Who Cares What Generals Think?

General Sir Patrick Sanders, a distinguished soldier who has risen to become the Chief of the General Staff (the professional head of the British Army), has made a name for himself recently for his willingness to warn of an uncomfortable strategic future and to argue, as the phrase goes, that ‘something must be done.’ But for Sanders this has been much more than idle handwringing over the consequences of decisions taken by others. As a professional soldier he has been uncommonly clear and direct as to what the ‘something’ should be. Just days into his tenure as CGS, in June 2022 he suggested the UK was confronting a ‘1937 moment’ and should mobilise the armed forces ‘to meet today’s threat and thereby prevent war in Europe.’ In September 2023 he argued that the population of the UK had by force of circumstance become a ‘pre-war generation’ with which came ‘a responsibility that we cannot shirk’. And most recently, in January 2024, Sanders speculated that the time might have come for the UK to establish a ‘citizen army’ if it wishes to maintain some military credibility on the world stage.

As in his earlier speeches, Sanders presented a sobering and provocative argument, informed by a close understanding of the dynamics of international security. The global security environment, he observed, is altering in such a way, and at such a pace, that the UK might have to reassess the vitality of its strategic culture (a culture that could be said to be dissipating at an alarming rate) if it is to regain and retain the capacity and the resilience to meet future military threats to national security. Speaking in measured terms (and without the histrionics that the UK’s present strategic complacency might have justified), Sanders argued that the UK’s ‘pre-war generation’ should not only understand these strategic trends but should also be aware that our own strategic history has very probably not yet come to a comfortable and convenient halt. Strategic decisions should be taken, now, on the basis of hard analysis rather than wishful thinking. And these decisions will inform the history that will be written about the behaviour of the UK in the 2020s: ‘How we respond will reverberate through history.’

But it was the idea of a ‘citizen army’ that captured the attention and defined Sanders’ most recent foray into the public debate. The suggestion was met with confected indignation in some quarters and wilful misunderstanding (or simple ignorance) in others. From a population of c. 68 million, the strength of the British Army is currently (2024) c.110,000 (including c.79,000 full time active troops, c.26,000 volunteer reserve and c.4,500 others). Sanders floated the idea of a shift in culture towards a ‘citizen army’: a ‘whole force’ that integrated its different components – regular (i.e., full time professional) forces, trained and available reservists and even civilians – to the point that they become indistinguishable from each other and constitute a single army that is, above all, resilient and sustainable. Sanders used the term ‘citizen army/armies’ just twice and at no point in his speech did the words ‘conscript’ or ‘conscription’ (i.e., compulsory national military service) appear. The two things are not necessarily the same. True, Switzerland (population <9 million) bases its citizen army of c.147,000 on an elaborate programme of compulsory (male) military service. Sweden (population c.10.6 million), on the other hand, has partial national military service, has a smaller but highly regarded army of c.7,000 active personnel, yet also has what one commentator has described as a ‘culture of citizen involvement in national defence’. Nevertheless, some in the media, including specialist commentators, quickly decided that this was indeed a discussion about conscription and spent several days talking amongst themselves rather than addressing wider and more urgent matters such as strategic ambition, threat, preparedness, requirement and resource.

Sometimes the thoughts of senior military officers percolate easily and quickly into the policy discourse. As if in amplification of Sanders’ idea of a ‘pre-war generation’, in January 2024 Grant Shapps, the UK Secretary of State for Defence, detected a shift ‘from a post-war to a pre-war world’. More often, however, when senior military officers step up to the microphone and say what they think, the reaction is variously alarmism, public sympathy or professional rebuttal. Stop the War Coalition, for example, suggested that Sanders was part of a campaign to ‘militarise British society’ and of ‘dragooning ordinary people’ into an ‘increasingly aggressive foreign policy’. But judging by commentary in online and print media there was significant public sympathy for Sanders’ position, with the general seen as the champion of a robust and resilient national defence. Some did not agree, with one retired senior Royal Marine officer arguing that Sanders had raised an objection to a decision before ‘weakly going along with it.’ The inference was clear – Sanders should have resigned on a matter of principle.

Talkative senior officers plainly cannot win. If they do not resign they are weak and unprincipled but if they do resign they are castigated just as roundly for having abandoned their defence of the very same principles. This is a dilemma that could be found in many, if not all walks of life. But where the country’s military leadership is concerned, what is much more revealing is what happens by way of professional rebuttal. According to one report, Sanders was ‘called into’ a meeting with the head of all UK armed forces – Chief of Defence Staff Admiral Sir Tony Radakin – for a ‘dressing down over remarks … that infuriated No 10 [Downing Street – the seat of UK government].’  In late February 2024, in a speech at Chatham House, a London think tank, Radakin explained his position in the following way:

It is for politicians to decide how much resource is allocated and where and how this is balanced with wider demands of government.  Those are sensitive conversations.  They are best done in private. […]

These discussions happen in private because they need to be grounded in a candid and sensitive examination of the threats we face, and because they are ultimately political decisions. And they sit above our day-to-day focus as Chiefs.

What is going on here? Why is it that in the UK our generals, admirals and air marshals are expected to occupy such a peculiarly muted position in the national policy debate? Doctors, lawyers, scientists and even economists all have acknowledged status in their respective policy area and do not appear to provoke an allergic reaction when they ‘step out of line’ and ‘stray’ into politics. Conversely, our armed forces, led as they are by highly paid professional men and women who are, presumably, the country’s unrivalled experts in the use of force in the so-called ‘five domains’ of land, sea, air, space and cyberspace, are expected either to be some sort of cipher in the national strategic decision-making process or, at most, to suffer in silence. But in an area of such national importance (and expense) should the public want to hear what these experts think and, above all, say, or not?

Over several millennia, different societies and governments have shown a keen interest in military leadership and in the demands of ‘generalship’. This interest has most often been with generals rather than admirals, and least of all with air marshals, because the armies that generals have commanded (and still do) have tended to function mostly on land, which is also where most of politics has happened (and still does).  Three brief examples will illustrate the point. A much-admired example of such writing (venerated in staff colleges and military academies and, oddly, business schools) was written some 500 years BCE. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War had much to say on the art of military leadership, most notably on the importance of deception, on the need to retain initiative and on the willingness ‘to make short-term concessions to the enemy if conducive to victory’. The Art of War also pronounced on the character of generals, suggesting that they should possess the qualities of ‘wisdom, sincerity, humanity, courage, and strictness’ and should be ‘serene and inscrutable, impartial and self-controlled.’  Moving on to the first century CE we find the Greek philosopher Onasander insisting in his Strategikos that military commanders should have the following credentials:

I believe, then, that we must choose a general, not because of noble birth as priests are chosen, nor because of wealth as the superintendents of the gymnasia, but because he is temperate, self-restrained, vigilant, frugal, hardened to labour, alert, free from avarice, neither too young nor too old, indeed a father of children if possible, a ready speaker, and a man with a good reputation.

Our final example brings us into the modern period with the Prussian-German military philosopher General Carl von Clausewitz’s On War, written in the 19^th century CE and also much admired in staff colleges and such (but probably read less avidly since it is considerably longer than Sun Tzu’s earlier offering). Devoting a whole chapter to what he describes as ‘military genius’, Clausewitz offers his own list of the qualities that a general should possess:

·       Courage (‘courage in the face of personal danger, and courage to accept responsibility, either before the tribunal of some outside power or before the court of one’s own conscience’;

·       ‘A certain strength of body and soul’;

·       ‘A sensitive and discriminating judgement is called for; a skilled intelligence to scent out the truth’;

·       The ability to make rapid and accurate decisions;

·       Determination;

·       Presence of mind (‘dealing with the unexpected’);

·       Strength of will (‘energy, firmness, staunchness, emotional balance, and strength of character’);

·       ‘Sense of locality’;

·       ‘Outstanding intellect’.

Taken together – or even singly – these three examples would be a daunting job description for most mortal men and women keen to develop their career. How then have we come to this point, where we expect so much of these people yet are determined to silence them on promotion? Surely, we should want to hear from such paragons of not just military leadership but also of human fulfilment? The answer lies in what we might call a liberal democratic strategic culture, a form of social contract between (civilian) government and (military) leadership. This contract acknowledges that however strong and admirable a liberal democracy might be conceptually, it is nevertheless delicate and in a precarious position, vulnerable to the brute force of armies. And particularly vulnerable to a ‘standing army’ garrisoned on home soil with nothing much to do. In British strategic history the navy has usually been venerated while the army was often held in low esteem, even as recently as the early nineteenth century, precisely because of this nervousness about standing armies. The mighty navy, on the other hand, was usually kept far offshore and was more or less politically impotent (at least as far as domestic British politics were concerned), making it easier for British society to believe itself to be liberal, freedom-loving and non-militaristic. 

To understand the nature of this unusual social contract we should defer to the insights of two German thinkers, one of whom I have already mentioned. The first insight, generally attributed to Clausewitz, is that the conduct of war is essentially a political activity: ‘war is simply a continuation of political intercourse, with the addition of other means’ he wrote, adding that ‘No other possibility exists, then, than to subordinate the military point of view to the political.’ And to ensure everything goes as it should, he developed a ‘remarkable trinity’, in one version of which he saw violence as the concern of ‘the people’, chance and probability the concern of ‘the commander and his army’, and policy the concern of ‘the government’.

The second insight is from Max Weber, the 19^th/20^th century German sociologist who argued that ‘a state is a human community that (successfully) claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical violence.’ Weber’s thesis defines the relationship between society and its armed forces in several ways.  First, it is only the state that can call upon the services of the armed forces. No conceivable alternative to the state (such as a political party in opposition, a parastatal of some sort, a commercial enterprise, a religious organisation) can enjoy the same rights where armed force is concerned.  Second, while there might be any number of organisations and individuals in a society with the capacity to employ physical violence, only those with the imprimatur of the state can be considered ‘legitimate’.  All other forms of physical violence are illegitimate.  Armed forces are therefore held in a special relationship with society as the sole providers of uniquely justifiable modes of physical violence. To summarise these two trains of thought: for Clausewitz, armed forces and the business of warfare must be subservient to politics otherwise they are merely arbitrary violence; for Weber, politics cannot be politics without exerting authority over the armed forces.

Where does this leave us? Although it has a lengthy and philosophically respectable pedigree, Radakin’s insistence that high-level politico-military discussions should be conducted exclusively in private does not seem to be functioning all that smoothly. So, what should be done? Should senior military officers who break the omerta really be considered ‘rogue’, to be given a ‘dressing down’ or be dispatched into retirement?  Or should we ask whether the malaise runs deeper? Could it be that it is the contract itself that is ailing? The contract, we should remember, has two parties – the civil government and the military leadership – and the success of the contract (any contract) must be contingent on the proper conduct of the parties to it. If generals, admirals and air marshals are to offer their advice only in private, then should there not be an equal and opposite expectation that the civil leadership will listen to that advice? And should we not also remember, as Clausewitz observed, that the public have a say in this too, even though they are not party to these high-level, private discussions? When significant sections of the electorate and the media lean towards the view that central government has lost both interest in, and the capacity to respond to, changes in the international security environment, possibly entailing very serious challenges to national defence, might it be that it is the politico-military contract itself that is in need of repair? In these circumstances it might be understandable if the public wanted to hear more from senior military officers, in whose professional expertise they might have some element of trust and confidence, rather than less.

We might also acknowledge one other point. Sanders was not presuming to speak as a ‘soldier politician’ of some sort. He was not opining on the state of the National Health Service, the quality of school buildings or the number of potholes in UK roads. He was speaking in the political realm about his special subject – the British Army – and was prompting his political leadership to wake up and lead. Those who subscribe to the distinctively liberal and critically important Clausewitzian notion of political primacy might graciously have to concede that Sanders understands and respects Clausewitz more clearly than most of us. We all should care what generals think, but we should care just as much about politicians’ willingness to listen.