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!

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.

Another “Smallest Aircraft Carrier”

At 131-feet in length, the helicopter landing trainer Baylander (IX-514) has been billed as the “smallest aircraft carrier” in the US Navy, if not the world, by the Navy itself, its current owners the Trenk Family Foundation, and, well, me. That claim is based on the more than 10,000 helicopter landings on the Baylander between 1986 and its retirement in 2014. But what if you want the smallest ship to regularly launch its own aircraft?

The November 1963 issue of Navy magazine All Hands crowned the 206-foot USS Targeteer (YV-3) as the fleet’s “smallest aircraft carrier.” A Drone Aircraft Catapult Ship, the Targeteer was equipped to launch and recover target drones used for gunnery practice by the fleet. The third Landing Ship, Medium (LSM) to be converted into a drone launching ship, the Targeteer was based in San Diego from 1961 to 1968, replacing the USS Launcher (YV-2, 1954–1960) and the USS Catapult (YV-1).

USS Targeteer insignia. NH 64878-KN (NHHC photo).

USS Catapult, circa 1955. NH 55065 (NHHC photo).

USS Catapult, the Targeteer‘s sister ship, circa 1955. NH 55065 (NHHC photo).

Even Targeteer‘s claim, though, is contested. The Executive Officer of the fleet tug USS Kalmia (ATA-184), which also launched and recovered drones at San Diego, wrote to All Hands to claim that its length of 143 feet entitled it to the title of “smallest aircraft carrier.” (All Hands deferred to the Navy’s official classifications. The Targeteer was a Drone Aircraft Catapult Ship, the Kalmia just an Auxiliary Ocean Tug.)

USS Kalmia underway on 16 January 1964. NH 102803 (NHHC photo).

USS Kalmia underway on 16 January 1964. NH 102803 (NHHC photo).

All three claims are weak if you are looking for a ship that launches and retrieves multiple aircraft. If, on the other hand, you are looking for the smallest Navy-crewed vessel which could land or launch a single aircraft, Baylander, Targeteer, and Kalmia all lose to the helicopter pad-equipped “Tango boats” of the Mobile Riverine Force in Vietnam. Officially designated Armored Troop Carriers (ATC)s, these were Landing Craft, Mechanized (LCM) that were modified to serve as floating armoured personnel carriers in the Mekong Delta. Some were further modified with a steel flight deck on top that ran pretty much the full length of the boat. The first helicopter landing on one of these Armored Troop Carrier (Helicopter), or ATC(H)s, took place on July 4, 1967. At 56-feet in length, which is more or less the length of a Huey helicopter, I doubt I’ll find anything smaller to claim the title.

 A U.S. Army UH-1D helicopter lands on the helicopter pad of a modified U.S. Navy Armored Troop Carrier (ATCH R-92-2) operating as part of the Riverine Mobile Force, 8 July 1967. Photography by Photographer's Mate Second Class Edward Shinton. USN 1132291 (NNHC photograph).

A U.S. Army UH-1D helicopter lands on the helicopter pad of a modified U.S. Navy Armored Troop Carrier (ATCH R-92-2) operating as part of the Riverine Mobile Force, 8 July 1967. Photography by Photographer’s Mate Second Class Edward Shinton. USN 1132291 (NNHC photograph).

The Impact of Middlebrow Architecture

From The Sound of Freedom: Naval Weapons Technology at Dahlgren, Virginia, 1918-2006:

The most conspicuous example of the early 1960s effort to make Dahlgren look more like a modern science installation rather than a gun range was the construction of the Computation and Analysis Building (Building 1200). ‘K’ Laboratory had been in need of office space for some time … Consequently, [Ralph A.] Niemann and [Charles J.] Cohen, with the early support of [Naval Weapons Laboratory] commander Captain Manley H. Simons Jr., began lobbying for a new office building at Dahlgren, using POLARIS, Naval Space Surveillance Command, and TRANSIT as justification for the additional work space … Designed by Dahlgren engineer Robert Ryland, the Computation and Analysis Building was (and remains) situated near the station’s front gate, well away from the Potomac and the gun range. There was no mistaking it for a testing shed. It really looked like a science building with its graceful lines and large windows, standing in sharp contract to the rest of NWL’s research plant. It was no mistake that the building was at the front gate, as it was intended to instill visitors coming to Dahlgren with a sense of scientific enterprise. The strategem worked. ‘One the building was constructed,’ said Niemann, ‘then the issue about closing Dahlgren sort of went away because when people would come down, they’d see a new building. They’d figure things were going good, and maybe Dahlgren shouldn’t be closed.'”

The photograph of the Computation and Analysis Building in The Sound of Freedom shows a pleasant but unremarkable low-rise office building.

James P. Rife and Rodney P. Carlisle, The Sound of Freedom: Naval Weapons Technology at Dahlgren, Virginia, 1918-2006, p. B-3

From James P. Rife and Rodney P. Carlisle, The Sound of Freedom: Naval Weapons Technology at Dahlgren, Virginia, 1918-2006, p. B-3

The previous decade had saw the appearance of a swathe of new corporate research and development centers with innovative architecture, often designed both to streamline the collaborative research process and to put an impressive, even futuristic, face on corporate America. The Eero Saarinen-designed GM Technical Center is the most famous of these, but many of the research campuses were built by companies in the aerospace and defense sectors. In 1957, TRW’s Space Technology Laboratories (architect, A.C. Martin) opened in Los Angeles; the next year Convair Astronautics built a new headquarters designed by Pereira and Luckman just outside San Diego.

The NWL Computation and Analysis Building was a far more modest building. Instead of glass curtain walls, it had ribbon windows. Instead of a landscaped campus, it had a lawn. Its designer, Robert Ryland, was an electrical engineer who had held series of management roles in the various NWL labs. According to his obituary in the Fredericksburg Free-Lance Star, Ryland graduated from MIT in 1951 and and headed the Electronics Systems, Strategic Systems, Protection Systems, and Personnel departments at Dahlgren before retiring as head of the Engineering and Information Systems Department in 1992.

There’s no real comparison between the Computation and Analysis Building and the big private research campuses, but there’s a entertaining overlap of eras and impact. Clearly, if Ralph A. Niemann is to be believed, you didn’t need a star architect or an expensive and expansive campus to make an impression if you were working in government.

Source: James P. Rife and Rodney P. Carlisle, The Sound of Freedom: Naval Weapons Technology at Dahlgren, Virginia, 1918-2006 [GPO, 2006] p. 119-120)

A Hidden Map Between Sensor and Shooter: The Point Positioning Data Base, Part Two

Back to Part One

One part of the long pre-history surrounding the deployment of GPS-guided bombs began in the late 1960s with US Army Corps of Engineers and a research project to improve the accuracy of American field artillery. The Analytical Photogrammetric Positioning System (APPS) was a tool to calculate the coordinates of a target seen on reconnaissance photography. Introduced into service in the mid-1970, APPS and the geo-referenced imagery that it used (the Point Positioning Data Base, or PPDB) proved so useful that they were borrowed by US Air Force and Navy airstrike planners too.

The desire to fix targets from aerial photography and strike them with precision was hardly unique to APPS’s users. The Air Force also had a system for calculating target coordinates under development. The Photogrammetric Target System (PTS) was part of a far grander system for detecting, locating, and destroying enemy surface-to-air missile (SAM) sites called the Precision Location and Strike System (PLSS). Unlike APPS, which printed out target coordinates for human use, the proposed PTS was a fully computerized system that would transmit the coordinates to PLSS’s central computer somewhere in West Germany or the United Kingdom, where they would be converted into guidance instructions for the 2,000-lb glide bombs that were going to be the sharp end of the system.

The TR-1, a renamed U-2 reconnaissance plane, was the aerial platform for the PLSS system. (U.S. Air Force Photo by Master Sgt. Rose Reynolds)

The TR-1, a renamed U-2 reconnaissance plane, was the aerial platform for the PLSS system. (U.S. Air Force Photo by Master Sgt. Rose Reynolds)

You can see how PTS’s fortunes waxed and waned by following the annual briefings on PLSS that the Air Force gave to Congress. What began in 1973 was gradually scaled back as PLSS’s own funding declined. Plans for a manual prototype PTS were cancelled when it became clear that APPS could do the same job, and the system disappeared from the briefing in 1980.

Much of the imagery for point positioning came from mapping cameras on the KH-9 HEXAGON satellite. NRO photograph courtesy Wikimedia.

Much of the imagery for point positioning came from mapping cameras on the KH-9 HEXAGON satellite. NRO photograph courtesy Wikimedia.

While the Air Force was experimenting with PTS and APPS to plan aerial attacks, PPDB was expanding in importance to become part of the targeting process for non-nuclear Tomahawk missiles being operated by the US Navy. Simultaneously, crises with Iran and the demands of the Carter Doctrine drove the expansion of PPDB coverage in the Middle East to 930,000 square nautical miles by 1981.

That meant that when Iraq invaded Kuwait in 1990 the US had 100% PPDB coverage of the theater, better than the coverage with either 1:50,000 topographical maps or 1;250,000 Joint Operations Graphic-Air. Unfortunately, the PPDB imagery was woefully out of date, forcing the Defense Mapping Agency (DMA) to make PPDB updates part of its vast cartographic build-up for Operation Desert Shield. That included 30 new PPDB sets (of 83 requested), 26 video PPDB sets, and 7,972 target coordinates.

Despite those deliveries, the obsolescence of PPDB imagery was noticed during Operation Desert Storm. The annual official history of 37th Fighter Wing – which flew the F-117 stealth fighter during Desert Storm – complained that:

Spot imagery was not of sufficient high resolution to support the technical requirements of a high technology system such as the F-117A Stealth Fighter. And, the available Analytical Photogrammetric Positioning System (APPS) Point Positioning Data Base (PPDB) was grossly outdated. It was not until the last week of the war that more current PPDBs arrived, which was too late to have an effect on combat operations.

After 1991, the need for precise target coordinates grew alongside the spread of precision guided weapons that needed those coordinates, which meant that what had begun as an Army instrument became more and more vital to aviation. A 1994 naval aviation handbook reminded users that “reliable target coordinates come only from a limited number of classified sources,” including the Defense Mapping Agency’s “Points Program” (which accepted requests by phone or secure fax) and APPS systems carried on aircraft carriers.

Unlike laser or electro-optical-guided bombs that homed in on a signature that their target emitted or reflected, bombs and missiles guided by GPS simply fly or fall towards the coordinates they are given. Widespread deployment during the bombing of Serbia in 1999 (Operation ALLIED FORCE) therefore meant a vast demand for precise target coordinates.

The Point Positioning Data Base, now provided in digital form rather than as a film chip/magnetic cassette combination, was an important source of those coordinates because it provided not just two-dimension latitude/longitude coordinates but also elevation. In a desert environment like Iraq, a bomb dropped from above could more or less be assumed to hit its target no matter how large the gap between the actual elevation of the ground. Where the terrain was more varied, however, aiming to high or too low could cause the bomb to slam into a hill short of the target or fly right over it and land long. Securing that elevation information from aerial photography was known as “mensuration.”

Though APPS was a computerized tool, it used film chips rather than digital imagery. To take the entire system digital, the National Imagery and Mapping Agency (which had absorbed the Defense Mapping Agency in 1996) developed a computer workstation called DEWDROP that could provide mensurated coordinates using the Point Positioning Data Base. That was followed a few years later by a similar system called RainDrop. In February 1999, a little over a month before ALLIED FORCE began, the Air Force committed to buy 170 RainDrop systems for $1.8 million from Computek Research, Inc. (Here’s the press release.)

During ALLIED FORCE, mensurated coordinates were needed for Tomahawk, CALCM, and SLAM missiles, as well as the JDAM bombs being carried by the first B-2 stealth bombers. To get them, the air operations center in Vincenza, Italy had to reach back to analysts in the United States, which was where the mensuration workstations were located. Here’s how Vice Admiral Daniel J. Murphy, Jr. describes the process of acquiring them, starting from a rough fix provided by an ELINT satellite:

So I walked into the intelligence center and sitting there was a 22-year-old intelligence specialist who was talking to Beale Air Force Base via secure telephone and Beale Air Force Base was driving a U–2 over the top of this spot. The U–2 snapped the picture, fed it back to Beale Air Force base where that young sergeant to my young petty officer said, we have got it, we have confirmation. I called Admiral Ellis, he called General Clark, and about 15 minutes later we had three Tomahawk missiles en route and we destroyed those three radars.

About a year later the Air Force ordered another 124 RainDrop systems. (Another press release.) Three months later, Northrop Grumman bought Computek for $155 million in stock.

ALLIED FORCE was confirmation for many observers that coordinate-guided weapons were the wave of the future. Tools like PPDB were necessary infrastructure for that transformation.

Forward to Part Three