The Official Blog of the Society for Military History
[Cross-posted at Airminded.]
An interesting Flickr set of photographs evidently taken in the south of England in the last year of the Second World War was recently posted to a WWII mailing list I’m on. Many show aircraft of various types; others are of people and places. The photographer is unknown but judging from the content was in the US Army Air Forces, stationed at RAF Bassingbourn in Cambridgeshire.
I’ve picked out a few interesting aircraft shots: some are aesthetically pleasing, some show unusual types, and one shows something I’d never come across before. But first is one of a person, perhaps the most intriguing. It shows an unidentified, uniformed woman on a bed: the negative is labelled ‘Xmas Office Party 1 75w bulb overhead f2 25th sec 02′ which says much, but not enough: we are drawn into speculation. Perhaps she has something, or someone, on her mind; perhaps she’s just tired and had a bit too much to drink. It’s unlikely that we’ll ever know, but then that’s what intrigues.
by Mark Grimsley
There’s a neighborhood bar not far from where I live. I drop by often enough that the bartenders know me and automatically get me my beer of choice. It’s a friendly place and easy to make conversation.
Back in mid-December the coverage of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School was almost wall-to-wall. One evening it was silently unfolding on one of the bar’s muted televisions. I noticed a Hispanic man watching the images, his eyes wet with tears. A short time later we began talking and I found out why.
The man—I’ll call him Fernando—was thirty-eight years old and had grown up in El Salvador during its long civil war (1979-1992). The conflict was between the right-wing government, with its death squads, and the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMNLF), an umbrella term for several left-wing guerrilla groups. Fernando’s parents were afraid of both sides. For them it was simply a matter of los hombres armados: the men with guns.
When Fernando was a little boy, he told me, his parents would sometimes take him from their house and spend the night hiding in the woods, with a hand cupped over Fernando’s mouth to keep him from crying out. We think of school shootings and civil wars as worlds apart. But for Fernando, the former was irresistibly reminiscent of the latter.
I have since talked to Fernando on several other occasions. We never speak of the civil war but it plainly haunts him. At some point—I have never asked how—he acquired an M-16, perhaps because he eventually joined one side or the other. Although he left the weapon behind him in El Salvador, he once told me he has never felt comfortable without it, and he alternates between having thoughts of violence and thoughts of running away. He becomes tearful easily and indeed, never seems far away from weeping. Although his case is undiagnosed, he almost certainly suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
As a military historian, I have never quite known what to make of Fernando’s equation of the Sandy Hook murders with his own childhood. But it is the same equation that others make who have to live with the threat or reality of mass killing. For military veterans present at the recent Boston Marathon Bombing, the scene resembled the aftermath of an IED blast. People residing in neighborhoods wracked with gang violence must know the same fear that Fernando’s parents did. Fernando is a reminder, I suppose, that although we define the boundaries of our field as centrally concerned with political violence, the lived experience of people caught up in violence is essentially the same.
[Cross-posted at Airminded.]
Despite appearing in the Times Literary Supplement a month ago, Eric Naiman’s astounding exposure of independent historian A. D. Harvey’s fraudulent scholarship seems to have been little remarked upon by historians. (Naiman’s piece is quite long, but worth the read; for a much shorter version try here.) Admittedly, the true extent of Harvey’s transgressions, which includes fabricating primary sources and reviewing his own work under pseudonyms, is unclear; but as Naiman argues, from what we do know they are not the sort of thing the academy can let slide:
It is not only that the apparent practice of submitting articles under fictitious names to scholarly journals might well have a chilling effect on the ability of really existing independent scholars to place their work. Nor is it just the embarrassment caused to editors who might in an ideal world have taken more pains to check the contributions of Stephanie Harvey or Trevor McGovern, but who accepted them in good faith, partly out of a wish to make their publications as inclusive as possible. The worst thing here, if they are fictitious, is a violation of the trust that remains a constitutive element of the humanities. There is, it seems to me, a fundamental difference between posting partisan, anonymous reviews on Amazon, where there is no assumption of proper evaluative standards or impartiality, and placing similar reviews or hoaxing articles in academic journals, which are still the most hallowed sites for the development and transmission of humanistic ideas. The former is a cheap act of virtual graffiti; the latter may be the closest a secular scholar can come to desecration.
Some prominent academic blogs in cognate disciplines have discussed the affair, namely Crooked Timber, Languagehat, and Lawyers, Guns and Money, but with some exceptions the predominant reaction in the these posts and comments seems to be wry amusement, rather than concern, say, or disgust. Harvey himself (apparently) twice commented himself at Languagehat (without quite defending or explaining his actions), but strangely was all but ignored by the other commenters.
Perhaps I feel more strongly about it than most. Harvey is an independent historian and has been for much of his career, apart from some periods inside the academy. I’m also currently an independent historian, and worry that this sort of misbehaviour will make it harder for people in my position to contribute to academic scholarship from outside the academy proper. That’s unfounded, perhaps; I’ve encountered no undue difficulties so far and Harvey’s case is probably odd enough to be sui generis. Also, I own one of Harvey’s books (Body Politic: Political Metaphor and Political Violence) and, I notice, praised him on Twitter. Certainly I was impressed by the range of his research in period, topic and discipline, from sex in Georgian England to literary criticism. So I feel foolish for having been taken in by him. Finally, and most importantly, a significant proportion of Harvey’s prolific output comprises military history, and even airpower history (though ironically this is the part of his work I’m least familiar with): Arnhem, Collision of Empires: Britain in Three World Wars, 1793-1945, A Muse of Fire: Literature, Art and War, English Literature and the Great War with France,’The French Armée de l’Air in May-June 1940: a failure of conception’, ‘The Spanish Civil War as seen by British officers’, ‘Army Air Force and Navy Air Force: Japanese aviation and the opening phase of the war in the Far East’, ‘The Royal Air Force and close support, 1918-1940′, ‘The bomber offensive that never took off: Italy’s Regia Aeronautica in 1940′ and so on. To be fair, as far as I know there is no evidence that any of these works is fraudulent in any way. But how can historians extend Harvey the benefit of the doubt now? If we should be patrolling the borders of our discipline against incursions by pseudohistorians, then we should also sound the alarm when there’s an enemy inside the gates.
I don’t actually have any capacity to speak on behalf of the Society for Military History, but I would nonetheless offer the following public service announcement for those who participate in future SMH conferences (and any conference for that matter).
Conferences are useful. Conferences can even be fun. But what’s not fun is when individual presenters go far far over their allotted time. A few minutes over – not a problem. But twice as long as the allotted twenty minutes? Not cool. We all know the time limits, so let’s stick to them, shall we?
The problem is only compounded when the chair fails to do his/her duty – keep them to time. That’s what the chairs are for – to ‘ride herd’ in cowboy-speak. Let everyone know at the beginning of the session that you will be keeping presenters to their time limits. And do it. The audience will understand, even thank you. Remember as well that some people are trying to jump from panel to panel to hear particular papers – going far over time really screws that up.
But what makes it even worse is when the chair, who has failed to do his/her duty and leave any time at all for questions at the end, then proceeds to read his/her own commentary well into the break between sessions. Not cool.
One of the reasons we attend panels is to get some sort of interaction with the presenters. Please, please, please – let’s try to keep to the time limits, and be ready to get cut off. Every year conference organizers make these expectations clear to presenters and chairs/commentators, but we still seem to have difficulty following through.
This public service announcement brought to you by a panel attendee.
[Cross-posted at Airminded.]
Today is Anzac Day, the anniversary of the landing at Gallipoli of Australian (and New Zealand, though my remarks here mostly pertain to my own country) troops on 25 April 1915. In the last two decades Anzac day has increasingly been seen as marking the coming of age of the nation, and its annual commemoration has become the most sacred event on the national calendar. And as a military historian I think this is a problem.
The original diggers are gone now, and the numbers of the veterans of later wars are diminishing rapidly too, but dawn services at local war memorials and overseas battlefields seem to only become more popular. Broadcast, print and social media are filled with ritual invocations to never forget. New forms of commemoration appear. Stories of courage and sacrifice are told and retold. This is not in itself a problem. I’m not against Anzac Day, as such, and there’s nothing wrong with remembering. It’s what we’re not remembering, or never knew in the first place, that is worrying. We should be looking to understand, not merely remember.
By Mark Grimsley
In an op/ed for the influential Egyptian newspaper Al-Ahram, columnist Khaled Fahmy asks, “How do we write our military history?” and bewails the fact that forty years after the 1973 Arab-Israeli war, the relevant military documents remain classified. He describes the tension between secrecy and disclosure:
Intelligence agencies believe concealing information forever is the best way to protect security, and we believe it is indeed necessary to seal sensitive information, but for no longer than 20 or 30 years. After that, records should be unsealed and made public. Whether experts or not, people should be allowed to view them.
The main question remains: Why should the public be allowed to view these old military documents? I believe the answer is obvious: to learn from the past and deduce the right lessons. Old war and battle records are like the black boxes on airplanes that take a lot of effort to recover after an accident. Only after the black box is found and its data analysed can one decide the reason for the accident, and thus work to prevent it from reoccurring in the future.
The complete column is here.
[Cross-posted at Airminded.]
I learned something new from an article in the March 2013 issue of History Today:
Exactly half a century ago, in the spring of 1963, Israel was suddenly gripped by a curious mass panic. Sensational newspaper reports and radio announcements claimed that the country was threatened by enemy ‘atom bombs’, ‘fatal microbes’, ‘poison gases’, ‘death rays’ and a ‘cobalt warhead’ that could ‘scatter radioactive particles over large areas’. Within hours, opinion in the entire country had been ignited. Parliamentary debates, everyday conversations, even songs and poems were all preoccupied obsessively with the same theme — that Israel was confronted by the imminent threat of another Holocaust, less than two decades after the first.
The source of this supposedly dire foreign menace was not Iran, nor the Soviet Union, although superpower tension at this stage in the Cold War was certainly intense. The perceived threat instead emanated from Egypt, which over the past decade had been led by the supremely charismatic and populist military officer, 44-year-old President Gamal Abdul [sic] Nasser.
Several months before, in the early hours of July 21st, 1962 Nasser had stunned the world by successfully test-firing a number of rockets. Specially-invited contingents of foreign journalists and cameramen had been driven to a remote spot deep in the Egyptian desert, not far from the central Cairo-Alexandria highway. They watched as a massive explosion shook the ground and a white missile lifted itself from a camouflaged position, a short distance in front of them. As one American correspondent wrote: ‘It pierced a long, white cloud and later, in plain view, slowly arched to the north towards the Mediterranean.’ Over the next few hours three more launches were carried out in quick succession before the journalists returned home, amid scenes of jubilation from ecstatic crowds. The Egyptian public had heard the news when a special announcement, broadcast on a national public holiday, announced on government radio that Egypt had ‘entered the missile age’.
Given my interests, this sounds like something I need to know more about; and as chance would have it, the author of the article, Roger Howard, has a book due out later this year which may provide more details (Operation Damocles: Israel’s Secret War Against Hitler’s Scientists, 1951-1967). According to Howard’s article, the real reason for the scare was not so much the Egyptian rocket programme itself, but the involvement of many German scientists who had worked for the Nazis in the Second World War, such as the aerospace (and his expertise did span both air and space) engineer Eugen Sänger. In fact, Howard argues that it was to deflect attention from the recent exposure of Operation Damocles, the intimidation of Nasser’s German scientists, that Mossad director Isser Harel briefed the Israeli press with a wholly exaggerated account of Egypt’s offensive capabilities. As Howard shows, and as cooler heads argued at the time, the targeting problem had not been solved, meaning the chance of a rocket hitting anything important was remote, as 1967 proved. Nor did Egypt even have a WMD programme at this time, rockets aside. The scare subsided; Harel was discredited and soon resigned.
While I don’t (and can’t) dispute Howard’s account, from my perspective I wonder if the fear of new technological perils might have played as important a role as the spectre of Nazi-Egyptian collaboration. There are parallels to be drawn forwards and backwards in time, in Israel and elsewhere. Israeli fears about nuclear weapons and missile threats from its neighbours resurfaced in 1981, 1990-1, the 2000s, and today. Only six months before the Israeli rocket scare, the Cuban Missile Crisis brought the world to the brink of nuclear war. All those lurid weapons mentioned in the Israeli press in 1963 — fatal microbes, poison gases, death rays, atom bombs, even cobalt warheads — had been staples of scaremongers in other countries for years, in most cases decades. In Britain, similar press panics over the danger of air attack took place in 1913, 1922, 1935 and 1938. It would be strange if Israel in 1963 was immune to such fears.
From Mark Grimsley
I’d like to call your attention to an article that has appeared in the April issue of Origins, the Ohio State history department’s online magazine. Here’s the overview:
Since the attack on the World Trade Center in on September 11, 2001 the world has grown accustomed to reports of “suicide bombers.” They are often portrayed as deluded or crazed, and they hold an almost lurid fascination for their willingness to kill themselves while killing others. This month, historian Jeffrey William Lewis puts what many of us see as a recent phenomenon in a longer historical perspective. He argues that it is more useful to think about suicide bombers as a type of human military technology that is controlled by an organization rather than as a form of individual fanaticism.
The full text of the article is here.
[Cross-posted at Airminded.]
Previously I argued that two books by Frank Joseph, Mussolini’s War: Fascist Italy’s Military Struggles from Africa and Western Europe to the Mediterranean and Soviet Union 1935-45 (Helion & Company, 2010) and The Axis Air Forces: Flying in Support of the German Luftwaffe (Praeger, 2011), were at the very least bad history and, in the case of Mussolini’s War at least, possibly apologies for fascism as well. I also promised that I’d take a closer look at Joseph himself. It turns out that military history is only one of his interests, and that he is better known as a pseudoarchaeologist and a former neo-Nazi.
It took a little bit of detective work to piece this together, but only a little. It’s in the author biographies supplied by his publishers. Praeger’s author biography of Joseph says that
Frank Joseph is professor of world archaeology with Japan’s Savant Institute, and recipient of the Midwest Epigraphic Society’s Victor Moseley Award. His published works include more than 20 books in as many foreign editions, such as Mussolini’s War: Fascist Italy’s Military Struggles from Africa and Western Europe to the Mediterranean and Soviet Union 1935–45.
Helion’s biography is more extensive (Mussolini’s War, 312):
A member of the Oriental Institute at the University of Chicago and a scuba diver since 1962, Joseph has participated in underwater archaeological expeditions in the Bahamas, Yucatan, the Canary Islands, the Aegean, and Polynesia. A frequent guest speaker across the United States, he has lectured in Britain, Slovenia, and throughout Japan, where he was made ‘Professor of World Archaeology’ by Kyushu’s Savant Society. Before the close of the past century, Japanese national television broadcast two different programs about his work.
In 1998, he received the Victor Moseley Award for his work on behalf of cultural diffusionist archaeology from Ohio’s Midwest Epigraphic Society (Columbus). He also received 1999′s Burrow’s Cave Society Award, and his work has additionally commended by the Ancient Artifacts Preservation Foundation (Marquette, Michigan).
At first blush this perhaps doesn’t sound so bad. The Oriental Institute is perfectly respectable, of course, though becoming a member requires nothing more than paying an annual fee. The ‘Savant Institute’ has very little web presence, at least in English, but it appears to have something to do with archaeology (Nobuhiro Yoshida, ‘President of Japan Petroglyph Society and Professor at the Savant Institute & Japan Academic Center’, spoke at the 2005 conference of the American Rock Art Research Association). The Ancient Artifacts Preservation Foundation exists ‘To collect and preserve evidence of ancient civilizations in North America, and the Great Lakes region in particular, in a manner that supports their study by amateur and professional scholars and to educate the public about the significance’. The Midwestern Epigraphic Society ‘researches the ancient migrations of mankind to the Americas, especially Pre-Columbian and particularly to the Midwest US, as revealed by cultural similarities, archaic writing, ancient world history and evidence found by modern science’.
We historians like words. So we just love it when computers let us count words really quickly. In fact, I’ve even done it once or twice. So we should all be really interested when the AHA (courtesy of Robert Townsend) comes out with a study of lots of words. The words in 23,000 history dissertation titles since 1920, to be exact. Summarizing the results of the study, reportage from Inside Higher Ed included the following:
‘For the recent titles [1993-2012], some of the analysis may challenge conventional wisdom about the state of the disciplines. There has been much discussion in recent years from some historians who say that issues of race, class and gender have come to dominate history, at the expense of traditional studies of politics and war. But the new AHA study found that “war” appeared in 11 percent of dissertation titles and “politics” appeared in 7.6 percent of titles. By contrast “women” and “gender” appeared in 7.8 percent of the titles, and “race,” “ethnic” and “ethnicity” appeared in only 4.5 percent of the titles.’
I was struck by this interpretation. And I was reminded of the dangers of using single words to conclude too much from a work. I was particularly curious about that word “war. ” What is it good for? What does it really tell us about the extent to which a study adopts a ‘traditional’ approach to war? Does it tell us whether the author is doing ‘military’ history, and if so, what kind?
I don’t claim to know the answer. But while I don’t have those 23,000 dissertation titles at hand, I have played around with Google Ngram Viewer, and done some basic analysis of the paper titles for the upcoming SMH conference. And I’ve noticed how the word “war” really does need some kind of semantic markup (as the digital humanists like to say), because the word “war” could mean many different things. Often times it may refer to the study of war in a traditional sense, but just as often (not sure about the exact proportion) it is actually being used as a shorthand for a timeframe, rather than an approach, much less a subject of study. You can probably think of various titles that deal with, say the homefront during World War II, as examples. These examples clearly indicate a willingness to use the term “war,” and even study life during wartime. But that’s not exactly the same thing as military history, or at least not a traditional approach to military history as the above quote suggests. (I’ll ignore here the odd fact that ‘war history’ sounds more military than ‘military history.’)
If we really wanted to get a sense of the relative frequency of various historical subfields, we should be a bit more sophisticated. Better than “war” might be “wars” and “warfare,” since I’d guess it’s mostly military historians who care about multiple wars and the waging of war. More useful might be terms that traditional military historians actually impart substantive meaning to, that is to say, their disciplinary jargon: military, army/armies, navy/navies, battle, siege, strategy, tactics, campaign, etc. Check out my previous post if you need some additional examples. We might even rank such terms according to how ‘traditional’ they are. You could also search for specific battles, even the years of famous campaigns (1494, 1704, 1812, 1815…). Perhaps best of all would be some combination of “war” and these other terms used by traditional military historians. In short, I wonder how useful a frequency count of “war” really is.
Better software which lets us to see collocations and co-occurrences will allow us to analyze phrases and not just single words (“unigrams”) – Google Ngram Viewer even offers a little of this basic functionality now. As we improve our methodology, we will undoubtedly achieve a better understanding of our discipline and field.