AIR UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

The Art of Aerial Warfare

DAVID A. MOORE

Colonel, USAF

Fairchild Paper

Air University Press

Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama 36112-6615

March 2005
Air University Library Cataloging Data

Moore, David A.

The art of aerial warfare / David A. Moore

p. ; cm. – (Fairchild paper, ISSN 1528-2325)

Includes bibliographical references. 

ISBN 1-58566-134-1 

1. Air warfare. 2. Air power. 3. Military art and science. 4. War. I. Title. II.

Series. 

358.4—dc22 

ii

Disclaimer

Opinions, conclusions, and recommendations expressed or implied within are solely those of

the author and do not necessarily represent the views of Air University, the United States Air

Force, the Department of Defense, or any other US government agency. Cleared for public release: distribution unlimited.

This Fairchild Paper and others in the series are available elect ronically at the AU P ress Web site http://aupre s s . m a x w e l l . a f . m i l

and the Air University Research Web site http://re s e a rc h . m a x w e l l .

a f . m i l .
Dedicated to

Muir S. Fairchild (1894–1950), the first commander of

Air University and the university’s conceptual father.

General Fairchild was part visionary, part keen taskmaster,

and “Air Force to the core.” His legacy is one of confidence

about the future of the Air Force and the central

role of Air University in that future.
v

Contents

Chapter Page

DISCLAIMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii

DEDICATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iii

FOREWORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

ABOUT THE AUTHOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

PREFACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii

1 INTRODUCTION: THE NATURE OF WAR . . . . . . 1

The Purpose of War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

The Political Nature of War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Total War Versus Limited War . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

The Role of Natural Selection in the

Evolution of Warfare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Trial and Error in Force Application . . . . . . . 6

The Role and Influence of Chance . . . . . . . . . 9

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

2 AERIAL WARFARE AS AN INSTRUMENT

OF WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

A Comparison of Aerial Warfare to

Land Warfare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

The Friction of the Medium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

The Typewriter Analogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

3 THE POLITICAL DIMENSIONS OF AERIAL

WARFARE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

How Political Effects in Aerial Warfare . . . . . .

Outweigh Military Effects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Political Targets Versus Military Targets . . . . . 22

Problems in Attacking a Political Target . . . . . 25

Reasons Political Leaders Modulate 

Airpower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
vi

Chapter Page

Appeal of the Incremental Approach . . . . . . . 30

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

4 MILITARY AND POLITICAL EFFECTS

OF STRATEGIC ATTACK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

The Premise of Strategic Attack . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Douhet’s Argument that Attacking

Enemy Cities Breaks Civilian Morale . . . . . . 37

Douhet’s Failure to Recognize Political

Considerations over Military Expediency . . . 39

Alternate Objectives of Strategic Attack . . . . . 40

Strategic Attack against the Leader

of an Enemy State . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Strategic Attacks against Enemy

Communication Links . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Severing Communication Links . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Strategic Attacks against Enemy Production

Facilities and Wartime Stores . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Strategic Attacks against Enemy

Transportation Infrastructure . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Strategic Attacks against Enemy Military

Forces not Engaged in Battle . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

If Strategic Attack Does Not Warrant the

Overriding Focus of Aerial Warfare:

What Does? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

5 THE REALITIES OF WAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

The Unintended Consequences of

Asymmetric War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

Does Victory on the Battlefield Determine

the Victor in War? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

National Power in the Achievement of

Victory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

The Fractured Battlefield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Limited Political Objectives Confront

Military Consequences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
vii

Chapter Page

Battle without Bloodshed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68

The Impact of Technology on War . . . . . . . . . 73

Why Cyber Warfare Will Likely Remain an

Adjunct to More Traditional Forms of War . . 76

The Political Character of Space and

Cyber Targets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Deception in a Transparent World . . . . . . . . . 81

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84

6 CONCLUDING THOUGHTS AND

OVERARCHING THEMES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Foreword

I believe readers will find David Moore’s work thoughtful and

thought provoking. I found this a stimulating paper about conducting aerial warf a re, defined as the use of “the destructive instrument of airpower applied against an enemy in time of war. ”

David challenges Airmen to acquire mental agility commensurate with the unprecedented flexibility of their instruments.

I believe the author has filled a critical gap in aerial warf a re lite r a t u re. Most works focus on the technical or tactical aspects of

our profession and medium, but stop short of discussions of the

b roader nature of war itself. Consideration of war in that larg e r

sense is essential for those who seek to understand and especially apply air and space power in combat.

The author begins with the Clausewitzian assumption, easily

accepted in theory but difficult to maintain during combat,

that war has the purpose of achieving political goals and that

almost any reason for fighting a war has or soon acquires a

political dimension. As he points out, the most difficult cases

arise when the political objectives are difficult to reconcile with

the reality of warfare: violence and casualties. 

His discussion of the many obstacles to achieving military and

political aims raises many issues facing Airmen today and does

not hesitate to take unequivocal positions. His clear and compelling examination of the changing context of warf a re makes a

s t rong case that the enemy’s fielded forces are still the best targets of airpower. His consideration of the tension between the

“seductiveness” of the incremental approach and the legitimate

need for political authorities to modulate the use of airpower is

stimulating and forceful. His discussion of Douhet and the enduring fascination with “strategic attack” merits the consideration of those who plan modern aerial campaigns.

I recommend this book to anyone who wishes to engage in a

serious discussion of the role of airpower in war. You will find

much with which to agree and certainly much with which to

take issue. The thinking that results from both will be of great

value to the modern Airman.

ix

Daniel P. Leaf

General, USAF

Vice Commander,

Air Force Space Command
xi

Col David A. Moore is a command pilot with over 2,000 flight

hours in the A-10 and over 400 hours in the F-117 Stealth

F i g h t e r. He was the commander of the 8th Fighter Squadron in

1999 and 2000. Prior to that, he was the operations officer of the

9th Fighter Squadron during Operation Allied Force, flying combat missions in the F-117 against targets in Belgrade and Novi

Sad. He is a graduate of the Air War College, the Marine Command and Staff College, the Armed Forces Staff College, and the

USAF Fighter Weapons School. He served at the United States

State Department in International Security Affairs as a White

House fellow in 1996–1997. He met his wife Anne at Duke University, and they are both proud members of the “Class of ’79.”

They have three childre n .

About the

Author

Col David A. Moore
Preface

The subject of this treatise is war. More specifically, it concerns war conducted in the medium of the air, how it is waged,

the effects it produces, and the relationship between this instrument of war and the political oversight it serves. 

To be clear, though, this treatise is not a checklist for applying airpower in war. It contains no step-by-step instructions for victory. It contains no war stories of daring aviators.

It contains no fawning portraits of airpower leaders like Hugh

Trenchard, Pete Quesada, or Mike Short. Instead, it mentions

the efforts of particular groups of aviators (including the Condor Legion in Spain, the American Volunteer Group in China,

and the Royal Air Force during the Battle of Britain) only to illustrate particular points. For example, it does not address the

development of specific aircraft, nor does it contain diagrams

or charts. Finally, it does not contain any declarative proclamations as to airpower’s decisiveness in war.

To explore an issue as broad as aerial warf a re inevitably runs

the risk of focusing too narrowly on the particulars of the subject

( t h e reby failing to anchor the issue in the larger context of which

it is a part) or focusing so expansively as to offer only superf i c i a l

insight into the constituent elements that make up the whole.

Cognizant of these hazards, I have tried to avoid these dangers

to consider both the depth and breadth of the issue.

I have cited (either directly or indirectly) the works of four

military theorists in this essay. The first is Carl von Clausewitz

whose On War was translated into English by Michael Howard

and Peter Paret and published in 1976. The second is Dino

Ferrari’s English translation of Giulio Douhet’s The Command

of the Air, published in 1942. I have documented references to

these works in the body of the text. I also have referred on occasion to the airpower theories of Robert Pape (with whom I

generally agree) and John Warden (with whom I generally do

not). With the exception of these references, all other thoughts

and opinions expressed in this work are my own and should

not be construed as the official views or policies of the United

States Air Force or the United States government.

xiii
Several terms re q u i re definition, including w a r, p o l i t i c s, and

b a t t l e f i e l d, to name a few. These terms will be discussed at

length in the chapters that follow, but a few need to be defined

here. The first is the term we, which I use to refer to the collaborative consciousness shared by the author and re a d e r. While

the use of personal pronouns in a study like this may be impolitic, I am convinced it makes for an easier read. Next is the

t e rms t a t e, which I use to describe organized entities capable of

mustering sufficient military power to engage in war. As the

events of 9/11 demonstrate, states are not the only entities that

can launch an aerial attack. But we must diff e rentiate between

a specific terrorist action and the ability to engage in sustained

aerial combat. There is a diff e rence. While 9/11 demonstrated

the devastation possible from a single air strike, the true significance of that event stems more from the target attacked than

f rom the method used. More of that appears later.

For the moment, suffice it to say that in a world confronted by

specters as far-flung as terrorism and ethnic cleansing, such

t e rms as s t a t e, n a t i o n, or c o u n t r y sometimes seem antiquated or

i n s u fficiently malleable to accommodate the full realities of war.

But despite the warlike capacity of nonstate actors, terro r i s t s ,

and supranational organizations, s t a t e is generally a term of app ropriate shorthand insofar as the discussion centers on the

issue of aerial warf a re. The sustained maintenance and application of airpower in war is a complex enterprise that, with few exceptions, generally exceeds the destructive intent of all but the

traditionally defined national entities.

In this examination of aerial warf a re, I have tried to avoid the

assumption that our own epoch, simply by virtue that it is familiar to us, contains more relevant lessons than any other era

upon which to base assumptions about past or future tre n d s .

Such determined objectivity can sometimes be difficult, though,

especially when discussing a subject with a comparatively short

historical life span. That concern notwithstanding, we will try to

look beyond present examples in our assessment of airpower’s

role as one element of a larger military instrument.

Finally, I need to say a few words about perspective. I have experienced a certain tension between my attempts, on the one

hand, to write from a universal perspective and what I perc e i v e

xiv
as a necessity, on the other hand, of providing both practical and

relevant analysis for my fellow American military aviators. Consequently, while many of the issues discussed in the pages that

follow apply with equal measures of relevance to any nation or

military, the perspective employed in cutting to the heart of the

matter has remained necessarily American in those cases where

I have felt compelled to put a sharp edge on the analysis.

David A. Moore

March 2005

xv
xvii

Acknowledgments

I am profoundly grateful to Dr. Dan Hughes of the USAF Air

War College. As my principal advisor while writing this essay,

Dr. Hughes contributed to the creation of this work in many

invaluable ways. He was the first to examine my arguments

and provide thoughtful guidance and recommendations. More

importantly, however, he gave me the freedom to proceed in

unorthodox ways. The organic development of the arguments

in this essay and the scope of the issue described are just two

examples of the latitude he encouraged. No other individual

has been as crucial to the development of this work.

A number of other scholars at both the USAF Air War College

and the USAF School of Advanced Airpower Studies were also

gracious enough to read the early drafts of this analysis and provide their thoughts and insights. These scholars were Dr. Jeff re y

R e c o rd, Dr. Steve Chiabotti, Dr. Grant Hammond, Dr. David

Mets, Lt Col Loye Eschenburg, Lt Col Bruce McClintock, and

Kevin Monroe. Their suggestions and recommendations significantly improved and refined the finished product before you. I

am deeply grateful to each of them.

I would be remiss if I did not also thank Col John Snider,

Col Kevin Smith, and Lt Col Joe Salata for providing the opportunity to study the effects of strategic attack first-hand in

the skies over Belgrade. 

Finally, I would like to acknowledge the role played by my

wife, Anne, and my children: Rider, Ian, and Cassandra. Their

support has been the bedrock on which I have constructed the

edifice of theory that follows.
Chapter 1

Introduction: The Nature of War

The study of war is a prerequisite to the study of aerial warfare. This essay begins with an examination of war in broad

terms and then moves to a more specific study on the particular

art of aerial warfare. The major areas of concentration in this regard concern aerial warfare’s role as an instrument of war, its

political dimensions, and the effects of strategic attack. Following that analysis, the focus broadens once again to a more general perspective, discussing—among other issues—cyber warfare, space warfare, and the impact of technology on war. It

concludes with the identification of several themes that characterize the general nature of war and the more specific nature of

aerial warfare. 

The Purpose of War

War is the violent application of force to achieve political

goals—political in the sense that the stated aims and objectives

of war serve a greater purpose than to achieve the destructive effects of violence applied for its own sake. War always serves a

purpose greater than itself. Depending on the circumstances,

different motives may inform and impel that purpose. War may

ignite for several political, economic, religious, or ethnic reasons.

It can take many forms. War can be conducted with nuclear

weapons or machetes. The geography of war’s conduct also can

vary. War sometimes flares up between traditionally defined nations; however, it also can erupt between subnational groups.

But in every case—regardless of the form war takes or where and

between whom it occurs—war serves a greater purpose. It is not

the application of violence for the sake of violence alone. War is

the application of violence to achieve a greater purpose. 

The Political Nature of War

The underlying motives that propel states—or nations or

groups—into disagreement or potential conflict may be religious,

ethnic, or social in origin. But when a cause requires violence to

1
achieve its ends, the cause becomes political. Groups sometimes

claim that they fight for other than political reasons—to rectify

economic inequality, to propagate a particular bloodline, or to

camouflage a religious jihad. In their attempts to establish purity of purpose, however, they use these claims to sidestep the

reality of the relationship between political intent and the application of power. 

Nearly all societies exist in a context of social, economic, religious, informational, diplomatic, military, and cultural forces.

Politics, for the purpose of this discussion, refers to the controlled and coordinated use of these forces to achieve both general and specific ends. The method of that application in peacetime is typically nonviolent. The method by which these forces

are applied in wartime, however, is not. It is violence in the pursuit of these objectives that characterizes and confirms a military

objective’s political nature. One could select a different term—

government, for example, or group authority—to describe the

controlling force of a state’s various instruments of power. But

forms of government and sources of authority vary widely from

one society to the next. 

As a process of orchestrating and controlling power, politics—

of which violent military power is one subset—remains remarkably identifiable regardless of the state or group in question. Politics is the motive force housed in the architecture of

government or other corresponding authority. It is with this understanding, and in this context, that war—the violent application of force to achieve political goals—should be weighed.

Regardless of the form war takes or the nature of the groups

involved, warfare is an instrument of politics. For this reason, I

use the term politics rather than the term policy when referring

to the entity to which the military instrument of national power

is subordinated. Politics is the broad, controlling element of the

various instruments of national power. Policy—although politically engendered—refers to specific contextual courses of action.

Where politics is general, policy is specific and is therefore a subset of politics. Since war always serves a purpose greater than itself, it necessarily serves the greater purpose of politics, rather

than the political manifestation enumerated by a specific act of

policy.

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Total War Versus Limited War

The relevance of Carl von Clausewitz’s observations regarding absolute war has not changed over the last 200 years.1

What has changed, however, is man’s overwhelming destructive capacity to use nuclear weapons and possibly other

weapons later to approach the theoretical limits of absolute

war in ways not physically possible in Clausewitz’s time. While

Clausewitz considered this extreme (and essentially impossible to achieve) form of warfare a starting point for his analysis

of the theoretical range and framework of war, we must consider it in real, rather than theoretical, terms. As we examine

the nature of war, we must note the concept that Clausewitz

called absolute war has loomed more prominently in the last

half century than at any other point in world history.* Thus,

this discussion expands on Clausewitz’s earlier observations

in light of the increased destructive capacity engendered by

mankind in the two intervening centuries. 

The intensity and purpose of war can vary according either

to the circumstances giving rise to the conflict or those encountered during its course. If we arrange past wars along a

spectrum from least violent to most violent (arranged according to the limited or unlimited character of their objectives,

their methods, or both), we will find that, in most cases, there

is little disagreement concerning which wars constitute examples of total war and which constitute examples of limited

wars. Global thermonuclear war demonstrates the extreme

nature of total war where not only national survival, but even

the lives of the citizens of the belligerent states are placed at

overwhelming risk. 

If we step back slightly from this extreme, we find several realworld examples that approach this concept of total war in their

intensity of effort, their application of violence, and the totality of

their objectives. The most commonly cited example of a total war

is World War II. But certain periods and locales within this war

stand out as extreme examples of the phenomenon of total war.

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MOORE

*In this essay, I refer to this (hopefully) hypothetical extreme as total war to avoid

confusion with Clausewitz’s term absolute war.
These include the portion of World War II that occurred between Germany and the Soviet Union on the eastern front and

the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Another commonly

cited example of total war includes the latter phase of the

American Civil War, culminating in Sherman’s march to the

sea in the autumn of 1864.

That certain elements or segments of conflicts stand out

within the context of these wars highlights the complexity entailed in both waging and studying war. Before we can affix a

particular war to a particular point along the spectrum of defining the range of total to limited war, a few practical generalizations are necessary. First, during the course of a war, objectives

can change. What begins as a limited war sometimes can evolve

until its objectives approach those of total war. Consequently, a

war’s position on the spectrum may shift over time. Second, the

limits (or totality) of war can vary depending on the perspective

of the state involved. The Vietnam War was limited from the US

perspective but a total war from the North Vietnamese perspective. Third, due to its scope and complexity, war does not always

accomplish its objectives in a purely linear fashion. Some elements may have aims that are limited while other elements have

unlimited aims. An example would be the war on the eastern

front in 1944 as compared to that in the Mediterranean theater.

Fourth, military performance itself can influence the extent of

war aims. Poor military performance can reduce war aims while

good performance can expand war aims.

At the other end of the spectrum from total war is limited war.

This is war fought for limited objectives, with limited means. In

limited wars, the acceptable application of violence and the aims

of war are sometimes muddled. One irony today is that several

states currently possess the technical means, in ways and quantities never before realized, to wage total war on an unprecedented scale. In practice, however, most states (the United States

included) often find themselves engaged in wars known for the

limitations of their aims and the circumscription of their

methods. Therefore, limited wars either can be large or small according to the circumstances. The reasons for the limitations

placed on their objectives also can vary. The Vietnam War, from

the US perspective, was a large-scale limited war. We limited our

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FAIRCHILD PAPER
objectives and the degree of applied force against North Vietnam

out of concern for drawing China or Russia into a wider conflict.

Some examples of American small-scale, limited wars include

the operations in Grenada in 1983, Panama in 1989, and

Afghanistan in 2002.

If we recognize that the stakes involved when states go to war

can vary from absolutely vital to practically unimportant, then

we must be prepared to ask, “When are the stakes involved insufficient to justify the use of force in the pursuit of a particular

objective?” The answer, of course, varies from society to society

and situation to situation. There is a threshold where the application of policy transitions to the use of violence in search of its

aims. This threshold of violence marks the transition between

peace and war. The action, situation, or national interest that

justifies crossing this line varies according to the cultures, the

leaders, the resources, and the histories (and probably to a hundred other factors) of the states involved. 

When we examine the reasons that states go to war, we learn

that sometimes motivations that seem important at the time can

prove entirely unjustified when the achievement gained is

weighed against the cost in lives and treasure spent. Consequently, in situations where less than vital national interests are

at stake, but only military options appear available to resolve the

situation, states set the bar for the application of violence higher

rather than lower. The calculus of determining exactly what does

or does not constitute a vital national interest, however, is complicated by the nature of the forces that can sometimes propel

countries into armed conflict. States sometimes go to war out of

fear, to seek revenge, or as a matter of honor. Are these issues

less than vital national interest?

The Role of Natural Selection

in the Evolution of Warfare

Methods of warfare evolve through a process of natural selection. Those methods and innovations that contribute to success

in military operations propagate accordingly. Those ideas and innovations that meet with failure disappear, no matter how brilliant they may have appeared when first developed. The rate at

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MOORE
which a military force adapts to the imperatives of natural selection, either by exploiting a good idea or by discarding a bad one,

can mean the difference between victory or defeat. 

On occasion, new ideas and tactics develop in the heat of

battle. An example occurred during the post-D-day breakout of

World War II when enterprising soldiers affixed earth-moving

plows to the front of their tanks to help clear paths through

the Normandy bocage. Sometimes methods of warfare evolve

in the laboratory or in the minds of commanders and are

transplanted to the battlefield to see if they will take root. The

process by which these ideas are transferred to the battlefield

may differ by era, circumstance, or military service, but the result is the same. Sometimes the ideas fail, other times they

succeed. Those war-fighting evolutions that succeed in the environment of combat engender copies and refinements according

to the same logic by which living organisms evolve and reproduce to exploit their environment. 

This process of natural selection applies with equal relevance

to the evolution of military organization and doctrine—just as it

does to the development of particular weapons. The effects of

natural selection generally contain their most profound impact

during periods of rapid change. The lesson is simple: adapt to

and exploit the environment or die. Thus, one of the greatest

military strengths is the flexibility to consciously adapt to

change. The flexibility to exploit change in a dynamic environment is an essential measure of military success. One of the

greatest military weaknesses, however, is the failure to adapt

when necessary. Ironically, this sometimes happens in the wake

of overwhelming military success when perceptions of history

contravene the incentive for change, as they did for the French

military after the era of Napoléon.

Trial and Error in Force Application

The forces that determine which side emerges victorious in

war involve the complexity of action, reaction, and chance. Of

these three elements, military planners typically obsess over the

first phase, try to predict the most dangerous and the most likely

examples of the second phase, and minimize or ignore the third

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FAIRCHILD PAPER
phase. In preparing for war, the emphasis invariably and overwhelmingly focuses on the issue of the actions to be taken by

friendly forces at the outset of hostilities. This is an appropriate

step but only a first step. To focus only on the first phase of combat is like planning the first move of a chess game without considering potential follow-on moves. The reason for this skewed

emphasis is easy to understand. It stems from the inherent uncertainty and variety of countermoves available to the enemy. To

plan for every potential countermove on the enemy’s part—to say

nothing of our response to that move and the enemy’s counterresponse—quickly overwhelms the planning process. As a compromise, military planners, instead, consider a finite number of

potential scenarios, knowing that the actual course of action in

war will depend as much on the specific circumstances of the situation as it will on the considered preparations.

A commander’s most critical decision-making opportunity

occurs in the heat of battle itself after the initial plan has been

implemented, after the enemy has reacted to what we have

done, and after the forces of chance have had an opportunity

to insert themselves into the process. Thus, the commander is

presented with a complex and dynamic situation in which the

appropriate next move must be considered carefully. If the

military plan to that point has met or surpassed its expectations for success, the decision is easier and will usually follow

the course of action already laid out. Unfortunately, when bullets start flying, few things proceed according to plan. In such

situations—confronted either by failure or by less than the expected measures of success—the commander faces a dilemma.

Is it better to stick with a plan of action that has not produced

success or to select a new option appropriate to the circumstances encountered?

There is no right answer, per se, to this dilemma. Sometimes

the best thing to do is stick with a plan of action, even though it

may not meet with initial or overwhelming success. Other times,

the best thing to do may be to abandon the preconceived plan of

action and take a new direction. Obviously, this can be one of the

most difficult decisions a commander makes. History provides

examples of success and failure on each horn of this dilemma.

Perhaps the most important point for a military commander is

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MOORE
not to be too easily swayed into abandoning a good plan at the

first sign of trouble, or, conversely, not to continue down an inflexible path even when the need for adaptation clearly presents

itself.*

If a commander believes a change is called for, then what is

the correct direction in which to proceed? Sometimes the

correct path will be entirely clear. On most occasions, however, it will not. When faced with this situation, there is merit

in the straightforward method of trial and error; that is, the

extent that the actions selected for trial stems from the commander’s informed judgment of the situation at hand. If one

course of action looks attractive, the best approach may be to

try it and see if it works (mindful that the most attractive

options can sometimes be enemy traps). If the course of action

produces success, exploit it. If it leads to a dead end, abandon

it. The willingness to attempt different options is key to the

ability of a fighting force to react to the unforeseen actions of

an enemy. There is a parallel between the process of natural

selection in the evolution of war, discussed in the previous

section, and the process of trial and error in selecting followon options during the ongoing development of wartime courses

of action. In each case, the key is to be willing to attempt several options and allow them the necessary time and resources

to develop before making the decision—based on their wartime

performance—to abandon those that fail and to exploit those

that succeed.

This is not to imply that the art of war fighting is merely a matter of trial and error. The point is to highlight how this particular process influences the direction war takes. Scores of other issues influence the process of action, reaction, and chance. This

includes the commander’s vision, strength of will, courage, daring, initiative, resourcefulness, experience, intuition, and often

luck. These attributes and influences are admirably described in

books one, two, and three of On War.

2

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*The stagnant battle lines and wholesale sacrifice of human lives during the

trench warfare of World War I demonstrate the inherent dangers of inflexible thought

under fire. Under such circumstances, a small dose of what Clausewitz referred to as

the genius (or vision) of the commander might have proven a decisive tonic.
The Role and Influence of Chance

Action, reaction, and chance are the operative elements of war.

Of these, the influence of chance on the outcome of war is sometimes the most profound but often the most overlooked. Chance

is an intrinsic and inescapable element in the calculus of war.

For this reason alone, war cannot be reduced to a mathematical

formula that—assuming we fulfill certain preconditions—will

produce predictable and foreknowable results. It may be comforting to think that we can reduce war—and aerial warfare in

particular—to a universal targeting formula. But to do so ignores

the inconvenient realities superimposed on war’s conduct by the

play of chance, time, and culture as indicated below.

• Chance undercuts the presumed certainty of such military prediction by introducing into military operations the

element of the unknowable. Chance is the random and

radical variable in the mathematical formula of war that

can—and so often does—render the unanticipated result. 

• Time undercuts the presumed certainty of such military

prediction by introducing the element of change, an element as unpredictable and unknowable in shaping future

nations, institutions, and people, as the forces of chance

at work in battle.

• Culture undercuts the presumed certainty of such military predictions because no two enemies are alike. In the

conduct of war, context is all.

As such, cookie-cutter formulas averring victory in war merely

provide solutions to problems already known, and any success

their employment enjoys in confronting an enemy occurs as

much by virtue of the same elements of chance and variation—

which reductionist military theories often ignore—as they do

from any gain introduced by the theories themselves.*

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*This is my chief objection to the “one size fits all” theories of John Warden. Additionally, I find his apparent view of the enemy state as an essentially static entity

too simplistic.
This is not to say that war is bereft of enduring principles.

The classic military tenets of simplicity, security, surprise,

mass, economy of force, maneuver, offensive, objective, and

unity of command have not changed. Even today, they contain

as much application and relevance to success in war as always.

What has changed, however, is the context in which these

principles are applied. Possible changes from one conflict to

the next include national leadership, military forces, technology,

the stakes involved in success or failure, interests, and objectives. Every situation is different, and every enemy is different.

Even the same adversary in a different era becomes different.

The Germany of World War I and World War II, for example,

was the same nation, and yet—owing to the changes brought

about during the two decades between the wars—Germany

was a very different nation. Every war requires a different and

uniquely appropriate strategy to succeed, depending on the

specific character of the belligerent states involved. The principles of war mentioned above still serve as a reasonably accurate barometer for wartime success to the extent these principles are either properly or improperly applied. However, such

principles are merely guideposts for success, not guarantees.

In planning a strategy for success in war, context is all.

Notes

1. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter

Paret (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1976). 

2. Ibid. 

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Chapter 2

Aerial Warfare as an Instrument of War

To understand the nature of aerial warfare, this chapter begins by discussing the supporting role aerial warfare plays

with regard to the broader instrument of war. Just as the military instrument is one of the instruments of national power

available to a political leader, aerial warfare, the destructive

instrument of airpower applied against an enemy, is one of the

instruments available to a commander in the conduct of war.

Aerial warfare contains unique characteristics, but it remains

one element of a broader political means. It may operate differently from the other instruments of war, but it serves the

same objectives. It can be applied independently or in concert

with land, amphibious, or naval forces, depending on the requirements of the situation. However, it remains subordinate

to the larger political construct in which it is administered. 

This study focuses on how states bring destructive or coercive

aerial effects to bear against an enemy and the effect of those attacks. For the most part, the purveyors of these effects are

bomber, strike, fighter, and attack aircraft. The effects of airlift,

refueling, reconnaissance, surveillance, suppression of enemy

air defenses, jamming, and escort all play vital roles in this

process. With certain exceptions, their contribution in wartime is

to enhance or enable the efficacy of destructive strikes against

the enemy.* For this reason, this discussion focuses less on the

individual roles and missions of particular aircraft and more on

the overall effects of airpower in war. We will consider those effects in terms of their ability to influence both the conduct of the

battle and the actions of an enemy state. 

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*Airlift operations also have the potential to achieve strategic effects. Two examples include the Berlin airlift during the cold war and the airlift of troops loyal to

Gen Francisco Franco across the Strait of Gibraltar from North Africa during the

Spanish Civil War.
A Comparison of Aerial Warfare

to Land Warfare

To understand what aerial warfare is, we must understand

what it is not. The conduct of land armies provides a useful

comparison. A land army is a force of personnel, equipment, and

weaponry that must be deployed and maneuvered into fighting

positions against an enemy. The ensuing clash of force normally results in one side achieving advantage in terms of personnel, equipment, territory, or position. The degree of that advantage determines the extent of the victory. This general

description applies either to offensive or defensive action. It applies with equal relevance to the armies of Alexander the Great,

Robert E. Lee, or Douglas MacArthur. In land warfare, the army

moves into battle, fights, and, if victorious, occupies and dominates the battlefield. After the battle ends, the army repositions

itself for the next engagement, garrison duty, redeployment, or

demobilization. This study defines the cycle time of combat action as the time required to move into battle position, to fight the

battle, withdraw, and reconstitute. For a medium-sized ground

unit to deploy to another country (in the case of the United

States, to deploy across the Atlantic or the Pacific to fight in another hemisphere), it normally takes from several weeks to several months. If the ground unit is already in the region where it

needs to fight, the combat cycle time might be reduced to days or

weeks. This is the classic engagement model for land warfare.

From this starting point, this study examines how and why the

application of airpower fundamentally differs from the application

of land power.

The Friction of the Medium

The primary difference between aerial warfare and surface

warfare stems from the differences in friction associated with the

medium in which each operates.* On a superficial level, this difference is obvious. A body moving through the air encounters

less resistance than a body moving over the land or through the

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*Friction, in this sense, refers to the actual physical property, rather than to the

effect of psychological friction described by Clausewitz. See Clausewitz On War.
water. While the degree of effort required to overcome the resistance (or friction) of each of these mediums is evident, the effect

is profound. Since air provides less physical resistance than land

or water, a body can travel through the air at greater speed. Because it can travel at greater speed, it can travel greater distances for a given amount of fuel. Less friction equals greater

speed, which equals greater range. Compare the average speeds

of combat vehicles in each medium. The average ship can travel

from 30 to 40 miles per hour. The average tactical ground vehicle can travel between 50 to 60 miles per hour. By comparison,

the average combat aircraft travels around 500 miles per hour.

The difference in speed is 10-fold. While the cycle time of combat action for a surface force—once established in a theater of

operations—is normally measured in days, the cycle time for an

aerial battle is normally measured in hours. 

This increase in speed means that aerial warfare is conducted

differently from surface warfare. In the time it takes a surface

force to move into position for a single battle, an aerial force can

attack multiple times. While there are factors, including weather,

weapons, fuel, mechanical breakdowns, and battle damage that

may limit the number of times an aircraft can attack in a given

period, it is important to understand that aircraft can attack—

either singly or in waves—with much more rapid combat cycle

times than surface forces. Additionally, while armies or navies

move the bulk of their forces into position to directly engage

the enemy, aerial forces attack from distant points, exposing a

smaller fraction of their actual forces to direct combat. There

are advantages and disadvantages to each of these forms of

warfare, and the strengths and weakness of each complement

one another. 

The fundamental difference between the conditions and

conduct of surface warfare and aerial warfare directly result

from the significant reduction of friction encountered in the

medium of air as compared with other mediums.* Decreased

friction is the cause; speed and range are the result. The increase in speed and range of aerial forces, as compared with

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*We will discuss the mediums associated with space and with computers in chapter 5.
surface forces, results in significantly decreased combat cycle

times that typically result in a method of attack by successive

waves rather than by extended physical presence on the battlefield.* This is one of the differences between the way aerial and

surface forces are applied in combat. 

The Typewriter Analogy

Attack by way of rapid and successive waves of aircraft provides an instructive, but not entirely illuminating, portrait of

aerial warfare. To appreciate the conduct of aerial warfare better,

consider the analogy of an old-fashioned typewriter. Because

computer keyboards have almost entirely replaced typewriters, I

should clarify this analogy. When I was a child, typewriters were

mechanical, finger-actuated, printing machines. When you

pressed any of the keys, a mechanical arm would swing forward

to strike an inked ribbon with a raised impression of a letter. The

most commonly used keys were widely separated so that the

striking arms of the typewriter would not continually jam. Therefore, the analogy is based on this kind of instrument. 

Suppose each finger key of the typewriter is an air base.

Imagine that each time one of the arms swings forward, it is

an aircraft, or flight of aircraft, flying to the target to deliver its

weapons. Also, imagine that the letter left on the page is the

ordnance being delivered. Press a key, an aircraft strikes and

a letter forms on the page. Press another key, an aircraft from

another base strikes, and another letter forms on the page. By

coordinating the letters into a sequence (in a language the

enemy understands), we—quite literally—send the enemy the

specific script of our destructive intent. 

The analogy extends further. The various air bases—widely

dispersed on the keyboard, as they might be in a theater of operations—can concentrate the effects of their hammering on a

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*The ability of certain unmanned platforms to dwell over a target area for extended

periods is one exception to the “attack via successive waves” method by which aircraft

are routinely employed in combat. This may, at some point, alter the way we view

presence over a battlefield, but one point is without question: that the ability to do so

stems from the decreased friction of the medium of the air that makes that presence

possible.
single point. In aerial warfare, the same effect is possible. Aircraft from anywhere in the theater of operations (and sometimes anywhere in the world) can focus the efforts of their

strikes against a single point on the battlefield or, for that matter, against any set of points on the battlefield—or beyond the

battlefield—as the situation requires.

Just as the typist controls and coordinates the sequence in

which the keys are pressed to compose the letters and words of

a sentence, a well-orchestrated aerial attack normally requires a

single controlling authority to ensure maximum efficiency in the

coordination of the attacks from the different air bases. To subordinate each air base to a different controlling authority would

be like asking 26 typists (each with a finger on a different key of

the typewriter) to type a coherent sentence. 

My friends in the Marine Corps probably suspect this analogy is a thinly disguised argument in support of centralized

control of airpower. Actually, it is not. If efficiency is not a

paramount requirement, or if specific structural safeguards

have been established to deconflict flight patterns and areas of

responsibility, then it is certainly possible to decentralize the

control of airpower. In this respect, the analogy is an imperfect

one. It also does not account for the relative differences in capabilities between one set of pilots or one type of aircraft and

another. With these qualifications, however, the analogy retains sufficient utility to illustrate a few important points.

To continue the analogy, a proficient typist can vary the speed

at which the keys are struck from a slow 20 words per minute,

to a medium speed of 40 words per minute, to a fast 80 words

per minute. Aerial warfare can be modulated in similar ways.

The number of aircraft in a given attack can vary from a few to

many. The frequency of the attack waves themselves can vary

from a single wave to many waves in succession. The time over

which the waves of attacks can be sustained may be short or

long. Just as a proficient typist can vary the pace and speed of

the typing, an effectively orchestrated aerial attack can also be

modulated. The ability to modulate the pace of aerial operations

sometimes proves of interest to political leaders, and chapter 3

details the implications of that phenomenon. 

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Finally, the typist does not compose the message. A boss

dictates to the typist. If, for the purpose of this analogy, the

typist represents the controlling authority of a military headquarters, then the boss corresponds to the political leadership

that directs the application of military force. In the final analysis, the military instrument of national power, of which aerial

power is only one element, remains subordinated to the mandate of the state’s political leadership. The political leader dictates the message to be sent to the enemy. The military puts

its fingers on the keys and sends the message.

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Chapter 3

The Political Dimensions of Aerial Warfare

Any attempt to study the nature of aerial warfare immediately

encounters the pervasive and controlling oversight political considerations place on the conduct of aerial war. To discuss aerial

warfare without addressing the extent to which political considerations affect the application of airpower in combat is to fail to

understand the nature of aerial war. Airmen often lament, with

equal measures of pride and shortsightedness, how decisive airpower could be in combat if they were given free rein to prosecute an aerial attack with the full measure of destructive power

theoretically at their disposal. However, the utilitarian focus of

their enthusiasm entirely misses the point of the larger context against which their actions play out. Simply put, airpower

is potentially so destructive and dominant that its effects must

be limited.

Aerial warfare often becomes a political weapon, rather than

a military one, when applied outside the lateral limits of the

immediate ground battle. When aerial warfare is used to attack

targets of an exclusively military character (like tanks or armored

personnel carriers already engaged in combat against friendly

ground forces), it obeys and is constrained by the same laws

that govern every other purely military instrument of war on

the battlefield. However, as aerial warfare is applied further

and further from the immediate vicinity of the ground battle,

the military effect of its influence decreases, while at the same

time, the political effect of its employment becomes potentially

more significant.

When opposing forces meet on the battlefield to engage in a violent confrontation for domination and survival, the logic and

precedent for action at that moment is martial rather than political.* Kill or be killed. While the decision to employ the military

instrument in pursuit of national objectives is a political one,

17

*The battlefield in this context is a specific and definable area in which military

forces face opposing military forces.
once military forces become engaged in actual combat, the distant political motive for their employment becomes subordinated

to the immediate violence, danger, and destruction that make up

the character of war. This applies primarily to traditional examples of warfare like Gettysburg, Guadalcanal, or the tank battle at Kursk. Nonetheless, aerial warfare does not fit as neatly

into this category of warfare (i.e. traditional warfare directed

against strictly military targets) in the same way that it overflows

the constricted geography of the traditional battlefield. 

Aerial warfare generally ranges far beyond the limits of the

immediate ground battle. While airpower is less constrained

by the physical dimensions of the battlefield, it is fully and

completely constrained by the political dimensions of the objectives underlying the conflict. Airpower advocates have long

asserted that airpower’s ability to range outside the limits of

the traditional battlefield enables it to bring war directly to the

heart of the enemy. Many airpower adherents believe that by

bombing enemy cities and infrastructure and by disrupting

communication with the military forces in the field, airpower

provides the capability to extend the limits of the battlefield to

bring force to bear on all segments of a society, not just its

fielded military forces. In one sense, this assertion is true. The

physical capacity of airpower to bring force on the enemy’s

civil population, infrastructure, and leadership targets is not

the question. The questions are (1) do the stakes involved in

the conflict warrant this extension of violence outside the traditional arena of the battlefield? and (2) to what extent do attacks on these kinds of targets, outside the traditional battle

area, actually affect the outcome of war? This study addresses

the first question in this chapter and addresses the second

question in chapter 4. 

As to the question of whether the stakes involved in the conflict warrant extending violence beyond the limits of the traditional battlefield, the answer, simply put, is that sometimes

the situation warrants this kind of attack and sometimes it

does not. But, and this is the significant point, the decision to

extend the application of violence beyond the zone of the

ground battle is a political one. Consequently, Airmen should

hardly be surprised if the political constraints applied in such

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situations fit more tightly than their destructive inclinations

might prefer.

Thus, comprehending the effect of politics on the conduct

and execution of aerial warfare requires an understanding of

the following: 

1. The political effects of strategic attack may—and frequently do—outweigh the military effects of the attack.

2. The decision to extend the application of violence beyond

the immediate limit of the traditional battlefield will be a

political one.

3. The political constraints placed on the application of airpower in such situations will be more restrictive than

those placed on the application of airpower in more traditional war-fighting situations.

How Political Effects in Aerial Warfare

Outweigh Military Effects

Part of the folklore of the American military experience in the

Vietnam War is that President Lyndon Johnson and Secretary of

Defense Robert McNamara selected bombing targets each week

at their regular Tuesday luncheons in the west wing of the White

House. Airmen often cite this example of political micromanagement of a military operation as axiomatic of the dangers inherent in politicians attempting to perform the work of generals. Yet,

there is another lesson in this historical minuet that Airmen

overlook. The fact that the president and the secretary of defense

took the trouble to select targets in North Vietnam stemmed less

from their interest in “playing general” than it did from their

recognition of the political ramifications of applying force in the

interior of North Vietnam. This is not to imply that we should

adopt the example and methods of Johnson and McNamara as

model behavior for the application of political oversight to military operations. Rather, Airmen should take this example as emblematic of the political gravity their actions potentially play in

the prosecution of war.

For example, how could the actions of a single Airman possibly warrant the time and attention of the president of the

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United States? Soldiers and sailors rarely receive such unwanted oversight of their actions as they plan for combat. Essentially, three factors differentiate the application of aerial

warfare and drive this increased political oversight. They relate to (1) the increase in relative target value, (2) the potential

dual use of targets for both civilian and military purposes, and

(3) the increased likelihood of civilian casualties from aerial attacks during off-battlefield strikes. 

As aerial attacks range further and further from the lateral

limits of the ground battlefield, the first political concern that

arises relates to the potential variability of target value. On a traditional battlefield, the available targets are primarily, if not exclusively, military. If we destroy a tank, a truck, or an artillery

piece on the battlefield, the effect on the enemy is strictly military. The result is that the enemy possesses one less piece of

hardware with which to wage war and to threaten friendly forces.

The political effect of such an attack is normally minimal, except

to the extent to which such losses contribute to the overall outcome of the battle. But if we leave the immediate confines of the

traditional battlefield, other targets (of potentially greater value)

present themselves: palaces, factories, communication centers,

supply depots, bridges, dams, radio towers, oil refineries, and

cultural landmarks.* By definition, increased target value carries

with it the possibility of increased political effect.

Along with the recognition that such targets contain greater

political value comes the additional recognition that the political

value of off-battlefield targets can be either positively or negatively charged. For example, while the political effect of striking

an enemy’s ministry of defense might be positive (from our perspective), the political effect of striking an enemy school or place

of worship would be just the opposite. In either case, off-battlefield targets generally contain more political value (vis-à-vis the

achievement of wartime objectives) than they do military value.

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*There may be military targets outside the limits of the battlefield that, if struck, have

a potentially similar effect on the outcome of the battle (an air defense sector operations

center situated in an underground bunker miles from the battlefield would be one example). But, in general, targets outside the immediate area of the battlefield are of less

military value, unless they directly contribute to the ongoing conduct of the battle.
Of course, that is not to say that targets outside the immediate

area of the battlefield do not potentially contain military value,

but whatever military value they contain is outweighed—in most

cases—by their potential political value. 

The second reason the destruction of off-battlefield targets

contains a potentially greater political (rather than military) effect

stems from the increased likelihood that a target will have dual

uses for both civilian and military needs. Examples of dual-use

targets include a power plant, telephone exchange, or railway

station. While the destruction of such targets might affect the

enemy military’s ability to fight, their destruction also affects the

enemy’s civil population. Whether or not such an effect is considered acceptable, or even desirable, depends on the situation.

The potential dual use of off-battlefield targets increases the inherent political sensitivity attendant to their destruction. 

The third and perhaps most important reason off-battlefield

targets receive such a high degree of political oversight involves

the increased probability of civilians in and around target areas

as we progress further from the lateral limits of the traditional

battlefield. This consideration remains, of course, a function of

both culture and situation. While political and military leaders of

the United States agonized over the prospect of shooting into

crowds of civilians in Somalia in 1993, they showed less concern for greater numbers of civilians killed in the firebombing of

Dresden during World War II. Generally, the greater the stakes

involved in war, the less effect civilian casualties (or collateral

damage) will have on the subsequent criteria for determining

how, when, and what measure of force will be applied. Conversely, when the stakes involved in war are less compelling, the

aims are more circumspect, and when the degree of oversight

and transparency available to independent news media is more

pervasive, then the degree to which civilian casualties undermine the achievement of war aims will be significant.*

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*By their complete disregard for the lives of innocent civilians, the terrorists who

committed the attacks of 9/11 demonstrated (with stunning clarity) just how high the

stakes were, from their perspective. Ironically for the terrorists, perhaps, the American civilians murdered on 9/11 ensured the US stake in the conflict that followed also

would be significant.
When these three factors occur in combination—high-target

value, dual civil and military use of the target, and the potential for high numbers of civilian casualties—the resulting convergence of political concerns may preclude the application of

destructive force against the target in all but the most extreme

cases. A fully operating nuclear power plant would be a good

example of such a target. 

Although the political value of a target may exceed its military value, this does not mean its destruction necessarily contributes any more or less to the achievement of the overall

aims of war, since war is a political act conducted with military means. Instead, military planners assume that destroying

such targets will have a more pronounced effect on the political end of the spectrum of war aims than it will on the military

end of the spectrum. In either case, if the political and military

goals appropriately complement one another, the effects

should not contravene the overall aims of war. The problem is

that political effects are subjective and more difficult to predict

than military effects. Hence, there is an inevitable increase in

the stake the politician bears in the process when the destructive effects of aerial warfare are applied beyond the lateral limits of the traditional battlefield.

Political Targets Versus Military Targets

If the destruction of a target can have a political effect on the

outcome of a battle, we can logically conclude that in addition to

traditionally defined military targets, there are also targets of a

purely (or primarily) political character. The ability to range

throughout the geographic limits of an adversary’s homeland

presents practitioners of aerial warfare (and political leaders)

with the enticing conundrum of having to decide whether to

focus the destructive effects of aerial attacks against traditional

military targets or broaden their destructive intent to include

nonmilitary targets. 

The course most frequently chosen is to seek a compromise

between political ramifications and military value when considering targets outside the zone of the immediate ground battle. In

these cases, the litmus test used to determine target legitimacy

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usually includes consideration of whether a target in some way

contributes to the enemy’s war-making capability. Under this

guise, the selection of a power plant that supplies electricity to

both military and civilian users could, for example, rise to the

necessary threshold of military utility for consideration as a legitimate target. At the limit of this logical thread, the firebombing of Tokyo in World War II (and its many dispersed cottage industries supporting the Japanese war effort) also could

conceivably fall under the umbrella of such justification.

Yet, sometimes targets are attacked in war despite a complete lack of military utility or contribution to the war effort. To

some extent, the bombing of the town of Guernica during the

Spanish Civil War fits this mold. Another example would be

the blitz against London.* Still another (although the point is

probably arguable) would be the atomic attacks against Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The effects of these attacks were considerable, but not necessarily in the ways the attackers intended. In the case of Guernica, the effect was gradually to swell

worldwide indignation, although not in sufficient amounts to

appreciably sway the outcome of that war. The London blitz

had an effect opposite to the one intended, by steeling the resolve of the British populace. In the case of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the atomic attacks served as a final and fatal series of

blows to Japanese resistance. Or, as Robert Pape argues, the

attacks proved to be just one action in a series of decisive

events (along with, most notably, Russia’s invasion of

Manchuria) that ultimately convinced Japan to surrender.1

The terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center do not fit

this mold. While the World Trade Center was not a military

target, its destruction most certainly contributed to the war

aims of the attackers. This presents an interesting conundrum. If an attacker decides to wage a cultural war of annihilation and does not mind dying in the process, then certain

fundamental assumptions about negotiation and force will

need to be reevaluated in the specific cultural context in which

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*Although London had tremendous military value, the German night bombing of

the blacked-out city effectively amounted to an effort of indiscriminate destruction.
they occur. The United States faced a similar challenge at the

end of World War II—with the prospect of an invasion of the

Japanese mainland. Such challenges are not insurmountable.

Yet, they significantly alter the threshold and the acceptability

of violence. Atrocities against civilians tend to steal the resolve

of the nation victimized and, rightly or wrongly, tend to be

used to justify even greater applications of violence in response. Examples include the atomic attacks on Hiroshima

and Nagasaki, Israeli responses to Palestinian suicide bombings, and the immediate American response both to Al Queda

following 9/11 and Iraq in 2003.

Therefore, political effects are difficult to predict, even when

the degree of force applied might be otherwise decisive in purely

military terms. In addition, the variable political character of targets means there are sometimes targets selected for destruction

that are entirely political in their character—that is to say, targets with no intrinsic military value on the outcome or the conduct of the battle. 

While the number of purely political targets may be limited,

they bear some examination. The World Trade Center is the most

obvious example of a purely political target. There are others,

however. A curious example from the first Persian Gulf War was

the statue of the crossed swords in Baghdad, molded in the likeness of the arms of Saddam Hussein himself. Allied war planners

put the statue on their early target lists, but US political leaders

removed it from consideration during the course of their review

of the targets. The point is not whether that particular target

was, or was not, destroyed but rather that it merited consideration as a target at all. The effect of its destruction, had it occurred, would have been purely political. That is not to say that

political effects do not contribute to the achievement of a war’s

overall aims. The effects of a political attack can prove decisive in

ways that military effects might not. Many have argued this is

what happened during Operation Allied Force in Kosovo. However, this also highlights, as we discussed a moment ago, the

great unpredictability of attempted political effects. That unpredictability does not restrain politicians (nor should it) from controlling the application of airpower to achieve specific political effects by deciding what should—and should not—be attacked in

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war. This paper examines that issue shortly and later considers

the problems associated with determining the political effects of

an attack against a specific target.

Problems in Attacking a Political Target

With the knowledge that targets may contain political as

well as military value comes the recognition of the difficulty inherent in determining whether an attack against this type of

target actually achieves the intended political effect. Measuring the success of an attack on a political target can prove dubiously inexact owing to the difficulty of establishing a direct

and recognizable link between the action taken and the result,

if any, observed. To illustrate the problem of ascribing political effects of an action, consider results on a battlefield. Bomb

damage assessment, even in an era of sophisticated imagery,

remains an inexact science. In the early airpower years, aircrews frequently overestimated the accuracy and effect of their

bombs. With the development of reconnaissance platforms in

more recent years, overhead imaging systems have been relied

on more than the reports of aircrews. 

Unfortunately, determining the success of even a straightforward military attack with post-strike imagery is sometimes

difficult. Consider the following example: a bomb strikes a

bunker or cave complex and burrows deep underground before

detonating (as it is designed to do), but post-attack imagery

shows just a small hole in the roof of the complex. Has the

complex been destroyed? How extensively has it been damaged?

Should additional sorties be dispatched to further ensure its

destruction?

The ongoing need to determine attack effects against traditional military targets is difficult enough. Attempting to determine attack effects against nonmilitary targets is just as difficult

in the physical sense, but even more difficult in the psychological, social, and political sense. If we destroy an enemy bridge or

power plant, determining the extent of physical damage is the

first step. Assuming the attack has been physically successful,

we must then determine what effect it has actually had on the

enemy. Still, how do we measure the extent of our success in

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achieving our overall war aims? Can we establish a direct linkage between an attack taken against a largely political target and

the subsequent behavior of the enemy? Do we simply assume

some linkage exists, in some indirect and indeterminate way? 

The truth is that the result of an attack against an enemy

yields effects that are both physical and psychological. On a

traditional battlefield, if you destroy a tank, there is a negative

physical effect (the attrition of the tank), which is easy to measure. But there is also a psychological effect (on the other tank

crews) that is more difficult to measure. The psychological effect may be negative if it triggers fear or confusion on the part

of the other tank crews. Nevertheless, what if the psychological effect is to provoke anger, outrage, or blood lust? Because

of the complexity of the human mind, psychological effects are

not predictable. In the above example, one adjacent tank crew

member might react with fear, another with outrage. On different days, their individual reactions may be reversed. Even

if one assumes psychological reactions to an attack are universal, these reactions are actually unique to each situation

and to each individual. Exact psychological effects cannot be

predicted with certainty.

Now, expand the preceding battlefield example to one that

addresses a primarily political target and predicting the psychological effects becomes less certain. An attack against the

enemy’s capital, for example, may have less immediate physical effect on the outcome of an ongoing ground battle, but a

potentially enormous psychological effect on the enemy civil

populace and the enemy leadership.* However, if individual

psychological effects are difficult to predict, predicting the reaction of the populace of the enemy state is more problematic. 

Will the reaction be outrage or despair? Determination or

panic? Perhaps all of the above. The reactions of the enemy

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*Gen James Harold “Jimmy” Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo is the archetypal example of an

attack that produced minimal physical effects but enormous psychological effects. The

primary reason for its success was contextual. The Japanese military had convinced its

population that the Japanese home islands were invulnerable to attack. The insecurity

brought on by Doolittle’s raid helped convince Japan to slow its outward expansion in

the Pacific and begin the process of consolidating its gains. Later attacks on Tokyo, which

were far more physically devastating, had far less overall effect on the outcome of the war.

Like every other aspect of war, psychological effects are contextual.
leader may be equally problematic. Just as the individual reactions of the tank crew may vary, the reactions of an individual

leader may vary from situation to situation. The psychological

effects may well be profound—as they were on the Japanese

after Gen James Harold “Jimmy” Doolittle’s raid—but predicting with certainty exactly what those effects will be is another

matter entirely. 

Because political effects are difficult to measure, and even

more difficult to predict, achieving a political objective may require a different approach than a military objective. Military

objectives are generally measurable, political objectives much

less so, at least from the standpoint of determining how a specific military action produces a recognizable political effect.

Until someone develops the means to measure the degree an

attack against a political target influences an enemy’s behavior, the extent of airpower’s contribution to the achievement of

war aims will remain inconclusive. While the result of attacks

on political targets may be difficult to measure, the extent to

which political forces shape and determine the ways in which

airpower’s destructive effects are applied is profound.

Reasons Political Leaders Modulate Airpower

The nature of aerial warfare provides specific opportunities to

modulate and control the intensity of aerial attack throughout

the range of combat operations. This characteristic differentiates

aerial warfare from many other forms of warfare. This is because

more of the variables that control the intensity and duration of

an aerial attack remain under the direct control of external leadership than they do in land or naval warfare. When we send an

army or a navy into battle, at the outset, we can control some of

the variables of time, size, intensity, and duration of the application of force. We can increase the size of the combat forces. We

may be able to accelerate the speed with which they reach the

battlefield. We can specify which weapons can be used and in

what context. However, once the battle starts, external (meaning

political) adjustments to these objective aspects of the force

engaged become significantly more difficult to apply. When an

army or navy goes into battle, it does so as a single coordinated

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action using all available forces with a specific opportunity to

fight and win. Once the battle ends, there is an opportunity to

externally control how quickly, and, in what strength, they are

sent into battle again. But, owing to both the cost and inertia of

marshalling surface forces for battle, in most cases, these

changes occur much more slowly than they do with aerial forces. 

In aerial warfare, additional variables remain under external

control throughout the span of combat operations. As in the previous example, at the outset, we can control both the size and

the alacrity with which an aerial force is directed into battle. We

can specify the weapons to be used and the context for their employment. But, even after the battle begins, additional variables

often remain within the grasp of external control. We can, up to

a certain physical limit, control the number of sorties produced

per attack wave (notwithstanding other external influences, like

weather and the actions of the enemy, for example). We can control the spacing between the attack waves, and we can control

the overall duration of the attack. This is not to say that armies

and navies do not control these elements in battle as well, but in

the heat and furor of actual conflict, they are necessarily controlled by the engaged forces themselves and to a far less significant extent by the political leadership overseeing the conflict. To

illustrate this point, a political leader is unlikely to direct a radio

message to a foot soldier telling him where to aim his rifle. Yet,

politicians frequently redirect or cancel an aircraft strike—even

after they become airborne and are en route to the target area. 

There are few military commanders who would choose to go

into battle using a small portion of their available forces. When

these forces sit directly in harm’s way (as surface forces normally do when they are engaged in combat), political leaders

normally have enough appreciation of the collective risk borne

by the combatants not to suggest that their generals or admirals try to attack with anything less than the full complement

of approved combat power available to them. The logic of force

survival is a powerful motivator. Two thousand years of land

and naval warfare experience provide numerous examples of

the perils of failing to bring all available combat power to bear

on the enemy at the decisive time and place. This is why, in a

surface battle, we do not send out tanks or ships a few at a

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time to engage the enemy. To do so allows the enemy to focus

his land forces against the contingent described. 

But sometimes aerial commanders can find themselves (especially in limited wars) directed to strike the enemy with a fraction

of their available assets. This is because, unlike army or navy

forces, air bases usually sit beyond the ranges of immediate

ground threats. The distance an aircraft can travel before it

strikes obviates the need to maneuver the bulk of its support

structure directly into harm’s way to engage the enemy. If this

geographic buffer were to evaporate (by the base being attacked

or overrun, for example), any external mandate to restrain the

use of available force would likely disappear as well. Nevertheless, it is the ability of aerial forces to conduct attacks at long

range, with little commensurate threat to friendly forces back at

their recovery base, which makes it possible to conduct an attack with less than maximum available aerial power.

The protection of distance and the survival of the home airfield are not the only considerations. Survival is also important when an aircraft flies into enemy territory or within the

range of enemy defenses. In such situations, aircraft commanders often seek safety in numbers, since a large attack

force can sometimes overwhelm an air defense system that

might otherwise make mincemeat out of a smaller force. This

provides a powerful argument favoring the traditional military

view of attacking with overwhelming force whenever possible.

We use this logic in our attack planning for surface engagements. A single tank charging into battle faces threats not only

from other tanks, but also from infantry, helicopters, artillery,

special operations units, and sometimes even angry mobs (as

occurred in Chechnya). The threats to an aircraft are generally

more specialized and less widely deployed. Consequently, another reason political leaders sometimes direct a fraction of

the available aerial forces to strike the enemy is that, depending on the situation, there may be no greater risk to a small

force overflying an enemy than a large force. It may be possible

sometimes to scale back the size of the attacking force without

increasing the risk of the mission simply because the threat to

any number of friendly aircraft, large or small, is essentially

negligible. For example, in a country without a viable air defense,

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a lone-wolf attack by a single aircraft might be an entirely appropriate attack option. Given a more robust air defense, however, the same lone-wolf tactic might prove suicidal by allowing the enemy to focus its air defense on a single target.

The third and perhaps most powerful reason political leaders

sometimes choose to use less-than-maximum available aerial

force is that the political ends of the situation may not justify the

use of overwhelming means. For this reason, airpower is often

the force application tool of choice in limited wars. Airpower is a

flexible military instrument that can be used once, twice, or as

many times as necessary to meet limited political ends. It can be

terminated at any time, resumed at any time, or continued without letup. Violence and danger are inherent elements in war, and

the military instrument of national power is nothing if not a

blunt instrument. Yet, the ability to limit and continually modify

aerial warfare to meet political ends makes it, in the eyes of many

political leaders, the “least blunt” military instrument among

those available. 

The final reason political leaders are sometimes tempted, especially in limited wars, to direct the use of less-than-maximum available aerial force in battle is simply because they

can. The nature of aerial warfare itself makes this possible.

When land and naval forces engage in battle, they generally

sustain the application of force until the battle is either won or

lost. Once combat begins, there is no natural and predictable

pause during a land or naval battle (as there is when an aircraft returns to base to rearm and refuel) at which time political

leaders can consciously and deliberately alter the subsequent

applications of force. However, aerial warfare provides this opportunity, and political leaders sometimes avail themselves of

these occasions (even in limited wars with circumscribed objectives) to adjust subsequent intensity and degree of force brought

to bear on the enemy. 

Appeal of the Incremental Approach

Defeating an enemy by gradually increasing the amount of

force applied seems a counterintuitive approach to success in

war. Logically, if military planners intend to defeat an enemy, it

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makes sense that we stand the greatest chance of success if we

bring the greatest available military force to bear on the problem.

If we bring all available force to bear at the outset, logically, it

should maximize our chances for success and minimize our

chances of becoming engaged in a protracted conflict. The Vietnam War is an American example of a war waged by incremental increases in the degree of force applied. Another example was

Operation Allied Force in Kosovo.* And yet, owing to compelling

political reasons, often states do not choose to wage war with

maximum military force at the outset, but rather through the

gradual application of increased levels of force. 

Many political and military leaders understand the hazards

associated with this incremental approach to warfare. Yet, it is

still practiced. Why?

If a portion of our force is used initially to engage the enemy,

then the enemy stands a greater chance of surviving the attack. When this approach does not achieve quick victory, it requires an upward revision of forces to achieve the original objective and a downward revision in our expectations for a rapid

resolution. Increased commitment of forces requires increased

commitment of political will. With the upward migration of

force levels, both political and military leaders can find themselves drawn into a greater commitment, and perhaps an entirely different mission than originally planned. These are

some of the hazards associated with the incremental approach

to warfare. Airpower has its own unique set of incremental pitfalls, which are discussed later. 

This advice against using the incremental approach applies

specifically to war fighting, not deterrence. In deterrence, it is

wise to proceed slowly. Consider what might have occurred

during the Cuban missile crisis, for example, if either side had

immediately pursued an aggressive military solution. The result might have provoked a world war. In deterrence, the incremental approach is frequently the correct approach.

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*Operation Allied Force is an example of an air operation that succeeded in spite

of the incremental approach. However, Allied Force was successful because it destroyed sufficient numbers of valuable enemy targets influencing enemy behavior, not

because it employed an incremental buildup of force in doing so.
Given the arguments against the use of an incremental approach in war, why does the practice persist, especially with regard to the application of airpower? The previous section highlighted the reasons political leaders have seen fit, in certain

situations, to modulate the application of airpower. Again, the

main reasons include (1) the exposure of fewer personnel to immediate risk, (2) the lack of a requirement—in some cases—to

saturate the enemy air defenses with large numbers of aircraft,

(3) the limits placed on the application of force in wars with limited political aims, and (4) the opportunity to control the application of airpower during the natural pause afforded when aircraft return to base to rearm and refuel. When politicians

commit less-than-maximum levels of destructive aerial power,

unless the operation is 100 percent successful, they risk the necessity of gradually increasing force to achieve the original objectives. Enthusiasm for the measured application of force—

which airpower affords—should not obscure its risk. There is a

delicate balance between the military hazards associated with

the incremental approach and the political imperatives to modulate the application of airpower. 

There is a popular rationale favoring the incremental application of force that appeals to civilian democratic leaders involved

in limited wars. The rationale presumes it is possible (particularly with airpower) to gradually increase the amount of force

until an enemy finally submits. In a modern democracy, there

are several attractions to this dial-up-the-pain approach. First, it

requires minimum investment of political capital. Where support

for overwhelming military action does not exist, this technique

allows a political leader to begin an action after which, based on

the domestic and enemy reactions, a leader either can increase

the level of force—assuming the prospects for military success

appear favorable—or can discontinue action without having

committed significant resources. Should political resolve weaken

at any point during an escalating application of airpower, further

applications of force can be terminated. This allows political

leaders maximum control with minimal risk. 

Thus, one of the reasons the incremental application of airpower appeals to political leaders is that its application of minimum levels of force precludes the political risk of overreaching

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the limits of the original objective. In an era when political leaders show sensitivity to the potential loss of popular domestic

support, coalition consensus, and military lives, this rationale is

simple enough to understand. 

But, the presumed effect and the actual effect of the dialup-the-pain approach to aerial war are very different. In contrast to the optimistic predictions of Giulio Douhet, when we

use aerial warfare to strike off-battlefield targets in an enemy

country, the most frequent effect on the morale of both the

enemy leadership and populace is to stiffen, rather than

weaken, their resolve. When US forces make their initial strike

with minimum possible combat power, they compound this effect. First, this gives the enemy the best opportunity to favorably weather the attack. Second, it builds up the resistance of

enemy leaders and populace to subsequent attacks, effectively

providing them with a battlefield inoculation. Thus, when a

second strike occurs, the enemy is better prepared, physically

and psychologically, to survive the attack. The unintended effect of increasing the pressure can prolong the time, effort,

danger, and uncertainty of the campaign. Operation Allied

Force and the Rolling Thunder campaign in the Vietnam War

demonstrate the effects of this phenomenon.*

Airpower leaders must recognize the political motives that

favor an incremental approach and ensure political leaders

understand the short-term political savings of striking an

enemy with minimum aerial firepower may be offset by the

long-term cost of protracted aerial campaigns. The tension in

this balance results from the perceived political need, especially in limited wars, to determine exactly how much force is

enough. Too little and we risk the incremental approach, with

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*The shock and awe phase of Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003 attempted, with arguable success, to apply this dictum of airpower theory. The degree of shock and awe

produced may be debated; applying less force would only have produced less shock.

This illustrated another potential reaction of the populace in war: If you can withstand

the best the enemy can throw at you and survive (in this case the pre-advertised effects of the shock and awe campaign), then you have another flagpole around which

you can always rally, which is exactly what the Iraqi government chose to do. Thus,

perhaps the best lesson to draw from shock and awe is the one related to expectations. It may be better to let the bombs speak for themselves, rather than trumpeting

their effects before they arrive.
all the inherent hazards just mentioned. Too much and we

risk using more than the minimum necessary force to win. On

the horns of this dilemma, politicians are tempted to select the

former option. The correct choice, however, is often the latter.

War is not an exact science, and the use of force is not a recipe

that produces a predictable and consistent effect. War is a violent and unpredictable clash of wills that should only be used

to resolve the political disagreements of states when other less

extreme methods have proven ineffective. The unfashionable

reality of the military instrument of national power is that,

even in an era of “wiz bang” technology and precision-guided

munitions, it remains a blunt and bloody instrument of force.

Notes

1. Robert Pape, “Why Japan Surrendered,” International Security 18, no.

2 (Fall 1993): 154.

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Chapter 4

Military and Political Effects

of Strategic Attack

One of the most visionary insights concerning the application of airpower in war occurred early in the twentieth century

with the realization that the lateral limits of the traditional

battlefield no longer applied. In theory, aircraft could strike targets anywhere within an enemy state. This idea led to the development of the concept of strategic attack, which postulated

that by expanding the war to the enemy heartland, one could

more efficiently subdue an enemy’s will and his war-making

capability. It took three decades before the destructive capacity

of technology—most profoundly realized in the attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki—fully mirrored the destructive intent

envisioned by early airpower theorists. This technological lag

did not prevent efforts to test the principle of strategic attack

before Hiroshima. The daylight precision bombing campaign

against the Ruhr Valley, and the fire bombings of Dresden and

Tokyo, attest to the determination with which aerial warriors

attempted to translate the principles of strategic attack into decisive combat action before the advent of atomic weapons.

Whether such attacks achieved the intended effect is another

matter, which this paper addresses later.

In the second half of the twentieth century, the technology

of extreme destruction exemplified by nuclear weapons exceeded the degree of force required to fight actual wars. The

wisdom that restrained the use of nuclear weapons after Nagasaki did not necessarily alter the perceived efficacy of strategic attack; it simply changed the methods applied to accomplish the task. Other technologies, precision-guided munitions

(PGM), for example, improved in the late twentieth century, in

many ways supplanting the need for the extreme destructive

effects of nuclear weapons. Between the Vietnam War and

Desert Storm, the technological lag in the development of

PGM, among other wartime tools, may have provided a plausible rationale to explain the disparity between the predicted

35
and actual effects of strategic aerial attack. Nonetheless, many

war-fighting technologies—PGM, night vision goggles, global positioning system satellites, and joint stealth strike aircraft, to

name a few—reached maturity in the 1991 Gulf War. The United

States would rightly expect the Gulf War to vindicate the premise of strategic attack; and, from a technological perspective, it

did. The fortunate confluence of superior technology, stark

desert terrain, and (for the most part) clear weather allowed

American and allied forces to destroy the preponderance of

strategic off-battlefield targets called for by the architects of the

Gulf War air campaign, with a few important exceptions.* The

question, however, is not where the strategic targets were destroyed? The question is, did the destruction of these targets

achieve the intended effect?

The theoretical underpinnings of strategic attack rely less

on whether an attack destroys its target than it does on what

the effect of the attack is intended to be. The 1991 Gulf War

demonstrated the allies’ ability to destroy strategic targets precisely and efficiently. However, whether destroying these targets hastened the achievement of the war aims or altered the

outcome of the war, remains less clear. 

The terms political and strategic are not equivalent in the context of this analysis of strategic attack. The distinction is subtle

but important. Political effects refers to the responses by political

leaders to wartime attacks, regardless of the type of target attacked. Political targets refers to targets attacked in war that do

not contain an exclusively military character (like hydroelectric

dams, bridges, factories, capitol buildings, and power transformers). Their destruction is intended to produce a specific political reaction from the leadership of the enemy state.

What is important is not the target but the intended effect. For

example, if you destroy a bridge to prevent an ammunition train

from reaching the front, then the intent of the attack is to produce a military effect, and the bridge would best be described as

a military target. On the other hand, if you destroy the same

bridge to pressure the enemy government into a specific political

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*The most obvious exceptions were Iraqi nuclear facilities, Scud missile launchers, and, of course, Saddam Hussein himself.
reaction (like halting ethnic cleansing in Kosovo), then the same

bridge would more accurately be described as a political target

designed to produce a specific political effect. Of course, most

targets contain a character that is neither purely military nor

purely political but rather a combination of the two.

Strategic attacks refers to attacks carried out beyond the lateral limits of the traditional battlefield that are designed to

achieve more than simply a specific tactical effect (like the destruction of a tank). These attacks may be carried out against

targets containing either a political or military character but

usually some combination of the two. Thus, the distinction between a tactical or strategic attack relates to the scope of the

effect produced, while the distinction between a military or political target relates to the character of the effect produced. 

The Premise of Strategic Attack

Since its inception, the central premise of strategic attacks

has been to extend the application of force beyond the limits

of the traditional battlefield and directly affect elements of the

enemy state not traditionally placed at risk during war. The

enemy’s civil populace, leadership, and infrastructure supporting the war effort (including factories, transportation systems, and garrison military forces) are common examples of

the types of targets deemed, during the last century, appropriate candidates to receive the destructive effects of strategic

attack. To determine the firmness of the ground on which the

principle of strategic attack rests, this paper examines the effects of striking each of these classes of strategic targets, beginning with the enemy civil populace.

Douhet’s Argument that Attacking Enemy

Cities Breaks Civilian Morale

Giulio Douhet was one of the first airpower theorists to advocate the use of aerial attacks against enemy civilians and enemy

cities.1 His thoughts continue to influence discussions regarding

the merit of strategic aerial attack. In the aftermath of World War

I, Douhet reasoned that an aircraft’s range beyond the limits of

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the traditional battlefield would, by definition, blur the distinction between combatants and noncombatants in future wars:

“No longer can areas exist in which life can be lived in safety and

tranquility, nor can the battlefield any longer be limited to actual

combatants. On the contrary, the battlefield will be limited only

by the boundaries of the nations at war, and all of their civilians

will become combatants, since all of them will be exposed to the

aerial offenses of the enemy.”2

In a physical sense, Douhet was correct. Airpower’s ability

to range beyond the limits of the traditional battlefield did

physically expose the enemy populace to potential aerial attack. But, this invites an important question: What is the effect of attacking the enemy’s civil populace? Douhet believed

that aerial attacks would inevitably cripple enemy morale, especially civilian morale.

How could a country go on living and working under this constant

threat, oppressed by the nightmare of imminent destruction and

death? How indeed! We should always keep in mind that aerial offenses can be directed not only against objectives of least physical resistance, but against those of least moral resistance as well. For instance, an infantry regiment in a shattered trench may still be capable

of some resistance even after losing two-thirds of its effectives; but

when the working personnel of a factory sees one of its machine shops

destroyed, even with a minimum loss of life, it quickly breaks up and

the plant ceases to function.3

Douhet’s first mistake was to assume facts not in evidence.

The bombing of enemy cities during World War II and later has

often had an effect opposite to the one Douhet predicted. Rather

than breaking civilian morale, attacks on cities often strengthen

civilian morale.* Airpower leaders during World War II committed

another mistake by placing continued faith in Douhet’s predictions, despite their own firsthand evidence to the contrary. The

determined resistance of British civilians during the London blitz

should have informed Allied assumptions of the effects of applying airpower to break German civilian morale. Even the attacks

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*This is true to a point. It is possible to devastate a city so completely that morale

is crushed. It then begs the question of the response such an action provokes on the

part of the rest of the enemy population. Hamburg and Dresden may have been

pushed beyond the breaking point during World War II but German morale did not

wane as an immediate result.
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki failed to conform to Douhet’s predictions. The annihilation of two cities contributed, along with

other factors, to Japan’s decision to surrender. But the decision

ultimately had little, if anything, to do with consideration of postattack civilian morale, and everything to do with the recognition

on the part of Japan’s leaders of the staggering cost in terms of

lives, suffering, and national treasure that Japan had borne, and

would continue to bear, in subsequent atomic attacks. More recently, the effect produced by the terrorist attacks of 9/11 in

their attack on a civilian target was to create (at least initially) a

sense of American unity. Presumably, this was not the effect the

attackers intended, which again speaks not only to the perils of

attacking civilian targets, but also to the difficulty of accurately

predicting political effects—even for the members of al Queda.

Douhet’s Failure to Recognize Political

Considerations over Military Expediency

Douhet’s second mistake was to conceive of war in military,

rather than political, terms. His assumption that enemy cities

presented ripe targets for strategic attack committed the classic error of assuming that the development of a given military

capability would proceed unchecked to the extremes of its destructive potential, unhindered by political oversight. As such,

Douhet’s belief that all future wars would be “total in character and scope” and that aerial attacks against cities would be

conducted with maximum force, to include both chemical and

biological agents, aptly foreshadows the extent of the violence

employed at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Nevertheless, it fails to

accurately describe human behavior in all other levels of conflict short of total war.

Perhaps Douhet was half right. In total war, cities could

conceivably find themselves devastated by war’s destructive

priorities—either literally, as Hiroshima and Nagasaki were

during World War II, or figuratively, as Russian and American

cities might have been during the cold war. But, the decision

to apply destructive force on this level will be a political one,

and it will mirror the character of the war’s political aims and

the extent to which the application of destructive military

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power supports the war’s overall goals. The fact that both

America and Russia survived the 40 years of the cold war

without a nuclear exchange demonstrates that possessing unlimited destructive power does not necessitate the use of that

destructive power. It also illustrates the inappropriateness of

attacking enemy cities as a viable aim, unless the political objective of the war is to annihilate the enemy state. In other

words, a nation should consider annihilation of the enemy

state only in the most extreme case.

Alternate Objectives of Strategic Attack

If we remove attacks on cities as an effective means of conducting a strategic attack, a wide range of potential targets remain. The classes of targets most frequently cited by aerial war

planners typically include enemy leadership targets; command,

control, and communication links; enemy infrastructure supporting the war effort (including factories, power grids, transportation systems, and stores of natural resources); and military

forces outside the immediate battle area. The distinction regarding these objectives are truly strategic varies from situation to

situation. Normally, enemy leadership can be characterized as a

strategic target, the destruction of which has inevitable political

effects. Military forces not engaged in the battle could present either a strategic or a tactical target depending on their location,

disposition, ability to influence future decisive actions, and so

forth. 

Airpower theorists have devoted much attention to these

classes of targets to enhance the focus of the premise and purpose of strategic aerial attack. Historical attempts to apply

strategic attack abound. A few of the better-known examples

include Allied attacks on German aircraft factories during the

daylight precision bombing campaign, Allied attacks on German rail lines following Operation Overlord, the Linebacker II

campaign against North Vietnam, the Israeli attack on Iraq’s

Osirik nuclear power plant, allied attacks on Baghdad during

the 1991 Gulf War, North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO)

attacks on Belgrade during Operation Allied Force, and al

Queda’s attacks on 9/11.

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Over the last 50 years, improvements in technology have

aided the ability to strike and destroy these categories of targets. Yet, the theoretical underpinnings of strategic attack rely

less on whether an aerial weapon (regardless of whether it is a

laser-guided bomb or a highjacked airliner) used to conduct

an attack destroys its target than it does on the assumption of

what the presumed effect of the attack will be. The question is,

does the destruction of the target have the desired strategic effect upon the outcome of the battle as anticipated?

Strategic Attack against the

Leader of an Enemy State

What is the strategic effect of targeting enemy leadership? If

US forces kill the leader of an enemy state (setting aside for a

moment the moral, legal, or ethical implications of doing so), the

presumption of strategic attack is that these forces effectively

decapitate the intellectual anima that contravenes our wartime

aims. To the extent that the wartime intentions of an enemy

leader may conflict with the majority will of the state that he or

she leads, killing the leader may change the hostile intent inflated by the enemy state. But if the majority of the people

strongly support the hostile actions taken by the enemy leadership, then killing the leader may have little effect on the degree

of hostile actions subsequently waged. Decapitating the leadership of an enemy state in this case would simply permit the

monster to grow another head. 

Each situation is different. Attacking the enemy leadership

may not always have the immediate strategic and political effect of forcing an enemy state to sue for peace. But, there are

some situations in which killing an enemy leader would affect

the course of war. If the Allies had been able to eliminate Adolf

Hitler, for example, the United States cannot assume that Nazi

aggression would have evaporated instantly. Although Hitler

himself profoundly affected the course of World War II, there is

no question that his premature departure would have (to some

unknowable extent) affected many aspects of the subsequent

course and conduct of the war. The course an enemy state

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dictable one, and the United States should not assume the direction it takes would be beneficial. Ho Chi Minh, for example,

died during the Vietnam War; yet, his death did not undermine North Vietnamese determination or war aims in any substantive way. 

It is wise to weigh the moral, legal, and ethical implications

of such an action, including the precedent set for reprisal attacks against American leaders in future conflicts. Killing an

enemy leader and forcing a new leader to step forward may not

always be the best course of action. Is it better to deal with the

devil we know, or the devil we don’t know? The answer depends

upon the particular circumstances involved in each case. 

Before leaving this subject, the precedent that is set by attempting to kill an enemy leader bears additional examination.

The issue is complex and depends on the context of the conflict.

Sometimes there are plausible reasons for taking such an action,

for example, the Gulf War of 1991. In that conflict, the ability of

American forces to put a PGM into the master bedroom suite of

each of Saddam’s palaces on night one of the war contained

the powerful and morally defensible supporting rationale—had

the attack succeeded—of saving American and Iraqi lives by

eliminating the nexus of Iraqi aggressive intent and key decision making. 

Additionally, Iraq’s limited capacity to conduct credible attacks

against American leadership no doubt mitigated American concerns of potential political reprisals. While each of these factors

contributed to the US decision to attempt to eliminate Saddam

at the outset of the 1991 and 2003 Gulf Wars, it is important to

remember that the elements of that supporting rationale do not

universally translate to every situation. A change in the balance

of one of these decision elements could have swayed US decision

makers to adopt an entirely different approach.

Thus, before a state considers attempting to kill an enemy leader,

several issues bear careful scrutiny. First, the easy questions:

1. Do we physically have the ability to locate and kill the

enemy leader?

2. To what extent does the enemy leader control, or contribute to, the aggressive intent of the enemy state?

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3. To what extent is the enemy state reliant on its leader for

key decision making? 

4. Does the enemy possess the credible potential to conduct

reprisal attacks? 

5. Who would be the likely successor?

6. Do our wartime allies support this course of action?

And then, the tough questions:

1. To what extent would this action elevate the enemy

leader’s status to that of a martyr?*

2. Is the action morally justifiable? A soldier is certainly

considered “fair game” in war, but is a politician considered fair game?

3. And the most important question: Beyond the scope of

the current conflict, to what extent would such an action

set the precedent for adversaries to assume this is an acceptable tactic to use against American leaders in future

conflicts?

Unless the political arguments requiring such action prove

overpowering, my own counsel from a military perspective

would be to avoid targeting enemy leaders. To the extent that

their loss in wartime may be the incidental byproduct of a

broader attack may mitigate the dangers of the precedent.†

Strategic Attacks against

Enemy Communication Links

A subset of the same theory that advocates that enemy leaders make potentially lucrative strategic targets is the morally

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*Proof that nothing in war is easy—there is also the reverse question (encountered

during the 2003 Gulf War): If we don’t kill an enemy leader—i.e. Saddam—to what extent will he continue to instill fear among the populace and inspire his followers?

Again, context is everything.

†Explicitly targeting the leadership of an enemy state is one area where I disagree

with John Warden. There may be occasions where this approach is warranted, but

these should be viewed as the exception rather than the rule.
less dubious (and therefore often politically more palatable)

notion that forces effectively can decapitate an enemy state by

severing the communication links between the enemy leader

and the military forces he or she directs. This analogy, often

used to illustrate the relationship of the leader to the state, is

comparable to the relationship between a head and a body.

The intended effect of severing the link between the two is to

make the enemy military forces unresponsive to the will of the

enemy head of state. This analogy contains several crucial

oversimplifications. They are (1) that decapitation can be accomplished by severing key nodes or lines of communication,

and (2) that decapitation will cause the enemy’s efforts to be

so undirected and uncoordinated as to render the enemy’s

military ineffective as a fighting unit. 

Analogies provide clarity by explaining complex subjects in

familiar terms. But, in the rush to embrace the clarity of the

analogy, US forces can mistakenly assume that the subject

being discussed behaves according to the rules that govern

the behavior of the illuminating example rather than according to the rules and governances of the real world. This becomes more important as the degree of complexity multiplies,

which is the case when describing an entity as complicated as

a political state or as sanguine and multifaceted as war. Earlier

I used the analogy of a typewriter to illustrate how a single

controlling authority is often necessary to orchestrate attacks

from different air bases. That analogy could prove misleading,

however, if one were to assume (1) that the analogy does anything more than illustrate a point, (2) that the action of conducting an aerial attack is as simple as typing a message at a

typewriter, or (3) that aerial warfare operates according to the

rules that govern the mechanics of typewriting rather than according to the complex factors inherent in its own nature.

Analogies demonstrate parallels. By doing so, they make it

easier to comprehend the parameters of complex problems,

but that does not make complex problems any easier to solve. 

The military has become overly enamored with the analogy

of “the body” to explain the intended effects of military force to

civilian policy makers, so much so that an entire clichéd lexicon has arisen as a consequence. We speak of “blinding” the

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enemy, of “crippling” him, of “decapitating” enemy leadership,

of striking at an enemy’s “nerve center,” of “choking off” enemy

supplies, and so forth. To explain the intended effects of our

attacks, we sometimes mistakenly presume (or far worse,

imply) that our attacks on an enemy state will have commensurately debilitating effects, as would corresponding forms of

attack on a human body. Our mistake has been to believe the

oversimplification of our own rationale.

The relationship between the enemy leadership and the

enemy armed force is different from the relationship implied

by the popular analogy of “the head to the body.” The problem

is twofold, and it relates both to the ability to interfere with

communication, on the one hand, and the assumed effects of

that interference, on the other. 

The easier problem to consider is the physical one concerning the ability of aerial attack forces to effectively destroy or

disrupt the communication links between the enemy leadership and the enemy armed forces. Naturally, the form of the

communication link depends on the technology of the day.

From the time of the Peloponnesian War until 1793 (with the

introduction of the French semaphore system), communication took the form of a runner on foot or on horseback. To

combat the dangers of losing a messenger, leaders dispatched

messengers in multiples. 

One of the first combat uses of the telegraph in America occurred during the Civil War.* The telegraph provided instantaneous long-range communications between the Union and

Confederate capitals and elements of their deployed forces. At

the time, it was simple to cut communication links by cutting

telegraph wires and a simpler task than cutting communication links in the current era. But this vulnerability did not affect the course of the Civil War, partly because of the speed

with which armies moved in 1860–65, but more importantly

because armies are trained to conduct autonomous operations in the absence of instructions from higher headquarters.

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*The earliest example of a combat use of the telegraph occurred at the Battle of

Solferino Magenta in 1859 during the Wars of Italian Unification. See “Battle of Solferino,”

Britannica Concise Encyclopedia, online, Internet, 2 December 2004, available from Encyclopædia Britannica http://concise.britannica.com/ebc/article?tocId=9379057.
When Gen William T. Sherman conducted his march to the

sea after the Battle of Atlanta, he was completely cut off from all

communication with the Union capital for a period of several

months. In fact, there is some supposition that he directed his

own troops to cut the telegraph wires back to Washington once

he received the approval to begin the march to the sea to prevent

the receipt of any subsequent orders potentially countermanding

the decision.

Can forces operate in the absence of guidance from higher

headquarters? With some exceptions, they generally have the

physical ability to do so.* The ability to communicate is essential. Breaks in communication are generally less debilitating, and

generally of lesser duration, than the image decapitation implies.

If you can sever all vertical communications between leadership

and subordinates, you can force enemy military forces to operate on their last-known instructions. If you can sever all lateral

communications between forces supporting one another, then

you can make them fight in an uncoordinated fashion. In both

cases, the enemy will fight at less-than-ideal capacity. But, more

than likely, they will still fight. The questions then become (1)

how long can you keep the communication lines severed? and (2)

is it possible the enemy will have other means of communicating

of which you are unaware? 

In Operation Allied Force, NATO forces attacked television towers attempting to prevent President Slobodan Milosevic from

communicating with the Serbian populace. The attacks frequently knocked out the television broadcasts for a few hours

but never for any significant period. Attempts to sever communication links between lateral and higher headquarters units in

the same conflict were met with almost no success due to the

sheer volume of available communication methods for lateral

units to communicate with one another. These methods included

radios, landlines, fiber-optic lines, fax machines, and cell

phones. In 1991, Mohammed Farah Aideed effectively foiled US

efforts at intelligence collection in Somalia simply by using an

old-fashioned method of battlefield communication (runners

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*US nuclear forces currently require enabling codes from the national command

authority before they can physically launch nuclear weapons.
carrying hand-written messages), which proved invulnerable to

collection by overhead reconnaissance platforms.

Severing Communication Links

What is the merit of attempting to cut the enemy’s ability to

communicate, either vertically or laterally? While there is

some measure of military merit to this method of attacking the

enemy, the issue should not be overstated. We must consider

several questions.

1. To what extent do the enemy forces rely on instructions

from their national leadership, or higher headquarters,

to successfully conduct military operations?

2. How long can the enemy forces operate independently of

these instructions?

3. Is there a critical communication link, or series of links,

that we have the physical ability to sever and, having

done so, will actually deprive the enemy of the ability to

communicate (either with enemy leadership or lateral

supporting forces)?

4. Is the adversary well trained, adaptive, and decentralized? If so, he is probably less likely to be reliant on communications or centralized control. 

5. What forms of backup communication might the enemy

employ? It would be a mistake to discount the potential

effectiveness of nontraditional or antiquated forms of

communication, like cell phones, fax machines, wireless

palm pilots, pagers, semaphores, bicycle messengers,

and carrier pigeons.

6. How long will it take the enemy to repair the links once

they have been cut?

7. If we cannot permanently cut a communication link, is

there a critical but finite period during which we hope to

cut communications to facilitate other operations?

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8. How much risk do we run in assuming the enemy is operating in the dark if, in fact, he possesses backup forms

of communication of which we are unaware?

9. At what point does the effect of denying the enemy the

ability to communicate outweigh the intelligence value

gained by monitoring the enemy’s communications?

10. Is the enemy’s ability to communicate essential to securing United States’s political objectives in the conflict? Under the single integrated operational plan, for

example, who on the other side would have been left to

surrender, and by what means?*

11. Are the enemy’s communications helping your cause

more than hurting it? There may be cases where you

don’t want to cut the enemy’s communication links. For

example, Hitler’s irrational orders to his field commanders in the latter phases of World War II often

worked in his enemies’ favor.

Due in part to the wide proliferation of available communications technology, and partly to the necessarily autonomous nature of military forces engaged in combat, any gains achieved by

attempting to sever enemy communication links likely will prove

of tactical, rather than strategic, utility. Sometimes, there are exceptions. But, in general, the strategic effect of disrupting or destroying enemy communication links is often overstated and

should be viewed as a supporting element in an overall campaign

rather than as a strategic objective in and of itself. 

Strategic Attacks against Enemy Production

Facilities and Wartime Stores

The focus of this paper now turns to the presumed strategic

effect of attacking the enemy’s wartime strength—while still at

its source—rather than waiting for it to reach the battlefield.

Destroying an enemy factory that produces wartime equip48

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*This was the American nuclear attack plan developed during the Cold War for use

in a nuclear war with the Soviet Union.
ment (like tanks, combat aircraft, or submarines) would be

one example of striking the enemy’s war-making capacity at

its source. Another would be to attack the enemy’s production

facilities (or off-battlefield stores) of wartime consumables, like

ammunition or fuel. The presumed effect of striking these

war-making elements at their source is that, over time, it will

cripple the enemy’s ability to replace equipment or provisions.

Here the historical evidence offers mixed guidance. Allied attacks against German synthetic fuel reserves during the precision daylight bombing campaign of World War II, coupled with

the Red Army’s coincident seizure of the Romanian oil fields, had

a devastating effect on Germany’s ability to subsequently fuel its

combat vehicles. On the other hand, Allied attacks against German aircraft factories proved less significant. By the latter

phases of the war, Germany had sufficient numbers of aircraft,

but insufficient numbers of trained pilots to fly them. The attempt on the part of the Allies to pursue several strategic attack

options (against fuel reserves, aircraft factories, and ball bearing

manufacture, for example) highlights the positive effects of using

overlapping and redundant methods in war. While one attack

might not have the desired effect, another might. 

Another key consideration regarding attacks on production

facilities and wartime stores is the time it takes these attacks

to achieve their intended effect. By definition, an inherent

delay exists between the moment a tank is produced at the

factory and the moment it can physically reach the battlefield.

Similarly, there is an inherent delay between the moment a

factory is destroyed and the moment the product is missed on

the battlefield. Consequently, an attack of this form makes the

most sense when a state is engaged in a protracted struggle

with the expectation that the enemy will exhaust his available

wartime supplies of equipment and combat consumables and

require the replacements the targeted factory produces. If

there is little likelihood that the enemy will use up what he already has, then this form of attack will have little or no military effect on the outcome of the battle. 

Before undertaking such attacks, this paper examines two

remaining questions: (1) how much time is required for the

particular effect we are trying to achieve to take place? and (2)

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how long is the war going to last? If the time required to

achieve the effect exceeds the expected (and more importantly,

the sustainable) duration of the conflict, then the effect of the

attack will be negligible in military terms. 

There is always the possibility of achieving certain political

effects by striking these categories of targets, even if military

forces never feel the consequences. Consider this hypothetical

example. Assume that we destroy an enemy’s submarine factory even though maritime forces on either side are not playing a significant role in the conflict. While the military effect of

such a destructive act may be inconsequential to the decision

reached on the battlefield, the act may have very definite political effects. It might undermine the enemy’s maritime capability in future wars; it might serve to demonstrate the resolve

to conduct more widespread attacks or compel enemy decision

making in other areas. Regardless of the method, the key is

that the effects have become political, which is to say they are

no longer intended to complement specific military actions on

the battlefield, but rather designed to pursue broader goals

that directly serve the political ends of the war—not facilitating the conduct of its military means. Thus, the extent to

which effects are truly strategic depends on how we define

them. Even if these forms of strategic attack under consideration do not sway the immediate outcome of the battlefield decision, it does not mean they are without merit in achieving a

war’s overall aims, owing to the political effects such actions

may produce.

Strategic Attacks against

Enemy Transportation Infrastructure

The decision to conduct strategic aerial attacks against the

enemy’s transportation infrastructure is another method of attempting to block enemy resources (like replacement equipment,

troops, or combat consumables) from reaching the battlefield.

While many of the same elements addressed in the section above

apply, the differences are worth noting. Rather than destroying

the goods themselves, in this case, the focus is on destroying the

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ticles to battle. While this may achieve the same result in the

short term, such action also carries the long-term effect of denying US forces (or the civilian populace) access to the same transportation system at a future date. 

Consider the effect of destroying a bridge. Our decision to

destroy a bridge may stop an enemy resupply truck loaded

with ammunition from reaching the battlefield. But in so

doing, the decision may also preclude our own ability (or the

ability of our allies) to use the bridge later. This could be significant if we plan to move into the area on the ground ourselves, either capturing enemy territory or recapturing US territory previously lost. It adversely affects the local civilian

populace, and (depending on the degree of culpability we assign to the associated civil population) we may or may not

wish to mitigate this effect.

One example of this effect occurred with the Allied destruction of the road and rail system in northeastern France before

the D-day invasion. The destruction of this network greatly

hindered (although it did not stop) German Panzer forces

under Erwin Rommel from attempting to meet the Allied forces

landing at Normandy. Damage to the transportation system

did affect the Allies’ subsequent progress on their march to

Berlin, and it certainly affected the French civil populace, both

for the remainder of the war and later. 

Another example of this effect occurred with NATO attacks

on the Danube bridges near Belgrade during Operation Allied

Force in 1999. The destruction of these bridges had little-tono military impact on Serbian military forces deployed in the

province of Kosovo but after the war significantly affected

road, river, and rail traffic up the Danube. The postwar effects

of this destruction would be felt not just by the Serbians, but

also by the Hungarians, the Czechs, and the Slovaks (two of

which, ironically, are members of NATO). This is an example

of a target’s political value clearly superseding its military

value. Did the destruction of the Danube bridges have the effect the NATO Allies intended? It is very possible. Were there

significant costs subsequently associated with that destruction? There is a definite possibility.

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Once again, a key point regarding this type of attack, and one

that characterizes many of these forms of presumably strategic

attack, is that effects on the battlefield are often both indirect

and presumed. Indirection can be a virtue in the conduct of military operations, as both Sun Tzu and Liddel Hart have argued.4

But, the presumption of a military effect, and the inability to

quantify that effect, is a weakness. If we successfully blow up a

bridge but don’t have the slightest idea of the extent to which its

destruction has hindered the enemy’s ability to maneuver forces

or materiel to the battlefield, then it is hard to know whether the

effect of destroying the bridge warranted the expense and risk of

the attack. If the bridge is located at a choke point, there may be

good reasons for destroying it. If there are many bridges in the

area, then the effects of its destruction will probably have far less

military influence on the outcome of the battle. In this case, any

gains achieved by such destruction will more likely be of a political rather than a military character, as the example of the

Danube bridges demonstrates. 

Strategic Attacks against Enemy

Military Forces not Engaged in Battle

The final category of targets this paper considers under the

umbrella of strategic attack concerns enemy military forces

not currently engaged in the battle. These forces can take

many forms. They might be fully equipped forces maneuvering

outside the immediate sphere of the battle area as they prepare to enter the fray at some position of advantage. They

might be replenishment forces transiting to the battlefield to

replace forces already consumed by combat attrition. They

might be forces held in reserve in anticipation of exploiting

other combat actions. They might be forces recently removed

from battle due to combat exhaustion, or they might be garrison forces located in an entirely different part of the world. The

circumstances may vary. The questions to consider are (1) do

these forces constitute legitimate strategic targets? and (2)

what effect will their destruction have on the outcome of the

battle?

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In broad terms, enemy military forces—more than any other

single resource possessed by the enemy state—constitute legitimate targets in time of war, both in the sense that their destruction specifically affects the enemy’s ability to employ its military

instrument of national power and more broadly in the sense that

military forces consciously and correctly understand that they

are always “fair game” in the violent prosecution of war. Soldiers

appreciate, in ways civilians do not, that a time may come when

the sacrifice of their lives may be required to ensure the achievement of national objectives. 

Beyond the immediate limits of the battlefield, some military

forces inevitably present more appropriate targets than others

do. The list of military forces in the preceding paragraph illustrates this point. Attacking maneuvering forces, replenishment

forces, or reserve forces produces the possibility of directly influencing the outcome of the battle under way. However, the value

of attacking garrison forces outside the immediate battle area

may vary according to their proximity and appropriateness to the

battle at hand. Attacking forces in a sector adjacent to the one

engaged would be entirely appropriate. Attacking forces expected

to soon be available (a good example might be American troops

boarding a transport aircraft in the United States prior to deploying overseas) would be an equally appropriate target from an

enemy perspective. On the other hand, attacking a US nuclear

missile silo (in the context of a limited war in another hemisphere) would be inappropriate in a limited conventional scenario. If an enemy believed, however, that the United States

might resort to the use of nuclear weapons, then an attack on US

missile silos might be appropriate. 

Military forces embody the blunt instrument of political discourse; as such, they always retain a degree of legitimacy as potential targets, regardless of their immediate locale. Garrison

forces in one theater, like Korea, might be unlikely to immediately influence a battle in another hemisphere, like Iraq, but this

does not mean such forces should consider themselves immune

from attack. While an attack on forces in another theater may

have no immediate military effect on a battle, such an attack

might be intended to achieve an entirely political effect like

vengeance, visibility, or the attrition of an adversary’s will. While

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the United States might not choose to attack an enemy’s garrison military forces in another theater, we would certainly be unwise to expect our enemies to be similarly accommodating.

If Strategic Attack Does Not

Warrant the Overriding Focus of

Aerial Warfare: What Does?

Of the potential targets available to receive the destructive effect of airpower’s fury in time of war, none in military terms warrants airpower’s overriding focus more than fielded enemy forces

engaged in combat against friendly forces. On its surface, this

may appear to run counter to the arguments espoused during

the last 100 years of airpower theory.* The obvious objections to

this statement are (1) that this is an area that already receives

the destructive attention of surface forces, like the army, and (2)

that this recidivist focus on targets of an entirely localized military character fails to capitalize on airpower’s inherent ability to

range beyond the limits of the traditional battlefield to strike targets in other parts of the enemy’s territory.

Both of these objections are correct. However, the operative

words in the thesis statement of this section are “in military

terms.” If the focus is on influencing the military (as opposed

to the political) outcome of the battle, then the place that airpower will always have the greatest effect—in military terms—

will be at that time and place when its destructive effects are

directed against the enemy military forces engaged in the battle. That is not to say that attacks on other classes of targets

beyond the limits of the traditional battlefield do not warrant

airpower’s destructive attention, only that the effects engendered will be of an increasingly political rather than military

character whenever the targets themselves are not of a military form and posing a direct threat to friendly forces.

The way that airpower has the most direct effect on the outcome of the military battle is by directing its efforts against the

enemy forces engaged in the military contest at hand. That air54

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*This is true with the important exception of Robert Pape.
power has the additional ability to affect other types and

classes of targets beyond the limits of the traditional battlefield

requires that airpower conform to both the political, as well as

the military, imperatives dictated by the character and context

of the conflict to an extent that other forms of warfare generally do not.

Notes

1. Giulio Douhet, The Command of the Air (New York: Coward-McCann,

Inc., 1984).

2. Ibid., 9–10.

3. Ibid., 22–23.

4. Sun Tzu, On War; and B. H. Liddell Hart, Strategy: Second Revised

Edition (New York: Praeger, 1968).

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Chapter 5

The Realities of War

War is not conducted by military means alone. As Clausewitz

correctly stated nearly 200 years ago, “War is simply a continuation of political intercourse, with the addition of other means.”1

Yet, the addition of military means does not necessarily imply or

equate to the subtraction of other means. Before states resort to

force to solve their problems, they normally apply other less violent instruments of national power (diplomatic, economic, cultural, informational) to achieve their aims. Admittedly, the reason a state most often resorts to the blunt instrument of military

force is that other instruments of national power have not

achieved their aims. When the leadership of a state makes the

decision to cross the threshold from nonviolent to violent measures to achieve its national objectives, it does not suspend the

application of other nonviolent instruments of national power

used up to that point. 

In war, all available instruments of national power are generally brought to bear on the enemy state to some greater or

lesser degree. The violent character of war can alter, constrict,

or sometimes suspend the effectiveness of nonviolent instruments of national power. But it can sometimes increase their

effectiveness as well. A naval blockade executed in concert with

a trade embargo illustrates how the military and economic instruments of national power can complement one another. A

strongly worded demarche underscored by the bombing of an

enemy capital illustrates the complementary effect of the military and diplomatic instruments. An attack on the enemy’s key

telephone, radio, and other communication circuits demonstrates the coincident interplay of military and informational

instruments of power.

Thus, war is the continuation—not the suspension—of politics, with the addition of other means. One of the strengths of

airpower lies in its ability to influence and complement other

instruments of national power as they are brought to bear in

confluence against the enemy in time of war. Airpower is not

the only form of warfare that can influence other instruments

57
of national power. The example of the naval blockade mentioned a moment ago illustrates that point. But by virtue of its

ability to strike anywhere within the sphere of the enemy’s territory, airpower typically retains a more broad-ranging ability

to influence other instruments of national power in the conduct of war than other military means. This influence is not

exclusive, merely a geographic reality. As other military services develop force application methods that can range anywhere within the enemy’s territory (with cruise missiles, for

example) their ability to influence other instruments of national power may become just as great. In reality, a force application tool—like a cruise missile launched from a navy ship

or an army vehicle—is still a form of airpower regardless of the

lineage of its parent service, and the political constraints

placed on its application will be no different. 

The Unintended Consequences

of Asymmetric War

There is an elegant symmetry and simplicity in examples of

warfare where similar forces directly engage one another, including, for example, a soldier fighting another soldier or a ship

fighting another ship. If the US forces recognize this form of warfare as essentially symmetric, then asymmetric warfare refers to

those occasions where forces attack elements unlike themselves,

including for example, a ship performing coastal bombardment

of a fortified position or an aircraft attacking a munitions factory.

Asymmetry can also refer to military forces attacking essentially

nonmilitary (or dual-use) targets, like power plants or railroad

yards. Asymmetric warfare is not new, but in recent years—due

to the proliferation of both technologies and additional means for

conducting it—military theorists have seen fit to more fully codify its parameters. Airpower’s ability to strike targets anywhere

within an enemy state has had the inevitable consequence of

making airpower a frequent weapon of choice for the conduct of

asymmetric war.* Actually, it’s difficult to imagine how this consequence could have been avoided. 

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*The use of hijacked airliners to attack the Pentagon and the World Trade Center represents an example of asymmetric aerial warfare elegantly simple and diabolically ruthless.
Over the last century, airpower has provided military planners

with potentially unlimited numbers of targets (essentially anything within the lateral limits of the enemy state). Therefore, traditional targeting philosophies of directing force against force

have evolved in response to the geographic reality that has allowed the direction of military force against both military and

nonmilitary targets. Beginning with the writings of Douhet, and

continuing almost without interruption until the present, airpower theorists have embraced the assumed wisdom of applying

force against the enemy in asymmetric ways. That is not to say

airpower theorists do not appreciate the need to deliver force

against like force. The USAF mantra of air superiority as a precondition for battle amply testifies to the recognition of that traditional war-making requirement. But in assessing airpower’s

ability to provide disproportionately favorable leverage in the coercion of an enemy state, the assumption has been, and largely

remains, that this effect will be best achieved by striking strategic targets that in turn trigger political effects, and that the preponderance of these targets (as discussed earlier) are usually not

specifically military in character.

Asymmetric warfare, often exemplified by the asymmetric application of airpower, has created an unintended consequence. It

is axiomatic in warfare to fight fire with fire. As such, US forces

can hardly blame our enemies if they have found themselves

forced to counter our use of asymmetric warfare with asymmetric methods of their own. The reason they often adopt such an

approach is obvious if we consider it from their perspective. If we

use airpower to conduct an asymmetric attack against an

enemy’s civil population, do we not invite the enemy to attack

our civilian population as well? Recall the city-busting calculations of the Cold War, for a moment. When there is parity of

capability, asymmetric attack invites a like counterresponse.

What happens if our enemies do not enjoy the same degree of

technological sophistication we do? If we use technologically

dominant weapons of war to attack a far less developed nation,

we may have achieved the apotheosis of the asymmetric application of airpower. However, what kind of reaction are we likely to

provoke? What course of action should we expect from an enemy

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field? Often the enemy selects asymmetric methods of his own.

Terrorism and guerilla warfare are two popular forms of asymmetric warfare. Another potential form of asymmetric warfare

would be an adversary’s use of biological or chemical weapons.

Slobodan Milosevic’s acceleration of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo

in response to NATO attacks during Operation Allied Force is another example of asymmetric warfare. While Americans are often

quick to condemn such actions on the part of our enemies, we

should hardly be surprised to recognize the converse elements of

our own paternity in their developmental lineage. 

Does this mean US forces should avoid conducting asymmetric warfare? Not at all. It simply means that US forces must do

so with eyes open. Asymmetric warfare has its strengths. The US

military knows this, having practically elevated asymmetric

warfare to an art form. But this form of warfare contains hazards as well. 

Asymmetric warfare, especially when conducted against nonmilitary targets, requires the US military to determine the exact

effect we are trying to achieve. Once the US military has designed

our military methods to achieve these political goals, we then

face the difficult task of determining how to measure the success

of our actions. For example, it is easy to say that US military intends to bomb an enemy’s capital to compel him to do our will.

But establishing a measurable linkage between the weapons employed against off-battlefield targets and the subsequent action

taken by the enemy is much more difficult. How do we know

which effects have actually influenced the enemy’s behavior? As

we assess an ongoing conflict, absent the decisive barometer of

a traditional military battle, how do we know which of the actions

we have taken actually force the enemy to do our will?

Does Victory on the Battlefield

Determine the Victor in War?

As the US military attempts to ascertain the elements that

most effectively contribute to success in war, it must begin by

considering the fundamental issues of both how we attack the

enemy and where we attack the enemy. First, regarding the

how: if we bring several instruments of national power to bear

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against an enemy, which of the instruments applied—economic,

informational, diplomatic, or military—actually determines victory? Second, regarding the where: as the physical limits of the

battlefield have become less clearly defined, is military victory

determined by the attacks waged and won on the battlefield itself, or by the attacks executed elsewhere within the enemy’s

territory? These questions lead to a third and even more basic

question: is it still necessary to achieve victory in battle to

achieve victory in war?

National Power in the Achievement of Victory

When wars are fought using a traditional military force against

another military force, there is no question that the battlefield

decision ultimately and directly determines the achievement of

victory. This explains why traditional military theorists have so

consistently urged the wisdom of massing military forces at the

necessary time and place to achieve decisive victory in battle.

How relevant is this model in the current age? When military

leaders bring the instruments of national power on an enemy—

enabled by recent advances (technological and otherwise) like the

Internet, cell phones, reconnaissance satellites, access to International Monetary Fund loans, and United Nations’ sanctions—

all the while operating under the unblinking eye of worldwide

media coverage, how do we determine which of the instruments

of national power applied against the enemy actually wins the

war? How do these instruments interact? Does one instrument

alone determine victory, or some combination of the instruments applied? And, among the instruments of national power,

what in the relative order of merit ascribed to the military instrument, either superior or subordinate, is the ultimate determination of victory?

In certain respects, when the instruments of national power

are applied in war, their interaction resembles a game of cards.*

If we assume the card players assembled at a table represent different nations at war, and that the table represents the battlefield, then the cards symbolize the instruments of national power

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*Specifically, card games like bridge, pinochle, or whist.
at the disposal of the countries involved in the game. The military instrument of national power, owing to the destructive mandate of violence, typically assumes the quality of a trump suit.

Thus, each nation at war uses the various cards available to win

the game. When like suits are played against one another, the

stronger card wins. When trump is played against trump, the

stronger trump wins. When trump is played against another

suit, trump usually wins—unless the power of the original suit

played in some way overwhelms, surpasses, or undermines the

military instrument of its rival (in the manner of a wild card). In

this way, the instruments of national power are each brought to

bear by the nations involved in war. Some instruments will carry

greater effect, others less, depending on their inherent strength

and the skill with which they are played.

Is it possible for a nation to successfully wage war without significant military forces, owing either to the overwhelming

strength of some other instrument of national power, or some inherent weakness on the part of its opponent? The case of North

Vietnam is an instructive example. By many of the traditional

yardsticks for determining military victory, one might assume

North Vietnam lost the war. They lost 20 times as many soldiers

in the conflict as did the United States. The north possessed an

inferior military instrument (compared to the United States), but

North Vietnam managed—either through good planning or good

luck—to render US military strength ultimately irrelevant by undermining the will of the United States to continue the war (or at

least by capitalizing on the effects of its decay). While the military

instrument of national power is generally preeminent in the determination of victory, depending on the circumstances of the

conflict, it is not inevitably so. 

Consequently, the analogy of a card game, to illustrate the interaction of the instruments of national power, is an imperfect

one. I use it merely to demonstrate some of the ways in which

these instruments interact during war. The analogy is not intended to imply that all military units are exactly alike, or that

the rules of war are necessarily codified and accepted by all the

participants, as they are by the participants in a game of cards.

To suggest otherwise would be to adopt a mechanistic Jominian

view, and that is not my intent. To further examine the degree to

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which military success in war depends on specific military success on the battlefield now requires a more precise definition, in

the current age, of the term battlefield. 

The Fractured Battlefield

That military victory typically remains a prerequisite for victory in war does not provide unequivocal insight into whether

military action contributes more definitively to the achievement of war’s aims when it is conducted on the traditionally

recognized limits of the battlefield. To fully explore this issue

requires an examination of the battlefield in terms relevant to

the realities of the present, a task complicated by the rising

tide of threats to both military forces and nations. The possible range of combat actions today includes cyber attacks, terrorism, and weapons of mass destruction, all of which can be

directed at civilian as well as military targets. The threat of

conventional kinetic attack remains just as widespread and

lethal. Any attempt to define the term battlefield must therefore recognize these realities. Exploring the parameters of this

question begins by identifying the extremes that the current

battlefield clearly is not.

At one end of the spectrum is the classic definition of the

battlefield each of us learned in school. Borodino, Jena,

Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Verdun, the Battle of Britain,

Guadalcanal, the Battle of Midway, and El Alamein all contain

the elements associated with classic battlefields. The battlefield in this context is a specific and definable area in which

military forces face opposing military forces. With few exceptions, the military forces are the only personnel placed directly

at risk. Civilians are largely absent. Any damages inflicted on

civilian institutions and infrastructures are normally minimal

because the sites of the battles are usually situated away from

civilian population centers. In this construct, the responsibility for victory, and the terms of its definition, rest clearly on

the shoulders of the military combatants and the direct result

of their efforts. There is no question, in this model, that winning the war requires military victory on the battlefield. In

these cases, we circumscribe the limits of the battlefield as the

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area defined by the zone in which military forces engage one

another with whatever instruments of deadly force their nations and their ingenuity have provided them.

The other end of the spectrum would be a battlefield redefined

to include all of the territory possessed by the nations at war. The

argument for expanding our definition to include the entire landmass of the belligerents involved (plus all the navigable oceans of

the world) proceeds from the assumption that the ability to attack any part of an enemy’s country or anywhere on the high

seas translates every inch of the enemy’s territory—and by reflexive extension the territory of our own state—into a war zone.

In this construct, civilians and civilian institutions would bear

measures of risk equivalent to those of military forces, owing to

the lack of any definitive demarcation between the two. There are

times when civilians bear the brunt of measures of violence normally accorded strictly to military forces (the World Trade Center

attack on 9/11 and the Tokyo fire bombings of World War II come

to mind). However, such examples do not merit the reclassification of the whole. Any redefinition of the battlefield will lie between these two extremes. 

The definition of the modern battlefield that I propose is that

the battlefield is anywhere—in any medium—that military forces

apply the destructive mandate of violence against an opponent

to achieve, or contribute to the achievement of, a larger political

aim.* In a geographic sense, this means that the traditional

battlefield has fractured into a number of battlefields—some

small and some large—depending upon the range and scope of

the conflict. A visual image to describe the fractured battlefield

would be a piñata that has spilled out the violent guts of its

character across the enemy’s landscape, and depending on the

situation, possibly across our own territory as well.

The battlefield is therefore comprised of clusters or pockets

wherein the destructive mandate of violence supersedes other

competing methods of decision. The battlefield may contain a

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*As a point of clarification, I use the word battlefield deliberately, rather than the

term battlespace. I do this out of respect for the history of the term. Battlefield conjures a specific image of confrontation and decision. I find the term battlespace arcane

and indeterminate. Whatever narrow definitional accuracy I may have surrendered in

the process is, I believe, sufficiently counterbalanced by the linguistic imperative of

operating in the realm of actual, opposed to artificial, vernacular.
central land battle area surrounded by smaller ancillary battle

areas. Or, there may be no major ground battle area at all, just

a series of dispersed battles, which together comprise the

whole. In addition to the geographic distribution of violence,

there is also a distribution of violence over time. The clusters and

pockets of the fractured battlefield may flare up in brief conflagrations of violence, and then subside. An example would be a

wave of aircraft conducting a raid on an enemy’s capital. For a

few moments in the skies over the capital, there may be a deadly

contest between the attacking aircraft and the defending fighters

or surface-to-air missiles. But when the raid ends, the spasm of

violence subsides. 

The fractured battlefield pulsates with the ebb and flow of violence. In the area of a major land battle, the character of the conflict might closely resemble the character of the battlefields of the

past. In other areas, the character of the battlefield may be different, and the tools of war may be asymmetrically applied; the

military consequences of the various actions are often less important than the political effects; and the application of violence

may be one-sided or two-sided, depending on the effectiveness

and alacrity of the defense. To some extent, each side selects its

own set of clusters and pockets according to the military and political objectives it seeks. Thus, we will choose some of the areas

of conflict; the enemy will choose others. Sometimes offensive

forces will meet with significant resistance, sometimes none at

all. Sometimes defensive forces will be continuously engaged.

Sometimes they will find themselves waiting for an attack that

never comes. 

Another element of the fractured battlefield centers on the

earlier discussion regarding the military versus political import

of targets as we proceed further from the lateral limits of the

conventional battlefield. If the fractured battlefield is a galaxy

of small mosaics overlaid on a map of the relevant territory,

there might be a concentration of violence near the center,

perhaps indicating the location of a traditional ground battle.

Expanding outward from the center will be numerous additional areas in which the enemy states meet on violent terms.

As the distance from the main battle area increases, the relative political value of each action may increasingly supersede

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the military effect that a similar attack would have on the

main battle area. If the United States were to paint the military and political effects of battle as red (for military) and blue

(for political), then what we would see on our overlay would be

a galaxy with a red core, with the individual mosaics gradually

transitioning from red to blue as they move further outward

from the center. Here are a few items of clarification: there may

be multiple main battle areas, and they may shift position over

time. Additionally, there may not always be a recognizable hot

center of traditional ground combat (as during Operation Allied Force), just a series of discrete individual actions of violence scattered across the map. 

Therefore, when this paper addresses the question posed at

the beginning of this section (whether military action contributes

more definitively to the achievement of war’s aims when it is conducted on the traditionally recognized limits of the battlefield), it

relies on the following logic as a guide; namely, that the degree

to which specific military action will be required to achieve overall victory in war ultimately varies in relationship to the degree to

which either military or political targets have been selected to receive the focus of war’s effects. In a visual sense, if readers go

back to the image of red (military) and blue (political) mosaics

scattered across the map of the battle area, the preponderance

of either one or the other should make it graphically apparent exactly where success is required and whether the measure of that

success will necessarily be military or political.

If most of the violence is localized at the point of a traditional

force-on-force battle, then straightforward military victory will

usually be essential to achieve victory. On the other hand, if violence is scattered throughout the belligerent states without ever

congealing into a significant force-on-force battle, then the cumulative political effects—both good and ill—of the individual

pockets of violence will typically determine whether victory is

achieved, and the relevance of the associated military effects on

the terms of the decision will be correspondingly diminished. 

What does this mean for the war fighter? It means that in a

traditional force-on-force battle, military victory is essential,

as it always has been. In cases where military forces use

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tory (sometimes defined as no civilian casualties, no friendly

losses, or other directives often patently at odds with the nature of the destructive instrument being employed) may be determined by the degree to which military forces have adhered

to political criteria in the conduct of war. As such, political effects will be more important than military effects. Success in

these situations will be defined by the degree to which military

forces have employed the destructive arts in accordance with

political directives, rather than according to the traditional

military determinism of “kill and prevail.” 

Limited Political Objectives Confront

Military Consequences

Among practitioners of the military art, there is a grim understanding that victory is an elusive—perhaps impossible—goal

when political objectives conflict with military means. Existing

among the members of the military at times is a fleeting temptation to throw off the tethers of political oversight to more effectively employ military means in the conduct of war. But effectiveness in such cases is inevitably defined in narrow utilitarian

terms predicated on the destructive capacity of the military instrument at hand without reference to the wider context of the

situation. Military forces can take small comfort in the irony that

the greater the national interest, the more straightforward the

military mission. Conversely, the less there is at stake, the more

difficult the task. The difficulty arises because military force is an

instrument of violence. By definition, violence is often at odds

with the advocates of political objectives who are enamored of the

ability of military force to influence an enemy’s behavior but

are unwilling to bear the costs measured in human blood. In

this context, military planners should be surprised to see the

appeal of a “surgical strike” from the perspective of civilian

policy makers who would prefer to deny the darker characteristics attendant to the use of military force. The allure of

battle without bloodshed contains a compelling, if intuitively

disingenuous, appeal. The next section focuses on whether

this goal is attainable or unrealistic.

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Battle without Bloodshed

The potential to conduct battle without bloodshed—meaning

battle without significant friendly losses—is a concept that has

gained momentum in the last few years by the fortuitous confluence of recent technological advances combined with the

good luck of recent history.* While technology and history can

prove a powerful combination in debates about the future of warfare, military planners would be wise to temper their conclusions. Technology is not the answer to every problem, and the

lens of recent history is distorted by the overestimation of importance military planners append to the era that we know. Before military planners race to any conclusions about the feasibility of conducting battle without bloodshed, they need to

consider the twin issues of technology and history on which this

proposition rests.

Americans frequently herald technology as a quintessential

element of US military might. An over reliance on its qualitative advantages, however, and a misinterpretation of its effects

could just as easily render it a quintessential American weakness. While technology in recent years has unquestionably

provided the American military the ability to develop advantages of quality over quantity on the battlefield, it has also undercut by corresponding degrees our recognition of certain

realities of war. Technology has facilitated our ability to kill

with greater precision and discrimination. It has allowed us to

defend more efficiently. But it has also led us to believe that

the attendant changes in destructive efficiency have somehow

fundamentally altered the character of war. As we have developed the ability to weed out some of the unfortunate consequences of collateral damage in the process of killing, we

sometimes come perilously close to believing that we can weed

out killing altogether from the prosecution of war. This is a

dangerous assumption to make, and one quickly trampled in

reality’s dust every time America’s vital national interests are

on the line and it finds itself confronting both a significant and

ruthless adversary.

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*Up to, but not including, America’s invasion of Iraq in 2003.
Technology (which I will discuss more extensively in the next

section) is only one of the culprits that has led many civilian and

military theorists to the myopically utopian conclusion that

battle without bloodshed is a reasonable and realistic goal in

war. The other culprit is history. The opportune confluence of

America’s advancing technologies and diminishing opponents

since the Vietnam War form the basis for this rationale. The

fortuitous by-product of American interventions in the late

twentieth century against the military weaklings of Grenada,

Panama, Iraq, and Serbia has been a consistently low American body count (setting aside the on-paper potential cataclysm

of the Cold War). While low American body counts have proven

admirable as a by-product, we do ourselves a disservice to lay

them out as an expectation or precondition of American involvement in war. We would be better served to view the relatively low casualty rates in these skirmishes in the context of

what actually occurred. In each case, America directed the

brunt of its first-rate military might against what were, in all

fairness, third-rate opponents. The low casualty rates were

fortunate, but not predictive of what would occur in a major

war against an opponent who did not either take the American

blows on the chin, or simply surrender the moment we crossed

his border. The activities on 9/11 brought this inevitable reality

of war back into sharp focus.

Prior to 9/11, Americans often obsessed over the concept of

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*The US military occasionally has to work through phases (as it did in the late

1990s) in which force protection becomes more important than mission accomplishment. This is usually driven by the wounds of comparatively small (although nonetheless tragic) events. For America the most significant of these to occur during the 1990s

were Somalia, Khobar Towers, and the USS Cole. By contrast, large-scale events (like

9/11) bring mission accomplishment as a priority back to the forefront. The interplay

of these issues is a function of the context of the times. World War II offers an interesting parallel. It would be inconceivable to imagine Gen Dwight D. Eisenhower subordinating mission accomplishment to force protection for his troops conducting the

landings on the Normandy beaches. That didn’t mean he cared about his troops less,

only that the mission to be accomplished was more important. Ultimately, whenever

America’s vital national interests are at stake in war, mission accomplishment receives the military’s overriding focus, and force protection returns to its more appropriate status as an element of overall strategy, rather than over inflating to the point

of becoming an end in itself.
erations in Iraq in 2003. Nonetheless, it is worthwhile to investigate the source of this recurring obsession, especially when so

many people continue to describe the future as a world largely

populated by the bloodless surrogates of unmanned aerial vehicles, remote sensors, and cyber warfare. 

The assumption at the core of this vision is that the trends of

recent technology and history represent a fundamental change

in the character of war, and therefore battle without bloodshed

may be entirely possible. The reality of war—inconvenient and

barbaric as it may sound—is that war is an act of violent coercion. This process requires military planners to break things and

kill people. Violence and danger are central and inevitable ingredients in the formulation of war. Methods of warfare change, but

the nature of war—to include its risk, danger, and uncertainty—

remain the same. The violent act of warfare makes the result impossible to predict. As there is an element of chance involved in

the conduct of war, so too is there an element of chance inherent in the outcome. It is possible to stack the deck in our favor

(by building and training better and stronger fighting forces), but

overwhelming advantages of scale are not always feasible when

facing a true peer competitor. Because it is impossible to conduct

risk-free war, it is impossible to eliminate bloodshed from war.

We can make adjustments, certainly. We can provide our troops

with bulletproof vests. Military planners can coat the exterior of

our airplanes with radar absorbing material. But they cannot

gloss over the fundamentally violent character of war. 

The question remains whether it is possible to minimize

human bloodshed in war (especially friendly losses) by entirely

replacing men with machines on the battlefield. With the advent

of cruise missiles and unmanned aerial vehicles (UAV), it sometimes seems we are attempting to do just that. At present, these

unmanned instruments represent only a small part of the overall arsenal and architecture of war. But consider the logical extension of this potential transformation. Imagine if military planners were to replace piloted airplanes entirely one day with

UAVs. On the ground, imagine if we replaced all tanks with remotely piloted land vehicles. Imagine if we replaced all ships with

remotely piloted floating and submersible islands capable of inflicting the same damage a carrier battle group can today. Set

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aside the questions of technical feasibility for a moment, while

this paper considers issues that are even more fundamental. 

Let us assume that in such a scenario we find ourselves fighting a peer state with technical abilities similar to our own and

that both sides involved in the conflict decide to use their machines to fight the machines of their competitor. In this hypothetical situation (with no human lives directly at stake on either

side), consider some basic questions about the nature of war:

1. Can the terms of violent international decision making

be delegated to the bloodless interaction of mechanized

proxy? Is this war? Or is it simply an expensive game of

remote control demolition derby?

2. What would the emotional stake of the American people be

in such a conflict? Do they care if we lose a few machines,

or if we destroy a few machines belonging to an enemy?

How important is it to secure the will of the people in the

conduct of war? If we do not require the support of the

people to conduct purely mechanized warfare, do we require their consent? Does our enemy?

3. How do we define victory in a machine-verses-machine scenario? What happens, for example, when the machines on

one—or both—sides are destroyed? Do we progress (or

regress) to man-versus-machine warfare as a necessary

branch and sequel to the original plan?

4. If the machines of one side are victorious, to what extent

are the humans on the other side bound by the consequence of the decision?

These questions relate to a situation in which we face a peer

competitor who chooses to fight on the same terms. Now consider what happens when we face a less-accommodating enemy,

one either unable or unwilling to match our technological

prowess in kind. 

1. In this situation, would we use unmanned aerial vehicles

to attack conventional targets (like truckloads of “freedom fighters” armed with nothing more than AK-47s, for

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example), understanding that to do so would inevitably

result in enemy casualties? 

2. If we select this method of waging war, how would an

enemy respond? Recall the earlier discussion of the unintended consequences of asymmetric war. If we remove

US combatants from the battlefield, what choice does a

ruthless and determined enemy have if he wishes to

draw American blood, other than to strike at Americans

less protected? The list would include American civilians,

for example. 

War is the controlled application of violence in the pursuit of

overarching political goals. The consequence of the application of

violence is that in war we break things and kill people. Our enemies attempt to do the same. More important for a ruthless

enemy than conforming to arbitrary definitions of what constitutes a legitimate combatant will be his determination to respond in kind by drawing American blood. A US aversion to

casualties—and the determination of our enemies to exploit this

weakness—gives us some indication of how our enemies might

react in future “machine-versus-freedom-fighter” scenarios. 

If military planners pursue this line of reasoning to its extreme, we reach a point where we have to ask ourselves if attempting to remove all risk to the American war fighter is, in fact,

in the best interest of the American people. Traditionally men

and women have joined the military because they have been

willing to risk their lives in the defense of their country. If we remove all risk to the American war fighter—as noble as that

sounds in the abstract—have we inverted our priorities? At what

point does it become safer to join the military rather than to remain a civilian? In a military where one of the stated objectives

is to strive for risk-free warfare, is bravery or cowardice the more

compelling motive for service to one’s nation?

The trappings, technology, and outward characteristics of war

may change, but the fundamental essence of war does not. War

remains a violent clash of wills in which each state struggles to

emerge victorious. The higher the stakes, the more ruthless the

pursuit of victory becomes. To believe military planners can remove the elements of danger and risk (and thereby American

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bloodshed) from war is folly. The lives sacrificed, or placed at

risk, in the achievement of victory form an intrinsic element in

the nature of war. Danger and risk are indivisible from war, and

as part of war’s violent character, they necessarily underpin the

consequence of war’s decisions, and define the nature of victory. 

The Impact of Technology on War

The previous section examined how technology and recent history have given impetus to the debate regarding the assumed

wisdom and presumed feasibility of conducting battle without

bloodshed. Now the discussion turns to technology and the ways

it shapes and affects warfare overall. The thesis of this section

can best be summed up by this statement: while technology has

significantly affected, and will continue to affect, the conduct of

war, it has not fundamentally altered the character of war. 

When military planners review the pace of technological advances in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, they should

hardly be surprised to observe so many experts predicting radical military changes to the character of war based on the application of new technologies. Sometimes these changes have been

profound, as witnessed early in the last century with the introduction of the airplane, the submarine, and the tank. The introduction of these new machines did not fundamentally change

the character of war; it merely altered the method of its application. In fact, a close look reveals that technology can sharpen the

tools at hand, and sometimes provide us with new tools, but

technology does not change the character of the job that remains

to be done.

The allure of technology sometimes blinds military planners. It

is probably inevitable, knowing human nature, that people

would like to believe that every technological breakthrough provides a universal panacea to the messy realities of war. But such

universal panaceas are the wartime equivalent of “get-rich”

schemes. Perhaps the most famous of these technological infatuations occurred in the decades following World War II with the

development of the atomic bomb. The incredible power of nuclear

weapons revolutionized how we thought about future wars.

Politicians, generals, and academics believed future wars would

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involve exchanges of nuclear weapons. The sheer power they unleashed made their use appear inevitable, and simultaneously

nuclear warfare eclipsed in principle and precedent all other

forms of warfare.

America required the combined experiences of the Korean

and Vietnam Wars to reawaken its military experts to the continued applicability, relevance, and necessity of conventional

war-fighting skills, even in a nuclear age. While nuclear

weapons did force us to view the potential outcomes of war in a

new way, to the good fortune of the globe they did not change

the ways in which the superpowers fought wars. The reason is

easy enough to appreciate. Even the bitterest enemies have

been unable to construe mutual destruction on a planetary

scale as consistent with any definition of victory (at least so far).

And so, warfare has evolved. Or, some might say, regressed, into

more traditional forms.

In the early twenty-first century, technology has again captured the imagination of military theorists. Not surprisingly,

traditional war-fighting skills are sometimes held hostage to

these perceived technological panaceas, both in terms of the

resources they consume and the war-fighting focus they receive. The brilliant effects of these silver-bullet technologies

sometimes flash blind both their advocates and audiences. Because they are unanticipated and new, we presume to apply

their advantages to all situations with equal effect. Only with

time, clear reasoning, and the hard knocks of real-world experience does it become apparent that the application of each

new technology merely provides the war fighter with a new or

sharper tool—not a new job.

Two of these silver-bullet technologies, much discussed in

recent years, provide excellent examples. One is the notion of

cyber warfare, conducted by computers. The other is the notion of space warfare, conducted by satellites from outside the

Earth’s atmosphere. Just as nuclear warfare mistakenly expropriated the military’s intellectual focus during the early

decades of the Cold War, so have the proponents of space and

cyber warfare attempted—though to this point with somewhat

less effect—to subordinate the war-fighting focus of more traditional paths to the particular domain of either the Internet

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or space. Their inroads have proven less successful than those

of the nuclear theorists, for three reasons: (1) the quantum

leap in destructive capacity created by nuclear weapons surpasses by several measures of magnitude the evident (if not

the implied) destructive effects of either space or cyber warfare; (2) the increased pragmatism (some might say skepticism) of the military itself resulting from the bitter experience

of having already subordinated its intellectual history to the

dubious surrogate of nuclear obsession; and (3) the potential

across-the-board effects of cyber and space warfare on allies

and enemies alike, as well as on both military forces and

civilians. Of these three reasons, the third will likely prove the

most significant in terms of guiding future US policy on the

issue, and this paper examines it later in detail.

The zealots of cyber war postulate that future wars might be

conducted entirely by computer. The soldiers combating one

another, in such a scenario, would not be actual flesh and blood,

but merely the ones and zeros of digital information as adversaries attempt to hack into each other’s computers, changing

financial, medical, utility, training, readiness, and other records.

The assumption underlying this concept is that by controlling and manipulating information, military planners can

force an adversary to do our will without spilling blood in the

ways required by more traditional forms of war. More seasoned

proponents of cyber warfare see it as a means of enabling or

augmenting other, perhaps more traditional, forms of wartime

coercion and influence. 

Space warfare, by comparison, envisions the application of

force against targets on Earth from the high ground of Earth

orbit, and as occasion may require, against the satellites of an

enemy state. For space warfare, the kill-mechanisms (whether

kinetic weapons or beam weapons) are more traditional than the

proposed weapons of cyber warfare. What is novel is the medium

from which such force would be applied, the parameters of

which are currently circumscribed not by physical limits, but

by policy. Whether such limits are more difficult to broach

than the physical limits and challenges of achieving Earth

orbit remains to be seen. In any case, with both cyber warfare

and space warfare technical feasibility is not the issue. The

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ability to attack a computer network or employ a weapon from

space is a straightforward technical matter well within the realm

of current technology. But, similar to nuclear weapons before

them, the mere technical ability to create and employ such

weapons does not automatically confer or imply either the wisdom or necessity of doing so. In this case, technical feasibility

encounters a road fraught with nontechnical obstacles. This

paper examines the war-fighting implications of each. 

Why Cyber Warfare Will Likely Remain an Adjunct to More Traditional Forms of War

The supposition that America might conduct future warfare

by computers unfortunately proves as singularly naive as the

assumption that we might, at one extreme, conduct all future

wars with nuclear weapons, or that at the other extreme we

might be able to conduct all future wars without bloodshed.

There is no question that computers, and the ability to manipulate data that they provide, have proven (and will continue

to prove) a critical and influential enabling instrument in the

prosecution of war. There is also no doubt that in some situations (like shutting down a power grid or disrupting transportation infrastructures) the wartime effects of cyber warfare

could be potentially devastating, on a scale equivalent to—or

potentially greater than—nuclear weapons. However, unlike

nuclear weapons, cyber warfare might also provide the possibility of conducting more discrete attacks—such that its effects might be specifically targeted and contained. While there

is no question as to the potential technical feasibility of conducting such cyber attacks, the political consequences of

doing so loom so large as to inevitably require proportions of

civilian oversight and control equivalent to those already applied to the conduct of aerial warfare. 

Cyber warfare will likely remain an adjunct to more traditional forms of warfare for several reasons—some of which

spring from the nature of war, some of which spring from the

nature of politics, and some of which spring from human nature itself. The first reason is the necessary conformity and

subordination of cyber warfare to the nature of warfare itself.

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The first flaw in the cyber warfare argument involves the assumption that its offensive potential will proceed unchecked,

that other nations—or even transnational groups—will resort

to cyber warfare attacks and that our inability to defend

against them will require an appropriate response. This supposition overlooks one of the most basic principles of war, that

no advantage proceeds universally unchecked. Each offensive

capability generates a defensive response. The effect is just as

true in cyber warfare as any other form of warfare. As offensive cyber technologies grow, defensive responses grow to

counter them. The concern about America’s vulnerability to

cyber attack and our estimation of the adversarial proclivities

of our potential enemies assumes that the current advantages

of cyber technology exist in a vacuum. They do not. 

Consider the parallel misapprehensions regarding the debut

of stealth technology. For a time, some experts viewed the introduction of stealth technology (which reduces an aircraft’s

radar signature) in similarly overstated ways. Initially, they

believed stealth technology would revolutionize future warfare.

Later, common sense and counter technologies caught up with

their enthusiasm. Over time, they reached the more mature

judgment that future combat aircraft would incorporate

greater or lesser degrees of stealth technology as a matter of

course, not because stealth had revolutionized warfare, but

because the associated advantages offered a recognized baseline capability for future aircraft that optimized the odds for

survival in a high-threat environment. The delirious terms

used by certain advocates to describe the hypnotizing approach of the coming cyber wars echo the enthusiastic, but

overstated, reception afforded stealth technology a decade before. In each case, the technologies ultimately have to exist

outside the vacuum of theory. Counter technologies continue

to evolve. Advantage is finite, both as a matter of degree and

as a function of time.

Another reason cyber warfare will remain an adjunct to traditional war is a political one. In this respect, it parallels the limitations of nuclear and space warfare. These limitations have

nothing to do with the potential destructive power of the systems

involved, and everything to do with the broader political conse77

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quences of their use. Despite the massive preparations during

the Cold War to employ nuclear weapons, the enormous and mutually destructive consequence of using these weapons proved

to be the greatest incentive to exercise restraint. Both the

precedent and potential destruction associated with their employment makes the risks associated with their use greater than

any potential gain.

The broader political risks associated with offensive cyber warfare are just as great. For example, any nation to engage in deliberate attacks against the banking or financial system of an adversary nation invites a like attack against their own systems

and inevitably blurs the line, in politically untenable ways, between combatants and civilians. This is not to say that this

couldn’t happen, to do so requires the context of total war, as in

the example of Sherman’s march to the sea. In that case, the totality of the American Civil War finally overflowed the cup of more

traditional battlefield confrontations, spilling the blood and

treasure of the Confederate civil populace in the process. In

World War II, the context of total war precipitated the development (and afforded the moral maneuvering room) to employ

atomic weapons against Hiroshima and Nagasaki. State-sponsored cyber war parallels these two predecessors in terms of

precedent and application. This is not to say that smaller anarchist, terrorist, and trans-national organizations may not subject

states to cyber attacks. Therefore, states will continue to refine

their defensive systems to protect against cyber attack. But the

theory postulated by the prophets of cyber war—that states will

confront states through purely computerized warfare—ignores

the broader political and social reality.

Still another reason cyber war will remain relegated to a supporting role in war involves the nature of warfare itself. Those

who argue that computer warriors will conduct warfare via computer keyboard overlook the ruthless parameters of human aggression demonstrated throughout history. The fact that people

have, for thousands of years, fought to the death in battle—for

the sake of their cause, country, or comrades—provides ample

testimony to the price in blood at stake in war. To argue that war

could become a digital and bloodless enterprise overlooks the imperatives of human history—including our own recent history. It

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also does no small disservice by fostering the buoyantly overoptimistic assumption that it is permissible, perhaps even desirable, to set aside traditional war-fighting skills in favor of developing presumably “revolutionary” technologies. 

Technology is merely a tool, not an end in itself. It hones our

ability to conduct war. It does not change the nature of war. We

should be skeptical of the proponents of any technology who presume to provide people with a universal panacea to supplant and

supersede the messy realties of combat. It is attractive to imagine there is a silver bullet that can obviate the necessity of war,

rendering the violent clash of wills and the attendant human suffering unnecessary. Such utopian fantasies are dangerously

shortsighted. The truth is that nothing is more complex or dangerous than war. To put aside hard-won experience in favor of a

transitory technological fad is to invite disastrous results any

time we face a ruthless and clever adversary. 

To this point, this discussion has focused on cyber war, but

the issues discussed apply in certain ways to the concept of

space warfare as well. One area that requires further examination concerns the effects of both cyber and space warfare on

members of the world’s civil populace. This characteristic significantly increases the political character of any targets so engaged, and parallels, in fact surpasses, the political concerns

with regard to targeting already discussed in connection with

aerial warfare.

The Political Character

of Space and Cyber Targets

Just as airpower’s ability to range throughout an enemy state

increases the political character of targets away from the immediate zone of a major ground battle (as discussed extensively in

chapter 3), so too does the ability of cyber and space attacks to

potentially range throughout the limits of the enemy state dramatically increases the resulting political character of targets potentially engaged by computers or satellites. The political considerations governing and limiting the application of airpower in

war are further magnified in their application to the potential

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fare and space warfare are not impossible, simply improbable,

from a political standpoint, and the favorable criteria for their application in war become therefore correspondingly less likely to occur.

As the exponential difference between the friction associated

with the medium of aerial warfare and surface warfare has

permitted aerial warfare to range throughout the territory of an

enemy state, the further and even more profound decrease in

friction associated with the vacuum of space and the near-light

speeds of computer processing permits space and cyber

weapons to range around the world. The physics of orbital

mechanics and the infrastructure of the Internet limit this efficacy. As every nation in the world relies (to some greater or

lesser extent) on computers to perform or enhance the work of

its government and citizens, every nation also falls under the orbital shadow of satellites. The frequency and altitude of the revisit times vary depending on the parameters of the satellite’s

specific orbital path, just as the degree of reliance on computers varies. A weapon in orbit hangs as a potential Sword of

Damocles over every nation—ally and enemy alike—and requires more than military discretion in the application of its

force.* A computer attack that can travel anywhere on the

globe in seconds requires similar measures of oversight for the

reason that its application can also affect, possibly even more insidiously, allies and enemies alike. The necessity for restraint in

this case likely parallels the circumstances that would require

the use of biological weapons. The effects may have unintended

consequences in terms of secondary effects on the target population and ricochet effects on the originating state.

Again, space warfare and cyber warfare are not impossible

precedents in war, but—as offensive components of war—the

political barriers to their actual use represent a high threshold

on the spectrum of force application. The precedents and limitations on their use will likely prove similar to those reserved for

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*An exception to this case would include defensive measures in time-critical situations. An example might include a space-based missile defense system designed to

defend against intercontinental ballistic missiles. In such situations, specific rules of

engagement laid out beforehand would likely specify those situations in which the

military would be authorized (and expected) to employ space weapons without more

specific prior political approval than the criteria enumerated in the rules of engagement.
the employment of weapons of mass destruction as chemical,

biological, and nuclear weapons. This is not to say that we

should be ignorant of the capabilities these technologies bring

to the battlefield, but we should couch our understanding in

the political realities attendant to their use. Cyber warfare and

space warfare represent neither panaceas that obviate the realities of more traditional forms of warfare, nor arcane impossibilities that stand no potential for employment in the context

of a total war. Defensive capabilities against these technologies

warrant our attention. Offensive capabilities along these lines

deserve a distinctly more “back-burner” focus, cognizant of

the realities attending their employment. 

Deception in a Transparent World

This analysis began with the understanding that the study of

war is a necessary prerequisite to the study of aerial warfare. As

this discussion moves to the final area of this analysis, it returns

full circle to an issue of larger significance to affect all militaries

that serve in democratic societies. The issue concerns the

wartime relationship between the military and the media. The

true revolution in military affairs has less to do with the enabling

technologies adopted by the military in recent years and much

more to do with the explosion of instantaneous worldwide media

reporting and the transparent world in which the military increasingly operates. As this transparency grows, US military

planners need to consider its war-fighting implications. We also

need to acknowledge, and have the maturity to accept, the

(sometimes) differing perspectives of both the military and the

media in a free society. 

At its core, the wartime tension in modern society between the

military and the media is irreconcilable. This is because of the

emphasis each institution places on the need for either deception

or truth. Unless these requirements change, the tension between

the two is unlikely to change. To appreciate the nature of the relationship between the military and the media, US military planners must examine the role played by deception and truth in

each institution. This paper considers the military perspective

first and the media perspective second.

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To practice the art of war is to practice deception. In The Art of

War, Sun Tzu recognized this 2,400 years ago. Military forces use

deception to gain an advantage over the adversary: hide weakness, mask strength, appear at unexpected times or in unexpected places, distract an enemy from a main attack, or force

him into a trap. Deception can make a weak army appear strong,

or a strong army weak. Simply put, a military force that does not

employ deception in war is a force no greater than the sum of its

parts. Deception multiplies uncertainty. It requires an enemy to

plan for uncertain possibilities. In responding to these possibilities, deception requires the enemy to dilute both force and focus,

which can, in turn, reveal potential weaknesses. From our recognition of the enemy’s weakness, victory may be born. While deception alone does not generally decide the outcome of war, it remains a powerful constituent in the congress of its conduct.

The mission of the media is to report the truth. Despite the

limitations that bias, lack of experience in military affairs, all toobrief sound bytes, and what incessant deadlines impose, the

media’s mission nevertheless remains to tell the truth. Or put

another way, it is to explain the obtuse; to reveal the concealed;

to open the closed; to make transparent the opaque. The media

endeavors to do so fairly, objectively, and accurately (to the extent it is able), but mostly—promptly. The media strives to be fair

by maintaining balance in the stories it reports. In practical

terms, this means it reports each of the views on the various

sides of an issue. While most would agree the media in a free society has its share of problems, few would advocate the media’s

subordination to the role of government mouthpiece or otherwise

structurally restricting it from reporting the truth. Military planners may disagree with the methods the media sometimes employs, but they appreciate the principle of freedom of speech,

fully cognizant of its role as instrumental safeguard to the

process of liberty. 

But how do military planners reconcile this predisposition toward the wartime practice of deception on the part of the military

and the pursuit of truth on the part of the media? On the one

hand, if we adopted a universally military perspective, all information in war concerning the capability, deployment, and disposition of friendly forces (except what we expressly wanted the

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enemy to hear) would be withheld from the media and the public at large under the presumably necessary opacity of “classified

information vital to national security.” Unpleasant information

(delivery problems at the chow hall, for example, that force the

troops to go hungry) could similarly be withheld inasmuch as

this information might reveal a potential weakness an enemy

could attempt to exploit. Although military leaders might prefer

to maintain an information choke hold on the media in times of

war, such a view is decidedly impractical in a transparent and information-saturated world. 

However, consider the opposite perspective. Imagine what

would happen if the military fully complied with the media’s desire for wartime information. What would the result be if military

leaders briefed the media on the exact location, capability, and

strengths and weaknesses of their forces? What would happen if

the military advised the media in advance of exactly when and

where significant operations would occur? And (in the most extreme example) what are the consequences of allowing the media

to film combat operations in progress, relaying the unedited images instantaneously around the world as they occur? 

The answer is complex and depends on the situation. The

reporters waiting with spotlights on the beaches in Somalia as

the Navy Seals came ashore in 1992 caused consternation

but, ultimately, did not affect the success of the initial humanitarian mission in Somalia. The reporters broadcasting

live from Tel Aviv during the Iraqi Scud missile attacks on Israel during the 1991 Gulf War raised questions about the ability of Iraqi commanders to re-target near misses based on the

intelligence provided by real-time reporting. Embedded reporting in the 2003 invasion of Iraq demonstrated the power of the

news media to profoundly affect the degree to which Americans back home supported the war, by relaying it to them

first-hand. Any sacrifices to operational security in the process

appear to have been sufficiently outweighed by the buttressing of domestic political support for the operation, at least during its initial phases. 

What is required in wartime is a balance between the military’s

need to practice the art of deception and the media’s need to report the truth. Time is often the enemy with regard to this issue.

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It is a delicate balance to withhold information until it is no

longer useful to the enemy, while still providing it to the media

in time for it to still be relevant and newsworthy. A compromise

that achieves this balance gives the military the best chance to

defeat the enemy, while giving the media the best opportunity to

keep the public fully and accurately informed.

The military understands the importance of public support

for the prosecution of war, but sometimes forgets the powerful

(and often positive) role the media plays in generating and

maintaining that public support. Deception is an appropriate

weapon against the enemy, but not against the media and not

against the public they inform. The public must be able to

trust the military implicitly or the resulting cynicism rapidly

corrodes the protective veneer of patriotism.

Of course, finding an arrangement that meets the wartime

needs of both the military and the media is much easier said

than done.* As a starting point, each side needs to recognize

the legitimate rights and concerns of the other. From that

point of departure, an arrangement needs to be established

appropriate to the situation at hand, with the understanding

that every conflict is different. In cases where overwhelming

superiority is brought to bear against a weaker enemy, the

need for truth may outweigh the need for secrecy. Conversely,

facing a formidable opponent with national survival at stake,

truth may take a back seat to the operational necessities of secrecy and deception. The stakes for miscalculation in either

situation are significant. If a deadline is met but surprise is

lost (and with it American lives), then the cost of truth is too

high. But if truth is muzzled for the sake of knee-jerk paranoia, then the informed support of the populace is lost, and

that is also a price too high to pay.

Notes

1. Clausewitz, 731.

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*The use of embedded reporters during Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003 is proof

that such a balance—appropriate to the situation—can be achieved.
Chapter 6

Concluding Thoughts and

Overarching Themes

This paper has examined the art of aerial warfare. It has identified the role that airpower plays in conjunction and combination with the other instruments of war and, in a larger sense, the

extent to which airpower in war operates within the framework

of a political construct. This approach is unique in that most airpower theorists tend to examine the wartime application of airpower in military terms. They believe this is what airpower can

do when political considerations are set aside. My point, however, is that you cannot set aside political considerations.

The purely abstract and unconstrained military potential of

airpower has very little real-world utility, except as a method

to gauge the possible effect of airpower in cases of total war

when (presumably) unlimited objectives would be afforded the

application of unlimited means.* In every situation short of

total war, some greater or lesser degree of political restraint

will be placed on airpower’s application. Therefore, to discount

the political realities of the wartime environment in which airpower must operate is to ignore the reality of war. To do so is

to fixate on the military element of war without regard to the

influences of either political reason or popular will. But as

Clausewitz cautioned: “A theory that ignores any one of [these

three elements] or seeks to fix an arbitrary relationship between them would conflict with reality to such an extent that

for this reason alone it would be totally useless.”1 This explains the all too common disparity between the unlimited

possibilities of abstract airpower theory and the circumscribed

reality of actual war.

War specializes in unpleasant realities. Occasionally, we try

to overlook these realities (often inadvertently, although sometimes deliberately) when we focus on the fads of the latest

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*September 11th provides an apt example (from the terrorist’s perspective) of just

such a confluence of absolute political objectives and unlimited military means.
technological innovations and forget the less-pleasant insights

provided to us by experience. Throughout our examination of

the art of aerial warfare, we have seen a number of themes

recur that illustrate these realities. 

The compendium of themes that follow make up the conclusion of this work. The observations they contain are neither astonishingly subtle nor astoundingly insightful; they are merely

accurate, even obvious. Sometimes, however, we need to be reminded of obvious things, especially in an age when so many

people would like to believe war could be waged as an enterprise

devoid of both bloodshed and risk. The issues that follow are

many of the ones discussed through the course of this essay. Although this compendium is by no means complete in its subject

or scope, it provides a concise reminder of some of the more significant elements that make up the character of war.

The following themes move from the broad to the specific,

beginning with general issues of war and ending with issues

that concern airpower.

1. The conduct of war always remains subordinate to the

overarching requirements of political aims. War is an instrument of politics, regardless of the form it takes, or

the nature of the groups involved.

2. Victory in war is defined by the achievement of political

goals. Military goals contribute to the achievement of victory to the extent they complement political aims.

3. Violence, danger, and chance are inherent and inextricable

elements of war. War is a gamble. It cannot be reduced to a

mathematical formula that (assuming we fulfill certain preconditions) produces predictable and foreknowable results.

4. Every war is different. Every enemy is different. Every

war requires a unique strategy appropriate to the situation to succeed. In determining the strategy most likely

to produce victory, context is all.

5. Technology is merely a tool, not an end in itself. It hones

our ability to conduct war. It does not change the nature

of war. Technology can sharpen the tools at hand, and

sometimes it can provide us with entirely new tools, but

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technology does not change the job that needs to be

done.

6. Airpower is less constrained by the physical dimensions

of the traditional battlefield, but it is fully and completely

constrained by the political dimensions of the objectives

underlying the conflict.

7. The ability to accurately predict political effects resulting

from military action is a problematic enterprise. Assessments of such effects differ fundamentally from those required to determine purely military effects on a traditional

battlefield. The problematic aspect of determining these

effects, notwithstanding political effects, may supersede

in importance the military effects of the conflict on the

overall outcome of war.

8. In general, the greater the distance airpower ranges beyond

the lateral limits of the traditional battlefield, the greater

the political effect—and the less the military effect—a particular application of airpower is likely to have on the outcome of the conflict.

9. The effects of strategic attack are primarily political. Only

when the duration of war exceeds the period required to

deny or interrupt the enemy’s ability to rearm or reprovision

because of attacks on the US will the military effects of

strategic attack significantly impact the outcome of war.

10. Of all the potential targets available to receive the destructive effect of airpower’s fury in time of war, none—in military terms—warrants airpower’s overriding focus more

than enemy forces engaged in combat against friendly

forces. Other targets warrant airpower’s destructive attention, but the effects engendered by such attacks will be of

an increasingly political (rather than military) character

whenever the targets are not of a purely military form and

directly threatening friendly forces.

The primary advantage of peace is that it affords the opportunity, for those of us who practice the profession of arms, to

prepare ourselves for war. No component of that preparation

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is more vital to the result of victory than the effort we expend

in studying the elements and consequences of war. We safeguard our society by applying what we have learned to unforeseen events, such that by force of arms we are prepared to

triumph and prevail in any contest the nation enters. Part of

the study that we make encompasses our due subordination

to the civilian leadership we serve. By whatever modest increment this essay contributes to a better understanding of the

art of aerial war, and the role it necessarily plays as an instrument of politics, it has served its purpose.

Notes

1. Clausewitz, 101.

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The Art of Aerial Warfare

Air University Press Team

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