I was never in the military myself, but I did spend time at a U.S. military base and I have to admit that it remains a treasured experience among my memories. Sometime in the 1950s, my father ran a gas station on Governors Island in New York Harbor. Now largely a public park, it was then an Army base with two forts on it, both built by the early nineteenth century. To tell you the truth, though, what I remember was a really large swimming pool and a movie theater where, for maybe a dime, I could see Buck Rogers serials and cowboy or war films to my heart's content. Troops drilled on the island. Jeeps drove by. There was even a golf course (known as the "world's crookedest"). Growing up on Manhattan Island, my Saturday ferry trips there with my dad were my thrilling introduction to the suburbs, military-style.
Here's the thing, though. I never could have imagined then that such American bases -- approximately 800 significant ones (and many smaller outposts of various sorts) -- would by the twenty-first century be scattered in at least 80 countries and on every continent but Antarctica. As scholar Chalmers Johnson dubbed it back in 2004, this is America's "empire of bases," its "Baseworld." Though not all of those bases have the amenities of Governors Island in the early 1950s and some, from Afghanistan to Kenya, are now embattled parts of America's forever wars, here's the strange thing: except at places like TomDispatch, they are normally neither acknowledged nor discussed here in any significant way. Over the years, millions of American troops and contractors have passed through them. Wars have been launched from them. And yet they are not debated in Congress or investigated by the media. They are simply a given, the no-need-to-notice bedrock of a highly militarized imperial power now visibly in trouble in a pandemicized world that, in my childhood, no one could have imagined.
TomDispatch regular Andrew Bacevich is one of the rare and memorable figures who, in his military life, spent time on embattled versions of just such bases in American war zones and came home to tell the tale. In his books, from The New American Militarism to The Age of Illusions, How America Squandered Its Cold War Victory, he has repeatedly focused on the curious militarization of this country and its global policies and what that meant. Today, in the midst of an America that would have been inconceivable in the 1950s, while recommending a new book by a colleague, he wonders again why not just those bases but so many aspects of American policy abroad remain ill-considered and undiscussed even in the midst of the most embattled presidential campaign of our lifetimes. Tom
Reframing America's Role in the World
The Specter of Isolationism
By Andrew Bacevich
The so-called Age of Trump is also an age of instantly forgotten bestselling books, especially ones purporting to provide the inside scoop on what goes on within Donald Trump's haphazard and continuously shifting orbit. With metronomic regularity, such gossipy volumes appear, make a splash, and almost as quickly vanish, leaving a mark no more lasting than a trout breaking the surface in a pond.
Remember when Michael Wolff's Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House was all the rage? It's now available in hardcover for $0.99 from online used booksellers. James Comey's Higher Loyalty also sells for a penny less than a buck.
An additional forty-six cents will get you Omarosa Manigault Newman's "insider's account" of her short-lived tenure in that very White House. For the same price, you can acquire Sean Spicer's memoir as Trump's press secretary, Anthony Scaramucci's rendering of his tumultuous 11-day stint as White House communications director, and Corey Lewandowski's "inside story" of the 2016 presidential campaign.
Bibliophiles intent on assembling a complete library of Trumpiana will not have long to wait before the tell-all accounts of John Bolton, Michael Cohen, Mary Trump, and that journalistic amaneusis Bob Woodward will surely be available at similar bargain basement prices.
All that said, even in these dismal times genuinely important books do occasionally make their appearance. My friend and colleague Stephen Wertheim is about to publish one. It's called Tomorrow, the World: The Birth of U.S. Global Supremacy and if you'll forgive me for being direct, you really ought to read it. Let me explain why.
Wertheim and I are co-founders of the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft, a small Washington, D.C.-based think tank. That Quincy refers to John Quincy Adams who, as secretary of state nearly two centuries ago, warned his fellow citizens against venturing abroad "in search of monsters to destroy." Were the United States to do so, Adams predicted, its defining trait -- its very essence -- "would insensibly change from liberty to force." By resorting to force, America "might become the dictatress of the world," he wrote, but "she would be no longer the ruler of her own spirit." While his gendered punchline might rankle contemporary sensibilities, it remains apt.
A privileged man of his times, Adams took it for granted that a WASP male elite was meant to run the country. Women were to occupy their own separate sphere. And while he would eventually become an ardent opponent of slavery, in 1821 race did not rank high on his agenda either. His immediate priority as secretary of state was to situate the young republic globally so that Americans might enjoy both safety and prosperity. That meant avoiding unnecessary trouble. We had already had our revolution. In his view, it wasn't this country's purpose to promote revolution elsewhere or to dictate history's future course.
Adams was to secretaries of state what Tom Brady is to NFL quarterbacks: the Greatest Of All Time. As the consensus GOAT in the estimation of diplomatic historians, he brought to maturity a pragmatic tradition of statecraft originated by a prior generation of New Englanders and various slaveholding Virginians with names like Washington, Jefferson, and Madison. That tradition emphasized opportunistically ruthless expansionism on this continent, avid commercial engagement, and the avoidance of great power rivalries abroad. Adhering to such a template, the United States had, by the beginning of the twentieth century, become the wealthiest, most secure nation on the planet -- at which point Europeans spoiled the party.
The disastrous consequences of one European world war fought between 1914 and 1918 and the onset of a second in 1939 rendered that pragmatic tradition untenable -- so at least a subsequent generation of WASPs concluded. This is where Wertheim takes up the story. Prompted by the German army's lightning victory in the battle of France in May and June 1940, members of that WASP elite set about creating -- and promoting -- an alternative policy paradigm, one he describes as pursuing "dominance in the name of internationalism," with U.S. military supremacy deemed "the prerequisite of a decent world."
The new elite that devised this paradigm did not consist of lawyers from Massachusetts or planters from Virginia. Its key members held tenured positions at Yale and Princeton, wrote columns for leading New York newspapers, staffed Henry Luce's Time-Life press empire, and distributed philanthropic largesse to fund worthy causes (grasping the baton of global primacy being anything but least among them). Most importantly, just about every member of this Eastern establishment cadre was also a member of the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR). As such, they had a direct line to the State Department, which in those days actually played a large role in formulating basic foreign policy.
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