Of Fuzzy Writing and Fatalities

Abstract

To communicate effectively, one must write clearly. To write clearly, one must think clearly. To succeed in battle, one also must communicate effectively and think clearly. So one would think Army would place a premium on clarity of expression. Yet there is abundant evidence in the pages of this Journal that the clarity of military writing is in sharp decline. Why this might be so, and what can be done about it, is the subject of this article.

I have read every issue of the Australian Army Journal since its reintroduction in 2003. An eccentricity for a law professor, I know, but as an academic these are to be expected.

I have learned much from its pages about tactics and strategy and potential weaponry. But perhaps the clearest lesson from the eleven volumes is that most modern soldiers cannot write clearly.

You doubt this conclusion? Well, interpret, if you can, this concluding paragraph of a recent AAJ article:

As the AFP seeks to enhance its interoperability with the ADF, and establish IDG as a leading international CIVPOL organisation, the commonality of training, cooperation and operational experiences of the RACMP makes it the most suitable organisation to contribute to, and lead, ADF-AFP interoperability initiatives. Extant development of operational and tactical interoperability frameworks such as the JIPCC will enable MP to address no less than seventeen recommendations made by the eight ADF-AFP interoperability working groups. Through the implementation of extant and developmental concepts, and greater contribution to future interoperability initiatives, the MP will maintain a fundamental role in enhancing ADF-AFP interoperability on peace and stability operations. ¹

This paragraph is by no means unusual. I could have chosen another ten equally impenetrable others from the Journal’s pages. So soldiers cannot write clearly. Does this matter? The role of infantry, after all, is ‘to seek out and close with the enemy, to kill or capture him, to seize and hold ground, and to repel attack, by day or night, regardless of season, weather or terrain’. ²

Do infantry need to be able to write clearly to do that?

The argument of this article is that their officers certainly need to be able to do so, if the troops are to know where to go, and when, and what to do once they get there. And it is officers, in the main, who write for the Journal.

The answer can be found in a comparison of the paragraph I have quoted above and the one following it. The former requires a real intellectual effort to decipher. The latter, from Australian Army doctrine, leaves no room for doubt, and lifts one’s spirits with its clarity and call to action.

If you received orders cast in the language of the first quote, would you know instantly what to do?

I am not arguing that the first quoted officer would write orders in this style. He has been trained in how to give orders, and I expect he applies that training to keep them simple, structured and clear.

We humans so often think in words. And if the words one thinks in are ‘extant’, ‘commonality’ and ‘interoperability’, and one uses the latter five times in one paragraph, I fear for the effectiveness of the Army. However, if the words our officers think in are ‘to kill or capture’, ‘to seize and hold ground’, I, for one, will sleep better at night.

To show how utterly unnecessary obtuse language is, let me take a shot at clarifying the selected paragraph. What it really says, is:

The federal police seeks to work better with the defence force, and establish its international deployment group as a leading international policing organisation. The training and experience of the military police means it is the best organisation to assist the federal police by contributing to, and leading, joint operations. Frameworks exist, and are under development, to promote cooperation between agencies. This will enable the military police to address seventeen of the recommendations made by the working group on federal police—defence force cooperation. The military police can play a major role in assisting the defence force and federal police to work better together on peace and stability operations.

There you go. About the same number of words. No jargon, no acronyms: real communication.

Military language wasn’t always obtuse. The editorial written for the Australian Army Journal in October- November 1949 was by a soldier:

Ever since the first atomic bomb exploded over Hiroshima, millions and millions of words have been ... written ... [claiming] that a war fought with these weapons will result in the sudden extinction of civilisation. The historian, of course, knows better. He knows that few civilisations and few nations have been wiped out by mechanical means. Civilisations and nations die, as a rule, from a disease of the soul, a paralysis of the spiritual force that gave them birth and sustained their growth.

Gloriously clear language, and penetratingly insightful to boot.

So what has happened to our language over the past half a century? Certainly, the use of clear, effective language is in decline. Compare, if you will, the oratory of Gough Whitlam and Kevin Rudd. Both highly intelligent men, no doubt, but Mr Whitlam expresses himself clearly and effectively, while Mr Rudd speaks like a technocrat. A comparison of the language of Prime Ministers Menzies and Howard yields precisely the same result.

Don Watson knows why. He has identified ‘managerialism’ and the language of bureaucracy as the culprit. Don was Paul Keating’s speech writer and, more recently, the author of Death Sentence: The Decay of Public Language and Watson’s Dictionary of Weasel Words, Contemporary Clichés, Cant and Managerial Jargon. There is no need for me to replough these fields here. Suffice it to say that whoever wrote the 1949 editorial was drawing upon deep wells of language, from The King James Version of the Bible to Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer and from Shakespeare and other classical authors. The language of the modern military officer, or business executive, is shaped by reading memos written by other military officers or executives. It has no poetry. No ear for the rhythm of words. No simplicity or clarity. And it is the poorer for it.

Recently Don Watson considered the impact of this type of language on the effectiveness of the Country Fire Authority’s warnings on Black Saturday in February, 2009.³ He argued that residents whose lives were at risk failed to understand how serious the fires were because of the language used in official warnings. As Don wrote,

when it came to telling people what they had to know, the management side of their training made their best inadequate. Telling people requires language whose meaning is plain and unmistakable. Managerial language is never this, and being without roots or provenance there is no past from which to learn.

Managerial language hides and obfuscates because it is meant to. One of its attractions is its deniability. It takes courage to say clearly what one means, for if wrong, one’s error is apparent to all. ‘Managerialism’ is the art, in part, of saying enough to allow others to work out what you mean, if they are prepared to put in the effort, while allowing you lots of wiggle room if what you have said turns out to be wrong.

I had a graphic example of this once, with a foreign student. She had submitted an essay that I thought warranted a credit, but the English was very poor. So I referred her to the university service that assisted foreign students with their written expression. The paper came back, in much clearer language, but its content was barely worth a pass. The sophistication I had seen in it before had been mine, added subconsciously in places where the meaning was unclear.

Many of us, at some level, know that saying clearly what we mean will give us no place to hide should we turn out to be wrong. So we obfuscate, use jargon and, in short, write like the first quoted author above. I don’t wish to criticise that article’s author; to write for one’s peers, particularly when one is not senior in the military hierarchy, must be challenging. Managerial language offers some refuge from the fears involved. But a real price must be paid for the comfort brought by such a lack of clarity.

When I teach post-graduate students how to write, I do so simply. There may be something in this that Army can use.

I have three primary messages: Size Does Matter, the KISS is crucial, and active beats passive every time. One can imagine Army personnel remembering these principles.

Size matters, because short words and short sentences are best. I tell students if they have used a word and aren’t sure of its meaning, don’t look it up in a dictionary, use a simpler word. Likewise, if they are struggling to punctuate a sentence, they should break it up into two or three sentences. Any punctuation problems will be solved. Size also matters, because less is more. The best way to write a top-rate 6000 word essay is to write an 8000 word essay and cut out the unnecessary 2000 words. Twenty-five per cent of the words in most student writing add nothing. ‘In respect of’ and ‘further to the earlier analysis’ should be deleted. The writer’s best friend is a red marker pen applied ruthlessly to inessential words. What remains will be far more readable.

The KISS is crucial, for KISS stands for Keep It Simple Sweetheart (or Stupid, depending on whom one is addressing). Simple words and simple sentences lie at the heart of clear communication. Consider these sentences from Donald Horne’s last book, Dying: A Memoir, about a graduation address he had delivered:

I think it goes down well. The microphone works. My breathing, sustained by the oxygen, is not laboured. The applause is long and seems appreciative.⁴

This comes from the author of ‘Australia is a lucky country, run mainly by second-rate people who share its luck.’ Simple words, simple sentences. One doubts Australia is fortunate in its natural resources and geography although its people lack a number of desirable attributes’ would have entered the national lexicon.

Active refers to voice. ‘The platoon took the hill at 6.45 am’ is preferable to ‘The hill was taken at 6.45 am by the platoon.’ Passive voice is dull. It fails to carry the reader along with the message. Avoid it.

So these are my tips to students. Keep it short. Keep it simple. Keep the voice active.

These are attributes of writing. But of course writing and thinking inform each other. Clear thinking needs to precede clear writing. I’ve often said to a student, ‘You’ve worked out what you want to say by writing this paper, now you need to start again. This is a jumble. Toss it away, and write afresh, with your message clear in your head.’ (Students rarely do; one hopes that compliance in the military is more common.)

The flip side is that obtuse writing can, in turn, cloud thinking. Perhaps no environment places a higher premium on clarity of thinking than a battlefield. The fog and chaos of war is no place for anyone who doesn’t think and communicate in sharp, straight lines and clear, simple concepts. Writing in this way can only promote thinking in this way. Army clearly needs to train officers to write more clearly and simply. One day our national security may depend upon it.

About the Author

Ross Buckley is a Professor in the Faculty of Law at the University of New South Wales and an Australia21 Fellow in the research network on ‘Enhancing Australia’s Security and Prosperity in the 21st Century’. He is the founding Series Editor of the Global Trade Law Series of Kluwer of The Hague, and Series Co-Editor of Kluwer’s International Banking and Finance Law Series. He has written extensively, mostly on international finance law. He has also consulted to the US Department of Justice, the US Securities and Exchange Commission, Vietnam’s Ministry of Trade, Indonesia’s Ministry of Finance and the Australian Tax Office.

Endnotes

1    Captain Damian Eaton, ‘The Role of the Military Police in Enhancing ADF-AFP Interoperability on Peace and Stability Operations’, Australian Army Journal, Vol. VI, No. 1, p. 71.

2    The Australian Army defines its role as such; see <http://www.defencejobs.gov.au/army/jobs/infantryofficer/&gt;.

3    Don Watson, ‘Language like this should be put to the torch’, Sydney Morning Herald, 19 September 2009, p. 7.

4    Donald Horne and Myfanwy Horne, Dying a Memoir, Viking, Camberwell, p. 44.