The lords of order

Let us start with a statement of fact. A military is most often the most efficient and meritocratic institution in a country. It is a machine of war that has fulfilled its most crucial task as well as one could expect in a fundamentally hostile region. It has done more with less, again, and again, and again.

This is not incidental to its existence. It has honed itself into a keen edge over decades, with a tight pyramid of control, clear, consistent pathways of advancement, and a well-oiled mechanism for self-accountability. We see this in the tight clustering of age at retirement, strict experiential requirements for promotion, the proliferation of advanced degrees at the highest ranks, and the lack of interference in institutional affairs post-retirement.

None of the above justifies what is happening today. All of the above makes the current situation that much more difficult to resolve.

Consider. A professional, modern military confronts problems by thinking along the lines of its ends, ways, and means. It starts with defining a clear end state – a precise vision of what success looks like, how it must feel, and what conditions must exist.

From there, objectives are carved out, and lines of operation and effort charted to steer and connect tactical action – every bullet fired, every litre of diesel burned – to the wider strategic goals. It’s risk versus reward, resource versus objective, friction versus momentum. It’s everything converging to ensure synergy between tactics and strategy, forging a cohesive drive towards the desired end state.

This is the calculus of war elevated to an art form.

The military has not just adopted this sort of thinking. It has mastered it. And that is the problem.

Because it knows it can identify enemies, chart a path forward, and execute said path, it believes it can also take on a leading role in politics. After all, it has no institutional peer, it handles massive logistical efforts that other organisations cannot even conceive of as a matter of routine, and when it acts, it acts as one. It is a million-strong force, united in purpose and effort.

What challenge could managing an emaciated electorate pose to such an institution?

Nothing could miss the point more. Because operational art is just that: art. It is not a rigid science of fixed equations and clear arithmetic. It is not an assault on a fixed position, or an L-shaped ambush, or any number of other tactical operations. It is man’s attempt to bind chaos to its will – to render war into a collection of known unknowns, a series of could-bes and if-that-then-this’.

That instinct – to reformat the unpredictable, to bring order out of chaos, to understand and overcome – is what separates a man of war from a civilian.

Except, when a military takes its modes of thinking and applies them to the management of democracy, it invites trouble. Because democracy is a decidedly messier, altogether more chaotic affair. It thrives on contestation, dissent, and negotiation between competing interests.

And, as history is keen to remind, the very things that make the military effective in war work against it in managing democracy. Four things in particular frustrate their efforts: uncertainty, legitimacy of command, the cost of curbing dissent, and the ceiling on permissible force.

The military reduces uncertainty by establishing a controlled environment through coordination, planning, and information dominance. That task becomes nigh impossible when aimed at the length and breadth of a nation. Public opinion shifts unpredictably, political alliances are made and broken without rhyme or reason, and unpredictable issues emerge every day – the fog of war, taken to its theoretical maximum.

Military legitimacy is grounded in hierarchy, authority, and the expectation of obedience. From the moment a cadet passes through the Academy gates to when he first greets the Tamanna Dip to when he passes out, the military reorients one’s mind to accept orders without personal consideration. This is wholly different from democratic legitimacy, which is more a process than an assumed fact. It must be earned, maintained and be open to serious critique.

When the military partners with a popular party, it has room for lateral manoeuvring. But this is not the case when its allies are politically unsustainable. It must simultaneously push for its ends and bolster support for its civil allies. Consent can be manufactured, but such a thing inevitably burns through the manufacturer’s legitimacy itself. In the absence of such, it is forced to impose its authority through force or the threat of force, alienating the population and giving birth to dissent.

It erodes trust, catalyses greater resistance, and leads to greater instability rather than compliance. The military, of course, has a monopoly on coercive power. It is unrealistic – and foolish – to think that a dissenting political party could – or should – mount an armed response or that its leaders could resist arrest or detainment.

But that asymmetry is precisely the problem. The military’s overwhelming strength becomes a liability when it is used against the unarmed civilian body politic, because there is a ceiling on permissible force in governance, beyond which the military’s relationship of trust with the people becomes hazardously fragile and vulnerable.

In warfare, there are fewer constraints, moral or practical, on the use of force if it contributes to mission success. But in curbing civilian dissent, excessive force quickly becomes counterproductive. It delegitimises authority, incites backlash, and ultimately fails to achieve compliance.

To a military man, curbing dissent works much the same way as he might countering an insurgency: Target leadership, fragment communication, undermine unity, disrupt financing and recruitment, and force the enemy into overextending. When you’ve denied it freedom of action, erode their legitimacy, isolate them, and apply legal pressure. Offer alternative structures to the enemy’s supporters to bleed them even further. Then, simply sweep away the remnants.

Classic COIN.

Except, as Varennikov and Gromov found in Afghanistan, or Westmoreland in Vietnam, or Sanchez and Casey in Iraq, and even Petraeus in Afghanistan, if you lack legitimacy, alienate civilians, choose your civilian partner poorly, and allow a narrative of corruption and inefficiency to prevail, the odds of winning fall dramatically.

All this to say: if you cannot manage dissent, you cannot break the enemy. And you cannot manage dissent through force.

Some years before he met his Maker, Robert McNamara, once-warlord-turned-wise-man, confessed his sins and regrets for the world to hear. “We all make mistakes,” he says. The muscles in his cheeks are tense, a latticework of lines and grooves raised against greying skin.

“We know we make mistakes … there's a wonderful phrase: 'the fog of war.’ What the fog of war means is: war is so complex it's beyond the ability of the human mind to comprehend all the variables. Our judgment, our understanding, are not adequate.”

There is a pause. His lips struggle to form the words that will summarise 28 years of service to his country. One memory stands out. An argument, long since over, with Momyer and Moore and Brown, all itching to bomb North Vietnam back to the stone age. And the result. An eight-week aerial operation turned into a three-year-long, indiscriminate slaughter. What he wants to say, the only thing he can say, clicks into place. “And we kill people unnecessarily.”

And that is the danger hiding in the fog. Not dissent, because that, too, can be tamed with patience and care. Infinitely more dangerous is the military committing to an irreversible, self-sustaining, eternally escalating course of action. A mountain with neither base nor summit. Such a thing recognises no masters – not politicians, not generals. Not even reason.

The writer is a student of law at King’s College London.He can be reached at: salar.rashid@kcl.ac.uk