On military science fiction

I happen to be a fan of military science fiction. I think that military science fiction, in its various forms can be a very interesting portrayal of politics, human interactions, and the limits on the use of force. Even more than in many other types of science fiction, military science fiction has to deal with more philosophical questions about what should be the right form of government, etc., than other types of science fiction. However, recently I found a good discussionon the subject on another blog. The author has been discussing Jerry Pournelle, Robert Heinlein, David Drake, and Lois Bujold. I excerpt part of what he says:

. . . Pournelle’s soldiers, on the other hand, have no society but their unit and no moral direction other than that of the men on horseback who lead them. Falkenberg is a perfect embodiment of military Fuhrerprinzip, remote even from his own men, a creepy and opaque character who is not successfully humanized by an implausible romance near the end of the sequence. The Falkenberg books end with his men elevating an emperor, Prince Lysander who we are all supposed to trust because he is such a beau ideal. Two thousand years of hard-won lessons about the maintainance of liberty are thrown away like so much trash.

In fact, the underlying message here is pretty close to that of classical fascism. It, too, responds to social decay with a cult of the redeeming absolute leader. To be fair, the Falkenberg novels probably do not depict Pournelle’s idea of an ideal society, but they are hardly less damning if we consider them as a cautionary tale. “Straighten up, kids, or the hero-soldiers in Nemourlon are going to have to get medieval on your buttocks and install a Glorious Leader.” Pournelle’s values are revealed by the way that he repeatedly posits situations in which the truncheon of authority is the only solution. All tyrants plead necessity. . . .

The best-written military SF, on the other hand, tends to be more like Heinlein’s — the fact that it addresses ethical questions about organized violence (and tries to come up with answers one might actually be more willing to live with than Pournelle’s quasi-fascism or Drake’s brutal anomie) is part of its appeal. Often (as in Heinlein’s Space Cadet or the early volumes in Lois Bujold’s superb Miles Vorkosigan novels) such stories include elements of bildungsroman. . . .

Heinlein, a U.S naval officer who loved the military and seems to have always remembered his time at Annapolis as the best years of his life, fully understood that the highest duty of a soldier may be not merely to give his life but to reject all the claims of military culture and loyalty. His elegiac The Long Watch makes this point very clear. You’ll seek an equivalent in vain anywhere in Pournelle or Drake or their many imitators — but consider Bujold’s The Vor Game, in which Miles’s resistance to General Metzov’s orders for a massacre is the pivotal moment at which he becomes a man.

Bujold’s point is stronger because, unlike Ezra Dahlquist in The Long Watch or the citizen-soldiers in Starship Troopers, Miles is not a civilian serving a hitch. He is the Emperor’s cousin, a member of a military caste; his place in Barrayaran society is defined by the expectations of military service. What gives his moment of decision its power is that in refusing to commit an atrocity, he is not merely risking his life but giving up his dreams. . . .

The differences between Heinlein’s and Pournelle’s military SF are not trivial — they are both esthetically and morally important. More generally, the soldiers in military SF express a wide range of different theories about the relationship between soldier, society, and citizen. These theories reward some examination.

One of the things that is not happening much in this country is an examination of the “ethical questions about organized violence.” We have tended to split into one of two camps. One camp has a basic assumption that the military are somehow morally tainted. It may admit of the need of the military but treats that military with a suspicion that sometimes almost borders upon hatred. The other camp will bear no question about the military. To question the military is close to being seriously unpatriotic. It is the civilian authorities that are regarded with suspicion as the traitors who keep the military from carrying out their duties.

At the beginning of the end for the western side of the Roman Empire, Saint Augustine had to deal with similar questions. In a world that appeared to be falling apart, he had the empire on one hand, invaders on the other (sort of like terrorists), and incessant wars. How should a Christian think? What about the military? What about organized violence? It was during this time that he wrote on just war theory and a seminal work about the two cities, the heavenly and the earthly.

Accordingly, two cities have been formed by two loves: the earthly by the love of self, even to the contempt of God; the heavenly by the love of God, even to the contempt of self. The former, in a word, glories in itself, the latter in the Lord. For the one seeks glory from men; but the greatest glory of the other is God, the witness of conscience. The one lifts up its head in its own glory; the other says to its God, “Thou art my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.” In the one, the princes and the nations it subdues are ruled by the love of ruling; in the other, the princes and the subjects serve one another in love, the latter obeying, while the former take thought for all. The one delights in its own strength, represented in the persons of its rulers; the other says to its God, “I will love Thee, O Lord, my strength.”

He goes on to speak of those two cities. Obviously his writing is too long to summarize. But, this I will say. He warns that the earthly city so wants to fulfill its desire for earthly peace that it makes war in order to have its peace. In fact it justifies many wars by speaking of peace. But, the heavenly city desires true peace and justice. The country which is not concerned with justice–or with a just war–is not a true country.

Without Justice, what are kingdoms but great robber bands? What are robber bands but small kingdoms? The band itself is made up of men, is ruled by the command of a leader, and is held together by a social pact. Plunder is divided in accordance with an agreed-upon law. If this evil increases by the inclusion of dissolute men to the extent that it takes over territory, establishes headquarters, occupies cities, and subdues peoples, it publicly assumes the title of kingdom!

This is the type of discussion country always needs to be having. The question is neither whether our military is always right or whether it is always wrong, etc. The question is not about our civilian authorities. In fact there is a passage in St. Augustine in which he says that the Christian can live in any of a variety of political circumstances. The answer is always whether we are seeking peace and justice as a country. If we are not, then we are robber bands. If we are, then we are being what we ought to be as a country.