Battle Ready

by Tom Clancy

  “Absolutely,” I answered, “but I’d have to look at each situation and get a State Department okay, even though I’ll still be undertaking these missions as a private citizen.”

  He of course understood that I would need the Department’s blessing.

  Two weeks later, eighteen of the most prominent peace negotiators, post-conflict supervisors, and writers (the foremost experts and practitioners in conflict resolution) came together in Oslo, Norway, in a Norwegian government-sponsored conference they called “a Mediator’s Retreat.” I was flattered to be included in this group.

  At the conference, Martin Griffiths discussed with me efforts to settle the decades-long guerrilla wars between the government of the Philippines and several separatist groups. The parties had approached HDC as a possible mediating body; and Griffiths was wondering if I’d like to be involved as a Wise Man. I agreed to participate, contingent on State’s okay.

  On June 16, after my return to the States, I called Deputy Secretary of State Rich Armitage, who, it turned out, had also been directing attention to the Philippine conflict. During a visit to Washington in May, Philippine President Arroyo had asked President Bush for his support in peace negotiations with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), a group that seemed ready to come to the peace table after long resisting that course. Though Rich was positive about the help I might offer the process, there were questions about which organization would be handling negotiations; and he was not aware of HDC’s possible connection. He wanted to get back to me about that.

  A week later, Tom Cymkin, a State Department official I had worked with during the Aceh negotiations, called to clear up the issue. The U.S. Institute of Peace (USIP), he explained, would be the designated “facilitators” for this process, and this had been squared with HDC. State wanted me to join a group of Wise Men being formed at USIP to engage in that process. The Malaysian government had taken on the role of mediator; the USIP Wise Men would augment and support the effort, as a follow-up to President Bush’s public commitment to support the peace process.

  The USIP was established by Congress “to support development, transmission, and use of knowledge to promote peace and curb violent international conflict.” The institute’s primary work was in education, training, and research to promote peace and the resolution of conflicts. The mandate to establish a team of Wise Men to facilitate the mediation effort was a new role for them. The team they formed—seven others in addition to me—was impressive. All were highly experienced and well-regarded diplomats. Four had been U.S. ambassadors to the Philippines.

  Ambassador Dick Solomon, the head of USIP, called me later that day to welcome me to the group and to set up meetings and briefings over the coming weeks. On the first of July, I visited USIP offices in Washington, met with the other Wise Men, and received detailed briefs on the situation and the approach we would take.

  The conflict we were dealing with, begun over three decades ago, had its roots in the long-standing friction between the Muslims of Mindanao and the Christian majority in the rest of the Philippines. In 1968, non-Muslim soldiers had massacred Muslim soldiers in the Philippine Army. This outrage led to the formation of the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF); their aim was independence. In the mid-eighties, the more religious and ideological MILF broke away from the MNLF.

  In 1996, the MNLF reached a peace agreement with the government (which was not accepted by the MILF). Though it has had a rocky implementation, it has been holding; and recently, the MILF had indicated that they too were ready for talks. The government under President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo had declared its intention to join these negotiations.

  In response to President Arroyo’s May request, President Bush issued a statement promising support. This was welcomed by chairman Hashim Salamat, the leader of the MILF.

  Following our initial briefings, we were briefed by representatives from the Malaysian Embassy in Washington. We reassured them that we were truly there to support them and not to replace them as mediators.

  Our next step was a fact-finding trip to the region to get a firsthand sense of the situation on the ground and meet some of the key players. On August 10, four of us left for the Philippines, just as the MILF announced the death of Salamat, their leader. The death of their longtime leader caused the MILF to undergo internal adjustments, but his heir apparent claimed that he too was committed to a peace process.

  We spent the first days of our visit in Manila calling on President Arroyo and other government officials. The President was a truly impressive leader. Her self-confidence, intellect, knowledge of details, and obvious leadership ability, together with a sincere commitment to the peace process and honesty about past government failures, clearly came through. The members of the congress, ministers, military leaders, and the chief negotiator for the government seemed equally committed. Though there were hard-liners in the government who did not favor negotiations, the majority seemed to support them. Everyone we talked to acknowledged that there was no military solution to this conflict.

  In Manila, we also met with members of the Muslim community, the media, Christian church representatives, NGOs, and our own embassy officials. Our Ambassador, Frank Ricciardone, was an old friend from my CENTCOM days. We also met with our USAID officials who were working in Mindanao. They had started a series of impressive projects there, whose incentives and rewards helped keep the ’96 agreement together. The promise of more of these was a big reason for the MILF’s motivation to reach an agreement.

  On our third day, we traveled to Carabao, Mindanao, the small port city that served as the capital of the autonomous region set up by the ’96 agreement. There we met representatives of the MNLF, the MILF, and members of civil society. Mindanao is a beautiful Pacific paradise . . . with striking poverty and little promise of a brighter future. The Moros (as the locals were called) described centuries of oppression, injustice, and suffering; and gave mixed reviews on the fulfillment of the ’96 agreement and the programs it had promised.

  In the hinterland, we presided over the opening of a USAID project that provided training and facilities for former MNLF guerrilla fighters, now trading their weapons for farm implements. It was another countryside that eerily reminded me of Vietnam—thatched huts, water buffalos, rice paddies, and bamboo clumps, all familiar sights. At the site of the ceremony, a small grain-storage building and training area in a jungle clearing, I studied the faces of the wiry, tough former guerrillas as they sat through the speeches and ribbon-cutting ceremonies in the hot sun of midday; I had seen thousands of such faces before. I wondered what was going through their minds. The security was heavy with Philippine military and police, and MNLF security forces all around us.

  We returned to Carabao and continued our meetings with local USAID representatives.

  On my last day, we had sessions in Manila with Lieutenant General Garcia, the deputy chief of staff of the Philippine Armed Forces and the chairman of the Coordination Committee for the Cessation of Hostilities, the element established to implement the ’96 agreement. General Garcia was an impressive man, honest and experienced, with exceptional insights about the practicalities of implementing the agreements on the ground (always the tough part of conflict resolution). He taught me invaluable lessons.

  I left the Philippines on the fourteenth of June with a real sense that this effort could work. It was going to be difficult, but enough pieces seemed to be in place to encourage hope.

  The process continues . . .

  WORKING TOWARD a peaceful resolution to long-running, bitter conflicts can be difficult and thankless. Your successes are few. But along the way, you save lives or better the lot of poor souls caught up in conflict. And on those rare occasion when you fully succeed, every effort becomes worthwhile. I have experienced firsthand the pain and devastation of war. I know I have to work to find alternatives to it where I can.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CALLING

  Tony Zinni REFLECTS.


  At the very beginning of the twentieth century—a time when the daring and brave from many nations struck out for the promised land—two men from the rugged, mountainous province of Abruzzo in central Italy set off to achieve that promise. One of the men was a peasant farmer named Francesco Zinni; the other was a tailor named Zupito DiSabatino. They were my grandfathers. They had never met, and would not for many years.

  Their trek followed the pattern followed by thousands of others. They came alone, found jobs, established themselves in this strange, raw, bustling land, and a few years later sent for their families. With the same courage and apprehension, my grandmothers, Christina Zinni and Cecilia DiSabatino, packed up the kids, headed to the Italian ports, and sailed across the seas to join their husbands. With Christina in 1910 was her fourteen-year-old son, Antonio, my father; and with Cecilia in 1906 was her three-year-old daughter, Lilla, my mother. I often look at faded old pictures taken around that time and wonder what my parents and grandparents were thinking as these great changes unfolded.

  Neither of my parents had an easy life growing up. Like all young immigrants of the time, they managed only a few years of education before they had to go to work. My father worked in mills, and then in landscaping, and eventually became a chauffeur; my mother worked in garment factories.

  Our family military tradition in America started with my father, who was drafted to fight in World War One—the War to End All Wars—shortly after he arrived from Italy. He got here and he was drafted. Later, I looked into it and found that twelve percent of America’s infantrymen in World War One were Italian immigrants. Their new homeland did not forget their wartime service. My father, who served in the 101st Aero Squadron in France, received his citizenship papers along with his discharge papers. He came out of the war as a full-fledged citizen of the United States. Just imagine what that meant to him!

  Meanwhile, his family had settled in a mill town called Conshohocken on the outskirts of Philadelphia; and my mother’s family had settled in the Italian neighborhoods of South Philadelphia. These places were the center of my universe for the first two decades of my life.

  They met during the 1920s, married, and raised four children: Frank, Christine, Rita, and me. I entered the wonderful, loving world of large Italian families on September 17, 1943, when my parents were well into their forties.

  The people with whom I grew up were from working-class families. The mothers were full of love and caring, and raised the brood. The men worked hard, and most served their country in time of war—all as enlisted men. Besides my father, I had cousins who served in World War Two; my brother served in the Korean War; and my sisters married men who served. I listened to the stories these men told with fascination and envy. To them, service was an obligation of citizenship and, more important, a rite of passage to manhood. That obligation was engraved on my young brain. It was part of what had to be done as you grew into adulthood. If you were fortunate, I thought, you might even see action.

  In my neighborhood were ethnic families that included Italian, Irish, Polish, African American, and “Mayflower” Americans. I don’t remember much friction between these groups. The mixed neighborhoods, schools, and workplaces tended to bring everyone together. I attended public school for the first five grades, then switched to Catholic school for the upper grades and for high school. The good sisters ran a tight ship. We learned self-discipline and a strong work ethic, mixed with a good dose of right and wrong.

  THESE ARE the particular influences that have shaped me. Other, larger events shaped my generation. Those of us who survived those changes, and were able to advance more than we retreated, may have had advantages not shared by many young people starting out today. Of course it always helps to have good genes and DNA, and to come from families that function normally. But we also grew up in school systems that actually taught us something and imprinted us with a code, which helped move us along the path toward being useful citizens. And for most of us, our religious upbringing gave us an acceptance of a Higher Being in one form or another, at the core of our beliefs.

  Of the events that shaped us, some came to us as a legacy; some we actually lived through. One of the biggest was World War Two, which has proven to be both a blessing and a curse to my generation. The blessing was that the Greatest Generation preserved our freedoms and our way of life, lifted us out of a severe depression on a wave of prosperity, and moved us into a role of world leadership. The curse is that it was the last Good War—the last with moral clarity, an easily identified and demonized enemy, unprecedented national unity in mobilization and rationing, pride in those who served in uniform (shown by the blue star flags hung by the families of those who fought and the gold star flags by the families of those who died), and welcome home victory parades for those lucky enough to return from overseas. Every war should be fought like that.

  After World War Two, I learned about war at the knees of my cousins, who’d fought at the Battle of the Bulge in Europe and all over the Pacific—on the ground and in the air. A few years later, my older brother was drafted and fought in Korea. Their war stories were remarkable: sometimes gory and horrible, but always positive in the end. It was like winning the Big Game against your archrival—always clean and always good. So this was my generation’s legacy: World War Two was the way you fight a war. And all throughout our four decades of service, this notion kept getting reinforced. Former Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger’s famous 1984 statement of doctrine about the six criteria for the use of military force88 is a recipe for refighting World War Two—not for fighting the Operations Other Than War (OOTW) that we face today. In fact, if you read the Weinberger Doctrine and adhere to every one of its tenets, you will be able to fight no war other than World War Two.

  I JOINED the Marines in 1961 and officially retired on September 1, 2000.

  I’d like to shine a spotlight on who we were—the military generations who went through the past four decades, from the 1960s up to the new millennium. If you looked at a snapshot taken when I first came into the service, all the generals looked the same—distinguished older white males with Anglo-Saxon names and Southern drawls—while the troops they led came from lots of different places. Let’s just say that the generals didn’t speak Philadelphia the way I speak Philadelphia.

  But things were changing in the 1960s. Marine Corps officers were still coming in from the service academies and military institutes, yet more and more were coming in from Catholic colleges in the Northeast (as I did), from state colleges and universities around the nation, and from other schools with strong NROTC units or other strong military traditions. At the same time, we were seeing people coming up through the enlisted ranks to become officers—not just the tough old mustangs or limited-duty officers with midgrade terminal ranks, but young people whom we would send to school as an investment in the future. Back then, whatever our various backgrounds, we all came into the service with a code imprinted on each of us by family, school, or church. Those who had come from military schools received the imprint from their officers. One way or another, all of us were programmed to believe that we were not just doing a job, or even a profession, but were pursuing a calling.

  It was never a drag for me to go to work. The troops, the leaders and mentors, the day-to-day experiences, always gave me a charge. I just loved it from day one. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t always fun. There were bad times. And some of the times were truly harrowing. But I never tired of engaging with the challenges. I could wrap my entire self around them—body, mind, and spirit. I never once regretted that I took that course through life.

  AROUND THE TURN of the millennium, I had occasion to talk with old World War Two vets. It was often unnerving to face the old guys who’d look at me and seem to say, “How in hell did you screw it up? We had it right and we did it right and we fought and we understood and we left this country an incredible legacy, and now look at where we are . . .”

  It’s hard to escape the feeling “God, I’
ve let them down,” because the second major challenge that affected us was the Vietnam War—our nation’s longest and least satisfactory. It was my second-lieutenant experience, and I was pretty green (that changed fast). I didn’t see then all the problems we see now—the war was fought in the wrong way; it was badly led. I went through serious pain and suffering. I was sick; I was badly wounded. Yet despite all these problems, I would do it again. We had to do it.

  Not because it was a “good” war, but because even in our failure we delivered a message that had to be delivered. We have to understand Vietnam within its context. We were in the Cold War. We were fighting communism. We had to stop it from spreading. We made a stand and didn’t hold that line. But communism didn’t spread. You can’t tell me that the Soviets didn’t get the message that we would stand if we had to.

  The veterans of that war, in their losing fight, were no less heroes than the veterans of World War Two; and in some ways their heroism goes deeper, because it was never truly recognized and appreciated by the American people.

  As my time in Vietnam lengthened, I began asking questions . . . wondering just what in hell our generals—my heroes who fought in World War Two—thought they were doing. Those of us who were platoon commanders and company commanders fought hard, but could never understand what war our most senior leaders thought we were fighting. The tactics didn’t make sense and the personnel policies—such as one-year individual rotations instead of unit rotations in and out of country—were hard to comprehend.