n “With a Few Guns,” authors Brian Reid, Wolf Riedel, and Mark Zuehlke state at the onset what the book isn’t: an official history. Works bearing the “official” nomenclature are most often compiled from stuffy archival sources such as declassified materials and official memorandums. Official histories miss the human component of the story (the most important ingredient) and tend to leave out the uncomfortable truths for posterity, such as when policy fails grand strategy, or when the cost of peace dividends is called for collection by the next conflict.
Official stories must necessarily suffer from the inevitable policy and security vetting process. Simply put, the official narrative must adhere to the company line, and make elected leaders and senior military officials look like they knew what they were doing all along.
Works like “With a Few Guns” play a critical role in history and the examination of policy and strategy. They commit to posterity where strategists went wrong, and how those short–sighted decisions directly affect those expected to carry out such ineffectual policies: the warfighters.
The first of a two–volume history on the role of the Royal Regiment of Canadian Artillery ecosystem and the men and women of its ranks is an eloquent tapestry of the many names, voices, and recollections of those who manned the guns. And just as important as capturing those unique voices, it recounts the grand strategies and policies that led to Canada demanding so much of its artillery forces. Their inventories were allowed to erode under the peace dividend, compounding the difficulty of those first years of Canadian involvement in the U.S.–led Global War on Terror.
I’m personally invested in this book, as I’m undertaking a similar venture to tell the story of how precision air power fundamentally altered the American war machine in the post–9/11 wars. “With a Few Guns” similarly examines how the Canadian artillery served as a force multiplier. It blends voices and perspectives across years and regions in a way that recalls the eloquence of historians like David Halberstam, Antony Beevor, and Ian Toll. High praise, certainly, but as an avid reader of military and policy history, I’ve never felt compelled to write a book review, until consuming “With a Few Guns” over just a few days. Some books just pull the reader in, and refuse to let go until, suddenly, the prose ends, and the last page is turned. The work of Reid, Riedel and Zuehlke and their outstanding research team is one of those works.
Canada, like the United States and all of the liberal order in September 2001, was not ready for the change in military demands brought on by the new century. As the 1990s—the “Decade of Darkness” as the authors dub the period—took their toll on military budgets, Canadian armed forces necessarily contracted, divesting Cold War maneuver forces for the more modular battle group formations. The terminus of the 20th century saw Canada’s forces adapting to Slavic peacekeeping alongside other NATO forces, a place where long–range fires—artillery, mortars, and their needed mobility packages—were deemed unnecessary amid modernization. With the erosion of the tools (though not the intrepidity or commitment among the bombardiers), other programs inevitably became pipedreams in Canadian joint fires: the integration of new radars, drones, and unit organizations to accommodate the rigors of a place like Afghanistan, which would challenge the very task organization of the force. The so–called peace–dividend preceding the GWOT–era came at a heavy cost for Canadian artillery.
In the days after the Twin Towers fell, and as Canadians learned along with many of the rest of us where a land–locked nation called Afghanistan was, few components arguably suffered as much resourcing and support degradation as did the artillery and long–range fires systems and units of the Royal Canadian services. Further, and similarly to the U.S. military, cross–platform and cross–service branch integration was utterly segregated. Ambiguous policies left many wondering what was in store for Canadian artillery. When some of the very first coalition forces entered Afghanistan, Canadian artillery personnel were among those first boots on the ground, and despite lacking adequate weapons systems, adapted with what they had, and indeed: “they helped reestablish Canada’s reputation as soldiers who can make things happen in the midst of chaos.”
The storytelling is superb, and the research team eloquently integrates personal recounts of assorted events into a linear, chronological narrative. Many of these accounts cover well–known events in the War on Terror’s early years, but posterity tragically lacks details on Canadian service member’s key role; these include Canadian mortars assisting with the seizure of Objective Rhino in the first days of Afghanistan’s occupation, or Canadian brigade commanders serving as key leaders of the earliest International Security Assistance Force (better–known as “ISAF”) coalition allies, as U.S. forces pivoted to Iraq, or the Canadians braving the Taliban resurgence in Helmand and Kandahar circa 2006 as the main effort during Operation Medusa (better known as the “Battle of the Panjwai”).
There were, of course, triumphs on both the battlefields and the policy fights at home. Notably, the ability of key Canadian military leaders to secure, by way of close relationships built with the U.S. Marine Corps, a half–dozen of the brand–new M777 155–mm howitzers in 2006. demonstrating just how intrepid and innovative those of the mortar and gun could be when needed—and they needed to be often. With the high points of success came the challenges of many lows, including Canadians falling in combat. This work should indisputably erase any notion that America’s allies to the North are reluctant to fight alongside us in any conflict, having shed blood in the graveyard of empires for the cause.
Artillerymen and women proved themselves as innovators, “making silk purses from sow’s ears” with limited resources, despite pleas for improved cannon, mortars, radar and targeting systems, and remote–piloted vehicle integration. It took many years for the policy machines in Ottawa to recognize Canadian artillery as a force multiplier, and not merely “another force generator,” or bodies from which to draw for rotational commitments. Countless events are recounted herein which highlight the ability with which an efficient artillery force could rapidly engage and overwhelm a determined enemy and support friendly forces. What makes the unofficial history even more impressive is when the reader comes to understand what these forces achieved “with a few guns.”
Having spoken with the authors recently in an informal discussion, it seems that many of the lessons which these books would commit to posterity are going unheeded by Canadian policy circles: technical skills (people, not systems) are not being prioritized in the joint fires ecosystem. Task organization remains structured for the asymmetric, counter–insurgency era of warfighting instead of readying for major combat operations with Europe (meaning NATO partners) facing imminent threat. And even those technological capabilities needed to field a modernized force (situational awareness tools across the joint force) are suffering from lack of resources and prioritization. All familiar cries to those whose stories populate this work.
Volume I was a thoroughly enjoyable and insightful read, and Volume II can’t reach bookshelves soon enough to complete the story arc. But alone, this first entry is more than strong enough to recount lessons learned which official histories are often unable to tell.
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Canadian Artillery and the effectiveness of adaptability
Canadian Forces Base Borden. Photo by Niamat Ullah on Unsplash
May 4, 2024
“With a Few Guns” is a superbly told history, the first of a two–volume set, examining the historic role of the Royal Regiment of Canadian Artillery, writes Ethan Brown..
I
n “With a Few Guns,” authors Brian Reid, Wolf Riedel, and Mark Zuehlke state at the onset what the book isn’t: an official history. Works bearing the “official” nomenclature are most often compiled from stuffy archival sources such as declassified materials and official memorandums. Official histories miss the human component of the story (the most important ingredient) and tend to leave out the uncomfortable truths for posterity, such as when policy fails grand strategy, or when the cost of peace dividends is called for collection by the next conflict.
Official stories must necessarily suffer from the inevitable policy and security vetting process. Simply put, the official narrative must adhere to the company line, and make elected leaders and senior military officials look like they knew what they were doing all along.
Works like “With a Few Guns” play a critical role in history and the examination of policy and strategy. They commit to posterity where strategists went wrong, and how those short–sighted decisions directly affect those expected to carry out such ineffectual policies: the warfighters.
The first of a two–volume history on the role of the Royal Regiment of Canadian Artillery ecosystem and the men and women of its ranks is an eloquent tapestry of the many names, voices, and recollections of those who manned the guns. And just as important as capturing those unique voices, it recounts the grand strategies and policies that led to Canada demanding so much of its artillery forces. Their inventories were allowed to erode under the peace dividend, compounding the difficulty of those first years of Canadian involvement in the U.S.–led Global War on Terror.
I’m personally invested in this book, as I’m undertaking a similar venture to tell the story of how precision air power fundamentally altered the American war machine in the post–9/11 wars. “With a Few Guns” similarly examines how the Canadian artillery served as a force multiplier. It blends voices and perspectives across years and regions in a way that recalls the eloquence of historians like David Halberstam, Antony Beevor, and Ian Toll. High praise, certainly, but as an avid reader of military and policy history, I’ve never felt compelled to write a book review, until consuming “With a Few Guns” over just a few days. Some books just pull the reader in, and refuse to let go until, suddenly, the prose ends, and the last page is turned. The work of Reid, Riedel and Zuehlke and their outstanding research team is one of those works.
Canada, like the United States and all of the liberal order in September 2001, was not ready for the change in military demands brought on by the new century. As the 1990s—the “Decade of Darkness” as the authors dub the period—took their toll on military budgets, Canadian armed forces necessarily contracted, divesting Cold War maneuver forces for the more modular battle group formations. The terminus of the 20th century saw Canada’s forces adapting to Slavic peacekeeping alongside other NATO forces, a place where long–range fires—artillery, mortars, and their needed mobility packages—were deemed unnecessary amid modernization. With the erosion of the tools (though not the intrepidity or commitment among the bombardiers), other programs inevitably became pipedreams in Canadian joint fires: the integration of new radars, drones, and unit organizations to accommodate the rigors of a place like Afghanistan, which would challenge the very task organization of the force. The so–called peace–dividend preceding the GWOT–era came at a heavy cost for Canadian artillery.
In the days after the Twin Towers fell, and as Canadians learned along with many of the rest of us where a land–locked nation called Afghanistan was, few components arguably suffered as much resourcing and support degradation as did the artillery and long–range fires systems and units of the Royal Canadian services. Further, and similarly to the U.S. military, cross–platform and cross–service branch integration was utterly segregated. Ambiguous policies left many wondering what was in store for Canadian artillery. When some of the very first coalition forces entered Afghanistan, Canadian artillery personnel were among those first boots on the ground, and despite lacking adequate weapons systems, adapted with what they had, and indeed: “they helped reestablish Canada’s reputation as soldiers who can make things happen in the midst of chaos.”
The storytelling is superb, and the research team eloquently integrates personal recounts of assorted events into a linear, chronological narrative. Many of these accounts cover well–known events in the War on Terror’s early years, but posterity tragically lacks details on Canadian service member’s key role; these include Canadian mortars assisting with the seizure of Objective Rhino in the first days of Afghanistan’s occupation, or Canadian brigade commanders serving as key leaders of the earliest International Security Assistance Force (better–known as “ISAF”) coalition allies, as U.S. forces pivoted to Iraq, or the Canadians braving the Taliban resurgence in Helmand and Kandahar circa 2006 as the main effort during Operation Medusa (better known as the “Battle of the Panjwai”).
There were, of course, triumphs on both the battlefields and the policy fights at home. Notably, the ability of key Canadian military leaders to secure, by way of close relationships built with the U.S. Marine Corps, a half–dozen of the brand–new M777 155–mm howitzers in 2006. demonstrating just how intrepid and innovative those of the mortar and gun could be when needed—and they needed to be often. With the high points of success came the challenges of many lows, including Canadians falling in combat. This work should indisputably erase any notion that America’s allies to the North are reluctant to fight alongside us in any conflict, having shed blood in the graveyard of empires for the cause.
Artillerymen and women proved themselves as innovators, “making silk purses from sow’s ears” with limited resources, despite pleas for improved cannon, mortars, radar and targeting systems, and remote–piloted vehicle integration. It took many years for the policy machines in Ottawa to recognize Canadian artillery as a force multiplier, and not merely “another force generator,” or bodies from which to draw for rotational commitments. Countless events are recounted herein which highlight the ability with which an efficient artillery force could rapidly engage and overwhelm a determined enemy and support friendly forces. What makes the unofficial history even more impressive is when the reader comes to understand what these forces achieved “with a few guns.”
Having spoken with the authors recently in an informal discussion, it seems that many of the lessons which these books would commit to posterity are going unheeded by Canadian policy circles: technical skills (people, not systems) are not being prioritized in the joint fires ecosystem. Task organization remains structured for the asymmetric, counter–insurgency era of warfighting instead of readying for major combat operations with Europe (meaning NATO partners) facing imminent threat. And even those technological capabilities needed to field a modernized force (situational awareness tools across the joint force) are suffering from lack of resources and prioritization. All familiar cries to those whose stories populate this work.
Volume I was a thoroughly enjoyable and insightful read, and Volume II can’t reach bookshelves soon enough to complete the story arc. But alone, this first entry is more than strong enough to recount lessons learned which official histories are often unable to tell.
