About devilofhistory

Stephen Shapiro is a freelance historian who lives in Toronto, Canada. The author of four books of non-fiction for children and young adults, he received his PhD in history from Ohio State University in 2011.

Liner Notes: Paying for War in Angola

There’s  a common military aphorism that amateurs talk tactics but professionals talk logistics. Despite that famous statement, histories of logistics can be hard to find and among those histories of finance (beneath the strategic level) even harder. The obscurity extends beyond historians even to the militaries you would expect to know better. According to a short monograph recently published by Air University Press, the US Air Force went into both Gulf Wars without a financial management system capable of operating in a war zone.

One of the more innovative experiments in managing finance in the theater of operations comes from the Cuban intervention in Angola. It’s particularly interesting for me because it hinged on one of the more unusual instruments of postwar power, the cruise liner.

Between 1975 and 1991 more than 430,000 Cuban soldiers and civilians served in Angola. The troops, who were a mix of professionals, reservists, and conscripts, were all ostensibly volunteers. Though conscripts got the perk of reducing their service from three years to two, in general pay was poor. An ordinary soldier received seven Cuban pesos and 150 Angolan kwanzas per month, disbursed at the end of the soldier’s tour. The kwanzas could be used to buy discounted luxury goods in special subsidized shops in Luanda. The pesos were for home. To avoid having to funnel all returning troops through Havana or operate pay counters in every port of arrival, the Cubans hit on an unusual solution. For most of the 1980s they hired the Soviet cruise liner Leonid Sobinov to float off the Angolan coast as a “money ship.” Troops were shuttled out to the Sobinov to receive their back pay before the long transatlantic voyage home. Under close escorts because it carried so much money, the Sobinov usually stayed in Angolan waters for three days at a time. At least once it remained for a month.

The original designers of the Sobinov had probably never considered such as use for the ship. That said, they had probably also never considered that it would be owned by the Soviets. Like many of the Soviet Union’s larger passenger ships, it had been constructed outside the Soviet sphere entirely. Built for the Cunard Line in Britain as the RMS Saxonia in the mid-1950s, the Sobinov was sold to the Soviet Union and renamed in 1973. In addition to its unique duties as a “money ship,” it operated as an occasional troopship and cruise ship in the south Pacific and Mediterranean. It was laid up in the mid-1990s and scrapped in 1999.

Source: Edward George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991: From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale (Frank Cass, 2005)

Aleksandr Zhitomirsky

During the Second World War, when it still seemed like the Germans might capture Moscow, propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels wrote a list of Soviet propagandists who were to be killed upon capture. Number one was the writer Ilya Ehrenburg. Number two was chief Radio Moscow announcer Iurii Levitan. Number three was Aleksandr Zhitomirsky, the designer and artist of one of the Red Army’s chief illustrated propaganda magazines.

That, at least, was the story, one which is mentioned – with appropriate skepticism – by Erika Wolf in the catalogue to a major exhibit of artist Aleksandr Zhitomirsky’s work at the Art Institute of Chicago. A talented designer and illustrator whose most striking works were the satirical, even grotesque, photomontages that he created in the early years of the Cold War, Zhitomirsky’s work pilloried capitalism and the United States, often with allusions to the Nazi threat against which Zhitomirsky had cut his teeth propagandizing. While his main employment from 1953 to 1991 was as chief artist for Soviet Union (Sovietskii Soiuz), a glossy magazine aimed at readers in Eastern Europe and Asia, his illustrations appeared in the Literary Newspaper (Literaturnaia gazeta), official organ of the Union of Soviet Writers; Red Fleet (Krasnyi flot); Rising Generation (Smena); the satirical magazine Krokodil (Crocodile), and even occasionally in more exalted venues such as Truth (Pravda), the official newspaper of the Communist Party, and News (Izvestiia), official paper of the Soviet government. Those works attracted attention not just at home, where he was part of a major photomontage exhibit in East Berlin in 1961/2 and had his own retrospective in Moscow, but even in the US, where some of his photomontages from the Literary Gazette drew comment in the New York Times.

On balance it’s the postwar art, not just the illustrations mentioned above but also the book covers and occasional poster, that is the focus of Wolf’s Aleksandr Zhitomirsky: Photomontage as a Weapon of World War II and the Cold War (Yale University Press, 2016). For me, though, it’s Zhitomirsky’s wartime work on Front Illustrated (Frontovaia illiustratsiia) and its complementary German-language edition aimed at enemy soldiers (Front Illustrated for German Soldiers / Front-Illustrierte für den deutschen Soldaten) that’s more captivating. The postwar designs are hardly subtle. How often can one look at a monkey-like Goebbels ventriloquizing through some American symbol?

Aleksandr Zhitomirsky CoverFront Illustrated for German Soldiers, which existed to sow unease and dissension in the German ranks, had to be more indirect. For his cover designs and leaflets, Zhitomirsky mixed captured German photographs and new photography (often with himself as the model) with images borrowed for his vast trove of reference photos, often airbrushed together to the point that they became impossible to distinguish. With one leaflet, Choose! Like This or Like That!, Wolf shows how what appears to be a single photograph of dead Germans lying on the ground was actually a composite of seven different photographs, layered together, photographed, then retouched to create a seamless image. With others, she shows how Zhitomirsky mixed background photography with physical objects (like reproduced letters and snapshots) in trompe-l’œil arrangements. Taking advantage of Zhitomirsky’s personal archive, Wolf can demonstrates just how impressive his work was.

Map Overlap: Warsaw Pact vs. NATO Grids

The Charles Close Society hasn’t updated its topical list of articles on military mapping since I wrote about it in 2015, but there is a new article by John L. Cruickshank (“More on the UTM Grid system”) in Sheetlines 102 (April 2015) that is now freely available on the society’s website. The connection to Soviet mapping is that Cruickshank discusses how both NATO and the Warsaw Pact produced guides and maps to help their soldiers convert between their competing grid systems. Unlike latitude and longitude, a grid system assumes a flat surface.That’s good for simplifying calculations of distance and area, but means you have the problems of distortion that come with any map projection.

Both the Soviets and Americans based their standard grids on transverse Mercator projections that divided the globe up into narrow (6° wide) north-south strips, each with own projection. These were narrow enough not to be too badly distorted at the edges but still wide enough that artillery would rarely have to shoot from a grid location in one strip at a target in another (which required extra calculations to compensate for the difference in projections). The American system was called the Universal Transverse Mercator (or UTM; the grid itself was the Military Grid Reference System, or MGRS). The Soviet one was known, in the West at least, as the Gauß-Krüger grid.

In his article, Cruickshank reports that by 1961 East German intelligence was printing 1:200,000 military topographic maps that had both UTM and Soviet Gauß-Krüger grids. By 1985 a full series existed that ran all the way west to the English Channel. Rather than print a full map series with both grids, the US Army produced intelligence guides to the conversion between them. Field Manual 34-85, Conversion of Warsaw Pact Grids to UTM Grids was issued in September 1981. A supplement, G-K Conversion (Middle East) was released in February 1983. As Cruickshank observes, both manuals have fascinating illustrated covers. Conversion of Warsaw Pact Grids features a map with a rolled up map labelled “Intelligence” standing on a grid and looking at a globe focused on Europe. G-K Conversion, on the other hand, shows an Eagle literally stealing the map out of the hand of a Bear using calipers to measure distances from Turkey to Iran across the Caspian Sea.

The article ends with the observation that the history of modern geodesy, which underpins calculations like the UTM and Gauß-Krüger grids, remains “overdue for description.” Since it was published a new book has appeared that goes a long way towards covering some of those developments (at least for non-specialists, if not experts like Cruickshank). In fact, map grids are one of the main topics of After the Map: Cartography, Navigation and the Transformation of Territory in the Twentieth Century by William Rankin (University of Chicago Press, 2016). The book is chock-full of fascinating discussions of new mapping and navigation systems that developed between the end of the nineteenth century and the appearance of GPS. Its focus is on three overlapping case studies: large-scale global maps like the International Map of the World and World Aeronautical Charts (which have their own connection to Soviet mapping), grid systems like UTM, and radionavigation networks like Gee and Loran. (The third of these was already the topic of an article by Rankin that I wrote about here.)

In the chapters on map grids, After the Map shows just how long even an ostensibly universal design like UTM remained fragmented and regional. The use of grids had begun on the Western Front during the First World War. It spread to domestic surveying in the interwar period and been adopted by all the major powers during the Second World War. But universal adoption of the principles involved did not mean adoption of a common system. Even close allies like the United States and Britain ended up just dividing the world and jointly adopting one or the other nation’s approach in each region: British grids were applied to particular war zones and a more general American system used for the rest of the world. Neither used a transverse Mercator projection.

Even once America and its NATO allies settled on UTM as a postwar standard – a decision made despite opposition from the US Navy and Air Force, who fought vigorously for a graticule rather than a grid – UTM maps did not use a single consistent projection but adopted whichever reference ellipsoid was already in use for a region. While those differences were eventually resolved, even the 1990 edition of Defense Mapping Agency Technical Manual 8358.1, Datums, Ellipsoids, Grids, and Grid Reference Systems, still included specifications for twenty British grids including the British and Irish domestic surveys (plus a further nineteen further secondary grids), as well as the Russian Gauß-Krüger. East German tank commanders should have been grateful that they could get away with only two from the Intra-German Border to the Channel!

Canada’s First World War Memorials

For Canada, the golden age of the war memorial was brief. Before the start of the twentieth century there were few wars the British colonial state was interested in memorializing. After the First World War, which planted memorials in so many Canadian communities, it was easy enough to chisel new names and battles into existing monuments. There are exceptions, of course, that prove the rule – like the monument to veterans of the Battle of York sculpted by Walter Allward and completed in 1907 – but the First World War begat the lion’s share of Canadian memorials.

Remembered in Bronze and Stone is Alan Livingstone MacLeod’s love letter to those monuments. A lyrical catalog of as many of the two-hundred-odd First World War memorials with statues of soldiers as MacLeod could visit, Remembered in Bronze and Stone describes the great and the prosaic statues alike. Who knew, for example, that about a hundred Canadian communities chose to commission statues in Cararra marble to be carved, assembly-line style, by sculptors in Italy who had never even seen a Canadian soldier? Or that Emanuel Hahn’s bronze for Westville, Nova Scotia, was reproduced nine times (once in bronze, eight times in granite) by Hahn’s employer, the Thomson Monument Company, and copied nine times by the anonymous carvers from Cararra.

Hahn himself is an interesting figure. Born in Germany, he emigrated to Canada in 1888 at age seven. After an education in Germany, he was Allward’s assistant for a time before becoming chief designer for the Thomson Monument Company in 1919. He lost the commission for the City of Winnipeg war memorial because of his German birth. His sculptures show a range of emotions, from sombre (the Westville bronze, Tommy in Greatcoat in Lindsay, ON and Moncton, NB) to determined (Summerside, PEI and Saint-Lambert, QC) allegorical-heroic (Oil Springs, ON and Malvern Collegiate, Toronto).

I think it’s fair to say that many of the local memorials are not aesthetic triumphs, though MacLeod certainly documents plenty of fine work. But it’s interesting to see just how widely soldier sculptures varied from those carved by Allward for Vimy Ridge and cast by Vernon March for the national cenotaph in Ottawa.

Hidden Figures

The release of two widely publicized books on female computers in the early Space Age in the same year (one of them with a forthcoming movie adaptation too) has to be unprecedented. The first was Rise of the Rocket Girls, about the women who worked as human computers (a redundant term before the 1950s) for the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California. The second, Hidden Figures, is about the African-American women among those who did similar work for the Langley research center in Virginia. (There’s even a third book, by Dava Sobel, that covers an earlier generation of computers who worked at the Harvard Observatory).

Both Rise of the Rocket Girls and Hidden Figures are fascinating accounts of the essential roles that female computers played in aerospace research, capturing the challenging social milieu in which they worked. Hidden Figures also manages to address the impact of segregation and discrimination in the overlapping local, regional, and national contexts surrounding the work of the computers at Langley (itself a segregated workplace). It’s a story well worth reading, before or after the movie adaptation – focusing on Katherine Johnson’s contribution to the calculations for the first orbital Mercury flight – goes into wide release in January. The trailers I’ve seen look good, though Kevin Costner as a fictional NASA manager gets to strike a literal blow (with a fire axe!) against racism that goes way beyond anything NASA management actually did for their African-American staff.

In the last chapter of Hidden Figures, Shetterly discusses having to cut the section of the book about how several of its key figures moved into human resources and advocacy to try and overcome the less obvious discrimination against women and minorities in the workforce that was still going on in the 1970s and 80s. You never know from a trailer, but I suspect the movie’s not going to end with the uphill battle for recognition and equal treatment that persisted even after Johnson’s work.

As Sobel’s made clear in some of her pre-publication publicity, the stories of female computers are less undiscovered than regularly and distressingly forgotten. The women who worked in the Harvard Observatory were well known at the time; Katherine Johnson received substantial publicity at least within the African-American press for her work on Mercury. Academic writing, including a book with Princeton University Press, has covered the work of female computers in various fora. Perhaps a major Hollywood movie will help the story stick this time.

The First World War in British Memory

For Remembrance Day this year, the Canadian non-profit Vimy Foundation commissioned an Ipsos poll on the First World War whose most interesting question, at least for me, was about the number of soldier deaths suffered by the Canadian, American, Belgian, British, French, and German armies – with answers from online panels in all six countries. You can see the results, including average error, on page 17 of the poll.

Unsurprisingly, everyone was wildly inaccurate all the way, with the average error ranging from 299,286 for the French to 487,980 for the United States – relative to actual casualty numbers between 40,936 (for Belgium) and 1,397,800 (for Germany). I doubt I would have done any better without any cues for scale or relative order.

The official summary highlights a few interesting observations:

Respondents in the US, UK and France came closest to correctly guessing their own country’s World War One soldier deaths. US respondents also came closest to correctly guessing the numbers for Canada and Belgium, while those in France were nearest the mark for Germany. Each country over-estimated Canadian deaths – including Canadians by nearly 3-times. French respondents’ guesses were, on average, the most accurate.

Converting the results from absolute numbers to percentage error, though, makes some other facts jump out.

 

Deaths Respondents
Canada United States Belgium Great Britain France Germany Average
Canada 237% 107% 211% 266% 220% 241% 213%
United States 229% 201% 229% 237% 312% 289% 250%
Belgium 456% 278% 520% 659% 440% 447% 466%
Great Britain 59% 42% 58% 119% 54% 65% 66%
France 42% 30% 40% 47% 65% 60% 47%
Germany 41% 31% 52% 57% 73% 60% 53%
Average 130% 80.5% 135% 162% 130% 132%
More than anything else, what respondents missed was that European powers were an order of magnitude more involved in the war than Canada and the US (and that Belgium was, relatively speaking, a tiny country). Respondents in every country – with one exception – overestimated the North American and Belgian losses and underestimated the French, German, and British losses.

Beyond that, the accuracy of the French guess in absolute terms turn out to have rested on the fact that French and German deaths constituted three-quarters of the total deaths being estimated – the French guesses were the least accurate of any nation for US deaths and subpar for Canadian deaths too. In fact, if you look at the average error as a matter of percentages, it’s the Americans who come out best. I sure didn’t see that coming.

Last, but hardly least, only one country bucks the trend when it comes to under- or over-estimating a country’s deaths.The average British guess for that country’s losses is one of three cases where the nation’s guess of its own losses is closest of the six, but it’s the only one that breaks the common pattern.Where every other nation under-guesses British soldier deaths the British over-estimate their own by twenty per cent. I wouldn’t read too much into any of these numbers, but there’s got to be something interesting going on where the French and German’s underestimate their national losses by 35–40% and the British overestimate their by 20%.

Revisiting the Third World War

The latest issue of the British Journal for Military History has an interesting article by Jeffrey H. Michaels on Sir John Hackett’s The Third World War (1979), a fictionalized narrative of a potential NATO-Soviet conflict in the 1980s. Though it sparked a lot of attention at the time and sold more than 3 million copies, I don’t think posterity has been very kind to the book. The Third World War was a didactic narrative written as a thinly-veiled plea for more NATO conventional armaments, and a lot of the narrative choices haven’t aged well. Much of the political prognostication was laughably wrong – already discredited by the time its semi-sequel The Third World War: The Untold Story came out in 1982. As fiction, it was quickly overshadowed by Tom Clancy’s Red Storm Rising (1986), whose wargame underpinnings and multi-media afterlife are stories in themselves.

The Third World War is mostly of interest, then, as an artifact of Cold War policy debates played out in popular culture and as the first of what became quite a lot of late Cold War future war fiction (not just Red Storm Rising but also the Team Yankee series, Ralph Peters’s novel Red Army, Shelford Bidwell’s World War 3 [which Michaels says had its prospects mostly ruined by coming out shortly after Hackett’s book], and Kenneth Macksey’s First Clash: Canadians in World War Three, not to mention various games, TV shows, and movies).

Michaels’s article doesn’t change my mind about the qualities of the book itself, but by digging into Hackett’s papers at King’s College London he does reveal some interesting facts about its origins. For one thing, I had not realized how much Hackett played around with the entire scenario of the book as he developed it. His first outline called not for the brief, eighteen-day conflict in the final book, but a multi-year war of attrition in which NATO. That was scuppered by early readers who judged it too dispiriting. The inclusion of limited nuclear strikes on Birmingham and Minsk, which bring the war to an end (and which seem to me one of the more contrived aspects of Hackett’s narrative) were a late addition and a reversal of Hackett’s earlier opinion that nuclear strikes, if any, were likely to happen at sea or in space, not against the cities of a nuclear power. Also interesting: the description of the nuclear attack on Birmingham may have been borrowed from a classified study of just that situation made by Solly Zuckerman in 1961.