It is time to remove the names of traitors like Benning and Bragg from our country’s most important military bases.
By David Petraeus
As I have watched Confederate monuments being removed by state and local governments, and sometimes by the forceful will of the American people, the fact that 10 U.S. Army installations are named for Confederate officers has weighed on me. That number includes the Army’s largest base, one very special to many in uniform: Fort Bragg, in North Carolina. The highway sign for Bragg proclaims it Home of the Airborne and Special Operations Forces. I had three assignments there during my career. Soldiers stationed at Bragg are rightly proud to serve in its elite units. Some call it “the Center of the Military Universe,” “the Mother Ship,” or even “Hallowed Ground.” But Braxton Bragg—the general for whom the base was named—served in the Confederate States Army.
The United States is now wrestling with repeated instances of abusive policing caught on camera, the legacies of systemic racism, the challenges of protecting freedoms enshrined in the Constitution and Bill of Rights while thwarting criminals who seek to exploit lawful protests, and debates over symbols glorifying those who fought for the Confederacy in the Civil War. The way we resolve these issues will define our national identity for this century and beyond. Yesterday afternoon, an Army spokesperson said that Secretary of the Army Ryan McCarthy is now “open to a bipartisan discussion” on renaming the bases. That’s the right call. Once the names of these bases are stripped of the obscuring power of tradition and folklore, renaming the installations becomes an easy, even obvious, decision.
My life in uniform essentially unfolded at a series of what might be termed “rebel forts.” I made many parachute jumps with the 82nd Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, and I also jumped with 82d Airborne paratroopers at Fort Pickett, in Virginia (a National Guard post), and Fort Polk, in Louisiana. I made official visits to Virginia’s Forts Jackson and Lee, to Texas’s Fort Hood, and to Alabama’s Fort Rucker. In Georgia, I visited Fort Gordon, and I attended Airborne School, Ranger School, and the Infantry Officer Basic Course—rites of passage for countless infantry soldiers—at Fort Benning. At the time, I was oblivious to the fact that what was then called the “Home of the Infantry” was named for Henry L. Benning, a Confederate general who was such an enthusiast for slavery that as early as 1849 he argued for the dissolution of the Union and the formation of a Southern slavocracy. Fort Benning’s physical location, on former Native American territory that became the site of a plantation, itself illustrates the turbulent layers beneath the American landscape.
It would be years before I reflected on the individuals for whom these posts were named. While on active duty, in fact, I never thought much about these men—about the nature of their service during the Civil War, their postwar activities (which in John Brown Gordon’s case likely included a leadership role in the first Ku Klux Klan), the reasons they were honored, or the timing of the various forts’ dedications. Nor did I think about the messages those names sent to the many African Americans serving on these installations—messages that should have been noted by all of us. Like many aspects of the military, the forts themselves were so shrouded in tradition that everything about them seemed rock solid, time tested, immortal. Their names had taken on new layers of meaning that allowed us to ignore the individuals for whom they were named.
In the course of their professional development, soldiers often study the tactical and operational skills of leaders who fought for dubious causes. Learning how to win a particular kind of battle is different than learning how to win a war. Intellectual appreciation of a given general’s tactical genius, however, should not become wholesale admiration or a species of devotion. When I was a cadet at West Point in the early 1970s, enthusiasm for Generals Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson was widespread. We were not encouraged to think deeply about the cause for which they had fought, at least not in our military history classes. And throughout my Army career, I likewise encountered enthusiastic adherents of various Confederate commanders, and a special veneration for Lee.
It also happens that—Lee and Jackson excepted—most of the Confederate generals for whom our bases are named were undistinguished, if not incompetent, battlefield commanders. Braxton Bragg, for example, left a great deal to be desired as a military leader. After graduating from West Point in 1837, he served in the Second Seminole War and the Mexican War. His reputation for physical bravery was matched by one for epic irascibility. Bragg’s temper was so bad, Ulysses S. Grant recounted in his memoirs, that an old Army story had a superior once rebuking him, “My God, Mr. Bragg, you have quarreled with every officer in the army, and now you are quarrelling with yourself!” Bragg’s inability to cooperate diluted his effectiveness until his resounding defeat at the Battle of Chattanooga, in November 1863, precipitated his resignation from the Confederate army.
Had Bragg, like most of the rebel honorees, not been elevated by the effort to memorialize the “Lost Cause”—promoted by organizations such as the United Daughters of the Confederacy as well as by some sympathetic historians—he would probably have been consigned to historical obscurity.
Fort Bragg and most of the other posts in question were established either during World War I, at one peak of the Lost Cause movement, or in the early 1940s, as the country was feverishly gearing up for World War II. Army leaders, to say nothing of political figures at the time, undoubtedly wanted to ingratiate themselves with the southern states in which the forts were located. They bowed to—and in many cases shared—the Lost Cause nostalgia that also sponsored so much civilian statuary, street naming, and memorial building from the end of Reconstruction through the 1930s, when the trend tapered off but did not end completely. In many cases, the Army’s sentiments simply mirrored those of the society it served.
For an organization designed to win wars to train for them at installations named for those who led a losing force is sufficiently peculiar, but when we consider the cause for which these officers fought, we begin to penetrate the confusion of Civil War memory. These bases are, after all, federal installations, home to soldiers who swear an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States. The irony of training at bases named for those who took up arms against the United States, and for the right to enslave others, is inescapable to anyone paying attention. Now, belatedly, is the moment for us to pay such attention.
It gives me considerable pause, for example, to note that my alma mater, West Point, honors Robert E. Lee with a gate, a road, an entire housing area, and a barracks, the last of which was built during the 1960s. A portrait of Lee with an enslaved person adorns a wall of the cadet library, the counterpoint to a portrait of Grant, his Civil War nemesis, on a nearby wall.
Lee’s history is, in fact, thoroughly woven through that of West Point and the Army. Before he was the commander of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, Lee was an outstanding cadet, a distinguished chief of engineers in the Mexican War, and later the West Point superintendent. I do not propose that we erase his role in this history. We can learn from his battlefield skill and, beyond that, from his human frailty, his conflicting loyalties, and the social pressures that led him to choose Virginia over the United States. If we attempt to repress the fact of his existence from our institutional memory, we risk falling into the trap of authoritarian regimes, which routinely and comprehensively obliterate whole swaths of national history as if it never happened at all. What distinguishes democracies is their capacity to debate even the most contentious issues vigorously and in informed, respectful, deliberate ways and to learn from the errors of the past. But remembering Lee’s strengths and weaknesses, his military and personal successes and failures, is different from venerating him.
Confederate memorialization is only the most obvious expression of formerly acceptable sentiments now regarded critically by many Americans. Once unreservedly celebrated figures like Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Woodrow Wilson, to name just three, held convictions and behaved in ways we now find deeply troubling. It is indicative of the complexity of the problem that while the stained-glass window honoring Robert E. Lee in the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., was removed, that of Wilson, an ardent segregationist, remains (after a healthy debate).
But Confederates leaders are different from these other examples not simply in degree, but in kind: Plainly put, Lee, Jackson, Bragg, and the rest committed treason, however much they may have agonized over it. The majority of them had worn the uniform of the U.S. Army, and that Army should not brook any celebration of those who betrayed their country.
A long-standing maxim for those in uniform that one should never begin a war without also knowing how to end it. And this is a kind of war—a war of memory. The forts named for Confederate generals were established before the formulation of the rules now codified in Army Regulation 1-33, which sets the criteria for memorializing soldiers. But, as is so often the case when the Army is found to have fallen short of its elemental values, it also possesses the remedy. While the regulation states, “Rememorializing or rededicating actions are strongly discouraged, and seldom appropriate,” it also outlines a clear administrative process to follow when they are. This is the moment to pursue that process.
We could probably disqualify the rebel generals on a technicality: After all, none of them were actually in the U.S. Army when they performed the actions for which they were honored. Nonetheless, I would prefer to disqualify them on the grounds that they do not meet the letter or spirit of the regulation’s second criterion: “Memorializations will honor deceased heroes and other deceased distinguished individuals of all races in our society, and will present them as inspirations to their fellow Soldiers, employees, and other citizens.”
The magic of the republic to which many of us dedicated our professional lives is that its definition of equality has repeatedly demonstrated the capacity to broaden. And America’s military has often led social change, especially in the area of racial integration. We do not live in a country to which Braxton Bragg, Henry L. Benning, or Robert E. Lee can serve as an inspiration. Acknowledging this fact is imperative. Should it fail to do so, the Army, which prides itself on leading the way in perilous times, will be left to fight a rear-guard action against a more inclusive American future, one that fulfills the nation’s founding promise.
Confederate Military Base Names Just Met Their Gettysburg
By Kevin Baron
Say goodbye to Fort Bragg. And Forts Benning, Lee, Hood, and all the other U.S. military installations named for Confederates from the Civil War.
On Friday, Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin announced the four people who will replace Trump administration appointees on a Congressionally mandated commission to study base renaming. It will be interesting to see what this esteemed group comes up with, but let’s be real: this is now an exercise for show. Start thinking up some new names while you read on.
Recall why this panel exists. Last summer, Donald Trump blocked his defense secretary and other Pentagon leaders from ordering the base names changed. Trump then threatened to veto any defense authorization bill that ordered the Defense Department to change the names. House Democrats and Senate Republicans decided to require only that a commission be formed to study the issue. Four members would be chosen by the Pentagon and four by the House and Senate Armed Services Committees.
The new panel is a slam dunk against the Lost Cause. It includes Michelle Howard, a retired 4-star Navy admiral, who is Black; Robert Neller, the most recently retired Marine Corps commandant; Ty Seidule, a retired 1-star Army general and emeritus professor of history at West Point; and Kori Schake, director of defense programs at the conservative American Enterprise Institute, in Washington.
This is a stacked deck. Howard is the highest-ranking Black naval officer in history. Seidule is famous for posting a viral 2015 video while in uniform at West Point. It slammed Confederate apologists and revisionists and explained why slavery was the main cause of the Civil War. His book, released last month, is titled, “Robert E. Lee and Me: A Southerner’s Reckoning with the Myth of the Lost Cause.”
Schake, who served in the second Bush administration, is among the most respected national security strategists and historians. She’s also an outspoken never-Trumper, one of the conservatives who rejected the rebel president five years ago. Earlier this week, her fellow conservative Richard Haass, president of the Council on Foreign Relations, publicly quit the Republcian Party over its continued support for Trump. I asked Schake if she would be following him out the door. “I weigh changing my political affiliation often, but believe the Liz Cheneys and Adam Kinzingers deserve my continued support,” Schake said of the House members from Wyoming and Illinois battling Trumpists and their support for the Confederacy.
Neller, the former commandant, is as gruff a Marine from central casting that you’ll ever meet. Yet after his successor made the Corps the first service branch to ban Confederate symbols from its bases, Neller posted a public mea culpa about his own failure to issue such a ban. “I failed to do so. No excuses. And I will regret that failure to act for as long as I live.”
Neller explained that the Stars and Bars “represents a group of states that seceded from our Union in order to preserve the institution of slavery. Not to protect states’ rights or an economically based culture of a different region and its’ [sic] people, but quite simply the right to own another human being. This Nation fought a brutal and horrific war over this fact and those that supported the right to subjugate another human being lost that fight. Yes, they fought with courage and tactical skill, but what they fought for was not honorable. In legal terms those that supported the secession of their state committed treason against the United States.”
Neller thus joined other prominent former generals, including David Petraeusand Stan McChrystal, and Joint Chiefs Chairman Gen. Mark Milley, in speaking out against Confederate fetishism and hagiography.
And those are just the white men. The addition of Howard to this commission is no surprise. If the military has a moral center, she is it. Howard is a revered leader who has embraced her role as a symbol of the military’s progress on advancing women and people of color — and of how much farther there is to go. Was there another 4-star woman of color that Austin could have appointed?
All to say that the era of Confederate revisionism is as good as dead, at least in the American institution of the military. Unfortunately, it will take much more for the racist sentiment at the core of Confederate fetishism to die.
In his LinkedIn piece, Neller recounted confronting a Marine from Michigan about the Confederate flag sticker on his truck. (I’ve seen similar flag stickers on vehicles at the Pentagon and at Joint Base Andrews.) “How can you be from that same state and fly the Confederate flag? And how do you reconcile having that flag on your truck while wearing the uniform that says, ‘US Marines,’ and having taken an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States?” the general asked. The other Marine had no answer. They shook hands and parted, but the sticker remained.
The reality is that Confederate names and bumper stickers can be taken down and retired to the dustbins of history, by order or free will. We know better, now, what they really meant to the 20th-century revisionists who propped them up long after the Civil War. But the white supremacy and racism they represent will live on in the hearts of minds of many Americans, including some who make it into the military’s ranks.
At the Pentagon, Austin, his fellow Biden appointees, and the Joint Chiefs face the enormous task of figuring out how big this problem really is, and showing that they are serious about cracking down on it with new rules, regulations, and punishments across the Defense Department. Too many of their predecessors have failed. Already, right-wing media personalities who have defended Confederate flag-flying and base names have turned on the U.S. military, calling the effort to ban extremism from the ranks a “purge” — Rep. Andrew Clyde, R-Ga., a Navy veteran, called it an exercise in “thought control.”
Neller had a message for them in his June letter, too.
“And for those Americans not serving in the military who persist in flying this flag for whatever misguided reason, I will continue to support your right to do so on your property. But do not expect me to see you for anything else but someone who still supports the bondage and oppression of another human being who does not look like you. Period full stop.”