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Posted on 12/17/2001 7:47:22 PM PST by SEA

In May 1998, an ABC television reporter was summoned to a secret location to listen to Osama bin Laden expound on the state of the US military.

"We have seen, in the last decade, the decline of the American government," said bin Laden. "This was proven in Beirut, when the Marines fled after two explosions.

"This was also repeated in Somalia. After a few blows, the soldiers ran in defeat and America forgot all the media propaganda about being the leader of the world . . . The US is a paper tiger."

I remember feeling uneasy when I read those words. This was more than the standard "great Satan" rhetoric; in fact, it was very much what service personnel were saying to each other on Internet bulletin boards or, privately, in bars.

These people were not critical of the troops or company commanders. They were, however, extremely worried by the increasing marginalisation of warfare by a military command that seemed determined to purge its own warrior culture.

The news from Afghanistan this week seems reassuring: a textbook campaign so far. But, at this stage in what could be a prolonged war against terrorism, it is too early to say whether America has fully disengaged itself from the Clinton era's profound and damaging ambivalence about aggressive action.

Although the courage of the servicemen taking part in the current operations is beyond question, the fact remains that US military leaders have been in the grip of an identity crisis.

For years, they have presided over a demasculinisation, a hollowing out of military policy, that I have heard described as America's dirty little secret. But it is a secret that bin Laden knows.

In the touchy-feely 1990s, led by a president known for biting his bottom lip to stave off tears, we regarded combat as the most politically incorrect activity possible. War, after all, is about hurting other people's feelings (and bodies) and blowing up other people's stuff. The conventional wisdom was that we would increasingly be involved in "operations other than war." The ideal GI would be a person -- no gender designation, please -- able to deliver diapers to a Kosovan mother in the morning and fight at night (if necessary).

The central project handed to the US military by its bosses in the White House, Congress and the Pentagon was cultural overhaul. The navy announced a flurry of changes: the length of time a pregnant woman could serve aboard a warship, such as an aircraft carrier, was increased, and crews were expected to purge a wide range of customs that could be seen as harassing to women.

Basic training was transformed in most boot camps. The infamous obstacle course was renamed "the confidence course." General Claudia Kennedy instituted a mandatory programme for all officers, entitled Caring for Others. And a personnel exodus began.

The new timorousness was expressed again in the Kosovo air war of 1999-2000. On the one hand, we shipped two dozen low-flying, gun-studded Apache helicopters to a hastily-erected airfield in Albania. On the other, we never used them in combat. Why? Because, when it looked as though the helicopters would have to be used, the brass immediately began to hold briefings to discuss the perils of fog and muddy landing fields.

Then, in February 2000, came the death of 17 sailors aboard the USS Cole in the Port of Aden, Yemen - a country that had recently been moved from Madeline Albright's list of states suspected of supporting terrorism to her list of "countries of concern."

According to the US ambassador to Yemen, Barbara Bodine, America saw its role in the country as that of "respectful guests, and hopefully sensitive ones." So, after refueling, while the Cole rested in the harbour, the captain did not order motorised skiffs to be lowered and enforce a defensive perimeter around the vessel by halting, boarding or even searching approaching craft.

Sentries were posted to watch the traffic, but they were ordered not to point their rifles at anyone because that could be construed as an "act of aggression."

It was a bright morning; the sea around the ship was entirely clear. As the young people posted on the deck watched, a small boat came out of nowhere and sped towards them. When the sentries could see the two men at the helm clearly, they waved. The men waved back. Then, they stood up and, in the resolute, unfaltering style of the September 11 hijackers, they powered their explosive-packed craft into the side of the ship.

"Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war," says Mark Antony in Julius Caesar. We have our dogs, but they have been kept on a leash. Let them roam this time until we have proved to the people of Afghanistan that we will not abandon them.

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