The war on Iran was not the first time American decision-makers failed to recognize the limits of U.S. power.
War has been—and remains—a clash of human wills, shaped by heroism and cowardice, fear and euphoria, chance and uncertainty. No matter how technologically superior military might may be, it does not guarantee a strategic victory.
Afrasianet - The American magazine Foreign Affairs published an article addressing the failure of the United States to recognize the limits of its military power, taking the U.S. war on Iran as a new model of overconfidence in military superiority. It argues that the Trump administration made a strategic mistake by waging war on Iran without clear objectives, international legitimacy, or a broad coalition, while ignoring Iranian geography, the importance of the Strait of Hormuz, and Iran's capacity to endure and continue fighting. It also warns that the increasing centralization of power in the hands of the president, the politicization of military leadership, and the over-reliance on artificial intelligence and military technology could push the United States toward even more dangerous mistakes in the future.
Below is the text of the article, with the following action:
The war on Iran was not the first time American decision-makers failed to grasp the limits of U.S. power. However, the Trump administration’s use of military force against the Islamic Republic since February 28 provides a particularly glaring example of an error that has long characterized American strategy in recent decades. The war was launched without a clear justification, with a constantly shifting set of objectives—ranging from regime change in Tehran and eliminating its nuclear ambitions to, more recently, reopening the Strait of Hormuz, which was never closed until after the war began. As expected, the consequences have been detrimental to both American interests and the Middle East as a whole.
Yet, focusing exclusively on the mistakes committed in Iran means overlooking a deeper problem in U.S. foreign policy that predated Donald Trump’s presidency and will outlive it. Although the specific errors committed in Iran may stem from the shortcomings of this president and his inner circle, overestimating the capacity of military power has become a growing feature of American strategy since at least the end of World War II.
This tendency to ignore the limits of power contributed to some of the greatest policy blunders of the Cold War, with Vietnam being the clearest and most influential example. Despite lip service paid to absorbing the lessons of that overextension, the American illusion—the misplaced belief in the absolute power of military might to secure victory and thereby achieve fundamentally political goals—has worsened rather than receded, particularly over the past quarter-century.
Unfortunately, there are good reasons to worry that this illusion will deepen in the coming years. Presidential authority is increasingly concentrated around the individual president, while institutional constraints on it continue to erode. Furthermore, the politicization of the military establishment, along with the diplomatic corps and intelligence agencies, reduces the likelihood that decision-makers will receive the best counsel, including frank warnings about risks and costs. The rise of artificial intelligence and new weapons technologies fosters a sense of omniscience and complete control over the battlefield, feeding superpower hubris. The risk of overusing force has never been higher, at a time when repairing the damage caused by such overreach is increasingly difficult.
Winning Every Battle
In April 1975, Colonel Harry Summers, a member of the U.S. delegation tasked with handling post-war issues in Vietnam, met in Hanoi with his North Vietnamese counterpart, Colonel Tu. Summers remarked, "You know, you never defeated us on the battlefield." Tu replied, "That may be so, but it is also irrelevant."
Summers later authored a seminal book on the war titled On Strategy: A Critical Analysis of the Vietnam War. His core conclusion was simple: there are limits to American power, and ignoring them comes at a heavy price. War was, and remains, a clash of human wills, shaped by heroism, cowardice, fear, euphoria, chance, and uncertainty; no matter how superior military force is, it does not guarantee strategic victory.
The book became required reading for many military officers, including myself. I had joined the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps at the University of Texas two years before the meeting between Summers and Tu. Conscription had just ended, and Saigon had not yet fallen, but debates over Vietnam dominated our classes.
As I studied the American failure, I began to realize that one of our greatest strengths had turned into a fatal weakness: our firm belief that we, the United States of America, must win, and therefore will win. We won World War I, we won World War II, and we achieved at least a stalemate in Korea after holding our ground against North Koreans and Chinese. Somehow, no matter the cost, we would win in Vietnam.
The belief in the possibility of victory is important; it inspires soldiers and maintains public engagement. But when the commitment to victory is divorced from sound political judgment, when the principles of war are ignored based on the false belief that technology or firepower can bypass the frictions inherent in combat, when tactical successes are viewed as a guaranteed path to strategic victory, and when the human and financial costs of war escalate relentlessly while any claims of righteousness collapse, a reassessment becomes imperative.
In Vietnam, the response to mounting losses was simply "more": more troops, more bombs, more money. Losing a battle was viewed as contradicting everything we believed in; therefore, we kept fighting even as the limits of our power became increasingly obvious. When the end finally came with the hurried U.S. withdrawal from Saigon in 1975, many military and political leaders remained unable to comprehend how the United States could win nearly every skirmish, battle, and confrontation, yet lose the war.
The damage caused by the overuse of force has only become harder to repair. The military establishment I joined in 1977 was reeling from the aftermath of Vietnam. "Peace dividends" led to deep cuts in force levels and military spending. Readiness hit rock bottom across all services, with the Army shrinking by 60,000 recruits and the Navy dropping from around 650 ships to just over 500.
At the same time, the transition to an all-volunteer force proved challenging; drug abuse and racial tensions spiked, morale declined among senior leaders and young troops alike, and new recruits lacked basic skills.
When President Ronald Reagan took office in 1981, he launched the largest peacetime military expansion in U.S. history since the Korean War. Over eight years, defense spending increased by 35%. That era saw a series of major procurement deals, including the M1 Abrams tank, the Bradley Fighting Vehicle, Apache and Black Hawk helicopters, F-15 and F-16 fighters, the B-1 bomber, and the E-3 Sentry.
The Navy expanded back toward a 600-ship fleet, including 15 aircraft carriers, 100 attack submarines, and cruisers and destroyers equipped with the revolutionary Aegis combat system. Pay was raised, recruitment targets were met, and standards were restored.
Equally important, Congress passed the Goldwater-Nichols Act in 1986, which fundamentally restructured the military by strengthening the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, embedding regional combatant commanders as the warfighters, ensuring joint force integration, improving planning and procurement, and establishing the U.S. Special Operations Command.
By 1990, the military I had entered in the 1970s had undergone a radical transformation. Our troops were well-trained, superbly equipped, highly motivated, and—above all—competently led.
In July 1990, I departed San Diego on a routine six-month deployment to the Western Pacific. I was a Navy SEAL task unit commander attached to Amphibious Squadron Five and the 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit. Little did I know that this revitalized military, alongside our civilian leaders, was about to face a test questioning whether the United States had learned anything from Vietnam and other past failures.
Is It Worth It?
On August 2, 1990, Iraqi President Saddam Hussein ordered his army into Kuwait. Within hours of the invasion, the National Security Council convened, and options for U.S. action were presented to the president.
Under Secretary of State Lawrence Eagleburger stressed: "This is the first test of the post-war system; with the fading of bipolar polarization, this has become possible. If Saddam succeeds, others may try to do the same."
Fortunately, American leadership had rarely been stronger or more experienced—and leadership is especially critical in wartime. President George H.W. Bush had been a young Navy pilot when his plane was shot down near Iwo Jima before being rescued by an American submarine. Bush understood war.
Later in life, he served as U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, de facto ambassador to China, Director of the CIA, and Vice President. No president in U.S. history had ever assumed office with more extensive experience in national security affairs.
Bush surrounded himself with some of the foremost diplomats, military officers, intelligence specialists, and strategic thinkers of their era, including National Security Advisor Brent Scowcroft, Secretary of State James Baker, Defense Secretary Dick Cheney, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Colin Powell, and many others.
U.S. Central Command, which would lead the military effort against Saddam, was commanded by General Norman Schwarzkopf. A Vietnam veteran decorated with three Silver Stars for valor and two Purple Hearts for combat wounds, Schwarzkopf reflected upon his return: "No one is more opposed to war than a smart person who has actually fought one... When they get ready to send me again, I’ll have to stop and ask myself: Is it worth it? It is a very dangerous phase for a nation when its own army begins to stop and ask questions."
Grappling honestly with that question—Is it worth it?—is the fundamental requirement of good leadership. Bush carefully weighed the costs and risks of confronting Saddam and decided the war was worth it. Political and military leaders together formulated a strategy with clear ends and objectives, rallying public and international support.
This proved to be one of the best applications of political and military power in modern American history, and its success is worth pausing to examine. The triumph of the Gulf War rested on several core principles:
First, the United States should adopt a posture that grants it moral superiority. A superior position means holding a dominant stance when confronting an adversary, while moral superiority proves the fight is worth undertaking. Through it, leaders can inspire troops, rally populations, and galvanize allies.
Immediately after Saddam's invasion, Bush ordered military deployments to the region and worked with Saudi Arabia to establish a military presence in anticipation of conflict. Bush still hoped to avoid war, but he saw parallels "between the Persian Gulf and the Rhineland of the 1930s, when Hitler simply defied the Versailles Treaty and moved troops into the region."
Nevertheless, he recognized he had to convince the international community and the American public that any steps he took would be moral, legitimate, and serve the interests of the U.S. and its allies.
Bush and his team engaged in intense diplomatic efforts to secure support from regional Arab states, European allies, Moscow, and Beijing. Despite his skepticism of the United Nations, Bush pushed through a series of UN resolutions condemning the Iraqi invasion, imposing sweeping economic sanctions, and authorizing the use of force if necessary.
Concurrently, he worked to persuade the American public, winning broad majority support for his handling of the crisis. Though Bush believed his constitutional authority as Commander-in-Chief permitted him to deploy troops without congressional approval, he sought and secured congressional backing.
Second, Bush and his administration recognized the importance of building an international coalition, even though the U.S. possessed enough firepower to act unilaterally in purely military terms. This was partly about legitimacy and partly about sending a message.
Saddam's invasion offered an opportunity to forge what administration officials termed a "New World Order"—one where aggression is met with collective action, major powers cooperate despite ideological differences, and the UN and international law play central roles.
Leveraging personal relationships built over a lifetime of public service, Bush secured support from figures ranging from German Chancellor Helmut Kohl and French President François Mitterrand to Saudi King Fahd, Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, and Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev.
Secretary of State Baker launched a shuttle diplomacy campaign that expanded the coalition. Ultimately, the U.S. secured international support and substantial financial contributions from others. Allied forces totaled 750,000 troops from 36 nations, including 540,000 Americans, forming the largest coalition force since World War II. Crucially, it included Arab forces from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Egypt, Syria, Qatar, the UAE, Oman, and Bahrain.
Managing the coalition was difficult. As Winston Churchill once said, "There is only one thing worse than fighting with allies, and that is fighting without them." But Bush knew international legitimacy fortified regional stability and sent a powerful message to Saddam and the world.
Third, Bush and his advisors established clear goals and objectives while ensuring political and military alignment. Politically, the objective was upholding international law and restoring regional peace; military objectives supported these political ends.
The coalition had to drive Iraqi forces out of Kuwait while minimizing friendly casualties, preserving the coalition, and limiting the war's duration. American leaders were clear from the start: there would be no march to Baghdad or prolonged occupation.
To defeat an enemy, you must stand on the ground they cherish and impose your control. Yet even with these limited goals, civilian and military leaders harbored no illusions that success would be easy or cost-free.
Driving out a determined enemy in control of terrain requires overwhelming firepower and a readiness to conduct ground operations. As Carl von Clausewitz emphasized in On War, defense is stronger than attack because the defender merely protects what he holds, whereas the attacker must impose his will. Clausewitz argued the only way to overcome the inherent power of defense is through overwhelming firepower.
The Iraqis were prepared to defend Kuwait; they held the terrain, geography favored them, and they possessed a combat-hardened force following eight years of war against Iran.
Yet Cheney, Powell, and Schwarzkopf understood the principles of war. They maintained a clearly defined objective, concentrated American firepower where it mattered most, accepted calculated risks elsewhere, and committed to withdrawing immediately upon mission completion.
Achieving these goals required boots on the ground—and in large numbers. American leaders realized defeating Iraq required more than air power. Early on, Cheney noted that "the history of air campaigns shows they are not very successful on their own." Powell agreed: "Deterring Iraqi action against Saudi Arabia requires U.S. troops on the ground... This means a major confrontation. Most U.S. forces will have to be committed to support the operation, and not just for a day or two."
If I learned one vital lesson over four decades of service, it is that to defeat an enemy, you must stand on the ground they cherish and control it. That is why Alexander invaded Persia, William the Conqueror crossed the English Channel, Genghis Khan pushed into China, Sherman marched to Atlanta, the Allies landed in Normandy, and the U.S. entered Kuwait.
Yet, as Cheney warned, "We should not start this unless we are prepared to see it through to the end... The problem is that the American public's patience for war may be short."
Operation Desert Storm commenced with air strikes at 2:38 a.m. Baghdad time on January 17, 1991. After 43 days of air operations and 100 hours of ground combat, Washington’s political and military objectives were achieved. The Iraqi army was expelled from Kuwait, and most American troops were heading home shortly thereafter.
Bush wrote in his memoirs: "We are doing something decent, and we are doing something right. And soon Vietnam will be behind us."
Lessons Unlearned
Operation Desert Storm served as a turning point, but not in the way it should have. It provided an opportunity to absorb lessons on how to effectively use force, what military power can achieve, and what it cannot. Instead, it unleashed a wave of triumphalism.
When I returned from Desert Storm, where I had commanded a special operations task force, the mood of elation was palpable; we were victors again. That victory was so intoxicating it dragged us back into the false belief that our power could accomplish virtually anything to shape the world to our liking.
This euphoria was amplified by the technology showcased against Iraq. Precision-guided munitions could strike a moving target with a 500-pound bomb from 20,000 feet. Tomahawk cruise missiles could be launched from ships and submarines hundreds of miles away. GPS satellites guided infantry battalions across flat deserts at night with pinpoint accuracy. Joint surveillance and target attack radar systems tracked Iraqi military movements.
Digital command and control systems enabled computerized air tasking orders, secure satellite communications, and digital planning tools. No army in history possessed such precise battlefield dominance. Building on this success to launch a Revolution in Military Affairs made sense, but it also fostered a widespread belief that technology could transcend the friction, costs, and risks inherent in war.
We are also constrained by time limits. This is not exclusively an American constraint, but we seem to suffer from it more than most nations. The Russians are said to be willing to eat grass before surrendering; America's reputation, by contrast, is that we will grow weary of fighting sooner or later and withdraw.
This reputation stems largely from the fact that our democratic system requires popular support to sustain long-term military engagement. Even when there is a compelling reason to send our youth into battle, the cost in lives and treasure can rapidly outpace our collective sense of necessity.
Finally, we are constrained by the quality of our political and military leadership. Without experienced leaders who understand the necessity of establishing legitimacy, building alliances, setting clear and achievable objectives, committing to the mission, and limiting combat duration to what is strictly necessary, all the power in the world is useless.
In the 1990s, aligned with post-Desert Storm confidence and post-Cold War hopes, U.S. military missions focused on upholding international norms and containing humanitarian suffering. Some succeeded, as in Bosnia and Kosovo; others were less successful, as in Somalia.
However, the failure to absorb the correct lessons from the Gulf War became acutely apparent after the September 11 attacks, with a persistent misunderstanding of the limits of American power and what the military can and cannot achieve.
The war in Afghanistan morphed into a protracted conflict with shifting objectives, mismatched military and political goals, and a determined Taliban fighting on home soil. Even after the special operations raid that killed al-Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden, objectives in Afghanistan continued to shift.
As always, the military's strength lay in its soldiers—brave, disciplined, and technologically adept. We made mistakes, but there was no lack of fighting spirit or tactical success. Public support remained strong for most of the war. But we failed when we assumed a quick victory could extend into the complex task of counterinsurgency, counterterrorism, and nation-building.
Lest I sound patronizing in my critique of U.S. strategy, I must clarify: as a field commander in Afghanistan, I fell into the same trap, believing more troops, weapons, and money could solve some of the most intractable problems. They could not.
The Iraq War, resting on far flimsier justifications from the start, similarly devolved into counterinsurgency and counterterrorism missions with insufficient forces, a limited coalition, and a shifting timeline. Once again, our soldiers performed admirably, but our leaders repeatedly ignored the basic principles of war.
Our claims relied on faulty intelligence, international support was limited, and our objectives shifted from toppling Saddam to attempting to build a Western-style democracy. In Iraq and Afghanistan, only limited gains were achieved at an enormous cost to our military, our domestic front, and our international legitimacy.
Virtually Impervious to Defeat
Yet, even these modern experiences—witnessed firsthand by several prominent members of the Trump administration during their own military service—failed to instill caution regarding Iran earlier this year.
In light of the fall of the Assad government in Syria, the destruction of Hamas's military wing in Gaza, and the weakening of Hezbollah in Lebanon, the temptation to attempt regime change in Iran was easy to understand. Furthermore, following the striking operation to apprehend President Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela—where U.S. forces demonstrated exceptional speed, lethal combat capability, and courage in overcoming a highly sophisticated defense system—it was all too easy for American decision-makers to assume once again that our technological might, soldierly courage, and expertise rendered us virtually impervious to defeat.
Yet there is a reason no U.S. president has attempted regime change in Iran since 1979, and it has little to do with political will or resolve. Challenges regarding legitimacy, coalition-building, geography, enemy resolve, and the reality that such an ambitious goal would require deploying U.S. ground troops all militate against such a step.
From the outset of the war on Iran, no effort was made to build international legitimacy. The war began on February 28 with a joint U.S.-Israeli strike. Compounding matters, an airstrike hit an Iranian elementary school, killing 120 children. Mistakes happen in wars, but our failure to acknowledge our error reinforced a sense of illegitimacy and vengefulness, stripping us of any potential moral superiority.
The Trump administration failed to notify U.S. allies of the impending strike, particularly neighboring Arab countries, triggering immediate regional distrust. Later, when the president requested allied support to open the Strait of Hormuz, he was met with international coldness. This refusal was hardly surprising, given Trump’s notoriously abrasive style toward European leaders.
Never underestimate an enemy’s will to fight. There was never a clear understanding of objectives. The administration initially declared it wanted regime change, but Trump later told reporters he was never interested in it.
The administration claimed preemptive action was urgent to prevent Iran from acquiring an imminent nuclear weapon. Yet when pressed later, Trump downplayed those concerns, claiming Iran was left with nothing but "nuclear dust."
After Iran closed the strait and reopening it for maritime navigation became the focal point of military and diplomatic strategy, Trump told the world it did not matter much because the United States didn't need the oil. Objectives seemed to shift daily.
I have no doubt U.S. military planners understood the limits of air power regarding U.S. objectives in Iran. That should have signaled to the White House that victory was unlikely unless the military intended to invade Iran.
Geography would always be a limiting factor. Throughout nearly 40 years of military service—much of it spent in the Middle East—I never met a general or admiral who spoke of Iran without mentioning the Strait of Hormuz. The strait was Iran’s weapon of mass destruction, its bulwark against invasion, and its trump card.
Moreover, the Iranian leadership was in a defensive posture; they only needed to preserve and protect themselves to win. And that is precisely what they did. At this stage, it is highly unlikely U.S. troops will ever stand on ground cherished by Iranians and declare it under their control.
The U.S. war was also constrained by enemy resolve. From 1980 to 1988, Iran and Iraq fought a brutal war that cost hundreds of thousands of Iranian lives. It should have been clear from the start that Iranians would fight, and fight fiercely.
The Limits of Power
This profound failure to recognize and understand the limits of power is not a new phenomenon in American history or military history generally. With every revolution in military technology—from cavalry to motorized units, single-shot rifles to Gatling guns, propeller planes to jets—leaders desperately want to believe they can ignore the fundamental nature of war.
As our capacity to project power worldwide grows, we desperately want to believe geography no longer matters. As new media allows us to witness public anger within an adversary's society, we desperately want to believe we can effect change with minimal risk or commitment. As artificial intelligence accelerates tactical decision-making, we desperately want to believe lessons learned from military experience can be discarded.
These beliefs are illusions. More worryingly, several structural trends in the U.S. suggest the problem will worsen rather than improve, no matter how obvious the lessons of the war on Iran may seem right now.
The first trend is the shift toward a hyper-centralized presidential leadership where loyalty to the leader supersedes loyalty to institutions. When loyalists head institutions designed to provide the best military, diplomatic, economic, or intelligence counsel, there is a risk that advice will be tailored—intentionally or unintentionally—to match the president's desires.
This is a recipe for disaster. A leader needs unvarnished truth and the best possible advice, regardless of personal views. Executive power concentration has grown across successive administrations, and with little congressional pushback, this trend shows few signs of reversing. Trump is a stark example, but he will likely not be the last president to succumb to these temptations.
The risks of hyper-centralized presidential leadership are dangerously compounded by the growing politicization of military leadership. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s ongoing purge of military leadership will undermine civil-military relations for years to come.
Trump and Hegseth forced senior officers out across nearly every branch, including the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Chief of Naval Operations, and the Army Chief of Staff. Hegseth also intervened unprecedentedly in officer promotions, personally crossing out dozens of names—disproportionately officers who had served under officials deemed obstacles to Trump's domestic political goals.
Although remaining military officers will largely perform their duties honorably, this purge will inevitably exert a chilling effect on senior officers' willingness to provide candid advice, particularly concerning the costs of force and its limitations.
Finally, the rapid introduction of new technologies—from artificial intelligence and uncrewed vehicles to robotics, cyber, and space systems—will make it all too easy to ignore the fundamental realities of war.
Technology will always be vital, and militaries must strive to enhance lethality, survivability, and situational awareness. But these capabilities are insufficient to override the foundational principles of war. Leaders must understand technology for what it is: an enabler. It improves the application of military power, but it cannot compensate for flawed policies that drive us into conflict in the first place.
Today’s U.S. military is the best-armed and most professional force in world history. But that does not mean we can ignore the limits of our power.
Geography will constrain us. No matter technological advancements, geography remains decisive. Terrain dictates how an adversary fights, where forces concentrate, and how troops are supplied. Oceans and rivers present natural barriers, restricting maneuverability, logistics, and power projection. The Straits of Hormuz and Bab el-Mandeb present challenges identical to the English Channel, the Rhine, or the Volga.
Enemy resolve will constrain us. There is a "sleeping giant" in every society that will awaken and fight fiercely, driven by a sense of justice, survival instincts, or both. Invaders, aggressors, and first-strikers provoke a deep, instinctive reaction among targeted populations. Never underestimate an enemy's will to fight—a mistake we have made repeatedly.
Our reluctance to deploy ground troops will constrain us. No one in America wants our youth to perish on foreign soil, yet doing so is sometimes necessary for a greater interest.
Time limits will constrain us. This is not uniquely American, but we suffer from it more acutely. While Russians might eat grass before surrendering, America's reputation is that we will tire of fighting and withdraw. This stems largely from our democratic system requiring popular support to sustain protracted military engagement. When costs outpace our collective sense of necessity, the urge to withdraw takes over.
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