadron, 17th Cavalry Regiment – at FOB Ripley outside Tarin Kowt to launch two of its OH-58 helicopters to provide CCA in support of ‘a TIC’ 35 miles northwest of their base (p. 394);  ‘AirTIC’ does not appear in the duty officer’s log.

Despite the live streaming of the FMV feed from the Predator onto a giant screen in SOTF-South’s Operations Center, the departure of the AC-130 leaving coalition forces exposed to Taliban attack, and the GFC’s declaration of an AirTIC to obtain additional air cover, the mission log at SOTF-South had fallen silent at 0536 with the transcription of a SALT report: ‘2-3 vehicles… [GFC] reports ISR [Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance: the Predator’s FMV feed] PID of 43-55 pax [people] in two groups carrying weapons’ (p. 1991).  No further entries would be made for another two hours.

The responsibility for maintaining the log fell upon the officer designated as Night Battle Captain. [111] He usually monitored eight to ten operations at any one time, but Operation Noble Justice was the main mission that night.  Ordinarily the role would have been filled by a major, but he had been seconded to assist with planning Operation Moshtarak in Helmand (p. 999). The captain who took his place had only been in post for three weeks, had received little training and was described by his own commanding officer as ‘barely adequate’ (p. 1103). [112]  Yet all three remaining field-grade officers at SOTF-South were asleep, even though the night was the time of highest risk (pp. 1006-7), and apart from the Fires Officer – who arranged the additional air cover requested by the GFC – McHale noted that all the posts on the night shift ‘were filled by personnel who were significantly less experienced than the day shift counterparts’ (p. 51). While it was true that Operation Noble Justice could not be executed until dawn, the coalition forces were exposed to attack during the three hours they had to wait for first light.  The GFC had made it clear that he thought the danger to them was increasing, but the green young battle captain merely monitored the stream of SALT reports through the small hours, acknowledging each one with a terse ‘Roger, Copy’ (p. 938), occasionally watching the Predator feed and periodically logging on to the mIRC chat:  what McHale called ‘a pretty passive kind of watching’ (p. 1014).  ‘I just monitored and saw what happened,’ the Night Battle Captain told him (p. 1549). [113]  Although the major who was Director of the Operations Center conceded that the most active period was between 0200 and 0600 – the period with the ‘highest density of risk and threat’ – he insisted there were ‘wake-up criteria’ in place that were met in this instance and should have had him called into the Operations Center (p. 993).  But he wasn’t.  The Night Battle Captain said he ‘didn’t feel at that point it was necessary to wake anyone’ (p. 1549), and even as the situation deteriorated he still saw no reason to wake his senior officers or to reach down to the GFC. [114] A series of immensely consequential decisions would have to be taken by the GFC alone. [115]

The vehicles were now trying to ford a river, making several attempts to find a safe crossing.  Their every move was being watched back in the United States and at 0551, when the water rose to the doors, the Predator pilot exclaimed: ‘I hope they fucking drown them out, man.  Drown your [shit] out and wait to get shot.’  ‘I hope they get out and dry off,’ the MC added, ‘and show us all their weapons.’ The Predator crew was now anticipating an airstrike with relish, and they had a brief discussion about the legal envelope within which it would take place.  The pilot wondered how the presence of ‘potential children and potential [human] shields’ would affect the application of the Rules of Engagement, and the sensor operator told him the GFC was assessing (or would have to assess: the basis for his comment is unclear) ‘proportionality and distinction’. That is confusing too – or perhaps just confused – since those are considerations required by International Humanitarian Law rather than the ROE.  They forbid military force to be used against civilian targets or to cause ‘excessive civilian harm’. ‘Is that part of CDE [Collateral Damage Estimation]?’ the pilot asked, adding that he was ‘not worried from our standpoint so much’ – since that was not their responsibility – but that it was asking a lot of the GFC to make such a determination.  The sensor operator thought he would have to wait ‘until they start firing, cause then it essentially puts any possible civilian casualties on the enemy.’  ‘If we’ve got friendlies taking effective fire,’ he said, ‘then we’ve gotta do what we’ve gotta do.’  Should that happen before the SWT arrived, the pilot decided, ‘we can take a shoot … get as many as we can that are hostile, hopefully track them still in the open’ – and then, presumably, talk the helicopters onto the target once they arrived.

The Predator crew clearly had no pre-strike guidance from a military lawyer from the Judge Advocate-General’s Corps (known as a JAG).  By 2005 JAGs were part of the US Air Force’s ‘kill-chain’, stationed on the operations floor of CENTCOM’s Combined Air Operations Centre (CAOC) at Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar to advise on targeting. [116]  They were also forward deployed in Afghanistan, but the Safety Observer at Creech Air Force Base, who was called in shortly before the engagement and whose responsibilities included ‘making sure the ROE had been met’, confirmed that there was no JAG ‘on site to consult during these engagements’ (p. 1459). [117]  In any case, the leading strike aircraft in this instance would be the OH-58 helicopters. As the Predator crew had realised, the onus was on the GFC, who had to decide whether the vehicles constituted a legitimate military target whose execution fell within the ROE and the Tactical Directive, and then order the JTAC to issue a ‘nine-line’ brief and clear the aircraft to engage. [118]

The Safety Observer explained that ‘the only other way’ a strike could be authorised would involve the identification of a High-Value Individual (HVI) whose execution would require an additional level of clearance through ‘a joint targeting message from the CAOC’ (p. 1457). [119]   The GFC knew that – ‘an HVI was above my authority’ (p. 953) – and so did the JTAC, who said he would have had to refusd any order from the GFC to clear the helicopters to engage an HVI without higher approval (p. 1495).  The JTAC told McHale that the GFC was still convinced that the convoy was carrying at least one HVI (p. 1491) – the ‘high-level Taliban commander’ and his security detail inferred at the start of the pursuit – but that he had also decided it posed an ‘imminent threat’ to coalition forces at Khod, which the JTAC was satisfied constituted sufficient grounds to engage (p. 1495).

It is impossible to adjudicate the issue: the GFC claimed that he had discounted the presence of an HVI (above, p. 00), and since the CAOC was not involved in cases of self-defence and imminent threat – the presumptive triggers in this instance – the only sources of legal advice available to the GFC were JAGs at the two Special Forces Operations Centers at Kandahar and Bagram Air Fields.  Throughout the night neither was contacted by the battle captains.

0600

At 0601 Task Force Wolfpack’s Duty Officer at FOB Ripley logged the request sent via Regional Command–South ‘for aircraft coverage for [a] TIC’ (p. 402).  McHale characterised this as a ‘911 call’ (p. 1438) which – whether he intended to or not – was a tacit acknowledgement that the narrative had been transformed and a precautionary measure had become an emergency response. This was exactly how the message was received by the helicopter crews, and in fact throughout the stream of communications that resulted in the Scout Weapons Team being scrambled the situation was consistently described not as an AirTIC but as a TIC: a live incident. Those charged with providing air support, as Air Force Lt Gen Stephen Hoog explained, ‘are not in the business of determining whether a TIC is “real” or not.’ [120]

Within ten minutes of the call being received at FOB Ripley the Predator crew knew that two OH-58 helicopters would be scrambled.  All they could do for the moment was watch the vehicles on their screens and wait as their drivers made heavy weather of it (Figure 4). The dirt roads and uneven ground meant they rarely exceeded 10 m.p.h., and there were several stops for people to get off to help the vehicles make it up a steep incline. There were other stops, sometimes to let an overheated engine cool down and at others for punctures or repairs to the wheels (fortunately for them – though not for him – they had a mechanic with them).  ‘When something breaks in Afghanistan it probably breaks pretty good,’ the MC observed, ‘with all the rough terrain and everything.’

From here on virtually everything the Predator crew described, in conjunction with the pilot’s exchanges with the JTAC, contributed to the continued collaborative construction of an imaginative geography of an impending Taliban attack. The fact that there were vehicles out there at all attracted suspicion.  In such a poor area, the JTAC told McHale, ‘from my experience those with vehicles are well-off and supported by the Taliban or Taliban themselves’ (p. 1487). Soon the vehicles had become ‘technical trucks’ – a standard term for pick-up trucks with improvised mounts for crew-served weapons [121] – and when they were joined by a third at 0602 (dubbed ’guilt by association’) this was seen as a ‘grouping of forces’ and now they constituted a ‘convoy’. At 0617, after they had finally crossed the river and stopped for people to get out and pray – the Fajr that was a normal start to the day for any devout Muslim – this was seized upon as a Taliban signifier: ‘They’re praying, they’re praying,’ the sensor operator declared, ‘I mean, seriously, that’s what they [the Taliban] do.’  The MC agreed: ‘They’re gonna do something nefarious.’  [122]  This was the moment when the passengers in the vehicles first became aware of an aircraft:

 ‘There is a rest area on the way where we stopped to pray,’ explained one of the women. ‘We got out of our cars, men and women. After our prayer, we left.  That’s when we heard the sound of a plane.  But we couldn’t see it.’ [123]

But it could see them, and a couple of minutes later the MC directed the crew’s attention to ‘that [infra-red] spot in the back of that truck.’  ‘It’s all their guns,’ the sensor operator told him.  This too was a leap of (bad) faith, followed by yet another.  When the MC passed the screeners’ identification of an adolescent near the rear of the SUV, the sensor operator responded with ‘teenagers can fight’, which the MC amplified: ‘Pick up a weapon and you’re a combatant, that’s how it works’ (it isn’t).  Once the screeners identified an additional weapon, the pilot was evidently satisfied that they were now on the same page as him and his crew: ‘I’ll make a radio call,’ he said on the intercom, ‘and I’ll look over [at mIRC] and they will have said the same thing…’  This was not the screeners’ view – to the contrary –but it served to enrol them in the crew’s elaboration of their narrative.  It also reversed the inferential order, since the role of the screeners was to pass expert calls to the Predator crew for transmission to the GFC rather than act as secondary confirmation.

In the midst of this cascade of mutually reinforcing interpretations, the GFC continued to exhibit what – following McChrystal’s guidance – McHale praised as ’tactical patience’.  When the vehicles stopped for the dawn prayer they were six or seven km (four miles) from the nearest coalition forces, and at 0627 the JTAC explained that the GFC still planned ‘to let the situation develop, permit the enemy to close [on coalition forces at Khod], and we’ll engage them closer, once they’ve all consolidated.’

By then the helicopters were on their way.  The two aircrews that made up Scout Weapons Team 1 (SWT1) had reported for duty at FOB Ripley at 0600 and anticipated carrying out routine armed reconnaissance along what coalition forces called Route Bear, the dirt highway that wound 160 miles south from Tarin Kowt to Kandahar. Ordinarily they would have been airborne between 0700 and 0800, but the lieutenant in command of the team explained that as soon as they arrived for their overnight intelligence (ONI) briefing they were ‘notified that the ground force operating north of Cobra [FB Tinsley] had declared a TIC’ (p. 776), and the pilot flying trail said that they ‘got freaked’ and scrambled more or less immediately at 0615 (p. 1438). The OH-58s did not have to be readied, and one journalist who visited Ripley saw them sitting ‘in their concrete blast bunkers on the dispersal ramp, fully fuelled and armed and ready to go 24 hours a day.’[124]

The two pilots flying that day rushed to complete the paperwork and ran up the engines, while their co-pilots (the ‘left-seaters’) stayed to receive detailed information. As he waited for the lieutenant to join him, the pilot flying lead contacted the JTAC who ‘painted a very broad picture for me’  (pp. 513-4). Shortly after take-off at 0630 the lieutenant (call sign BAMBAM41) radioed that they were en route

‘responding to a TIC [redacted] reporting 2-3 technical trucks with heavy weapons, 35-50 Taliban maneuvering on their positions.  [ICOM] suggests the Taliban think they can overrun friendly forces…’ (p. 336). [125]

The helicopters at Ripley frequently responded to TICs but the familiarity did nothing to diminish the sense of urgency. The lieutenant testified that it was ‘the norm rather than the exception’ for the Special Forces at FB Tinsley ‘to get into TICs when they go outside the wire’ (p. 777). The aircrews had worked with ODA 3124 before and knew them ‘very well’,  and the pilot flying lead believed that they were ‘about to get rolled, and I wanted to go and help them out…  There was a 12-man team out here plus whatever [unintelligible] they had that were about to get a whole lot [of] guys in their faces’ (p. 516). Yet again there was no indication that their mission was a precautionary measure; to the contrary. [126]

As they approached their holding position south of FB Tinsley – they would subsequently land at Tinsley to conserve fuel, fly back to Tarin Kowt to refuel and then return to Tinsley and flat pitch (pp. 408-9) – the crews attempted to familiarise themselves with the situation.  Like ODA 3124 they had an unambiguous sense of the area as a threat landscape. The map from their ONI briefing was peppered with ‘IED hotspots’ and ‘IED cells’, ‘insurgent spotter locations’ and ‘insurgent spotter networks’, ‘insurgent fighting positions’ and ‘insurgent activity’ which, according to the summary, had increased markedly over the past month (p. 372) (Figure 5). [127]

This was another, intensely visual modality of areal essentialism (above, p. 00), which must have been reinforced by the crews’ experience of providing support to ground forces (‘we respond to a lot of TICs’: p. 777).  As they flew towards the firebase they picked up radio communications between the JTAC and other aircraft, including the Predator, which helped to animate their map, and while they had no access to the Predator’s FMV feed they were able to plot the progress of the vehicles and put the operational picture together.

The JTAC warned the helicopter crews not to ‘burn the target’ – alert the occupants of the vehicles – but to hold south of their position ‘out of earshot’ to give them time to ‘consolidate on our location’ before moving in to strike, at which point he said the GFC’s intent was ‘to destroy those vehicles and all the personnel with them’ (p. 336).  At 0641 the Predator pilot relayed a message to the JTAC from SOTF-South advising him that, as promised, other aircraft were ‘being pushed to this as well’ (call sign DUDE).  When the Fires Officer had told the GFC that A-10s might be coming too, he had been asked to have them hold south of the grid – like the helicopters – so that the occupants of the vehicles would have no warning of an attack, and the Predator pilot now relayed that DUDE was currently holding south of FB Tinsley and could be on station in four minutes. At 0645 the MC noted that the information about the TIC had finally appeared in the ASOC chat room (‘TIC A01’), and at 0649 the pilot was asked to bring the Predator down to 13,000 feet to de-conflict the airspace: ‘Have DUDE above you in support of TIC A01.’

But this was not the keenly anticipated A-10s.  Instead two F-15Es roared overhead.  The F-15 was originally designed for aerial combat, not CAS and still less CCA. Although the F-15E had been modified to conduct bombing missions, it flew at speeds that could exceed Mach 2.5 (around 3,000 km/hr) and so its pilots were wholly dependent on its sensors for target identification and laser designation.  This was noisy, split-second stuff, and the GFC was furious.  He immediately made another satellite phone call to the Night Battle Captain at SOTF-South:  ‘I was very adamant. I have fast-movers over my station, my desire is to have rotary wing aircraft’  because ‘they can PID any type of individual much better than some[one] flying at 15,000 feet dropping a bomb’ (p. 940). [128]  The advantage of the helicopter  – the capacity to come in low and slow – was supposed to be compounded by the persistent presence of the Predator.  The commander of the 432ndAir Expeditionary Wing boasted that his Predators ‘don’t show up on the battlespace and have 15 minutes of hold time to build our situational awareness.  We have a high capacity to make sure that we have the exact, right target in our crosshairs…. Time is not our enemy. We own time.’ [129]

In this case, even though the Predator was on station for more than three hours before the engagement, they didn’t. And it was a matter of space as well as time.  The GFC believed that the roar of the jets overhead had burned the target, because as soon as the F-15s made their pass the three vehicles changed direction; instead of heading south they were now driving along a ridge to the west (Figure 6). [130] At 0655 the JTAC told the Predator pilot that when the F-15s appeared ‘everyone started talking [on ICOM] about stopping movement.’ The occupants of the vehicles were now caught in a trap: all the time they were heading towards Khod they were seen as posing a direct threat, but as soon as they turned away many of those following their progress assumed they were executing a flanking manoeuvre.

That possibility was raised by the JTAC at 0708 – ‘it appears that they’re either trying to flank us or they’re continuing to the west to avoid contact,’ he told the Predator pilot, and asked to be warned ‘if those vehicles turn south’ (his emphasis) – and the Predator pilot replied that his crew ‘can’t tell yet if they’re flanking or just trying to get out of the area.’  The sensor operator thought ‘they’d go back home if they were trying to get out’, and during his interview with McHale’s team the JTAC said much the same. Asked ‘Is there anything this convoy could have done that would have prevented this engagement?’ he shot back: ‘travelled north’ (pp. 1496-7).

‘Flanking’ was a loaded term – one of the key lessons learned from this incident and incorporated into the Army’s guidance was that language like ‘”flanking” can lead to assumptions regarding hostile intent that may be unfounded’ [131] – but the die was soon cast.  For the next hour or more the Predator crew considered every possible route the vehicles could take to bring them down to Khod.  At 0708 the MC thought they were ‘trying to go around this ridge’, and the sensor operator pointed to ‘some low ground here, like a valley that goes straight to the village, it looks like…’  He added that he ‘wouldn’t be surprised if they started heading south-east at some point’ (towards Khod).

Watching from Hurlburt Field, the screeners doubted the flanking call and did their best to close it down.  The primary screener had been following the FMV feed and, with her geospatial analyst, tracking the vehicles on Falcon View, a digital mapping system. At 0710 she discussed their movement with one of her FMV analysts: their assessment was that ‘rather than moving south [they] appeared to be moving west out of the area’ (p. 1407).  She had no direct communication with the JTAC but she immediately sent a message to the Predator crew via mIRC saying it ‘looks like they are evading the area’.  In reply, the MC told her they ‘may be flanking, too soon to tell right now.’ She was still convinced the vehicles had ‘continued past all of the roads that they could have turned and been about to flank blue [coalition] forces’, so she sent a second, urgent mIRC message: ‘too far away from blue forces to be flanking.’  The response from the MC was dismissive – ‘They were spooked earlier from [the F-15s]’ (p. 1392) – and the same FMV analyst complained to McHale that the Predator crew ‘were very quick to disregard our assessments….  The MC comes up and tries to convince us that this is hostile forces.  Their desire to engage targets gets in the way on their assessments’ (p. 1408).

The Predator pilot had a different interpretation of what took place.   In his eyes pursuing the possibility that the vehicles were flanking was ‘the most conservative call’.  One of McHale’s team raised his eyebrows at that; as a former brigade commander he took ‘conservative’ to mean ‘I don’t fire’.  But the pilot stuck to his guns.  To him a conservative call was about ‘keeping our guys on the ground safe’, and he was unwilling to make ‘any hasty calls’ about the vehicles evading the area.  He elected to make what he believed were ‘the safest calls for our guys on the ground’ (p. 915).

Perhaps for that reason, the primary screener’s interpretation was never passed to the JTAC (p. 22). [132]   Her immediate superior, the Mission Operation Commander at Hurlburt Field, told McHale that ‘the biggest wild card is what these guys [the Predator crew] are telling the dudes on the ground’ (p. 594) – and what they were not [133]– and the screeners had no access to that information.  Their only points of contact were via mIRC with the MC at Creech and with the Operations Center at SOTF–South.

The Predator crew remained alert for every possible route that would take the vehicles down to Khod.  At 0716 the JTAC asked for an update on their position and direction of travel, and – following the sensor operator’s suggestion – the pilot told him ‘we’re coming up on a valley here, so we’ll be able to tell if they’re turning south towards you…’  A few minutes later he told the crew: ‘Does kinda look like he’s turning south here, huh, maybe?  No? (Expletive) I can’t tell!’  Throughout these and subsequent exchanges the will of the Predator crew to have the vehicles turn south was almost palpable, which would (in their eyes) have validated the strike to which they were now committed: ‘Still a sweet fucking target,’ exclaimed the sensor operator.

At 0719 the MC raised the possibility that the vehicles were leaving the area, though only on the crew intercom and without mentioning that this was the screeners’ assessment – ‘They could[‘ve] got spooked earlier and called it off’ – only to discard it as soon as the pilot again asked: ‘They are turning south, huh?’  The MC immediately agreed, pointing to a road, and the pilot radioed the JTAC: ‘It looks like the road we are following currently trending to the south, so back to the south at this time…’   He estimated the vehicles were now around six nautical miles (11 km) from the nearest coalition forces at Khod.  And yet doubts continued to surface; this was a difficult landscape to read from 14,000 feet. ‘I really don’t know, man,’ the pilot confessed at 0722.  Would they ‘take this valley to the south and run?  Or if they’re going to go back towards our guys, or what?’   A few minutes later the sensor reassured him. In a mile or so ‘they might have a chance to turn east.  I think there’s a road that cuts through these ridges…’

They had to wait for confirmation because all three vehicles juddered to a halt for more repairs.  At first it appeared to be just another puncture, but as the delay dragged on it seemed to be more serious. One of the men appeared to have crawled under the Hilux to work on its suspension, so the Predator crew concluded they had hit something when they forded the river.  ‘You gotta pretty much know how to fix a vehicle if you live in Afghanistan,’ the MC would observe later on.  ‘When something breaks in Afghanistan, it probably breaks pretty good.’

0730

While the vehicles were at a standstill – they would not be able to resume their journey for another half hour or more – the screeners were asked about the demographic composition of the occupants, and this time the pilot did pass their assessment to the JTAC: ’21 MAMs, no females, two possible children.’  ‘When we say children,’ the JTAC asked, ‘are we talking teenagers or toddlers?’ Without consulting the screeners the sensor operator advised the pilot they looked to be about 12, ‘more adolescents or teens’, and he agreed: ‘We’re thinking early teens,’ he told the JTAC.  The screeners confirmed but then updated their call.  ‘Only one adolescent,’ the pilot radioed the JTAC, who replied that ‘12-13 years old with a weapon is just as dangerous.’  McHale was repeatedly told that age had a different meaning in Afghanistan.  The GFC explained that the Afghan forces with whom they worked included fighters as young as 12 – ‘if they can carry a gun, they will fight’ –  and that the definitions of adolescent ‘for Americans versus Afghans are completely different’  (p. 943).  To the JTAC an adolescent was ‘someone that is 15 years old, a young adult.  We have [Afghan National Army], [Afghan National Police] and [Afghan Security Guards] that work with us, and they are teenagers. They are not 15 years old by American standards.  I’ve seen them be fairly cold-blooded on the battlefield and I know that the insurgent forces have a lot of young men working for them, supporting the Taliban’ (p. 1484). In his view a ‘military-age male’ could even be ‘as young as 13 years old’ (p. 1485).   These are instructive glosses because they accentuate the differences between Afghan and American culture – one of the mistakes of the cultural turn described by US counterinsurgency doctrine was its failure to acknowledge co-incident similarities between American and other cultures, which I suspect made empathy all the more difficult to achieve – and because the key differences are those that can be read as prejudicial and ultimately hostile.

By now the Predator crew had become so convinced by the subtitles they had been adding to the silent movie playing on their screens that they were turning negatives into positives.  The absence of rifles when the passengers got out was explained away – ‘They probably mostly left their weapons in the vehicles’ – and when the JTAC told them he was looking for more than AK-47s,  ‘something like a mortar, or something large and fairly obvious’, the pilot promised ‘we’ll keep our eyes open but we haven’t seen it yet.’  That dangling ‘yet’ was pregnant with meaning, and a few minutes later the Predator crew speculated that there could be a dismantled mortar in the back of one of the SUVs and that the passengers might be sitting on the mortar tubes or they could be concealed ‘anywhere in [the] base plate.’  It is a truism that absence of evidence is not evidence of absence – but it is certainly not evidence of presence.

As they attempted to obtain a clearer view, with the sensor operator adjusting the focus of the cameras and then switching from infra-red to full colour imagery as the sun came up, they looked forward to the airstrike they were convinced was coming. They knew the helicopters would be responsible for attacking the vehicles so the pilot explained they would have to ‘play squirter patrol’ and go after those who escaped from the wreckage. ‘I imagine they’ll run like hell all over the place,’ the sensor operator reflected, and if that happened the pilot told him to ‘follow whoever gives you the best shot and ends with us shooting.’

Meanwhile, in addition to evaluating ICOM and the reports from the Predator crew via the JTAC, the GFC continued to direct ground operations at Khod. As soon as dawn broke his teams had been good to go, and they had been busy carrying out searches, busting locks with bolt-cutters – an electronics store was of particular interest because it was the suspected source of components used for making radio-controlled IEDs – interrogating suspects and taking biometrics (p. 948). In two hours they had detained 70 men for questioning (p. 1356).

As these operations in the air and on the ground continued, Creech and Khod both alive with activity, SOTF-South’s Operation Center at Kandahar Air Field came to life too. It was arranged in tiers of half-moon seats, the lights dimmed, all eyes focused on the displays at their individual workstations, those on duty glancing from time to time at three 10 X 12 screens above their heads showing the FMV feed from the Predator and the route of the convoy on Google Earth and Falcon View.  At the very top and centre – ‘the centre of gravity’, as Petit described it to me – sat the battle captain who had been monitoring events throughout the night. At 0735 the shift changed, and when the Day Battle Captain arrived he found the Night Battle Captain, his operations NCO and the Fires Officer all ‘fixated on … the big screen, watching our Predator feed’ (p. 1224). He was quickly briefed on the developing situation by the Night Battle Captain, who gave him transcripts of the SALT reports, reviewed the route of the three vehicles and explained that they were ‘potentially responding to [an] enemy commander’s call to muster forces and maneuvering to attack’ (p. 2107).  He also told him about the reported sightings of children (‘one or two kids’) and weapons (p. 1226).

It took the Day Battle Captain 15-20 minutes to get up to speed.  He was a former ODA commander, and although he had only deployed with SOTF-South the previous month he had been trained for his role since September and was both more experienced and more assured than his predecessor.  He knew ODA 3124 and the area in which they were operating – ‘They have a very good idea of situational awareness… they know the terrain and they know the enemy’ (p. 1225) – and he had no hesitation in accepting that the occupants of the vehicles were probably hostile and that the GFC had good reason to think the Taliban were gathering for an attack on his position.  He also knew that the Scout Weapons Team had been scrambled in response to the AirTIC, but – in his eyes and those of his colleagues at SOTF-South – this remained a precautionary measure and, unlike a TIC, did not trigger any battle drill in the Operations Center.[134]  He knew too that the OH-58s were currently off station refuelling, and he also understood that the GFC wanted to wait in order ‘to allow the enemy to come in’ close to Khod (p. 1233).  All told, he had no reason to suppose an airstrike was going to happen any time soon.  But neither did he think a ground attack was imminent. Like the screeners he could see from the Predator feed and from the digital map displays that the vehicles had changed direction and were now moving away from Khod.  He opened his folder containing the Tactical Directive to work out ‘at what point, if those forces needed to, they could … potentially call fire from any of those assets [aircraft] that were on station.’ He was unsure – he had never seen an airstrike called in such a situation before (p. 1241) – and so he went to get SOTF-South’s JAG (‘someone who was extremely smart with the Tactical Directive’) to ‘help us to review what we are seeing and to put it into his own eyes’ (p. 1228) so they could advise the GFC ‘the next time we were in contact’ (p. 1254). This in itself was unusual: the military lawyer was ordinarily called only once a battle drill had been initiated – following the declaration of a TIC, for example – and where ‘there [were] civilian casualties as a result from [a] kinetic strike’ (p. 1227).  But in this case only an AirTIC had been declared and no battle drill had been initiated.

The JAG, Capt Brad Cowan, was new to Afghanistan – he had deployed in January fresh from the 1st Special Forces home base at Fort Lewis near Tacoma – and also new to his role at SOTF-South.  His previous front-line tour of duty had been with the US Army Trial Defense Service in Iraq in 2006-7, where his primary responsibility had been to represent soldiers at courts martial, boards and criminal investigations. The application of International Humanitarian Law, the ROE and the Tactical Directive required different skill sets.  At Kandahar Cowan conducted legal scrutiny of all CONOPS, and  although his targeting experience was limited – and he had been involved in only one incident involving civilian casualties, just two weeks earlier, the result not of an airstrike but of a combat patrol returning fire from a residential compound – he was commonly called to the Operations Center to advise on the use of air support and so he knew that there was little lead time for dynamic targeting. [135]  One of the NCOs ran over to give him the mIRC printouts, which he read as he hurried to the Operations Center, and when he arrived shortly after 0800 he scanned the SALT reports, watched the Predator feed on one of the giant screens and jotted down notes on the Rules of Engagement and the Tactical Directive (p. 608).

Meanwhile Colonel Gus Benton, the commander of Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan (CJSOTF-A) at Bagram Air Field, the link above Kandahar in the Special Forces chain of command, was heading over to his Operations Center. This was his fourth tour of duty in Afghanistan, and like all field-grade officers he had wake-up criteria but his staff had never had occasion to disturb him before (or perhaps never dared to).  But early on that Sunday morning his Night Operations Chief had phoned to alert him to the developing situation with ODA 3124.  ‘I was told we had [a] TIC’ (p. 527), he recalled, though he couldn’t remember ‘specifically what he told me, I just said “Roger, okay, got it”’ (p. 542). He got up and monitored radio traffic on his desktop receiver until he decided to dress and go over to the Operations Center.  He did not wait for a briefing, he told McHale: ‘I just walked in and said “Have we dropped?”’ (p. 543). It was a characteristically blunt question but it did not elicit the answer he expected. CJSOTF-A’s JAG had not been called (he never was), but Benton’s deputy did his best to justify the GFC’s tactical patience.  He was a former ODB commander who had served in Tarin Kowt in 2005-6 and had experience of similar situations, and he told Benton he thought the GFC was right to wait until the vehicles were within sight of Khod.  ‘I said that is what we did, we let them come to us so we can get eyes on them,’ he told McHale. ‘During my time I never let my guys [in the ODAs] engage with [Close Air Support] if they couldn’t see [the target]. I said that is great and Colonel [Benton] said “that is not fucking great” and left the room’ (p. 758).

The two men had a fractious relationship, and his deputy was worried that Benton was going to call down to Kandahar and order a strike. True to form, at 0820 Benton contacted SOTF-South and demanded that its commanding officer be brought to the phone. The Day Battle Captain immediately went to fetch Petit.  When he was woken up – he too had wake-up criteria but nobody had alerted him to what was happening – Petit was taken aback at the peremptory summons and frankly ‘ticked off’ that he had been brought in ‘so late in the game’ (p. 1085). The Day Battle Captain did his best to explain the bare bones of the situation as they hurried back to the Operations Center, but it took less than a minute and Petit was hardly well prepared when he picked up the phone.  During their short and no doubt terse conversation Benton did not issue a direct order to strike the vehicles but to Petit his meaning and intent were unmistakeable: ‘his guidance was to put lethal fires on them’ (p. 1094) because he was convinced ‘this was a target that was right for an engagement’ (p. 1112).

In his own evidence, Benton said that he told Petit he wanted ‘to make sure we minimise collateral damage’:

‘Let’s not wait until those forces get on top of our guys to take it out.  What I saw on the screen was vehicles, empty roads as the element [vehicles] moved, no villages or compounds in the direct vicinity. I thought as if I were pulling the trigger; a pattern like this maneuver, this JPEL moving along this road, no significant collateral damage.  The conditions were right based on what I understood for an effective target’ (p. 530). [136]

The first part made sense.  The Tactical Directive limited attacks against residential compounds in order to minimise civilian casualties, and by then the vehicles were in open country (‘empty roads, no villages or compounds’) heading through a wadi that the GFC described as a ‘rat-line’, a supply route used by the Taliban (p. 1360).

But the second part was more problematic.  Benton endorsed the GFC’s early belief that a ‘High Value Individual’ (HVI) on the JPEL target list was among the passengers, though he later admitted he had no direct knowledge of one at all. In any case, he had other, more urgent reasons to want a strike.  He was convinced that the vehicles and their occupants displayed a suspicious ‘pattern of life’ (a phrase he repeated several times) – that the vehicles were maneuvering tactically (’that pattern of maneuver’) – and that there was no time to waste.

Benton said he thought time was running out because coalition forces were ‘still prosecuting objective Khod’ and ‘the Pred feed [showed] vehicles moving to reinforce… getting closer….’   There was nothing complicated about it; unlike the Predator crew, and eventually the JTAC and the GFC, he did not debate whether the vehicles were evading or flanking because he was convinced they were still heading directly to Khod. When his Night Operations Chief woke him up he may have been told the distance from the convoy to coalition forces, he wasn’t sure, but given the time between that wake-up call and his arrival in the Operations Center Benton concluded that ‘obviously they have gotten closer, in my head they have gotten closer’ (p. 552). He made the same assertion multiple times (‘vehicles moving towards objective Khod’) until an exasperated colonel on McHale’s team pressed him on how he knew. Benton admitted he never consulted a map, but looking up at the Predator feed on the wall and ‘seeing the vehicles move towards the objective’ he decided he ‘needed to make the call to Lt Col [Petit].’  When he was asked to confirm the vehicles were still heading south, Benton blustered: ‘There [was] no way for me, Pred feed, vehicle moving on the road, to make that discernment, whether we are talking south or north…’  The colonel pointed out an icon in the lower left corner of the FMV feed that showed the direction of tracked movement. The vehicles were moving southwest not south.  ‘Okay,’ Benton responded, ‘well I missed that’ (pp. 546-7).

But the colonel had not finished with him:

‘Now here’s why we are asking.  If you go back over here [indicating the map], objective Khod, vehicles first identified and then throughout the morning, as you can see, initially moving in that direction.  But then they are tracked all the way over here – there’s the objective.  And then they continue off to the southwest, so we were a little surprised when you mentioned vehicles moving towards objective Khod…  If that helps paint the picture’ (pp. 547-8).

‘I will take a hit on that,’ Benton responded – a remarkably insensitive choice of words in the circumstances – before rallying and defiantly asserting that distance did not matter to him: ‘I would have pulled the trigger on a dynamic target thousands of kilometres away…’ (p. 551).  A Predator pilot might well do that – Creech was more than 11,000 km away – but not a commander on the ground.  For one of McHale’s legal advisers reminded Benton that the Tactical Directive madedistance matter because it had a direct bearing on whether a target posed an immediate or imminent threat (p. 550).

Benton was not alone in his casual attitude towards geo-location. His Night Operations Chief told McHale that from the time they woke Benton until he walked into the Operations Center ‘nothing changed’ and they briefed him accordingly. And he too insisted that when the vehicles were hit they were closer to Khod than when they were first spotted.  ‘It’s hard for me to stay in my seat,’ exclaimed one exasperated member of McHale’s team (maybe the same one).  ‘It’s about 5½ kilometers when they start in the north and 15 kilometers [nine miles] when they got struck.’  ‘What’, he wanted to know, is ‘the responsibility of the Ops Director with situational awareness and understanding?’ (p. 1472).

It was a good question, because the calibration of distance involved more than reading the Predator feed correctly.  As soon as Cowan arrived in the Operations Center at SOTF-South he had asked for ‘a straight-line distance between the team and the convoy’ precisely because he wanted to know whether the vehicles posed an imminent threat to coalition forces (p. 611).  One of the NCOs measured it on a Google map overlay as 12.8 km (eight miles) (p. 604), but observers at different locations had different ideas about how that translated into time.  The lieutenant commanding SWT1 thought it would have taken the vehicles ‘at least a couple of hours’ to reach Khod – which prompted one of McHale’s team to ask him ‘so what is “imminent threat” again?’ (p. 783) – while the pilot flying trail reckoned it would have taken them ‘three hours, give or take’ (p. 1441).  But they had latterly picked up speed – at 0708 the Predator pilot reported they were ‘hauling pretty good’ and by 0717 they were travelling ‘faster than the past hour, fastest yet’ – and perhaps for this reason the Fires Officer at SOTF-South thought ‘it would have taken 35-45 minutes [for them] to get back to where the team was’ (p. 723), while the GFC believed they ‘would be on me in fifteen to twenty minutes’ (p. 980).  Cowan provided no estimate of his own but given the distance he did not believe the vehicles constituted an immediate threat – though in the course of a protracted discussion with the senior legal adviser on McHale’s team he tied himself in knots, arguing that they did pose an ‘imminent threat’ before adding ‘imminent to me means immediate’ (p. 614) – and testified that in his view ‘at all times’ the vehicles met ‘the definition of imminent threat’ (p. 653).

Distance was also a key factor for others in the Operations Center at SOTF-South because – unlike Benton – they realised that the vehicles were now much further from Khod than when they had first been spotted.  At the very least – again, in contrast to Benton’s harried urgency – they believed this bought them time. When Petit finished his call with Benton (he had simply listened to his superior and promised to call back after he had been briefed) he admitted he was in a state of ‘near panic’ (p. 1112).  But he relaxed when he heard the vehicles were still so far from Khod: he told McHale ‘we felt like we had time’ to decide a course of action (p. 1113).  The JAG stepped forward and gave Petit his legal opinion: there were insufficient grounds for an airstrike. Not only were the vehicles increasing their distance from coalition forces – moving away rather than closing – but also, and more importantly, they did not constitute a legitimate military target:  ‘I didn’t see anything in that video feed that would indicate a hostile act or hostile intent’ (p. 610). [137]  The likely presence of children also gave him pause.  The resolution of the Predator feed was ‘fairly poor’, he said, so that ‘if someone was being identified [by the screeners] as a child through that view, then he must be fairly young… It must have been obvious that they weren’t a fighting-age male(p. 607).  he absence of heavy weapons was another concern.  He required evidence of ‘something more than just AK-47s,’ he explained, ‘which are not an indication of hostile intent.  Everybody has a weapon in this country.  Something bigger, something crew-served, some mortar system, a larger number of weapons, more than just a few ‘ (p. 613). [138] In sum, Cowan believed that in the circumstances ‘some sort of show of force or potential escalation of force’ (p. 604) would achieve the ‘same effect as engaging the target’ (p. 615) and unlike an airstrike would be consistent with the Tactical Directive. [139]

Almost immediately after Petit hung up, another secure phone rang.  It was a major that Petit knew from Task Force–South, a Ranger-led Special Operations unit also based at Kandahar Air Field, whose unit carried out HVI targeting and relied heavily on remote platforms for ISR. [140] They had also been watching the Predator feed, and he told Petit this situation was ‘along the lines of their mission set.’  He offered to send an Attack Weapons Team – AH-64 Apache helicopters – to conduct an Aerial Vehicle Interdiction (AVI) in which the vehicles would be forced to halt, ideally without opening fire, so they could be searched and the occupants questioned (p. 725).  This was in accordance with standard US military doctrine – which stipulates that ‘missions attacking targets not in close proximity to friendly forces … should be conducted using air interdiction (AI) procedures’(my emphasis) [141] – so that if the occupants proved to be hostile they could be engaged in full knowledge of their intent.  This chimed with Cowan’s recommendation, and the Day Battle Captain agreed that an escalation of force was the right response in the circumstances (‘the best bet’: p. 1230).  The Fires Officer was also cautious, but preferred a different course of action. In his view, the vehicles had changed ‘from tactical maneuvering to just travelling,’ as one of McHale’s team put it (p. 724), and he suggested that ‘we continue to follow with the Predator and watch to see where they go.’ This had been the GFC’s original intention too.  ‘I thought we could get better intelligence by watching to see where they go and who they link up with,’ the Fires Officer told Petit, ‘rather than interdicting them.’ But Petit had evidently absorbed enough of Benton’s argument – and the requirements of the Tactical Directive – to make him reluctant to wait and see what developed.  If they failed to act, the vehicles might end up ‘somewhere we couldn’t stop them at that point, like a compound’ (pp. 725-6).   And so it was agreed to arrange an AVI.

The GFC was wholly unaware of these developments at SOTF-South and while all the discussions were taking place at Kandahar he had decided that his situation at Khod had become much more precarious.  At 0744 the JTAC had told the Predator pilot that:

‘We just had [ICOM] traffic saying that all mujahedeen needs to start moving and come together. We currently have two groups that are talking to each other.  I suspect that one of them is the group in the vehicle[s], and another [is the] group to the south of us.’ [142]

The GFC and the JTAC had no way to confirm their suspicions – presumably they had nothing from the NSA cell – but the GFC was also receiving radio reports from the outer checkpoints of his cordon to the north and the south that women and children were leaving their villages and ‘pushing to open ground’ – ‘which is normal when an attack is about to happen’ (p. 1356): ‘a direct reflection of an impending attack’ (p. 947) – and he could also hear a checkpoint manned by Afghan Security Guards much further to the south, outside his immediate area of operation, exchanging fire with insurgents who were using heavy machine guns abandoned by the Red Army when they withdrew from Afghanistan in 1988-9 (p. 947). [143]

By now the possibility that the three vehicles could be anything other than a threat had been abandoned by the GFC and the JTAC.  At 0806 the JTAC radioed the Predator pilot: ‘Need to know as soon as they turn eastbound and come back to the green zone towards the direction of Khod.’ The pilot replied: ‘As soon as they break off to the east we will let you know’  (my emphases).  No longer ‘if’ but ‘when’: the conditional had become the imminent because the JTAC had told the pilot that they had received ‘special intelligence that the [northern] group is trying to link up with another fighting force out of [Pay Kotal: a village to the south] that is moving up to Khod to engage our positions.’ [144] Calling those moving up from the south another fighting force sealed the fate of the occupants of the three vehicles travelling from the north. The possibility of encirclement had been preying on the GFC’s mind since the first reports of Taliban fighters converging on Khod from the south and the north at 0450 (above, p. 00), and at 0607 he had received another report that ‘insurgents state they have enough bodies to fight’ and ‘we won’t be able to leave the area’ (p. 937).  The ICOM chatter at 0744 had made this seem all the more likely, and the ‘special intelligence’ delivered final confirmation. Putting all this together, the GFC was now convinced that the three vehicles were a Taliban convoy executing a flanking manoeuvre to complete the encirclement of his forces: ‘to close off the envelopment’ (pp. 946). The JTAC had concerns of his own.  He was worried that bad weather forecast for that night and the next 48 hours would prevent the Chinooks returning to ferry them back to FB Tinsley. The contingency plan was to head south and link up with ‘a Commando mission’ that was supposed to come out the next day, but if they were encircled their escape route would be blocked and they would be trapped (p. 1357).

The GFC duly told SOTF-South that his forces were being ‘enveloped’ (p. 1358), but there was no requirement for him to inform them that in consequence he was about to clear the helicopters to engage the target.  There had been circumstances in the past when ODAs taking fire from a compound had requested permission from the SOTF-South commander for an airstrike; sometimes he had agreed and at other times he had not (p. 1261).  But the Tactical Directive specifically advised caution in striking residential compounds – hence the need to seek permission – whereas in this case the GFC deliberately chose to have the helicopters attack once the vehicles were in open country so the circumstances were different. [145] The GFC was prepared to bring the Predator in too, and at 0818 the JTAC issued the promissory note its crew had been hoping for.  ‘At Ground Force Commander’s discretion,’ he radioed, ‘we may have [the OH-58s] come up, action those targets and let you use your Hellfire for clean-up shot.’

All of this was within the authority of the GFC.  The Fires Officer at SOTF-South was primarily responsible for arranging air cover, both ISR and strike capability, but he explained they routinely established a decentralized ROZ (Restricted Operating Zone) so that once the aircraft were on station they were under the control of the JTAC acting for the GFC (p. 728). [146] This maximised the GFC’s freedom of manoeuvre, but it also recognised that the JTAC was in direct communication with the supporting aircraft so he and the GFC could have additional intelligence that was not immediately available to SOTF-South. An ROZ typically had a radius of 10 km or less – which would have placed the three vehicles outside its perimeter – but the Fires Officer was unconcerned because he believed the OH-58s were ‘not for the vehicles’ but for ‘what we thought was going to be a large TIC on the objective.’  He was emphatic about that, echoing the GFC’s original plan to allow the vehicles to close on Khod: ‘The [Scout] Weapons Team that was pushed forward to his location was not for the vehicles, it was for the possibility of a large TIC on the objective [Khod] based on the ICOM chatter that we had’ (pp. 734-5).[147]

But in the GFC’s eyes the situation was now very different, and even though he had no obligation to inform the Operations Center of his revised plan he was insistent that at ‘some time between 0820 and 0830’ he sent a SALT report to SOTF-South telling them he was going to clear the OH-58s to engage (p. 955) in response to an ‘imminent threat’ to coalition forces (p. 1495). [148] Astonishingly, McHale’s team were unable to verify his testimony because the pre-strike transcripts of SALT reports available to them ended at 0650 (p. 948). [149]  No explanation for their absence was forthcoming, but the Day Battle Captain was equally insistent that once SOTF-South had agreed on an AVI, had the GFC contacted the Operations Center ‘and said that the OH-58s are on station and this is their tasking and purpose, I am going to give authorization to engage this convoy, we would have stopped that’ (p. 1258).  It would almost certainly have had to be that way round, because it was so simple matter for SOTF-South to reach down to the GFC.  The Fires Officer explained that the batteries that power the ODA’s satellite communications ‘don’t last long, and it was a “remain over day” mission so I am sure they had it turned off.’ ‘If we had pertinent information that we need to push,’ he continued, ‘we tell them to contact us on iridium [satellite phone]’  (p. 724).  This required SOTF-South to send a mIRC message to the Predator crew, the pilot to relay the message to the JTAC via radio, and the GFC then to power up the iridium phone. [150]

NOTES

[101]The testimony offered by the major in command of the AC-130 claimed a reluctance to strike that is not evident from the communications transcript.

‘Without the [Redacted: ICOM?] I would not have considered [the vehicles] a threat because they were so far from the friendly forces…  They were not an obvious direct threat but enough [of a] threat that I wanted to keep the sensors there… I don’t remember us telling them [the JTAC and GFC] specifically that they were hostile and a target.  I do remember the JTAC would say a lot of things that would lead up to a fire mission and then he would stop.  Of course my crew was ready to go but we need[ed] a fire mission’ (p. 1419).

But he also claimed that the JTAC ‘had the same understanding that we did’ and that, had he been given a fire mission, he would have been comfortable executing it (p. 1420). The Predator pilot thought there was more to it than that. ‘Talk of tactical maneuver [see above, p. 00] started with the [AC-130],’ he insisted, and ‘before they departed they were actually looking to engage these targets before running out of [fuel]’ (p. 909).

[102] The sensor operator offered anecdotal evidence to support the pilot’s inference. ‘There was a shot a couple of weeks ago, they were on those guys for hours and never saw them, like, sling a rifle, but pictures we got of them blown up on the ground had all sorts of [shit]’.  Even this was barbed: evidently there had been no sign of any weapons, yet they were still ‘blown up on the ground’.

[103] Over the objections of the senior officers from Special Forces who read his draft report, McHale recommended the term be banned: ‘I believe eliminating the term MAM better serves the counterinsurgency strategy as the term has come to presume hostility’ (p. 69), and McChrystal concurred.  The report retained its central objection: the term ‘implies that all adult males are combatants and leads to a lack of discernment in target identification’ (p. 49).  Yet Nick Turse found that the mindset and even the term remained active: ‘America’s lethal profiling of Afghan men’, The Nation, 18 September 2013; see also Sarah Shoker, ‘Military-Age Males in US counterinsurgency and drone warfare’, unpublished PhD thesis, McMaster University, April 2018.

[104] Allinson, ‘Necropolitics’ p. 123.

[105] At McHale’s invitation all the previous mIRC messages were read into the record from the mIRC printout by the senior NCO in charge of Intelligence at CJSOTF-A’s Operations Center at Bagram during the night shift.  It is impossible to know whether these were verbatim, but if they were then all of these messages referred to children without qualification. The NCO in question subsequently maintained that ‘it was all possible before the engagement’: but none of his readings included that qualifier.

[106] He was not alone.  At 0546 the MC read from mIRC that SOTF-South ‘called the little small guys midgets.’

[107] This was presumably an evidentiary precaution; the metadata would have included co-ordinates and other information not visible on the image itself.  No action was recorded until 0616, when the occupants left their vehicles to pray, and the sensor operator announced: ‘Stand by on that zoom out and drop metadata.  I just wanted to scan everybody, I’ll get them a picture.  I’m going to freeze it here for about 10 seconds then I’m going back.’  But nothing seems to have been made of any of this by McHale’s team, unless it is buried in the redactions.

[108] The unsupported claim cut both ways.  The commanding officer of the 15th Reconnaissance Squadron e-mailed McHale to suggest that the presence of ‘human shields’ would ‘make everyone (including the JTAC) be more cautious about shooting’ (p. 897), and the Predator crew subsequently wondered how that would affect the Rules of Engagement (below, p. 00). But the use of the term was freighted with the implication that the occupants of the vehicles were mostly Taliban.

[109] In the Kunduz incident (above, p. 00), the hijacked tankers had first been located by a B-1 bomber which had to withdraw in the early hours of the morning because it was running low on fuel; in order to ensure continued air support the ISAF commander relied on what Wilke, ‘Seeing’, p. 1035 calls the ‘enabling fiction’ of a ‘TIC’ even though the tankers were 8-10 km from his own position and he had no forces in the immediate area of the target.  Noah Shachtman described ‘TIC’ as ‘the most abused phrase in the Afghanistan campaign. What started as a cry for help has now come to mean almost anything…’: ‘The phrase that’s screwing up the Afghan air war’, Wired, 12 September 2009.  What is being described here, however, is a different enabling device; McHale described an AirTIC as an ‘improper declaration’ that put other troops at risk by ‘allocating air assets to a situation which does not require air support’ (p. 48). The appropriate term for a potential engagement was ‘priority immediate’, and the Director of the CJSOTF–A Operations Center at Bagram explained that a TIC number was assigned to those calls (too), which served to ‘alert us all that a unit may be getting involved in a TIC soon’ (p. 807). The practice was not confined to Special Forces; the ‘Afghan War Diaries’ include multiple instances of AirTICS being declared by regular forces: https://wardiaries.wikileaks.org.

[110] Hence ‘Scout’ Weapons Team flying OHs (‘Observation Helicopters’); an Attack Weapons Team would typically consist of two AH-64 Apache helicopters (where AH  designates ‘Attack Helicopters’).

[111] A battle captain assists the battalion’s executive officer in orchestrating (supervising, synchronizing  and coordinating) the running of a Tactical Operations Center; s/he is responsible for overseeing the flow of information – including the SALT reports sent up from units in the field – tracking ongoing operations, and arranging appropriate support.  A battle captain follows standard operating procedures, including initiating ‘battle drills’ (a rapid sequence of pre-set actions) in specified circumstances.  For a detailed discussion see pp. 1100-1.  The battle captain is a central actor in the bureaucratic management of later modern war, but the situations with which s/he is confronted often require a more fluid responses than these programmatic systems imply: see Elizabeth Owen Bratt, Eric Domeshek, and Paula J. Durlach,  ‘The first report is always wrong, and other ill-defined aspects of the Army Battle Captain domain’, Intelligent Tutoring Technologies for Ill-Defined Problems and Ill-Defined Domains (2010).

[112] The OPCENT director similarly described his skills as ‘rudimentary at best’ (p. 999).

[113] The GFC was only too well aware of the lack of support and what he characterized as a ‘huge communication breakdown’.  ‘I never had these issues before,’ he explained: ‘If for some reason I was in this situation last rotation … [the battle captain] was smart enough to … say call me on the phone and we would walk through certain things. “This is what I am tracking, why don’t you concentrate on this, and if this develops I will push it to you’” (p. 983). He felt uneasy, he confessed, because ‘we are operating by ourselves, and not with direct support like we are supposed to have’ (p. 984).  Part of the problem – perhaps – was that they were strangers to SOTF-South (see note 63) and, as the GFC admitted himself, ‘we never integrated our systems with them’ (p. 985).

[114] This was a serious failure, but McHale’s team faulted a battle rhythm in which all three field-grade officers were asleep at the same time. ‘I would have had an easier time if you said you had a field grade up at 0600 because we know the mission is kicking off at 0605,’ one of the investigating officers said.  ‘But you don’t…’ (p. 1015).

[115] This was a central finding of McHale’s investigation, which concluded that the GFC was ‘overly tasked’ (pp. 34-5), as a direct result of the lack of input or support from the Special Forces command posts at Kandahar and Bagram Air Fields.

[116] See Craig Jones, The war lawyers(Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming).

[117] He was responding to a question about the presence of an ‘operational law attorney’, a JAG incorporated into the kill-chain and conversant with air targeting; there was a JAG present during McHale’s initial telephone interview with the Predator crew, but she was introduced as ‘the Creech AFB JAG’ who was representing ‘the Air Force interests’ and her expertise presumably lay outside ‘operational law’ (p. 902). The Safety Observer explained his own role as ‘basically a safety mechanism to ensure they are performing safely and to provide a sanity check [sic] before employing the missile’ (p. 1448).

[118] The 9-liner in this case is a standard Air Force targeting brief that specifies (1) the ‘initial point ‘, (2) heading (to target), (3) distance, (4) elevation, (5) target description, (6) target location, (7) target mark (laser designator &c), (8) friendly force location and (9) aircraft exit route.

[119] The commanding officer of the 15th Reconnaissance Squadron explained that ‘If it is an HVI [High-Value Individual] where there is no imminent hostile act or hostile intent, not only do we need the JTAC’s clearance on that, the GFC will go through the CAOC and get what is called the joint targeting method, so it is a kind of dual clearance’ (p. 887).

[120] Hoog, ‘Air power over Afghanistan’, p. 249. He explained that there was a distinction between a TIC, which he too described as ‘a 911 call for kinetic support’ and a ‘Priority’, which was ‘a 411 call’ for ISR (i.e. information and, by extension, overwatch).

[121] Jack Mulcaire, ‘The pickup truck era of warfare’, War on the Rocks, 11 February 2014 at https://warontherocks.com/2014/02/the-pickup-truck-era-of-warfare.  The Toyota Hilux is a classic version of a technical truck – and the lead vehicle was identified as a Hilux.

[122] Only two witnesses offered any informed gloss on the hostile interpretation of the prayer.  The Day Battle Captain suggested that it ‘possibly’ indicated ‘these are mujahedeentaking their last prayer prior to engaging forces’ (p. 1254), and the primary screener agreed: ‘To us that is very suspicious because we are taught that they do this before an attack’ (p. 1389).

[123] National Bird.

[124] Alan Norris, ‘Flying with the Wolfpack’, Heliops International 65 (2010) 40-49.  Each helicopter was armed with two Hellfire missiles and four folding-fin aerial rockets.

[125] The transcript of the Kiowas’ radio traffic (pp. 336-341) contains no times; wherever possible I have interpolated these transmissions with those between the JTAC and the Predator pilot, which was conducted on a different frequency.

The reference to ‘heavy weapons’ in this message is puzzling; the Predator crew had not succeeded in identifying any, and the only SALT report mentioning ‘heavy weapons’ was at 0330 and referred to Taliban forces moving up from the south before the vehicles moving down from the north had even been detected (p. 1889). The source of the transmission is unclear; most of the messages to the JTAC were from the lieutenant, but the pilot flying lead said that he ‘called to tell him [the JTAC] that we were on our way and that it would be about 30 minutes until we were in the area.  He told me that it was roughly 30-50 MAMs to his north that we would be looking to engage’ (p. 514).  But this exchange does not appear in the transcript in this form, though it obviously overlaps with the message I have cited here and attributed to the lieutenant in command of SWT1.  The intended recipient is also unclear; the JTAC would have known (in fact, supplied) all this information, so it is possible that this was a confirmatory message either to TF Wolfpack’s Operations Center at Tarin Kowt or to the JTAC at FB Ripley who had been tasked with communicating with the helicopters until they were in range of the JTAC at Khod.

[126] The only qualification came from one of the crew in the trail helicopter: ‘Initially I thought we had a kinetic TIC, but it turned out not to be…. [We] got information it was more of elements maneuvering on [the ODA’s] position’ (p. 1438).

[127] McHale’s report included a map of SIGACTS (‘significant activities’) in Uruzgan  which was redacted (p. 376), but raw data for Shahidi Hassas in the 12 months preceding the strike reported 73 SIGACTS, 25 of them involving direct fire, 8 indirect fire, and 7 small arms fire.  I have taken these figures from the Afghanistan SIGACTS files kindly made available by Vincent Bauer at https://stanford.edu/~vbauer/data.html

[128] Many at SOTF-South were also taken aback: ‘We did not push fast movers to them,’ the Night Ops NCO at Kandahar told McHale: ‘The fast movers just came over the area without our knowledge’ (p. 1505).  The Night Battle Captain asked how this could have happened and was told ‘when an AirTIC is opened everyone wants to get on it.  When they hear AirTIC they think worst case scenario’ (p. 1545).  But none of the available communications authorizing air cover referred to an AirTIC – this was, as far as the responding aircrews were concerned, a TIC – and at 0702 the MC referred to it as ‘an actual TIC.’  The Fires Officer at SOTF-South evidently realized that the F-15s had been sent instead of the A-10s that had been half-promised and told them to hold well to the south of the vehicles’ position and to contact the JTAC at FB Tinsley who would control them ‘until the actual TIC happens near the village of Khod’ at which point he would pass them off to the JTAC there (p. 721). After the GFC’s angry phone call they were sent off station.

[129] Col. Peter E. Gersten, quoted in Donna Miles,  ‘Unmanned Aircraft crews strive to support warfighters. American Forces Press Service, 13 November 2009.

[130] One of the helicopter pilots heard the F-15s being ordered off, but in conjunction with the Predator pilot reporting his aircraft was descending to 13,000 feet (above) thought the F-15s had been cleared to engage ‘but due to low ceilings and conflicting altitudes with the Predator UAV they were pulled off target’ (p. 420).  He was wrong, but the belief that the F-15s had been cleared to engage conceivably reinforced his own sense of the legitimacy of the target.

[131] Afghanistan Civilian Casualty Prevention: observations, insights and lessons (Fort Leavenworth KS: US Army Combined Arms Center/Center for Army Lessons Learned [CALL], June 2012) p. 30.

[132] Since her calls were not radio messages they do not appear in the communications transcript but in the body of the consolidated files.  They were not shared with the JTAC; the screeners had no means of contacting him directly, though they did have mIRC contact with SOTF-South. The Air Force investigation into the actions of the Predator crew concluded that the pilot ‘acted responsibly by not identifying flanking or evading’ and that ‘the assessment of flanking was made by the GFC’. All the pilot did, Otto insisted, was to pass ‘convoy position reports’ – position and direction – as requested so that the JTAC could plot them and obtain ‘an accurate picture of the convoy’s movement.’  This in turn allowed the GFC to ‘determine the nature of the movement (flanking, enveloping, evading) based upon his experience, knowledge of the local area, and other inputs he alone receives’ (Commander-Directed operational assessment, p. 36).  But the GFC made his assessment without being told of the contrary interpretation from the primary screener, and she was equally unaware that her message was not forwarded  – which is why she and her team were astonished when the first vehicle was struck (p. 1407.

[133] This was another of the lessons learned.  ‘Vehicles that were perceived as a possible threat to ground forces were moving away from the area, but the surveillance platform did not communicate this to the ground commander’: Afghanistan Civilian Casualty Prevention, p. 31.  The situation was not as straightforward as the vignette implies, but the Predator crew certainly did everything possible to discount the possibility that the vehicles were moving away from Khod.

[134] A battle drill is a set of standard, pre-planned and prescribed procedures that require minimal orders to execute.  When a TIC is declared, Petit explained, it takes priority over everything else.  The battle captain co-ordinates the management of information and assets, which includes bringing up the original CONOP and the relevant maps on the screens, clearing the primary satellite channel for communications with the GFC, and preparing all those in the Operations Center to deliver ‘aviation support, ISR support, MEDEVAC [medical evacuation] support or fire support’ as necessary.  But this was only an AirTIC and when he arrived at the Operations Center the TIC light ‘was not on and … the team was not under fire (pp. 1083-4).

[135] ‘Dynamic targeting’ is directed against so-called ‘targets of opportunity’ and takes place outside the ambit of pre-planned or ‘deliberative targeting’ which is lodged within the regular air tasking cycle.  See Joint Targeting (Joint Publication 3-60, 31 January 2013) II.2.

[136] The JPEL refers to the Pentagon’s Joint Effects List, a list of High Value Individuals (HVIs) preauthorised for targeted killing: see note 98.

[137] He had been told about the dawn prayer and that it was ‘Enemy TTP [tactics, techniques and procedures] to pray before battle’ (p. 611); he offered no comment but clearly regarded that as circumstantial evidence.

[138] This was crucial, yet the brief to the Scout Weapons Team specifically mentioned the presence of ‘heavy weapons’ which had categorically not been identified (above, p. 00).

[139] McHale concluded that the decision to engage the vehicles was within the ROE but violated the intent of the Tactical Directive (p. 22).

[140] Sean Naylor, Relentless strike: the secret history of Joint Special Operations Command (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2015) pp. 359-65.  Maj Gen Nick Carter described Task Force-South as executing ‘a specific clinical function’ – JPEL targeting – whereas SOTF-South was ‘running a different sort of battle, so it’s less precise in its outcome and its effects’ (p. 582).

[141] ‘Types of Terminal Attack Control’, at https://www.doctrine.af.mil/Portals/61/documents/Annex_3-03/3-03-D19-LAND-Type-Terminal-CTRL.pdf.

[142] This passage is redacted from the LA Times transcript but appears in this version in the communications transcript contained in the consolidated file (p. 1954).

[143] The redactions make it difficult to garner more details.  The Afghan Security Guards were a shadowy formation, ostensibly contracted to provide base security but in practice often raised by US Special Forces and used to participate in offensive counterinsurgency operations.  There were also persistent press reports that Taliban were fleeing north from Operation Moshtarak in Helmand.

[144] The source was not given.  If the ‘special intelligence’ came from the NSA it would ordinarily have been put into the mission chat room via mIRC; but the JTAC had no direct access to mIRC.  He obviously did not receive the information via the Predator crew because he passed it to them, and there is no trace of any corresponding message from SOTF-South to the JTAC or GFC.  The JTAC shared the same information with the helicopter pilots immediately after the strike: ‘those vehicles were moving south to link up with some Taliban fighters out of [Pey-e-Kotel]’ (p. 341).

[145] There was of course another difference: coalition forces at Khod were not under fire from the occupants of the vehicles.  This was still supposed to be an AirTIC not a TIC.

[146] An ROZ is a delimited airspace reserved for specific actions in response to a specific operational situation in which the operations of (other) airspace users is restricted.

[147] The Fires Officer also believed that the GFC was now paying more attention to the search at Khod than to the progress of the three vehicles: ‘It was daylight and they had begun clearing that area.  They had been calling up the findings from the objective so I figured he was more intent on that’ (p. 729). He may have been mistaken or misremembered, because the only SALT report available that listed what was seized during the search of the village came in to SOTF-South at 0932 – afterthe strike (p. 1992).

[148] The only person at SOTF-South to mention any sort of advance warning was the Day Battle Captain: ‘They came up on mIRC and said clear to engage vehicles … it was only a matter of seconds [later] that the strike happened’ (p. 723). But he had to have been referring to a message from the Predator crew – since neither the GFC nor the JTAC had access to mIRC – and in any case it must have been later than the SALT report referred to by the GFC, because the helicopters were not cleared to engage until 0843 (see below, p. 00).

[149] During the GFC’s second interview on 5 March he was accompanied by a military lawyer, a Lt Col from the US Army Trial Defense Service (p. 988), who told McHale: ‘The records of the SALT reports end at 0630, the SALT reports continue’ – the GFC testified that ‘we were continuing to send reports throughout this time’: p. 1356 – but ‘they were the only records we were able to obtain, and this would be records that SOTF create when they receive it’ (p. 948).   There were no follow-up questions from the panel; if they investigated the matter, their findings are hidden in the redactions.

[150] Even then there were no guarantees.  At 0658 the Predator pilot relayed a message from the Fires Officer at SOTF-South to the JTAC: ‘He wants you to know that he cannot talk on SAT 102. SERPENT12 [the Fires Officer] can hear FOX24 [GFC] on SATCOM, and is trying to reply.’  The advantage of the Iridium phone over a standard satellite phone is that it relies on a network of polar orbiting cross-linked satellites that provide connectivity in areas wheregeostationary satellites or line-of-sight communications systems cannot (often because they are blocked by mountainous terrain): Brig Gen (ret)  Bernard Skoch, ‘Extra-terrestrial system sharpens tactical eyes on the ground’, Signal Magazine, March 2010.

To be continued

Bringing the war home (with apologies to Martha Rosler)

We know how often the vocabulary of medicine has been hi-jacked to describe military violence (‘surgical strikes’ and the rest) – if you are unfamiliar with the trope, I recommend Colleen Bell’s two essays, ‘Hybrid warfare and its metaphors’, Humanity 3 (2) (2012) 225-247, and ‘War and the allegory of medical intervention’, International Political Sociology 6 (3) (2012) 325-8 – and, for that matter, the reverse: see Mark Harrison‘s classic essay, ‘The medicalization of war – the militarization of medicine’, Social History of Medicine 9 (2) (1996) 267–276.

The most obvious example of the latter is Trump’s grotesque self-inflation as a ‘war-time president‘ defeating the ‘Chinese virus’ (the racialization of epidemic disease has a long history too: think of European panic over the ‘Asiatic’ or ‘Indian cholera’ in the nineteenth century).  Another example, grotesque for entirely other reasons – which have to do with the mendacious incompetence of the US feral government – are descriptions of scenes in hospitals in New York City as war-zones where front-line doctors and nurses desperately struggle to treat and care for patients with Covid-19 while fighting for their own lives.  (For brief but insightful commentaries on these issues, on the performative work done by these metaphors, see Yasmeen Serhan at The Atlantic here and Eric Levenson at CNN here).

None of this is confined to the United States, I realise, and the questions that swirl through these metaphors (through which the virus becomes both a biopolitical and a social agent, infecting not only bodies and populations but also our imaginative geographies) reappear in still starker form once we think – in obdurately non-metaphorical terms – about the likely course of Covid-19 in war zones like Gaza, Iraq, Syria and Yemen where hospitals and clinics have been deliberately and systematically targeted, doctors and nurses killed, and the lives of desperately vulnerable populations inside and outside refugee camps made even more precarious (I’ll try to address this in detail in a later post, but see here and here).

All this is on my mind, a jumbled series of thoughts, impressions and emotions, as I sit at home – privileged and relatively safe – doing my best to practice physical distancing, and read this imaginative call for contributions from Warscapes.

We find ourselves in a truly challenging moment as this coronavirus pandemic becomes a long and difficult daily reality. Not only are our individual lives feeling severely compromised but the massive structural shifts are beyond despairing — the shocking death toll, the triumph of surveillance structures, the displacements, the police brutality, curfews, imminent starvation, mass unemployment…the list is long. We know that many of you have survived war, reported on war or lived through intensive periods of violence, scarcity and uncertainty. Perhaps you find yourself working through tangled memories of all kinds of warscapes. Perhaps some of you have no luxury of memory and have been thrown into the pandemic as doctors, social workers, aid workers, teachers, activists. Perhaps some of you have seen this as a welcome respite from a deeply pressured life and are enjoying time with family. Perhaps some are in an intellectual overdrive as our fight against inept governments and greedy capitalist systems intensifies. And perhaps some of you are quite ill and we wish you love and speedy healing. Whatever mood or situation you find yourself in, we are somehow all in this together processing our new reality, wittingly or unwittingly.

Unsurprisingly, there is an uptick in war rhetoric during this pandemic and since this is an online space dedicated to reflecting on the world through the “lens of war” we are launching a Warscapes video segment tentatively titled “Open Call: The Corona Notebooks.” If you are willing and able, we would love it if you could record a 2-3 minute video of yourself thinking about this pandemic, maybe accessing a previous memory, maybe reporting on an injustice, maybe narrating a sweet fragment from your daily life, maybe recounting a second chance that this pandemic gave you, maybe telling us about a loved one you reconnected with, maybe you’ve seen a movie or read a book that was powerful, maybe telling us about having the illness. The tone, the tale, the genre and the language is yours to choose. There is an overwhelming amount of news and information but we will together weave an emotionally vibrant and artistic tapestry.

We will simultaneously transcribe these and start publishing them online as well. And when/if/after this is all over, we can publish all the entries and either give them away as free chapbooks or see if it can go towards a relief effort. For those that are available and happy to do facebook/instagram live events, we will happily make this an event with audience interaction and allow for discussions centering around your piece.

Simple rules:

1. WIDESCREEN recording — Flip your phone to widescreen. Do NOT shoot in vertical.

2. CLEAR SOUND — Make sure the sound is clear, our world has been quiet so this should be easy.

3. PLAN IN ADVANCE — While informal, casual and intimate is great, it would be better write your piece down, work through it before recording, experiment with form, play with the visual. We would prefer to keep editing to the minimal.

4. TWO MINUTES MINIMUM — your entry should be at least 2 minutes long, no stipulations for maximum length.

5. Send videos to bhakti [dot]shringarpure[at]gmail [dot]com

If you too are sitting at home, weary of yet another Zoom meeting, and wondering what (else) you might do, then perhaps you might like to give this a try…

Under Afghan Skies (1)

As promised in my previous post, here is the first installment of my essay on an airstrike on three vehicles in Uruzgan, Afghanistan on 21 February 2010; the incident was widely reported – see the images immediately below this prefatory note – and, for reasons I explain in detail below, it has become a central focus for critics of remote warfare.  

The images in the body of the text are taken from my conference presentation, but the version that will appear in “Reach from the sky” will have different images and a number of specially drawn maps. I have also added a number of direct links to some of the sources I cite. 

 For the otherwise unattributed page references in the text, see note 38 below.  

Under Afghan Skies: Aerial violence and the imaginaries of remote warfare

Your eyes aren’t eyes. They’re bees.
I can find no cure for their sting. [1]

Contemporary conflict takes many different forms, from siege warfare to cyber-war, but it is the military drone that has captured the public imagination.  Like other modalities of later modern war the drone is a combination of the remarkably old and the radically new – visions and even versions of ‘unmanned’ platforms have a history as long as that of aerial violence itself – but its twenty-first century incarnation occupies a central place in the Western iconography of wars fought in the global borderlands since 9/11.

The drone has assumed such prominence in those shattered lands for several reasons, not the least of which is that its deployment is confined to uncontested air space – by default or design [2] – because advanced militaries would have no difficulty in shooting such a comparatively slow and sluggish platform out of the sky. [3]

It is thus no accident that the drone has become a standard means of waging ‘unconventional’, asymmetric warfare against non-state actors.   And yet, even though Afghanistan has long been the epicentre of drone warfare, the figure of the drone may not be central to the political imaginary of the Afghan Taliban, which rarely distinguishes between different forms of airstrike or between aerial violence and other forms of explosive violence. [4]  This is not altogether surprising. Predators and Reapers fire exactly the same weapons as many conventional strike aircraft and combat helicopters, and in a war zone like Afghanistan this often makes it difficult to identify the source of an attack. This is not to say that the people of Afghanistan – particularly those who have witnessed airstrikes – have not learned to distinguish and dread the buzzing of drones overhead.  Like other unwilling members of what Lisa Parks describes as the ‘new disenfranchised class of ”targeted people”’ whose daily lives are ‘haunted by the spectre of aerial bombardment’, they know only too well that the audible and sometimes visible presence of a drone can foreshadow a sudden strike from the sky. [5]

Many of the most powerful critical commentaries on military drones have drawn attention to an airstrike on three vehicles on 21 February 2010 near the mountain pass of Khotal Chowzar that straddles the provinces of Daikundi and Uruzgan in southern Afghanistan. This was a pre-emptive response to what was seen – literally so – as a threat to US Special Forces and Afghan forces conducting a counterinsurgency operation in the village of Khod in Uruzgan. [6]  After the strike it became clear that all the casualties  – in fact, all the occupants of the vehicles – were civilians. They came from a cluster of poor villages in Daikundi, and included men hoping to find work in Iran, students returning to university, shopkeepers and mechanics going to buy stock and spares, and men and women attending medical appointments or taking their children to visit relatives. Most of them were Hazaras – a tribe with a long history of persecution by the majority Pashtun and more recently by the Taliban [7] – who were travelling together for support and safety.

The vehicles were heavily laden and had to stop frequently for repairs as they slowly bumped their way on dirt roads on a circuitous route to the mainly paved national Highway 1 – the Ring Road – that would take some of them south to Kandahar, some west to Herat and beyond, and others north to Kabul. The Ring Road was damaged and dangerous.  The Taliban had attacked not only traffic on the highway (notably military supply convoys) but also bridges, causeways and culverts, forcing drivers to detour on to dirt tracks, and once back on the road they had to run the gauntlet of checkpoints manned by insurgents and criminal gangs who exacted ‘tolls’ for their passage. [8]   But this first stage through the mountains was perilous too.  The ground was rough, the tracks were in poor condition and several rivers had to be forded. More unsettling, all the adults in the vehicles knew that they were travelling through the heart of Taliban country.  But none of them expected the danger to come from the sky.   Nasim, a car mechanic  travelling in one of the SUVs, explained: ‘We weren’t worried when we set out. We were a little scared of the Taliban, but not of government forces… Why would they attack us?’[9] In fact, several of the US military observers watching the live video feed from an MQ-1 Predator drone that had been tracking the vehicles for hours and who saw the strike go down were at first convinced that they had hit an IED (improvised explosive device) planted by the Taliban.

It is still not clear how many victims of the airstrike there were, but the US Army made 23 compensation payments (solatia) to the families of those who were killed, and 12 survivors were airlifted to military hospitals where they received emergency treatment for what, in several cases, were life-changing injuries.  [10]

The Uruzgan attack was but one of many air strikes in Afghanistan that caused multiple civilian casualties (Figure 1).

Afghanistan was the focus of US drone strikes during this period – other target areas were Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas, Somalia and Yemen – but drone strikes in Afghanistan were far outweighed by conventional bombing. US Central Command (CENTCOM) reported that coalition aircraft released 4,163 weapons – bombs and missiles – in Afghanistan in 2009, of which 255 (6.1 per cent) were from remote platforms; 5,102 in 2010, of which 278 (5.4 per cent) were from remote platforms; and 5,409 in 2011, of which 294 (5.4 per cent) were from remote platforms. [11] These (dis)proportions are undoubtedly important – critics need to widen their focus to address aerial violence in all its forms – and yet these raw figures fail to capture the wider significance of remote platforms. Even when their own weapons were not fired, drones were routinely used to provide intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance (ISR) for air strikes from conventional platforms.  And when they did release their own bombs or missiles, one study using SIGACT data from Afghanistan in 2010-11 found that drones were ten times more likely to cause civilian casualties than conventional strike aircraft. [12]  These considerations help to explain concern about remote warfare, but the Uruzgan attack attracted widespread attention for three more particular reasons.

First, it flew in the face of significant operational changes introduced the previous year by General Stanley McChrystal, commander of both US Forces–Afghanistan and the NATO-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), that were expressly designed to prevent incidents like it. His intervention was the most recent in a series of attempts to limit civilian casualties caused by coalition forces.  On 27 and 29 April 2007 US Special Forces conducting counterinsurgency operations in the Zerkoh valley in Herat province in northwest Afghanistan had called in repeated airstrikes from US Air Force AC-130 gunships and other aircraft.  ISAF announced that scores of suspected Taliban had been killed with no civilian casualties, but later reports claimed that between 40 and 60 civilians had been killed, dozens more injured and hundreds of homes damaged. [13] In response, ISAF’s commander General Dan McNeill issued a first Tactical Directive in June 2007 requiring advance estimates of likely civilian casualties (‘collateral damage estimates’) before planned strikes and stipulating that air power should only be used as a last resort ‘when forces are taking fire from [a residential] compound or there is an imminent threat from the compound, and when there are no other options available.’The effects of the initial Tactical Directive were limited – not for nothing was its architect known as ‘Bomber’ McNeill – and the civilian toll continued to mount.  Then, on 22 August 2008, airstrikes by a US Air Force AC-130 gunship and an MQ-9 Reaper in support of ground operations led by US Special Forces in the village of Azizabad in the same region of Herat province killed as many as 92 civilians.  McNeill’s successor General David McKiernan issued a second Tactical Directive on 2 September 2008 that emphasised the importance of a graduated escalation of force and imposed additional constraints on airstrikes that risked causing civilian casualties.  McKiernan also established a Civilian Casualty Tracking Cell, required all allegations of civilian casualties to be reported and investigated promptly, and emphasized the connection between minimizing civilian casualties and securing the cooperation of the local population.[14]

This was widely seen as a turning point in the air war in Afghanistan, yet what Bob Dreyfuss described as the ‘steady drum-beat of mass casualty incidents’ did not let up. [15]  The next pivotal incident occurred on 4 May 2009, when repeated airstrikes near the village of Granai in Farah province, carried out by US Air Force F-18 fighter jets and a B-1 bomber in support of ground operations by Afghan forces and US Marines, killed at least 26 and perhaps as many as 147 civilians.  The catastrophe prompted the newly appointed McChrystal to tighten the Rules of Engagement (ROE) – classified theatre-specific orders issued by senior military commanders that delineate the circumstances and limitations under which lethal force may be used (within the parameters of International Humanitarian Law) – and to issue a third Tactical Directive on 2 July 2009 that enjoined ‘commanders at all levels to scrutinize and limit the use of force like Close Air Support (CAS) against residential compounds and other locations likely to produce civilian casualties.’  Although McChrystal made it clear that his intention was not to prevent commanders opening fire in self-defence when there were no other options available, he was no less adamant that ‘the use of air-to-ground munitions and indirect fires is only authorised under very limited and prescribed conditions’ (which remained classified). [16]

McChrystal’s intervention attracted fierce criticism from the hawks circling the Pentagon – just three days before the Uruzgan attack an op-ed in the New York Times complained that ‘the pendulum has swung too far in favour of avoiding the deaths of innocents at all costs’ [17] – but although the new policy enjoyed more success than its predecessors it also suffered major setbacks. [18]  In the early hours of 4 September 2009, two months after the revised Tactical Directive was issued, a German ISAF commander in Kunduz ordered two US Air Force F-15 fighter jets to attack two fuel tankers that had been hijacked by the Taliban.  The vehicles had become stranded on a sandbank as they tried to ford the shallow Kunduz river, and the Taliban asked local villagers to siphon off the fuel so the tankers would be light enough to drive off. When the pilots saw the crowds of people on their screens they were reluctant to strike and instead proposed a show of force to scatter the villagers.  But their objections were overruled by the Bundeswehr commander, who declared a ‘TIC’, meaning ‘Troops in Contact’ – even though his garrison at Fort Kunduz was 10 km away and there were no other coalition forces in the vicinity – and cleared the pilots to engage purportedly in self-defence. [19]  Estimates of civilians killed varied from 60 to more than 140.  McChrystal was furious.  It was a matter of what he called ‘insurgent math’: for every innocent person killed, 10 new enemies were created. [20]  ‘For a while,’ according to one US official, ‘the most dangerous place to be in Afghanistan was in front of McChrystal after a CIVCAS [civilian casualty] incident.’ [21]  This was more than a clever remark. CENTCOM’s Deputy Combined Force Air Component Commander at the time argued that McChrystal’s efforts to minimise civilian casualties ‘were based not just in changes to written guidance, but in the day-to-day forceful interaction between McChrystal and his commanders.’  In his view, the third Tactical Directive was not a marked departure from its predecessors; what made the difference was McChrystal’s ‘emphasis on “tactical patience” and daily accountability’. [22] After the Kunduz debacle, McChrystal ordered an immediate investigation and emphasised to his commanders that ‘we need to know what we are hitting.’  [23]

Second, the Uruzgan attack – which came less than six months later – was carried out not by conventional strike aircraft but by two US Army helicopters, a tactic known as Close Combat Attack (CCA) that had been developed ostensibly to enable a more refined use of force than the Close Air Support (CAS) deployed in the Granai and Kunduz incidents. [24]  CCA can be traced back to the Korean war, and was in part a contrivance – an attempt to agree the boundaries between the mission sets of the US Air Force and US Army aviation [25] – but many of those who directed ground operations in Afghanistan (including the Ground Force Commander at Khod) believed that the use of armed helicopters, coming in ‘low and slow’, allowed for a more discriminating use of airpower in the vicinity of friendly forces – whose safety was the main consideration – than the Air Force’s high-flying ‘fast movers’.

Whatever the merits of the distinction, it must seem strange to make an attack carried out by helicopters a test case for remote warfare. But the airstrike in Uruzgan was orchestrated through an MQ-1 Predator that had been launched from Kandahar Air Field by a forward-deployed flight crew and then handed off to a mission crew from the 15th Air Reconnaissance Squadron at Creech Air Force Base located 35 miles outside Las Vegas. [26]  The Predator’s on-board systems were accessed via a C-band line-of-sight data link for launch and recovery at Kandahar, and then a Ku-band satellite data link, a portal at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and a fibre-optic cable under the Atlantic and across the continent to the Ground Control Station at Creech.

The aircraft was equipped with a Multi-Spectral Targeting System controlled by a sensor operator (a technical sergeant) sitting on the right of the pilot (a captain) in the Ground Control Station. [27] It transmitted full-motion video (FMV) in infra-red (IR) or colour in near real-time to the flight crew and across multiple military networks in Afghanistan and the United States, including video analysts (‘screeners’) from the 11th  Intelligence Squadron of the 1st Special Operations Wing at Hurlburt Field in the Florida Panhandle. [28] The FMV feed was supposed to allow a more accurate targeting process than the lower resolution screens that were standard on conventional strike aircraft: in other words – McChrystal’s words – to enable those involved ‘to know what they were hitting.’  Indeed, a senior US military lawyer had predicted that the digital technologies used on these remote platforms – their capacity to represent the battlespace with unrivalled clarity and to record cascades of events for subsequent review – would give ‘unprecedented traction, transparency, and relevance’ to legal protocols and operational procedures designed to protect civilians. [29]  That claim – a version of what Donna Haraway called more generally ‘the God-trick’ – has properly been a central object of critical attention, and part of my purpose is to show that this critique needs to be supplemented by the recognition of a dispersed and distributed geography of militarized vision. [30]

But the Uruzgan attack became the diagnostic case for critics of remote warfare for a third reason through which the pivotal role of the Predator was brought into unusually sharp focus.  Coalition headquarters in Kabul did not become aware of the presence of civilian casualties until the early evening of 21 February, but within hours of being briefed McChrystal ordered a full investigation into the incident (p. 1189-90). This was defined as an ‘Informal Investigation’ governed by US Army Regulation 15(6), and Major-General Timothy McHale was appointed as investigating officer. McChrystal’s charge to the investigation ran to three pages and consisted of 20 detailed, numbered questions and procedural instructions.McHale was assisted by five senior officers, who joined him for interviews with the witnesses and provided expert advice on ground combat, aviation, special operations and ground liaison. He was also assisted by five legal advisers and paralegals.   The two senior legal advisers were also involved in the interviews, and their presence underscored that this was a quasi-juridical process.  Witnesses had to make sworn statements, and McHale’s findings had to be ‘supported by a preponderance of the evidence’ and his recommendations had to be ‘legally consistent with the findings’ (pp. 15-16).  The team flew from Kabul to Kandahar Air Field on 22 February, which was their base for the next several weeks; they conducted multiple interviews there, some by phone with witnesses in the United States and others in person at other locations in Afghanistan.  It was a wide-ranging investigation, ‘informal’ only in the sense that it was a fact-finding exercise rather than a hearing against a named respondent, which meant that it was not subject to the strict rules of evidence or to the standard of proof applicable in criminal proceedings. [31]  In practice it was rigorous, detailed and forensic, and McHale made major findings of fault and recommended reprimands or admonishments for three Army commanders and three staff officers (pp. 65-6).

McHale submitted his final report on 18 April 2010, McChrystal approved its findings on 21 May, and a redacted version of the Executive Summary was published one week later and widely reported.  A key document in the investigation was the communications transcript of intercom exchanges between the members of the Predator crew in the United States and radio exchanges between the Predator pilot and the forward air controller – the Joint Terminal Attack Controller (JTAC) – on the ground with the Special Forces in Afghanistan.  The Los Angeles Times obtained a 65-page redacted version of the transcript – the original ran to 75 pages – and published it on 10 April 2011 as part of a detailed reconstruction of the attack by journalist David Cloud.  The dramatic and at times chilling exchanges recorded in the communications transcript opened a rare window into the conduct of remote warfare and provided the optic through which virtually all critics have viewed the attack. [32]

That window has since been closed because the public release of information on drone strikes has been severely restricted, especially by the Trump administration. In consequence, even though the Uruzgan attack was carried out in circumstances that no longer apply – ISAF’s combat mission ended in December 2014 and was replaced by the limited (still NATO-led) Operation Resolute Support, a ‘train, advise and assist’ mission, and the United States currently has less than 10,000 ground troops in Afghanistan [33] – and it was co-ordinated by a remote platform no longer in active service – production of the Predator ended in 2011 and the US Air Force retired the remaining aircraft in March 2018 – the incident retains a unique importance for the critical analysis of remote operations.

In relying on the communications transcript critics have inevitably focused on the conduct of the Predator crew and followed their tracking of the three vehicles up to the moment of impact and its immediate aftermath. This has led them to endorse and elaborate one of the main findings of the Army investigation, albeit in different terms, and to attribute central (sometimes even sole) responsibility to the Predator crew.

The commanding officer of the 15th Air Reconnaissance Squadron at Creech had done his very best to forestall that verdict.  After his crew had completed their telephone interviews, he called McHale’s team to express his (and their) concern that ‘you guys … [think] they were out to employ weapons no matter what’ (p. 879).   One of the investigators took him through the communications transcript, suggesting that the Predator crew displayed a clear and chronic disinclination to believe the vehicles ‘could be anything other than a threat formation’ (p. 887).  He identified 19 passages where there appeared to be ‘a predisposition or proclivity to make sure this was confirmed as a good target’ and 13 where the Predator crew modified the assessments from the screeners accordingly.  ‘Every time there is a representation of something other than a target,’ he argued, ‘until after the strike there is pushback’ (p. 882). Their commanding officer protested that this was confined to intercom exchanges amongst the crew – which he said was the product of their collective experience and their frustration at the screeners’ reluctance to make definitive calls [34] – and that the pilot never allowed it to cloud his radio communications with the JTAC (pp. 880-1).  He followed up with two e-mails within four hours of each other, arguing that even if his crew had been ‘leaning forward’ – in favour of a strike – this had been started by the JTAC who ‘was already leaning extremely far forward’.  ‘Upon arrival on the scene,’ he wrote, ‘there were numerous indications passed to the crew by [the JTAC] that implied an imminent kinetic event’ and that it was his transmissions – not theirs – that most clearly revealed ‘a predisposition to shoot’ (p. 898).  McHale was unconvinced.  ‘A pervasive theme throughout several interviews’, his report concluded, ‘and seen through the internal crew dialogue, was the desire to go kinetic’ (to use lethal force) (p. 33).  This propensity – which McHale suggested derived from a pervasive ‘Top Gunmentality’ amongst the Predator crews at Creech [35] – ‘skewed their reports’ to such a degree that they were at once inaccurate and unprofessional and materially distorted the decision field of the Ground Force Commander who cleared the helicopters to strike (p. 61).  This was strong language, but McHale’s ability to censure the Predator crew was limited because this was an Army investigation and as such he could fault its conduct but make no disciplinary recommendations.  The most he could do (and did) was call for the Air Force to carry out its own investigation. [36]

On my reading, the assessments of the commanding officer at Creech and McHale’s team both had merit.  As I will detail in what follows, the Predator crew was drawn into a pre-existing interpretive matrix constructed by other actors, on the ground and in the air, in which the imperative to strike the vehicles had already been established and accepted.  But the Predator crew clearly (and enthusiastically) joined in the continued elaboration of the vehicles as a threat formation and they did nothing to challenge that perception; on the contrary, they heightened it.

Most critics go beyond these matters of individual and collective responsibility to address what they see as structural features of remote warfare. McHale’s ability to do so was circumscribed because, even as he drew conclusions and made recommendations to guide future operations, he had to conform to the protocol that prevents informal investigations from considering other, comparable incidents.  But what McHale did do was connect aerial violence – the cardinal medium of remote warfare – to the conduct of ground operations.  It bears repeating that all the incidents that prompted the three Tactical Directives involved airstrikes in support of ground forces(‘troops in contact’). [37]  Although ground operations are often close-in and visceral, they too have their remote dimensions because they are embedded in extended networks of command and control that, while they increasingly draw on FMV feeds from remote platforms, are not circumscribed by them.  McHale had much to say about the inadequacies of those networks, and the failings of the actors located within them, so that to recover the deadly interaction between air and ground – to understand what happened to the occupants of those three vehicles on that early February morning – requires a close reading of his full report and its indictment of the failings of other actors outside Creech Air Base.  It simply cannot be closed around the communications transcript.

The record of the Army investigation remained classified until it was released by CENTCOM in response to a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request from the American Civil Liberties Union; the Pentagon initially refused to release the file, but after a court challenge it did so on 20 May 2011. [38]  Although the consolidated file has been redacted it is sufficiently detailed to widen the analytical scope to address the other, no less important causes of the incident identified by McHale.  The larger set of files consists of more than 2,000 pages, including a differently redacted version of the communications transcript.[39]  It makes the interpretive field considerably richer but also more complicated.  A central issue is the co-existence of multiple temporalities within the written record.  The communications transcript is limited to 21 February, whereas the subsequent interviews (which include many more actors and the victims themselves) took place between 22 February and 8 March 2010.

The resulting file is a composite record of transactions conducted at various times – of conversations, negotiations, interviews and re-examinations – and presents multiple narratives from different points of view and different locations, virtually all of them shaped by the post-strike knowledge of civilian casualties and its implications.  As one member of McHale’s team recognised, he (and everyone else) had the ‘unfortunate privilege of 20/20 vision’ and got to watch ‘this movie from the end back’ (pp. 880-1).  This matters – the reason for his qualifying adjective – because the challenge for the investigators (and now the rest of us) was to set hindsight aside, as far as possible, and reconstruct what was known (or should have been known) as the situation developed through the early hours of 21 February. [40]  The task was made even more difficult because the testimony they elicited was shot through with observation, explanation, speculation, misapprehension, forgetfulness (real or feigned), evasion, and – inevitably – hindsight, all inflected by rank and the loyalty intrinsic to the military chain of command and military culture.

The story that emerges is, unsurprisingly, not a consistent one.  Witnesses contradicted one another, and on occasion themselves (several were formally warned that they were suspected of giving false testimony), and there is no grand narrative within which the individual accounts can be reconciled.  There are also strategic absences.  McHale’s team interviewed the pilot of the Predator, and the senior pilot who was called in as Safety Observer at Creech during the closing minutes of the engagement, but testimony from the sensor operator and his relief is missing from the file.[41]  Whether this is the result of a failure to interview the two of them or a poorly collated response to the FOIA request is unclear. [42]  The commanding officer of the 15th Reconnaissance Squadron had the whole Predator crew present in his office for the initial telephone interview with McHale’s team, and emphasised the importance of the sensor operators, but the transcript of what segued into the first interview (with the pilot) ends abruptly with no closing formularies, no redactions and no explanation (p. 918).  Whatever the reason, this is a highly significant omission. [43]  The pilot was the flight commander and conducted virtually all the radio communications with the JTAC assigned to the Special Forces on the ground, but the sensor operator was not only responsible for controlling the Multi-Spectral Targeting System.  S/he also assisted the pilot with ‘altitude de-confliction, ROES, SPINS [Special Instructions]’ (p. 903), and participated in the collective production of a running commentary on the video feed and on the likely course of (lethal) action that was focal to the construction of the three vehicles as an imminent threat to coalition forces.

Other gaps in the file are the result of redactions. The final report, the communications transcript and most of the interviews have passages redacted, and there are at least 400 other pages that have been withheld from release for security reasons, but the silences go beyond these blank spaces.  McHale’s team viewed the FMV feed from the Predator and the video from the helicopter gun cameras, but neither has been released. All the redacted file provides are two screen captures of a Hellfire missile striking the lead vehicle and its immediate aftermath (p. 8), and a series of still photographs of the destroyed vehicles and their dead occupants (pp. 1755-1762), so that it is impossible to scrutinise the all important imagery that was transmitted before the strike.  The communications transcript is also incomplete, because it is confined to intercom exchanges among the Predator crew and radio transmissions between the pilots and the JTAC on the ground, and there is no public record of textual communications via the military’s Internet Relay Chat (mIRC) (apart from scattered references in the subsequent interviews). These constituted far more than small talk.  The US military makes extensive tactical use of online messaging through its secure networks because it is usually more reliable than voice communication and  allows for the concurrent conversations necessary in multi-actor operations (the Ground Control Station at Creech Air Force Base and the Special Forces Operations Centers at Bagram and Kandahar Air Fields all had multiple chat windows open); it also preserves a text record of observations, decisions and actions for after action review.  In addition, it is ideal for distributed, intermittent, low bandwidth environments like Afghanistan where it can be accessed outside the wire on ruggedized laptops and data-enabled satellite phones.  In short, mIRC is many ways the raw medium – the textual nuts and bolts – of many military operations, and its absence from public view imposes a significant silence. [44]  Where other textual records are available – the transcripts of radio communications (including a separate transcript of radio traffic to and from the helicopters) and the interviews with witnesses – they are written versions of oral exchanges and cannot convey the intonation, emphases or hesitations of the original (though in places these can reasonably be inferred), still less the body language that accompanied them. These are all serious limitations, yet for all the interpretive problems the consolidated file opens a wider view and longer perspective that can considerably enlarge and enhance our understanding of remote warfare.  [45]

The account that follows is based on a close reading of that file, and is necessarily condensed: McHale’s team reconstructed a time-line that extended for 66 feet round the walls of a hangar. [46] It will also seem as remote as the warfare it describes, at least in the first instance, because much of it is conveyed in the standardised vocabulary of military reason and the military imaginary, with its endless acronyms (see Table 1) (which even the Predator crew forgot on occasion), its abbreviations and its formularies. I gloss these wherever possible – redaction sometimes makes that difficult – but I retain the remote, technical language because abstraction is intrinsic to the execution of calculated forms of military violence and its distancing effect helps to explain how the Uruzgan attack took place.  ‘I was an English major in college,’ the Predator pilot testified, ‘so I think semantics can make a big difference’ (p. 913).  So it does (and did); yet the language used by him and the other crew members frequently ruptured the dispassionate recitation of military formulae. This was not confined to the aircrew, and I hope it will become clear that the exchanges on 21 February and the days that followed were also animated by affect: by boredom, apprehension, glee, excitement, fear, panic and ultimately horror.  The members of McHale’s team were not immune from these emotions either, and at times their exasperation at the responses of some of the officers they interviewed broke the surface of their otherwise impeccably calm, courteous and professional questioning.

NOTES

[1] This is an Afghan landay, a traditional 22-syllable couplet, which I’ve taken from Eliza Griswold, I am the beggar of the world: Landays from Contemporary Afghanistan (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014) p. 23; it appears there in the section headed ‘Love’ not ‘War’, but many Afghans compare the buzzing of drones to bees and wasps – and their ‘eyes’ sting too.

[2] In Afghanistan the Taliban has had no air power since its regime was toppled by the US invasion in 2001, and its capacity for a successful ground-to-air strike is limited; in Syria the US routinely de-conflicted the air space with Russia in order to launch airstrikes against Islamic State (IS) positions; and US drone strikes in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan entailed close, covert co-operation between Washington and Islamabad.

[3] In 2020 the US Air Force’s inventory of remote platforms plateaued at six per cent of its total aircraft capacity, as concern was (re)directed towards conflict against major state actors, notably China and Russia, and the ‘non-permissive’ (‘anti-access/area denial’) environments that would entail: Mark Cancian, US Military Forces in FY2020(Center for Strategic and International Studies, October 2019).

[4] Christopher Wyatt and David Dunn, ‘Seeing things differently: Nang, Tura, Zolmand other cultural factors in Taliban attitudes to drones’, Ethnopolitics18 (2019) 201-17.  The Pakistan Taliban are likely to have a different view given the role of drones in the execution of the US programme of targeted killing in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas: see Derek Gregory, ‘Dirty dancing: drones and death in the biorderlands, in Caren Kaplan and Lisa Parks (eds) Life in the age of drones (Durham NC: Duke University Press, 2017) pp. 25-58 [and DOWNLOADS tab].

[5] Lisa Parks, ‘Drones, vertical mediation and the targeted class’, Feminist Studies42 (1) (2016)227-35: 231.

[6] The incident is almost universally geo-located to Uruzgan, but the Afghan National Army commander who accompanied the US Special Forces insisted that the strike site was just across the border in Daikundi (p. 505), a province created in 2004 from the northern districts of Uruzgan. A researcher who interviewed survivors several years after the attack also located the strike in Kijran District, Daikundi, but when the US  Army’s investigation team interviewed them in hospital two days after the strike they said came from three villages in Kijran (p. 1037): Alex Edney-Brown, ‘“I saw pieces of bodies”: Afghan civilians describe terrorization by US drones’, Truthout, 1 July 2017.  For the source of otherwise unattributed page references here and elsewhere, see note 38 below.

[7] The Hazaras are Shia and the Pashtun Sunni Muslims.  The Hazaras were brutally uprooted from Uruzgan in the nineteenth century by the majority Pashtun, and after mass killings and forcible removals many of them settled in Daikundi.  They were marginalized by successive regimes in Kabul, but the rise of the Taliban (a Sunni Islamicist movement) in the 1990s made their position steadily more precarious, and the Taliban carried out mass murders of Hazaras in 1998, 2000 and 2001.  But the Hazaras were by no means passive; they were a natural recruiting ground for local anti-Taliban militias.  In parts of Uruzgan the militias gained a reputation for exacting revenge on Sunni villages, and in 2010 many of them were recruited into the ‘Afghan Local Police’, who were trained and supported by US Special Forces: May Jeong, ‘The US-trained warlords committing atrocities in Afghanistan’, In these times, 19 September 2017.

[8] Saeed Shah, ‘Dangerous Afghan highway threatens NATO supply flow,’ McClatchy Newspapers, 29 June 2010; On Afghanistan’s roads: extortion and abuse against drivers (Kabul: Integrity Watch Afghanistan, 2013).

[9] David Cloud, ‘Anatomy of an Afghan war tragedy’, Los Angeles Times, 10 April 2011.

[10] The families of those killed each received $5,000; the families of those injured received $3,000.  Initial reports also claimed there were three women and three children who were uninjured.

[11] Combined Forces Air Component Commander, 2007-2012 Airpower statistics (AFCENT (CAOC) Public Affairs, 31 December 2012). By 2012 the proportion of strikes carried out from remote platforms in Afghanistan had increased to 10 per cent of weapons released.  No detailed breakdown is available after that, but the proportion probably continued to increase (especially during the drawdown of coalition forces). In 2015 coalition aircraft released 947 weapons, a dramatic decline from the height of the air campaign, but 530 (56 per cent) of those bombs and missiles were from remote platforms: Josh Smith, ‘Afghan drone war – data show unmanned flights dominate air campaign’, Reuters, 20 April 2016.

[12] Larry Lewis, Drone Strikes: Civilian Casualty Considerations (Joint Coalition and Operational Analysis, 2013).  SIGACTS are ‘significant activities’: violent activities of military significance.

[13] Carlotta Gall and David Sanger, ‘Civilian deaths undermine Allies’ war on Taliban’, New York Times, 13 May 2007.

[14] Civilian harm tracking: analysis of ISAF efforts in Afghanistan (Center for Civilians in Conflict, 2014).

[15] Bob Dreyfuss, ‘Mass casualty-attacks in the Afghan war’, The Nation, 19 September 2017.

[16 ] I have taken these statements from the unclassified version of the Tactical Directive released by ISAF on 6 July 2009.  McChrystal prefaced his instructions by emphasizing that ‘We must avoid the trap of winning tactical victories – but suffering strategic defeat – by causing civilian casualties or excessive damage and thus alienating the people.’  See also Dexter Filkins, ‘US tightens airstrike policy in Afghanistan’, New York Times, 21 June 2009. McChrystal’s was neither the last nor the most radical directive; General John Allen issued a fourth revision of the Tactical Directive on 30 November 2011 that was intended ‘to eliminate ISAF-caused civilian casualties across Afghanistan’ and instructed commanders to presume ‘every Afghan is a civilian unless otherwise apparent.’

[17] Lara Dadkhah, ‘Empty skies over Afghanistan’, New York Times,18 February 2010.

[18] In the twelve months after McChrystal’s Tactical Directive was issued, civilian casualties attributed to US and allied forces fell by 28 per cent, and deaths from airstrikes fell by more than 33 per cent: Joseph H. Felter and Jacob B. Shapiro, ‘Limiting civilian casualties as part of a winning strategy: the case of courageous restraint’, Daedalus14 (1) (2017) 44-58.

[19] The declaration of ‘Troops in Contact’ finessed the existing Rules of Engagement, which would have prevented the tankers from being bombed, by ‘manufacturing hostile intent’: E.L. Gaston, When Looks Could Kill: Emerging state practice on self-defence and hostile intent (Global Public Policy Institute, 2017) p. 23. According to two commentators, the Kunduz incident ‘led to the redefining of the term “Troops in Contact” to prevent self-defense criteria from being applied inappropriately’:  Sarah Sewall and Larry Lewis, Reducing and Mitigating Civilian Casualties(Joint Civilian Casualty Study, 2011). The Uruzgan attack raised serious questions about the effectiveness of that revision.

[20] ‘From a conventional standpoint, the killing of two insurgents in a group of ten leaves eight remaining… From the insurgent standpoint, those two killed were likely related to many others who will want vengeance’: ISAF Commander’s Counterinsurgency Guidance, 26 August 2009.

[21] Michael Hastings, ‘The runaway General’, Rolling Stone, 8 July 2010.

[22] Lt Gen Stephen Hoog, ‘Airpower over Afghanistan: Observation and Adaptation for the COIN Fight’, in Dag Henriksen (ed), Airpower in Afghanistan: the Air Commanders’ perspectives(Air University Press, Maxwell AFB: 2014) pp. 235-257:  243.

[23] Derek Gregory, ‘Kunduz and “seeing like a military”’, http://www.geographicalimaginations.com, 2 January 2014; Christiane Wilke, ‘Seeing and unmaking civilians in Afghanistan: visual technologies and contested professional visions’, Science, technology and human values 42 (2017) 1031-66.

[24] The US military defines Close Air Support (CAS) as ‘air action by fixed-wing or rotary-wing aircraft against hostile targets that are in close proximity to friendly forces and which require detailed integration of each air mission with the fire and movement of those forces.’  How close?  ‘The word “close” does not imply a specific distance; rather it is situational’: Close Air Support, Joint Publication 3-09.3 (8 July 2009; revised 25 November 2014).  As the definition makes clear, attack helicopters may be used for CAS but they are preferred for Close Combat Attack (CCA) because they are more flexible than fixed-wing aircraft, slower than those ‘fast movers’ so they can more readily attack difficult targets, and their smaller munitions allow them to fire closer to friendly forces: Maj Patrick Wylde, ‘Close Air Support versus Close Combat Attack’, School of Advanced Military Studies, US Army Command and General Staff College, Fort Leavenworth, 2012.

[25] The term CCA was abandoned in the revised edition of US Army Field Manual FM 3.04, Army Aviation (2015).

[26] Redesignated the 15th Attack Squadron on 15 May 2016, the squadron was part of the 432nd Air Expeditionary Wing, which was the first in the US Air Force to be wholly dedicated to the operation of remotely-piloted aircraft (in May 2007).

[27] The Multi-Spectral Targeting System integrated an infra-red sensor, a colour/monochrome daylight TV camera, an image-intensified TV camera, a laser target designator and a laser illuminator into a single sensor package.

[28] Strictly speaking ‘FMV analyst’ is an entry-level position and ‘screener’ is a promoted position; for convenience I refer to all the image analysts as ‘screeners’ (as did the Predator crew).  Most missions would have 2 FMV analysts, a screener and a geospatial analyst assigned to support them (p. 1389).  The Predator crew also referred to the screeners collectively as ‘DGS’ (Distributed Ground System).  The US Air Force’s Distributed Common Ground System (DCGS) is a secure network dedicated to the collection, processing, exploitation and analysis of product from its Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance (ISR) platforms around the world; its nodes include Distributed Ground Systems (DGS), like the 11thIntelligence Squadron which is part of Air Force Special Operations Command, and more limited Distributed Mission Sites (DMS).

[29] Jack M. Beard, ‘Law and war in the virtual era’, American Journal of International Law103 (2009) 409-45; Beard served as Lieutenant Colonel in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps and as Associate Deputy General Counsel (International Affairs) in the Department of Defense.  The protocols and procedures to which Beard referred included International Humanitarian Law and the ROE, but they were conditional: none of them provided absolute protection for civilians in war zones. And Beard’s primary argument concerned the visibility of military actions and the possibility of sanctions if those protocols and procedures were breached – not the visibility of the battlespace: Derek Gregory, ‘From a view to a kill: drones and late modern war’, Theory, culture & society 28 (2011) 188-215: 200.

[30] This would be no surprise to her: see Donna Haraway, ‘Situated knowledges: the science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective,’ Feminist studies 14 (1988) 575-99.  On ‘drone vision’ and the God-trick, see Roger Stahl, ‘What the drone saw: the cultural optics of the unmanned war’, Australian journal of international affairs 67 (2013) 659-74; Lauren Wilcox, ‘Embodying algorithmic war: Gender, race, and the posthuman in drone warfare’, Security dialogue 48 (1) (2017) 11-28.

[31] AR 15 (6) Investigating Officer’s Guide (US Army Combined Arms Center, Fort Leavenworth KS); Alon Margalit, ‘The duty to investigate civilian casualties during armed conflict and its implementation in practice’, Yearbook of International Humanitarian Law15 (2012) 155-86: 176.   Since 2014 AR 15 (6) investigations have become less common and in their place the less formalized, faster Civilian Casualty Assessment Report (CCAR) has become widely used: for a comparison between the two, see In search of answers: US military investigations and civilian harm (Human Rights Institute, Columbia Law School and the Center for Civilians in Conflict, 2020) pp. 34-5, 39.

[32] Cloud, ‘Anatomy of an Afghan war tragedy’; the transcript is available at http://documents.latimes.com/transcript-of-drone-attack.   Extracts from the communications transcript open Grégoire Chamayou, Theory of the drone (New York: New Press, 2015) pp. 1-9 and Andrew Cockburn, Kill Chain: the rise of the high-tech assassins (New York: Holt & Co., 2015) pp. 1-16 (though Cockburn is one of the few to refer to the report as a whole). The most detailed analysis of the Uruzgan incident to date relies entirely on the Times transcript – see Jamie Allinson, ‘The necropolitics of drones’, International political sociology9 (2015) 113-27 – and the transcript also provided the base for the reconstruction of the strike in Sonia Kennebeck’s documentary National Bird (Ten Forward Films, 2016).

[33] Towards the end of 2017 the US Air Force refocused on Afghanistan (from Iraq and Syria) and in October 2017 carried out 653 airstrikes there, the highest number since November 2010; In 2018 US aircraft released 7,362 weapons there and in 2019 they released 4,723; no breakdown is available between conventional and remote platforms.

[34] There were at least two reasons for the screeners’ reluctance. The primary screener was a contractor employed by SCRC, and she explained that the commercial relationship obliged her to err on the side of caution: ‘If I suggest or make an assessment, I have to make sure that I am 100 per cent OK with that decision’ (p. 1391).  If the Air Force were to complain about her performance to her employer, she said, ‘that is something that they would take it on themselves to correct’  (p. 1396).  For a desperate attempt to shift responsibility to the primary screener, see Maj Keric Clanahan, ‘Wielding a very long, people-intensive spear: inherently governmental functions and the role of contractors in U.S. Department of Defense Unmanned Aircraft Systems missions,’ Air Force Law Review 70 (2013) 119-202, who claims (erroneously) that the decision to strike the three vehicles ‘was largely based upon intelligence analysis conducted and reported by a civilian contractor’ (p. 178). There are many problems with the use of private contractors in military operations, but this was not one of them. Her caution – which Clanahan passes over in silence – was also dictated by the shortcomings of the video feed: ‘With the tools we are given,’ the primary screener told McHale, ‘there is only so much analysis we can do’ (p. 1396).  I return to these limitations below.

[35] Six months earlier Time had featured an online report by Mark Thompson on Predator operations at Creech headlined ‘A new kind of Top Gunfor a new kind of war’: 5 October 2009; the reference was to the 1986 film starring Tom Cruise as a US Navy fighter pilot.  But McHale’s claim was prompted by a statement from the Safety Observer, a senior pilot at Creech called in during the closing minutes of the engagement, who testified that ‘everyone around here, it’s like Top Gun, everyone has the desire to  … employ weapons against the enemy’ (p. 1456).

[36] McHale’s recommendation to McChrystal did trigger a second (more limited) USAF investigation convened by the commander of the 432nd Air Expeditionary Wing and carried out by Brig Gen Robert Otto: ‘Commander-Directed Operational Assessment on Remotely Piloted Aircraft and Distributed Common Ground System Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures arising from Uruzgan province CIVCAS, 21 February 2010’, (10 July 2010); only 5 of its 38 pages (identified as Otto’s ‘Statement of Opinion’) were authorized for public release.  The table of contents shows that 16 (wholly redacted) pages were devoted to ‘Predator mission conduct’, which was determined to be ‘a factor’ in the incident.  But Otto’s summary statement challenged McHale’s criticism of the Predator crew.   He dismissed the Top Gun jibe and found ‘no resemblance to a “Top Gun” mentality’ (p. 35).  Otto conceded that the Predator crew’s ‘faulty communications clouded the picture’ but insisted that their actions were otherwise entirely professional and emphatically did not display ‘an inappropriate bias to go kinetic’ (p. 35).

[37] Human Rights Watch,Troops in Contact’: Airstrikes and civilian deaths in Afghanistan (2008).

[38] The files are available online at US Central Command’s FOIA Library at https://www3.centcom.mil/foia_rr/foia_rr.asp (under <5 USC 552(a)(2)(D)Records>); at ACLU’s website: https://www.aclu.org/drone-foia-department-defense-uruzgan-investigation-documents; and via archive.org.  All my unattributed page references are to these files.

[39] The 65-page transcript in the Los Angeles Times starts at 0453 local time, but the transcript contained in the consolidated files of the investigation released under the FOIA does not start until 0714 and runs to only 36 pages (pp. 1951-1986); the preceding pages presumably remained classified, although 25 pages are duplicated so the omission may be the result of poor collation rather than redaction.  Where the two transcripts overlap, they have been redacted differently.  The reasons for the differences are obscure, but the transcript was evidently released in two versions.   The provenance of the Times transcript (labelled ‘Tab E’) remains unclear; the newspaper credited the US Air Force, but US Central Command (which released the redacted version to the ACLU) told me that they had not released that version, the Air Force confirmed that it had not released it either, and its FOIA Library records only David Cloud’s request for the USAF (not US Army) investigation, which was closed out on 18 March 2011 – one month after the Times published his main article.   Yet the transcript on which Cloud relied for his report, and which was published in the Times, has been redacted so – even if the attribution to the USAF was designed to protect a source – that version presumably was cleared for release at some stage.  Unless otherwise noted, all timed observations in my text are from the Times transcript.

[40] One press report described the shock of officers at ISAF headquarters in Kabul who subsequently viewed the video feed from the Predator: ‘It was clear from the tape that civilians were about to be rocketed. “You look at the tape, you see the people getting in and out of the vehicles, and there’s really not a lot of ambiguity that you’re seeing women and probably children,” one officer said. “You’re not looking at men with weapons”’: Alan Cullison and Matthew Rosenberg, ‘Afghan deaths spur US reprimands’, Wall Street Journal, 31 May 2010. I wonder about this claim.  On the evening of 21 February McChrystal showed the  video to Brig Gen Edward Reeder (the commander of Combined Forces Special Operations Component Command) in Kabul – he had already seen at least part of it himself – and Reeder watched 40 minutes of the feed with Rear Adm Greg Smith (ISAF’s Director of Communications): ‘On the post-strike monitoring,’ Reeder testified, ‘I saw burqas and children…’ (pp. 1189-90; my emphasis).  The weight of evidence from other observers in the hours before the engagement makes it clear how difficult it was to detect women from the video feed, but if that press report is correct the presumptive clarity – the lack of ambiguity – of those officers’ identification must have derived at least in part from the fact that they already knewthat women and children had been injured in the strike.

[41] The sensor operator who was on shift for most of the night and into the early morning had a scheduled break from 0830 to 0930 – a period which included the strike on the vehicles – and s/he was relieved by another sensor operator.

[42] That said, the former is far more likely: both sensor operators were USAF technical sergeants, and the two anonymised lists of interviewees included in the consolidated file show only one technical sergeant (the JTAC) (p. 1063; cf. pp. 490-1).

[43] It may be that McHale simply ran out of time. He asked McChrystal for an extension from 8 March to 24 March to enable his team to draft summaries of all the witness statements (more than 53 of them) and ‘to interview at least one other witness’ (p. 17), but the file records only one re-interview (p. 130) and interviews with the ‘Predator Piloting Team’ were completed by 5 March (p. 68).  The sensor operators were on the original list of interviewees agreed with the commanding officer of the 15th Reconnaissance Squadron but on 4 March he raised a number of scheduling difficulties in making them available. They were ‘scattered over a couple of shifts’ and McHale was told it would take 48 hours to arrange cover (p. 894). McHale’s team did not interview the third member of the Predator crew either, the Mission Intelligence Coordinator (MC) who was responsible for online text messaging (mIRC) and for liaising with SOTF-South at Kandahar and with the screeners in Florida.  S/he sat in the Operations Center outside the Ground Control Station at Creech but was an integral member of the crew and participated fully in the mission.

[44] The Fires Officer at SOTF-South explained that ‘the majority of our co-ordinations are done on the phone or on mIRC chat’ (p. 720); see also US Army FM 6-02.73, Tactical Chat (July 2009); ‘Tactical chat: how the US military uses IRC to wage war’, Public Intelligence, 22 January 2013. The importance of mIRC to the US military can also be judged by the ‘Afghan War Diaries’ released by Wikileaks, which included over 35,000 pages of mIRC transcripts: https://wardiaries.wikileaks.org.

[45] Ben Emmerson QC, the UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and Counter-terrorism, praised the McHale report as ‘a model of accountability and transparency’: Report, 10 March 2014: 10 (A/HRC/25/59).  It was a marked departure from the investigation into the Azizabad attack, which was widely criticised as inadequate – Human Rights Watch described Brig Gen Michael Callan’s report as ‘deeply flawed’ : Report, 15 January 2009 – and the release of the consolidated file a complete contrast to the investigation into the Kunduz attack, where the details remained classified – despite promises to the contrary – and ISAF even refused to cooperate with the Bundestag’s official investigation into the incident.

[46] Cockburn, Kill Chain, p. 14.  To complicate the time-line still further, Creech Air Force Base is in the US military’s Uniform time zone, 8 hours behind its Zulu time (GMT/UTC) – the time recorded in the communications transcripts – and Afghanistan is in its Delta time zone, 4 hours ahead of Zulu; local time in Afghanistan is 4 ½ hours ahead of GMT/UTC.  In order to fix the narrative I have converted all times to local time in Afghanistan.  I have also corrected a number of the report’s phonetic transcriptions, and done my best to work around the redactions (some redacted passages appear elsewhere in the consolidated files en clair).

Under Afghan Skies: prologue

In what seems like another lifetime, although it was only last month, I spoke at a wonderful conference on “The Aesthetics of Drone Warfare“, organised by Beryl Pong and her team at the University of Sheffield.

I gave a new version of my research on the Uruzgan air strike that has preoccupied so many critics of drone warfare.  You can find earlier versions here and here, and I discussed the aftermath of the strike and the fate of the casualties in an essay called “Eyes in the Sky, Bodies on the Ground” which you can find under the DOWNLOADS tab [the original appeared in Critical Studies on Security 6 (2018) 347-358]. The Sheffield talk will eventually be online, though like so much else in these difficult times I’m sure that’s been delayed.  I’ve also given developing versions of the argument at several other conferences, under various titles; ‘developing’ because I haven’t been able to let it go.  Each time I dive back into the archival materials I seem to find something new – that’s in the nature of archival research, I think – but I’ve now been able to work up what is, I hope, the near-final written version.

This will be the last Part (I had hoped ‘chapter’, but it’s too long for that) of my new book, Reach from the Sky, which is intended to be both a geography and a genealogy of aerial violence.  Over the next several weeks I’ll be posting the essay here in serial form – interspersed, I suspect, with other notices: I’ve decided to return to blogging at something like my old pace – and I would be truly grateful for any comments, questions or suggestions (at derek.gregory@ubc.ca).

Trying to piece together what happened has been like playing multi-dimensional chess (I imagine: I’ve never tried), which is why there are so many notes.  As I worked on this version I realised that I had become so immersed in the narrative that I had started to take for granted contextual information that many, perhaps most readers probably wouldn’t have: hence the need to explain as I go, without breaking the flow. I hope you’ll let me know if it works.

One last rider: I’ve tried to keep the overt theory to a minimum, and for two reasons.  The first is that for me – now, anyway! – theory works best in solution, diffused into my presentation of the empirical materials with which I’m (also) working. Theory makes my argument possible, but in my experience it rarely survives its encounter with the archive intact (nor should it): it’s a medium, something to be worked with and constantly re-made.  It’s also – like the narrative that I will present in the coming weeks – always open and incomplete, an intellectual force-field of tensions and contradictions, because there is no one Theory that asks all the important questions or provides all the convincing answers.  So I’m obliged to work in the space between competing perspectives rather than seek some meta-theoretical resolution; there are decisions that still have to be made – of course: not all perspectives are valid – but I have refused to nail my colours to a single mast and have that determine my direction of travel.

More directly: the world does not exist in order to provide examples of our theorisations of it.  My interest here is in the fate of all those Afghan civilians who were killed and injured on 21 February 2010 and in what that might tell us about aerial violence and nominally ‘remote’ warfare.  And this brings me to my second reason.  Much of what I’ve read on ‘drone warfare’ seems long on theory but short on substance.   There are, of course, essays that activate theory to provide sensitive and illuminating insights into the conduct and consequences of aerial violence, and you’ll see that I’m indebted to many of them.  To  bring those ideas into a close engagement with the empirical – transforming both in the process – is a slow, delicate and time-consuming process.  It’s also, I hope, a collaborative one: which is where you come in….

More to come.  Stay safe and be well.

For Sama

For Sama – see my posts here and here – is now available on YouTube:

Sama is the daughter of the film-maker Waad al-Kateab and her husband Hamza, a hospital doctor and one of 32 who remained in East Aleppo.

For Sama was shot in East Aleppo; it begins in the early days of the rising against the Assad regime and focuses on life in and around two hospitals during the siege.

‘Sama’, we are told,

‘means the sky…. the sky we love, the sky we want… without airforces, without bombing… the sky with sun, with clouds, with birds…’

After their original hospital was destroyed in an airstrike – one of the doctors killed was Muhammad Waseem Maaz, who had delivered Sama (see also here and the slides for Death of the Clinic under the TEACHING tab) – they were able to move to a building ‘designed to be a hospital’ but never used and ‘not on any maps so the Russians and the regime wouldn’t know where to bomb…’

It would be the last hospital left functioning in East Aleppo, treating almost 300 patients a day.

‘Even when I close my eyes I see the colour red.  Blood everywhere.  On walls, floors, our clothes.  Sometimes we cry blood.’

 

Bombing Britain

Ages ago, as part of my research on bombing, I drew attention to Bomb Sight  a remarkable digital mapping project that provided a detailed spatial inventory of the Blitz in London in 1940-41.

At long last there is the equivalent for the U.K. throughout the war: the digital platform War, State & Society has hosted a zoomable and searchable map (see screenshot above) produced by Laura Blomvall showing 32,000 German air raids on the United Kingdom between September 1939 and March 1945.  The first air raid of the war was 80 years ago today – 16 October 1939 – when the Luftwaffe attacked the Firth of Forth near Edinburgh.

Laura’s accompanying open-access essay is here.

An extract (referring to the map above):

When digitally mapped, the density and spread of pinned locations communicate in seconds the scale of devastation these volumes document over thousands of pages. Viewing the data in a single-color heat map format, the entire United Kingdom appears dyed in intense red, with the South East looking like an intense scarlet lake. When the heat map measures numbers of casualties instead of numbers of air raids, the picture changes to show different patterns of numerical density: Belfast, which did not show as a hot spot for air raids, shows as a hot spot for casualties; the county of Kent, a zone of heavy aerial bombardment in the first heat map, disappears as a significant location for casualties next to cities like London, Liverpool, Birmingham, Coventry, Glasgow, and Bristol. In some ways, the correlation between numbers of casualties and urban centers with dense populations seems hardly ground-breaking. However, as a tool for communicating instantaneously what [Juliet] Gardiner called “the macabre taxonomy of war” – a ranking of British cities by casualty numbers – Bombing Britain is unique and unparalleled.

The exception to the exception

There is a stunning report (including an extended video) in today’s New York Times providing detailed evidence of Russian jets systematically attacking four hospitals in Syria in just twelve hours on 5/6 May 2019.

As regular readers will appreciate, this is a fraction of the total number of attacks on hospitals and clinics by Russian and Syrian aircraft – see my analysis in ‘Your turn, doctor’ here,  ‘Death of the Clinic’ here and a stream of subsequent posts.

There have been other attempts to attribute culpability in the past – I’m thinking here of visual analysis by bellingcat and Forensic Architecture, for example – and, as the NYT notes, ‘recklessly or intentionally bombing hospitals is a war crime, but proving culpability amid a complex civil war is extremely difficult, and until now, Syrian medical workers and human rights groups lacked proof.’  What distinguishes this (brilliant) investigation is the incorporation of flights logs and intercepts of radio communications from the Russian Air Force that for the first time clearly and unambiguously show that these air strikes were deliberate, systematic and relentless attacks on known hospitals.

Here is the first attack analysed by the NYT; I’ve grabbed the images from the accompanying video..

Nabad al Hayat had been attacked three times since it opened in 2013 and had recently relocated to an underground complex on agricultural land, hoping to be protected from airstrikes.

At 2:32 p.m. on May 5, a Russian ground control officer can be heard in an Air Force transmission providing a pilot with a longitude and latitude that correspond to Nabad al Hayat’s exact location.

At 2:38 p.m., the pilot reports that he can see the target and has the “correction,” code for locking the target on a screen in his cockpit. Ground control responds with the green light for the strike, saying, “Three sevens.”

At the same moment, a flight spotter on the ground logs a Russian jet circling in the area.

At 2:40 p.m., the same time the charity said that Nabad al Hayat was struck, the pilot confirms the release of his weapons, saying, “Worked it.” Seconds later, local journalists filming the hospital in anticipation of an attack record three precision bombs penetrating the roof of the hospital and blowing it out from the inside in geysers of dirt and concrete.

The staff of Nabad al Hayat had evacuated three days earlier after receiving warnings and anticipating a bombing [which is how journalists came to be on site to film the strike].

Another attack – detailed in the accompanying video – was on the Kafr Zita Cave Hospital (see also here).

As I’ve explained elsewhere, spaces of exception are not confined to the camp (as Agamben and others claim); war zones are also spaces in which particular groups of people are knowingly and deliberately exposed to death by removing the legal protections that would ordinarily safeguard them.  But these are not legal ‘black holes’ either.  The removal of those protections is itself (in part) the product of legal manoeuvers and, in the case of Syria, sleight of hand: Assad’s counterterrorism laws criminalised all medical aid to the opposition.  That legal armature extends beyond domestic legislation: international humanitarian law and other quasi-legal formularies (including Rules of Engagement) are supposed to afford a modicum of protection to civilians.  But throughout, hospitals and clinics are supposed to be ‘exceptions to the exception’: attacks on them, their staffs and patients are explicitly proscribed under IHL.

I’m bringing all these materials together – from attacks on hospitals on the coast of France and the Western Front in the First World War through Afghanistan (here and here) and Syria – in a major new essay: more soonest, though like most of my essays these days it threatens to metamorphose into a small book….

That essay will also elaborate the claims set out in the summary image above.  One of the crucial points to sharpen, I think, is that the exception often appears earlier in time and distant in space from the enclosed contours of the camp or even the war zone that has replaced the traditional ‘battlefield’.  I’m thinking here (in the case of the camp in the Second World War) on the systematic denigration of the Jews, the restrictions imposed on their life and movement in occupied cities, the roundups and detentions (see my lecture on occupied Paris under the TEACHING tab), their confinement to ghettoes: all of this in advance of their brutal transportation to the death camps hundreds of miles distant.  If we don’t draw attention to those preliminary steps – if we fail even to recognise them – then it will be too late: the gates of the camp will clang shut.

What has this to do with hospital attacks?   Quite simply:  if the preliminary de-certification of hospitals and doctors in opposition-held areas is allowed to pass unchallenged, if we fail to contest the claim that these are ‘so-called hospitals’ and ‘so-called doctors’ (a familiar tactic of the Assad regime and its apologists), if we fail to respect medical neutrality,  then the exception to the exception will vanish: hospital attacks will have been normalised.

Underground medicine

In my work on attacks on hospitals in Syria I’ve drawn attention to the remarkable Central Cave Hospital (see also here and here) – and to what it says about a war when hospitals have to be excavated deep into the ground in a desperate attempt to protect them from airstrikes.

That hospital – formally, the Al Maghara (Dr Hasan al Araj) Hospital – was excavated in the side of a mountainside at Kafr Zita in Hama and opened in October 2015.  The Syrian-American Medical Society had originally proposed to build the hospital in the heart of the city, but local residents feared that doing so would turn them into targets for airstrikes.

Yet going outside and underground provided only limited protection: the hospital was repeatedly targeted by Russian and Syrian aircraft (see here and here and the videos shown by Jake Godin on Twitter here).

But as Saving Lives Underground noted (in a report co-produced with SAMS, dated May 2017), there were other cave hospitals in Syria.  Compared to basement hospitals, the cave hospital is

‘a more effective protective model, in which medical facilities are built into caves carved into the side of a mountain. This model provides reasonable protective measures, but has limited feasibility as it can only be constructed in environments that contain mountains. It requires securing the entrance to the hospital, creating an emergency exit, and ensuring ventilation, but is a comparatively inexpensive model as it relies on the existing base structure of the mountain. This model has proven to be effective when designed properly and laid out with attention to details… The largest cave hospital in Syria is the Central Cave Hospital, which is 500 – 600 meters large, contains three operating rooms, and houses a range of services…’

(The most expensive model involved ‘building a new, completely underground facility. A hospital is built several meters below the surface, has a thick, reinforced concrete frame, and is covered by protective ground backfill to create the additional layer of safety. The advantage of this model is that it can be replicated anywhere with few modifications because of its standard design. However, as it involves the construction of a completely new structure, it is the most expensive model and requires the longest time to completion.’)

So there have been other cave hospitals.  Now the Toronto International Film Festival features a new documentary by the co-director of the award-winning Last Men in Aleppo, writer-director Feras Fayyad, called The Cave.  This was shot at another Cave Hospital in East Ghouta between 2016 and 2018 (for background, see my posts on the siege of Ghouta here and here).

Here is the Q&A with the cast and crew at TIFF:

The Cave should be shown in theatres in the fall, and (as you can see from the trailer below) is co-sponsored by National Geographic and will appear in its new documentary line-up:

The Cave follows another documentary on the work of doctors, nurses and patients under siege in Assad’s (and Putin’s) Syria, For Sama: see my notice here.

Like For Sama it too draws attention to the multiple ways in which gender and patriarchy play out in these desperate circumstances.  The Cave is run by a woman, Dr Amani Ballor, and one reviewer notes: ‘When one man shows up to get medicine for his wife, he lectures the staff that women should be “at home with the family,” not running a hospital. “We voted twice,” says a male doctor on staff. “She won both times.”’

Or again, in a detailed review of the film, Eric Kohn writes:

What makes this determined young woman tick? Speaking through a voiceover that guides the narrative along, Amani recalls growing up under “a racist and autocratic regime,” and how the war drove her to “respond to the terrible reality” through her work. At one point, a male relative of one of her patients confronts her, demanding a man be in charge. When one of Amani’s peers comes to her defense, the showdown serves as a keen snapshot of the doctor’s struggle on several fronts. Beyond encapsulating the city’s devastation, “The Cave” is an implicit critique of a war-torn society still at the mercy of antiquated values. Even in this desperate moment, her selfless acts face backlash from stern traditionalists. With nothing to lose aside from the hospital itself, Dr. Amani has no qualms about speaking her mind. “This religion is just a tool for men,” she says.

Writing in Variety, Tomris Laffly describes Dr Amani working with two other women, Dr Alaa and a nurse Samaher, as a vital thematic arc of the film:

In the end, it is the feminine camaraderie and understanding that stands tall as the backbone of the film and perhaps even the entire operation. Despite having their physical safety incessantly threatened — above the ground, there is nothing but a wasteland of a city nearly flattened by bombs — and capability repeatedly questioned by male patients, the trio of women somehow manages to carve out an alternative space for themselves. In that, they criticize religion as an enabler of falsely perceived male superiority and work side-by-side with male colleagues as equals, even if their parity comes as a consequence of the desperate aboveground circumstances.

Much to think about here, clearly: another of the essays on which I’m still working, converting these various posts into long form (and always, so it seems, into very long form!), recovers the genealogy and the geography of hospital attacks in modern war – from the bombing of hospitals on the Western Front in the First World War (there’s a preliminary version here, but I’ve since done much more work) right through to the US bombing of the MSF Trauma Centre in Kunduz (see here and here) and the continuing attacks on medical care in Syria.  I’ll do my best to keep you posted.

Being Wounded

I’ve been working on my essay on ‘Woundscapes of the Western Front, 1914-1918’.  What follows is the section dealing with the act of being wounded, drawn from a series of diaries, letters and memoirs; it’s followed by a section fleshing out the concept of a woundscape which I’ll post in due course [for a preliminary sketch, see here].

Subsequent sections reconstruct the precarious journey of casualties from the point of injury through the aid posts, dressing stations and casualty clearing stations to the base hospitals on the French coast and beyond (for a quick sketch, see here, and for an experimental version inspired by Harry Parker‘s Anatomy of a soldier, see here).

This is very much a working version, so please read it as such – and as always I’d welcome any comments or suggestions.  I’ve added some links and images (most of them from my presentations), though those included in the final version are likely to be different.

I should add that this is one part of a much larger project that also considers medical care and casualty evacuation in other war zones: the Western Desert in the Second World War, Vietnam, and Afghanistan and Syria today.

***

John Keegan once remarked that in military histories the wounded seem to ‘dematerialize as soon as they are struck down’. [1] This matters for more than historical reasons, however, because the wounded serve as a testament to what Elaine Scarry insists is ‘the main purpose and outcome of war’, which is to say injuring. This ugly fact, she argues, can be ‘made to disappear from view along many separate paths.’ [2] In order to bring it back, I attempt to have the wounded reappear on – and through – the paths they followed after they were injured. Most of what I have to say is confined to the British Army and its colonial and imperial counterparts from Australia, Canada, India, New Zealand and South Africa on the Western Front. [3]  The details differ in other militaries and other theatres, but the elemental geography of casualty evacuation was a general one.  My focus is confined to the effects of physical injury and I do not directly address what was eventually diagnosed as ‘shell shock’, but it will soon become clear that the trauma of being wounded was far from a purely physical affair and that it was suffused with emotional reactions that played a vital role in rescue and recovery. [4]

Trauma typically ruptures ordinary language – another of Scarry’s astute insights – and it is scarcely surprising that many witnesses to the broken bodies trailing across the battlefields should have turned to metaphor to convey the enormity of the toll.[5] On 1 July 1916, the first day of the battle of the Somme [above], a British officer found his trench ‘blocked with wounded men who were trying to make their way back to the dressing station’, and as Capt Radclyffe Dugmore surveyed the scene he was struck by the mechanical nature of both military violence and military medicine.

 ‘Here was this line of men, who little more than an hour ago were normal men in the finest of health and strength, and now maimed, and with every degree of injury, they painfully made their way back to the human repair department. The well men were rapidly moving eastward in countless numbers, going forward to the assistance of their comrades, while the injured so laboriously dragged their way back, two human streams, the sound and the unsound. Before us, all energies were devoted to destruction; behind us, all human power and skill tried to repair the damage.’ [6]

.The language of ‘wrecks’ was commonplace.  To Sister Kate Luard ‘the wards [were] like battlefields, with battered wrecks in every bed.’   The task of casualty evacuation, explained one medical orderly, was ‘to move these helpless pieces of wreckage, as rapidly and comfortably as may be, to the place where they will in due course be repaired.’ [7]  The language of ‘repair’ was a common one too, and I will return to its significance shortly.

Three weeks after Dugmore’s observation, and not far from his position, a wounded Australian soldier making his way from aid post to dressing station described the same awful scene but in a different, animate register:

‘Ahead of us and behind us as far as the eye could see, a long column of walking wounded slowly made their way through the valley and across the ridges.  From a distance the khaki column resembled a huge brown snake crawling across the country.’ [8]

Hartnett’s pained allusion was evidently not to a serpent entwined around a staff, the classical symbol for medicine; the intended effect was altogether more venomous. [9]  Still more sinister was the common imagery of the shambles and the slaughterhouse. Wilfred Owen described the infantry training camp on the French coast at Étaples as ‘neither France nor England, but a kind of paddock where the beasts are kept a few days before the shambles.’  In the sixteenth century a shambles was an open-air slaughterhouse, and the term was readily extended to the modern battlefield. Watching the stretcher-bearers file past after the Battle of Festubert with their burden of bloodied bodies one Guards officer recoiled in horror: ‘fine upstanding fellows only a few hours before’, they had become ‘nauseatingly repulsive’,  ‘hideously injured carcases.’ Doctors sometimes had the same reaction and resorted to the same imagery.  ‘Although but a middleman,’ confessed Capt Lawrence Gameson at a dressing station on the Somme, ‘one gets sick of blood’s smell and of the endless everlasting procession of red raw human meat passing through our hands.’If the injured survived they were consigned to a Casualty Clearing Station, what one senior medical officer – one of many, as it turns out – called his ‘Butcher’s Shop’, wherein Philip Gibb was nauseated by the ‘great carving of human flesh’.  One chaplain remembered a surgeon who had been working 24 hours without a break: ‘In the middle of it all he turned away from one table and looked up as another one was being carried in, and he shook his head.  He was covered in blood – we all were – and he said, “This isn’t a hospital, it’s a butchery.”’ [10]

Those two imaginaries, the mechanical and the animate, collided most explosively and intimately in the act of being wounded.  Those who wrote about it often expressed their surprise, even disbelief that it had happened to them – pain came later – or registered the immediate sensation of a tremendous blow. On the first day of the Somme it never occurred to Lt Edward Liveing that he had been wounded:

‘Suddenly I cursed. I had been scalded in the left hip. A shell, I thought, had blown up in a water-logged crump-hole and sprayed me with boiling water. Letting go of my rifle, I dropped forward full length on the ground. My hip began to smart unpleasantly, and I felt a curious warmth stealing down my left leg. I thought it was the boiling water that had scalded me. Certainly my breeches looked as if they were saturated with water. I did not know that they were saturated with blood.’ [11]

But when Sgt R.H. Tawney was hit later the same day he had no doubt he had been hurt:

‘I felt … that I had been hit by a tremendous iron hammer, swung by a giant of inconceivable strength, and then twisted with a sickening sort of wrench so that my head and back banged on the ground, and my feet struggled as though they didn’t belong to me. For a second or two my breath wouldn’t come. I thought – if that’s the right word – “This is death”, and hoped it wouldn’t take long. By-and-by, as nothing happened, it seemed I couldn’t be dying. When I felt the ground beside me, my fingers closed on the nose-cap of a shell. It was still hot, and I thought absurdly, in a muddled way, “this is what has got me”. I tried to turn on my side, but the pain, when I moved, was like a knife, and stopped me dead. There was nothing to do but lie on my back.’ [12]

Three weeks later, still on the Somme, Lt Robert Graves had a similar sensation when he was seriously wounded. ‘An eight-inch shell burst three paces behind me,’ he recalled.

‘I heard the explosion, and felt as though I had been punched rather hard between the shoulder blades, but without any pain.  I took the punch merely for the shock of the explosion; but blood trickled into my eye and, turning faint, I called to Moodie [his company commander]: “I’ve been hit.” Then I fell…’ [13]

His friend Lt Siegfried Sassoon’s reaction to being wounded during the Battle of Arras the following year)was much the same.  He too knew at once that he had been hurt, even if he was not sure how. ‘No sooner had I popped my silly head out of the sap,’ he wrote much later, ‘than I felt a stupendous blow in the back between my shoulders. My first notion was that a bomb [grenade] had hit me from behind, but what had really happened was that I had been sniped from in front…To my surprise I discovered that I wasn’t dead.’ [14]

As these accounts indicate, for many wounded soldiers the proximity of death was palpable: space sensibly contracted to their wound, their body and its immediate surroundings.  ‘A man badly knocked out feels as though the world had spun him off into a desert of unpeopled space,’ Tawney admitted: a feeling heightened by the standing order forbidding troops from stopping to aid the wounded during an advance. ‘Combined with pain and helplessness,’ he continued, ‘the sense of abandonment goes near to break his heart.’ [15]  When Pte David Jones was shot in the leg on the Somme shortly after midnight on 11 June 1916, and left barely able to crawl, a corporal hoisted him on his back until a major saw what he was doing and told him:

 ‘“Drop the bugger here” for stretcher-bearers to find. If every wounded man were to be carried back, their firepower would be cut in half. “Don’t you know there’s a sod of a war on?”’ [16]

Many of the seriously wounded stumbled or crawled into shell-holes to wait for their rescuers; some lay out for days.  On the first day of the Somme Pte A. Matthews was escorting German prisoners back across No Man’s Land, that narrow strip between the opposing lines of trenches, when he was shot in the thigh.  An officer dragged him into a disused trench and bound up his wound as best he could before rejoining the advance. While the trench sheltered Matthews from direct fire (‘shells were bursting all around me’), he realised that unfortunately it also concealed him from the view of any rescuers.  Later that day a company runner chanced to see him and left his water-bottle, but Matthews was unable to move – ‘I might as well have been chained to the ground’ – and as night fell all he could do was shout for help.  Nobody came.  He eked out his iron rations and water, but by the third day it was all gone. The next night a group of wounded men making their way back found Matthews, and shared the iron rations they had scavenged from the dead.  They could do no more for him, but promised to get help.  An hour or two later they returned, disoriented,  and set off in a different direction.  The next night they came back again, ‘in a terrible state’, one of them crawling on his hands and knees.  They shared some biscuits and water before setting out once more; Matthews never saw them again.  The next morning a shell-burst buried the biscuits and pierced his water-bottle, and he was reduced to catching rain in his helmet and drinking from pools of water in the trench. He drifted in and out of consciousness until, ten days later, an officer on patrol found him – ‘nearly treading on me’ –  and dug him out before getting him onto a stretcher. When he reached the Advanced Dressing Station at Sailly he was ‘a mere skeleton’: he had been lying out in No Man’s Land for 14 days. [17] This was something of a record; Matthews’s experience combines bad luck and good luck in equal measure, and it is impossible to know how many others succumbed to their injuries while waiting or, perhaps like the party of wounded men who stumbled back to his trench time and time again, never made it to safety.

If they were fortunate the wounded would have others for comfort and company while they waited, but all any of them had for first aid was a field dressing and an ampoule of iodine.  Capt Harold McGill reckoned that  ‘the obsessing fear of the men was death from hemorrhage’ – understandably so in the absence of effective blood transfusion until late in the war – and the field dressing was the first vital response to bring bleeding under control. [18] One soldier explained:

‘The first field dressing which each man carries sewn in the lining of his tunic has saved many lives. Comprising as it does two pads of gauze and cotton-wool and a bandage, it can be ripped out of its case and clapped on to the wound, and so save the injured man, who may have to lie out hours before he can be taken back to a dressing-station, many risks from loss of blood or outside infection.’ [19]

 

Of course, the utility of the dressing depended on the nature of the wound. The same man recalled a lecture from his Medical Officer, who had explained that a field dressing could be used to stop bleeding from an arm or a leg, but ‘if the man was hit in the body or head – well, the doctor shrugged his shoulders in a way that made us think.’ [20]If they were not alone the wounded might also be able to improvise a tourniquet or even a splint with their bayonet or rifle, and if the iodine bottle had not smashed – unlikely, McGill thought: ‘The men reported to me that during the action they had nearly always found their pocket ampoules of iodine tincture broken when the time came to use them’ [21]– they could make a rudimentary attempt at cleaning the wound.

Given the cascading combination of immediacy, difficulty and uncertainty it is scarcely surprising that the space of the wounded should have contracted so drastically. And yet at the same time that space expanded, partly through what had become the taxing task of traversing even a short distance to relative safety, and partly through the tantalizing prospect of a ‘Blighty’, a wound judged sufficiently serious to require evacuation to Britain (and perhaps beyond for troops who came from elsewhere in the Empire). [22]

Arthur Empey came round from surgery at a Casualty Clearing Station to find rows of soldiers lying on stretchers: ‘The main topic of their conversation was Blighty. Nearly all had a grin on their faces.’ [23]  One medical orderly explained that ‘a wound, even when serious, is the messenger of freedom’ – and he had never met a wounded man who wanted to return to the trenches. [24]Another had ‘only heard of one who said that he was anxious to return there, and he was subsequently transferred to No. 2 General Hospital in Le Havre, where the huge numbers of mental cases were cared for.’ [25]

Even so, the extended space of evacuation was a fraught and dangerous one.  Many of the wounded fell in No Man’s Land, in the front-line trenches themselves, or in broken land during the fluctuating tides of advance and retreat in the opening and closing phases of the war. They were injured in major offensives (‘pushes’), in small raids (‘stunts’) and by routine, almost ritualized shelling and firing (‘the morning hate’).  These were the most immediate danger zones in space and in time, extending back towards the reserve trenches and the small towns and villages in the rear.  The wounded were supposed to move within a legal envelope that protected them from further attack.  The Hague Regulations stipulated that ‘all necessary steps must be taken to spare’ – as far as possible – ‘places where the sick and wounded are collected.’  But that possibility was none the less limited.  Firing and shelling were often notoriously inaccurate, casualty clearing stations were routinely located close to batteries and railheads, and it was not always easy to make out the red cross symbol that was supposed to guarantee protection.  In the final months of the war even base hospitals on the French coast were bombed, while hospital ships crossing the Channel ran the gauntlet of mines and torpedoes. [26] If the wounded imagined travelling through an extended space towards safety, then it was a safety rendered conditional by the continued risk of attack. And the journey itself always exacted its own, sometimes deadly toll on the wounded body, which prompted Patrick MacGill to write of being ‘a passenger on the Highway of Pain that stretched from Lens to Victoria Station’. [27]

My purpose is to reconstruct that highway and the relationship between wounded bodies and the journeys they undertook.  Many of those planning for war had a remarkably sanitized view of both.  When one hard-pressed volunteer with the British Red Cross Society, working at a field hospital in Belgium in September 1914, described her pre-war training she recalled

‘the drill and the white-capped stretcher-bearers at home, and the little messenger boys with their innocuous wounds, which were so neatly and laboriously dressed.

The messenger boys’ wounds were always conveniently placed, and they never screamed and writhed or prayed for morphia when they were being bandaged. And shoulders were not shot away, nor eyes blinded, nor men’s faces – well, not much good ever came of talking of the things one has seen, and they are best left undescribed. “These are not wounds, they are mush,” I heard one surgeon say; and then I thought of the little messenger boys and their convenient fractures.’ [28]

 

The wounds were not the stylised, artfully coloured images of the text book and when G.H. Makins suggested that a survey of them ‘forcibly reminds the observer of the water-colour drawings made by Sir Charles Bell’ he was referring to Bell’s extraordinary ability to convey the horrific damage wrought by musket balls and shrapnel during the Peninsular War.  Bell was a military surgeon and his sketches were no less remarkable for their rendering of the agony, despair and sheer terror of the wounded: a far cry, as he noted, from the text-books. [29]

Similarly, schemes for medical evacuation typically displayed an elegant linear geometry, an abstract grid of transmission lines that resembled what Fiona Reid called ‘a modernist dream’ with no catastrophic breaks or nightmare tangles (Figure 3). [30]  This highly imaginative geography of an evacuation machine, carefully oiled and smoothly running, intersected with debates around a politics of speed. [31]  [For much more, and a detailed case study, see my post on ‘The Leaden Hours’ here].  In the first months of the war there were complaints that it was taking far too long for the wounded to be brought from the firing zone to hospitals on the French coast. These reports provoked sufficient public unease for Lord Kitchener, Secretary of State for War, to send Col Arthur Lee to France to investigate.  In a series of private communications Lee conceded that ‘in surveying the scene from London, or studying it upon a map, questions of transport present no very serious difficulties’, whereas once in France it quickly became obvious that getting the wounded to railheads was complicated by intense enemy shelling, and that the railways were under enormous pressure – ‘the wounded must of course give way to food, ammunition and reinforcements for the fighting forces’ – and with many bridges destroyed and signalling systems dislocated the hastily improvised ambulance trains, often little more than cattle trucks filled with straw, had ‘to slowly explore their own way back towards [the hospitals at] the Base.’ [32]  Two years later the politics of speed had reversed; the concern now was that the RAMC had become so fixated on rapid evacuation that the injured were suffering needlessly.  The debate reached its climax when Sir Almroth Wright, Consultant Physician to the British Expeditionary Force, criticized what he saw as the preoccupation with rapid evacuation, ‘hustling the wounded from hospital to hospital’ he called it, and the overwhelming importance attached to ‘the fact that a [Casualty Clearing Station] has passed so many thousands or tens of thousands of wounded through the wards, evacuating these in a minimum of time so as to be at disposal for reception of more patients.’ He claimed that as soon as a new convoy arrived at a base hospital, and as a direct result of ‘the catastrophes which are associated with long journeys’ from the Casualty Clearing Station, ‘amputations and other operations in large numbers have to be performed upon men who had been judged fit to travel’ (my emphasis). Wright’s complaints were summarily – and angrily – dismissed as ignorant and even ‘stupid’ in what was a bitter personal dispute, and the official response doubled down on the machine-like efficiency of the evacuation system.

What flickers in the fissures of these exchanges is the stubbornly, viscerally bio-physical: injured bodies did not present themselves as pristine plates in a medical atlas and their precarious journeys were not inscribed on the paper trails of an evacuation plan.   The relations between the two were not only intimate; they were also reciprocal. The nature of the wound materially affected evacuation.  Treatment times and pathways for ‘walking wounded’ and stretcher-cases were different, for example, and the worst cases were often the last to reach a Casualty Clearing Station and – if they survived – they travelled much further down the line and ultimately back to Britain.  Those journeys in turn affected the wound: rescuing casualties from No Man’s Land was almost always at the risk of further injuries from enemy fire, for example, and as bearers struggled to carry stretchers over shell-shattered ground and through waterlogged trenches, as ambulances bumped and skidded over muddy tracks and torn-up roads, and as ambulance trains clanked and wheezed their way to the coast, the spasmodic jolting greatly aggravated pain and increased the risk of haemorrhage.

To be continued

[1]John Keegan, The Face of Battle(London: Pimlico, 2004), p. 40; Keegan was referring specifically to General Sir William Napier’s account of the battle of Albuera in 1811, but he was also sharpening a general point.

[2]Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: the making and unmaking of the world (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985) p. 64.

[3]Regiments were raised from other British colonies in the Caribbean and Africa too, and also in Newfoundland; in some cases colonial and imperial casualties were treated by their own medical services, and in others by the RAMC, though they all worked in close concert with one another.  For a general discussion, which extends to the French and German medical services, see Leo van Bergen, Before my helplesssSight: suffering, dying and military medicine on the Western Front, 1914–1918 (London: Routledge, 2016).

[4]On ‘shell shock’ and, of direct relevance to my discussion, what was known as ‘wound shock’, see Stefanos Geroulanos and Todd Myers, The human body in the age of catastrophe: brittleness, integration, science and the Great War(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018) especially Ch. 2.

[5]Casualty estimates are notoriously difficult, but on the Western Front more than five million from the Allied armies were wounded, most of them from France and the United Kingdom, and more than three million from the Central Powers, principally Germany and Austria-Hungary.  There were also tens of thousands of civilian casualties, from towns and villages close to the front lines but also from long-distance shelling and air strikes much more distant from battlefields whose boundaries were already dissolving.

[6]Captain A. Radclyffe Dugmore, When the Somme ran red(New York: George H. Doran, 1918) pp. 201-2.  Hence too Mark Harrison’s apt description of a ‘medical machine’ assembled on the Western Front: The Medical War: British Military medicine in the First World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010).  The imagery of two streams was a common one too, and so was its mechanical rendering. ‘One of the most stabbing things in this war,’ wrote Sister Kate Luard, ‘is seeing the lines of empty motor ambulances going up to bring down the wrecks who at this moment are sound and fit, and absolutely ready to be turned into wrecks’: John Stevens (ed) Unknown warriors: the letters of Kate Luard1914-1918(Stroud, UK: History Press, 2014) 8 May 1915.

[7]Stevens, Unknown warriors, 10 April 1917; Ward Muir, ‘An intake of wounded’, in Happy though wounded: the book of the 3rdLondon General Hospital(London: Country Life, 1917) p. 64.

[8]H.G. Hartnett, Over the top(Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2009) p. 60; Hartnett wrote his memoir in the early 1920s from diaries he had kept during the war.

[9]His own journey was a long and painful one. ‘After tramping five or six miles in search of medical attention,’ Hartnett continued, he and his mates ‘finally reached Albert, where the confusion was even worse if that was possible. Long lines of wounded men along the footpaths and roadways were waiting their turn to get attention from doctors and their assistants, stationed at intervals along the roads, out in the open’ (p. 61).  From Albert he was taken by lorry and light railway to a casualty clearing station and, after his wound had been dressed, by ambulance train to Rouen; then it was on to Le Havre and a hospital ship bound for Southampton.

[10]Wilfred Owen, Collected Letters(ed. Harold Owen and John Bell) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967) 31 December 1917; ‘An O.E.’ [G.P.A. Fildes], Iron times with the Guards(London: John Murray, 1918) pp. 74-5; Lawrence Gameson, Private Papers, IWM Doc 612; Philip Gibbs, Now it can be told(New York: Harper, 1920) p. 374; Capt Leonard Pearson, in Lyn MacDonald, The Roses of No Man’s Land(London: Penguin, 1993) p. 187.

[11]Edward G.D. Living, Attack: An Infantry Subaltern’s Impression of July 1st, 1916 (New York: Macmillan, 1918) pp. 69-70.  He managed to walk out after one of his men applied iodine and a field dressing to his wound, but walking became steadily more painful; eventually, weak from loss of blood, he was placed on a stretcher and wheeled to an advanced dressing station, and from there he was taken by ambulance to a Casualty Clearing Station.

[12]R.H. Tawney, ‘The attack’, Westminster Gazette, 24-5 October 1916.

[13]Graves confessed that his memory of what happened next was ‘vague’. He was not expected to survive, and was taken to a dressing station where he remained unconscious; when his commanding officer went down and saw him lying in a corner ‘they told him I was done for.’But the next morning an ambulance took Graves to a Casualty Clearing Station, where he remained until 24 July when he was put on an ambulance train for a Base Hospital on the coast and was eventually repatriated to Britain. Meanwhile his commanding officer had written to his mother tendering his condolences at the loss of her son.  Robert Graves, Goodbye to all that (London: Penguin, 2000; first published in 1929) pp. 180-2.

[14]Siegfried Sassoon, Memoirs of an infantry officer(London: Faber, 1930).  This is a fictionalised account of Sassoon’s experience on 16 April 1917; he recorded his more immediate reactions in his journal but said virtually nothing about the initial shock of being hit.  He left the trench as ‘walking wounded’ and, after his wound was dressed at an aid post, was driven to a Casualty Clearing Station: Sassoon Journal, Cambridge University Library MS Add. 9852/1/10.h

[15]Tawney, ‘Attack’.

[16] Jones resumed his crawl and was eventually found by a bearer party:  Thomas Dilworth, David Jones and the Great War (London: Enitharmon Press, 2012) p. 117. Tiplady, Soul of the soldier, p. 131 explained the logic behind the injunction: ‘When a man falls his neighbor cannot stay with him. He must press on to the objective, otherwise, if the unwounded stayed to succor the wounded, there would be none to continue the attack.’ This was of course emotionally hard. ‘The grimmest order to me was that no fighting soldier was to stop to help the wounded,’ one sergeant confessed.  ‘The CO was very emphatic about this. It seemed such a heartless order to come from our CO who was … looked upon as a religious man. I thought bringing in the wounded was the way Victoria Crosses were won. But I realized that this would be an order to the CO as well as us from the General and that the whole of the attack could be held up if there were many wounded and we stopped to help them’: Sgt Charles Moss, in Richard van Emden,  The Somme(Barnsley UK: Pen and Sword, 2016) p. 00.

[17]A. Matthews, ‘I was fourteen days in No Man’s Land’, I Was There!pp. 688-691; Capt A.W. French, War Diary (Liddle Collection), 14 July 1916.  For another vivid account of a survivor, see the memoir written after the war by John Stafford describing his wounding on the Somme on 8 August 1916:https://www.europeana.eu/portal/en/record/2020601/contributions_3155.html?q=%22John+Stafford%22.

[18]McGill, Medicine and Duty, pp. 118-9.

[19]Arthur Mills, Hospital Days(London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1916) p. 14.

[20]Mills, Hospital days, p.

[21]McGill, Medicine and Duty, p. 157.

[22]‘Blighty’, a corruption of the Urdu vilayati(‘foreign’ or ‘European’)  was first used by Indian soldiers to refer to Britain in the Boer War; its use became widespread in the First World War.

[23]Arthur Empey, Over the top(New York: G.P. Putnam, 1917) p. 00.

[24]Christopher Arnander (ed), Private Lord Crawford’s Great War Diaries(Barnsley, UK: Pen and Sword, 2013) 30 September 1915.  ‘To these men,’ Crawford added, ‘the relief of leaving the front honourably wounded is inconceivable after months of killing, anxiety and fatigue.’ David Lindsay, the Earl of Crawford, enlisted in the RAMC as a private in April 1915 at the age of 43; in July 1916 he returned to the UK as a member of the coalition government.

[25]M.R. Werner, Orderly!(New York: Jonathan Cape & Harrison Smith, 1930) p. 76.

[26]Stephen McGreal, The war on hospital ships, 1914-1918(Barnsley UK: Pen and Sword, 2009).

[27]Patrick MacGill, The Great Push: an episode of the Great War(New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1916) p. 254. This was a memoir lightly disguised as fiction; MacGill was wounded at Loos on 28 September 1915, and in the preface wrote that he had ‘tried to give, as far as I am allowed, an account of an attack in which I took part’ (p. 7).

[28]Sarah Macnaughtan, A woman’s diary of the war(London: Nelson, 1916) p. 23.  Similar make-believe drills took place behind the front lines, where they were met with a healthy cynicism by ‘wounded’ and stretcher bearers alike.  ‘After heavy losses we would get reinforcements and this would be followed by a Field Day to break in the newcomers’, explained one orderly with a Field Ambulance.  ‘Men with labels describing their supposed injuries were hidden in unlikely spots and had to be found and dealt with as if actually wounded’: Edwin Ware, Diary,p. 94 [WL:RAMC/PE/1/707].  One private recalled a rehearsal for a ‘special stunt’ in which he played a casualty: ‘My wounds were not too painful to prevent my enjoyment of the spectacle while waiting for the stretcher bearers, who did not seem in a great hurry. Casualties here had their own choice of wounds, and they all seemed to prefer some wound which made it impossible to walk a step, much to the disgust of the stretcher bearers.After some argument with the stretcher bearers who came at last to attend to me, I was bundled unceremoniously on to a stretcher with my mess tin making itself unpleasant in the middle of my back, despite the fact that both my legs had been shattered (in theory)’: Doreen Priddey (ed.), A Tommy at Ypres: Walter’s War(Stroud: Amberley Publishing, 2011) 5-9 December 1916.

[29]G.H. Makins, ‘A note upon the wounds of the present campaign’, The Lancet, 10 October 1914 (p. 905); M.K. H. Crump and P. Starling, A surgical artist at war: the paintings and sketches of Sir Charles Bell 1807-1815 (Edinburgh: Royal College of Surgeons, 2005).  Bell uncannily prefigured the horrors for which his successors were equally ill-prepared one hundred years later.  ‘The cases I have had under my care,’ he wrote in his Dissertation on gunshot wounds(1814), ‘have proved to me that the books we possess upon the subject of field-practice do not even hint at the nature of the difficulties the surgeon has to encounter there.’

[30]Fiona Reid, Medicine in First World War Europe: Soldiers, Medics, Pacifists (London: Bloomsbury, 2017) p. 19.

[31]Derek Gregory, ‘The politics of speed and casualty evacuation on the Western Front, 1914-1918’, forthcoming.

[32]