NATO's Last Mission?
The military crisis in Libya highlights an existential crisis for NATO.
Cries of alarm ring out from Italy, Qatar, Great Britain, and France that the NATO allies aren't doing enough to help the Libyan rebels stave off Muammar Qaddafi's troops and mercenaries.
Two thoughts come to mind: First, that's three more countries than usual complaining about NATO's lackluster response to an allied call to arms. Usually, it's the United States yelling at Europeans for not pulling their share of some burden. Second, whichever side of the Atlantic is wagging the finger or mumbling excuses, the question that everyone's tried to brush off the table for the past 20 years remains stubbornly in place: What is NATO for, anyway? Why does it still exist?
Libya marks only the third time in NATO's 62-year history that the alliance members have joined forces in battle. The first two were in Kosovo and Afghanistan. None of the three wars has had anything to do with the reasons for the alliance's creation. Nor has any of the three wars been waged as a unified alliance. In this sense, the strategic incoherence of the Libyan operation, and the frustrations it's unleashed, are nothing new.
All through the Cold War, NATO's purpose was clear: to keep the Russians out, the Americans in, and the Germans down—in other words, to deter a Soviet invasion of Western Europe, to lock the United States into leading the defense against an invasion should it occur, and (through the large U.S. military presence) to pre-empt the resurgence of a mighty Germany in the meantime.
In 1991, when the Soviet Union collapsed and the Cold War ended, an existential shiver ran down the collective spine of the trans-Atlantic military establishments. What was the mission of the alliance, of the Western nations' armed forces? Who was the enemy, what was the threat? At the end of that decade, an answer emerged. In the absence of a United Nations resolution (which Russia would surely have vetoed), the member-nations of NATO joined forces to mount an air campaign to defend Kosovo from Serbia's brutal suppression—and ultimately to oust from power the Serbian dictator, Slobodan Milosevic. Neither Kosovo nor Serbia was a member of NATO, whose charter mandated collective defense against an external attack. Still, the crisis was erupting in the heart of Europe, the alliance's "area of operation," and so military action could be justified.
Then, in 2006, NATO took over the command from U.S. forces in Afghanistan. Had NATO led the initial invasion, in 2001-02, it could have invoked Article 5 of the charter, declaring that an attack on one member—in this case, al-Qaida's attack on the United States—was an attack on all. But four-and-a-half years into the war, such a rationale would have seemed lame. No, this was—explicitly—a dramatic expansion in the mission. NATO was now an allied expeditionary force in the global war on terrorism.
In fact, though, this force wasn't exactly a unified alliance. Even in Kosovo, which truly was Europe's war, all of the NATO members had a hand in selecting targets and approving strategy (the campaign was denounced at the time as "war by committee"), but U.S. combat planes did the vast bulk of the fighting. Of the 28,018 bombs and munitions dropped in that 78-day air campaign, 23,315—or 83 percent of them—were American.
Afghanistan, too, has been a predominantly U.S. war. During the last two years of George W. Bush's presidency, Secretary of Defense Robert Gates harangued the Europeans several times to do their part and send more troops. He worried in congressional testimony that NATO was "evolving into a two-tiered alliance, in which you have some allies willing to fight and die to protect people's security and others who are not."
But NATO had always been an unequal alliance, even during the Cold War days, when—by necessity and interest—the United States spent the most money and deployed the majority of troops.
As for the mission in Afghanistan, NATO took command in the summer of 2006 under the assumption that it was mainly a peacekeeping mission. Then, as the troops went into the southern districts, the Taliban came out to fight—it turned out they'd never gone away. Once the member-nations realized this was a war, they declared "caveats" to their commitments: Some would let their troops be stationed in the north but not the south; others would let them fight in the air but not on the ground; others would let them go anywhere but only return fire, not initiate it. Dozens of caveats were declared (some have since been dropped, but the vast majority remain), and the commanders assented because, by this time, the war was seen as a test of NATO's relevance in the post-Cold War world—so it was better to keep all the members happy, in the name of "alliance cohesion," even if it meant a severe compromise to "unity of command."
When Gates took the helm at the Pentagon in 2006, he was properly outraged at the disunity. But, as he soon realized, he had little basis for yelling at the European ministers; they'd never signed up for the obligations that he accused them of shirking.
Fred Kaplan is Slate's "War Stories" columnist and author of the book, The Insurgents: David Petraeus and the Plot to Change the American Way of War. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Follow him on Twitter.
Photograph of Libyan soldiers by Joseph Eid/AFP/Getty Images.