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The fog of war

In 2001, British troops marched into Afghanistan on a mission to combat al-Qaeda and topple the Tali

Out into the attack with the Royal Marines last year, we drove in dust-choked Viking armoured vehicles through the sand desert and to the crest of a ridge that overlooked the lush, irrigated valley along the Helmand River known to the soldiers as the Green Zone, their battlefield. Then, in the landscape below, people began to run. Men on motorbikes went from house to house to announce the battle. In all directions spread a panorama of terror, as women, children, boys, anyone not fighting, ran for safety. The Americans call this the "blue stream" - the indicator, almost every time, of an impending engagement.

Two days later, I was in another Viking, clutching some bit of metal in an attempt to anchor myself as it charged back to base across a poppy field. There were little grey puffs of exploding Airburst rocket-propelled grenades near us, and the crump of home-side mortars landing on the trenches from where the Taliban were firing. I looked out of the small porthole in the back, and there, in the middle of this "contact", was an old shepherd nonchalantly herding his sheep across a field, unflinching.

Two visions of the Afghan population - one of terror, one of apparent unconcern. But in both, a battlefield where the population can rarely just watch unaffected.

Seven years into Britain's fourth Afghan war (the previous battles being those of 1839-42, 1878-80 and 1919) and three years into its campaign on the Helmand River, those in command emphasise that the objective of military action is no longer focused on those Taliban firing rockets and laying bombs, but rather on people like the farmers I saw so fleetingly. General Stanley McChrystal, the US and Nato commander in Kabul, has designed this summer's offensive in Helmand, launched ahead of the 20 August presidential election, not as a counter-terrorist mission, but rather on classic counter-insurgency principles. Success would be measured, he said, by the numbers of people shielded from violence and the influence of the enemy.

The aim of this new offensive, in which British soldiers have played a major part, is that the Taliban will be cleared and the troops will stay to hold and build something for the people. Operation Panther's Claw, as the British part is known, has been costly. And at least 43 British servicemen have died since the beginning of May. But what of the cost to the Afghan people, so often forgotten? And do we have any conception of what the Afghan people, supposedly now so central to the west's thinking, make of the commanders' new slogans?

After a year spent researching a book on the Helmand conflict, twice visiting the war zone and Kabul, and interviewing more than 200 soldiers and officials who have served there, I am struck that no one has much of an idea. The lack of any real connection with, hard data on, or understanding of, the Afghan population is arguably the Achilles heel of the whole campaign. Is the population sitting on a fence, as some generals will tell you, waiting to see that Nato is in control before jumping over to support the Afghan government? Or does the rebellion, as I suspect, have deeper roots?
One thing is clear. While the cost to British forces has been great, no one has suffered more from this war than the civilians in whose fields it has been fought. They are not spectators. When Britain's combat troops arrived in April 2006, they came on a mission promising to provide security for
development projects. Instead, they entered an all-out battle with the Taliban. As the British defended themselves, using heavy weapons, the Afghan people were driven away in their thousands and turned into internal refugees. Parts of some of the principal towns of Helmand - Sangin, Musa Qala, Garmsir - were reduced to rubble. Others, such as Nawzad and Kajaki, became ghost towns.

Again and again, Whitehall warriors have repeated the big lie, talking of tipping points and endless progress. The military campaign might ebb and flow. Towns and districts have been captured and recaptured. But through it all - and despite the best efforts of so many who have tried to help and have improved the lot of people here and there - the local people have been the greatest victims of the fighting.

When you are embedded in all the excitement of this war, deep in the machinations of how to win this compound or that village, or control the province, it is easy to lose perspective on what the British are supposed to be doing there. Oddly, the purpose of this conflict often seemed irrelevant to soldiers I met. A veteran corporal just back from a tour of Afghanistan in which two good friends had been killed (following two hard tours of Iraq) had some strong views on the politics of war - much stronger and more left-wing, I have to say, than most.

The conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan were interlinked, he said, and "a massive war over power and money and oil". Although called terrorists, Britain's enemies were "fighting for the same things that we're trying to fight for". He added: "We're being terrorists, really. We're going over [to] their countries, blowing them up, and taking their oil . . . We only do things that are going to benefit our own economy and that's the only reason we're over there, I believe."

Even so, he said, the Afghan war was more justified. About politics, "there's no point massively getting all worked up . . . At the end of the day, in the army, you're just a pawn to the politicians." As with many other soldiers I interviewed, these discussions were largely a matter of passing the time, almost an intellectual pursuit, not something that really affected morale. Many of the men said they were in the army for "the craic", a term that covered all the adrenalin and honour and proving yourself that war involved. It was important that they weren't doing something bad; beyond that, for most, it did not seem that the details mattered.

Ultimately, however, the cause does matter. Whether lives have been risked wisely depends both on the nobility of that cause and on the quality of the leadership that deploys the troops. It has been hard, though, for soldiers - for anyone - to follow the detailed explanations of just why we are in Helmand. It was to combat al-Qaeda that British forces first entered Afghanistan in 2001. That was a limited commitment. Five lives were lost in the first five years. Then, in 2006, when the troop numbers rose dramatically, the British headed south to Helmand with a mission described by the then defence secretary, John Reid, as being "to support reconstruction", but which has shifted constantly. Others have spoken since of the need to support the Afghan government. Or to lift the war-torn country out of poverty. Or to fight the growth of the world opium trade that is centred in Helmand. Or, as is the official line now, to secure the country from a revival of al-Qaeda. "If we can't even get straight why we're there, how
can we get straight our strategy to win?" one UK battalion commander said to me recently.

Beyond the official aims, the Helmand war also has a secret life as a battle for the reputation of British arms, a battle in which the stakes have been raised high by what most in the US and UK military perceive as Britain's failure in Basra, Iraq. I've found that nothing touches the raw nerves of top generals like mentioning the view that - despite an occupation lasting almost as long as the Second World War - it took decisive US action last year to rescue Basra from the murderous militias to which the British had ceded power.

So far, Helmand has fared little better. Where Britain once had a reputation for successful counter-insurgencies (whether in Malaya, Oman or Northern Ireland), the sense that Americans generally lag behind has almost completely evaporated. Now it is British leadership that is most in question. As John Nagl, the counter-insurgency guru and adviser to the US commander General David Petraeus, told me: "Until you admit that you have a problem, that you are not doing everything as well as you could, it's really hard to get better. I have not seen that same spirit of public self-criticism in the British army . . . The British army, for which I have so much respect, which has such a history of success in counter-insurgency, has not done everything right in Helmand Province, did not do everything right in Basra. It needs to think hard about those lessons."

After three years of British involvement, the once-quiet province of Helmand has been transformed into the most volatile region in the country. The UK has been blamed for stirring a rebellion. And, just as in Basra, it has needed the arrival of the Americans for there to be a serious shot at winning. A confidential debriefing given by a US marine commander this spring, and revealed to me in notes made by a senior British commander, voiced a litany of concerns on the part of the Americans about the way the British have been operating. UK forces were said to patrol in formations that were too large, to spend too much time "recovering" from patrols, and to patrol too often without the Afghan police or army.

They also, the debriefing suggested, have too many bases, spend insufficient time living among the people, are not in Afghanistan long enough to learn about the people or the place, and are generally deficient in trained intelligence-gatherers. They are "cautious about the enemy and overestimate their strength", are too secretive about sharing information, have insufficient cash to dole out, and are disrupted by their system of R&R (rest and recreation). Finally - insult of insults - the British were told: "Your standards of personal hygiene and field discipline aren't good enough and you have too many non-battle injuries."

The reputation of the British is on the line in Helmand, and they clearly have a mountain to climb.

There is a strange mood as the coffins come back from Afghanistan. Media interest is high. The crowds at memorial events show that support for soldiers is also high. And yet there is a kind of collective hypocrisy that combines a concern for the welfare of the armed forces with a lack of interest in the war. Few are sold on the aims of the war, however often they are repeated. How many of us have bothered to learn even the names of the principal places where this war is being fought - in Helmand, the towns of Lashkar Gah, Garmsir, Sangin, Musa Qala?

What really gets soldiers' goat, however, is the endless speeches saying "Thank you, thank you, thank you" for their sacrifice. There is that hoary old George Orwell misquotation: "People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." Soldiers in the field generally wish a handful fewer people were sleeping peaceably and a few more - and particularly those who work for the peacetime-focused bureaucracies of Whitehall - were spending a bit more time wide awake, supporting them meaningfully.

On top of the toll of deaths and injuries, there is the psychological damage. As you read this, several hundred soldiers are back in Britain on mid-tour leave (their R&R). Knowing that their friends are right now facing the bullets, most wish they weren't here. They will be staring at people in the street who don't give a damn. They will be talking to so-called friends in the pub who will listen to about a minute of the truth before their eyes glaze over and they change the subject. The soldiers will hate every minute of their so-called rest and recreation. Those I know will spend their "holiday" with a can of beer in one hand and the remote in the other, flicking between the sport and the agonising headlines that flash along the bottom of Sky News.

Talking to soldiers back from Helmand for my book took me into a dark, dark place. Among the confident lines journalists like to spin is that to spill your guts to a tape recorder will somehow do you some good: "It's really like therapy. You'll feel better for getting it out of your system." For the first time in nearly 20 years of reporting, I just had to stop interviews.

I got to realise I was not a shrink. I could get someone to take me to the worst moment in their lives - to describe the horrors in their head that they themselves had yet to face - but how to get them back out again? I wasn't sure. How do you cope with chatting to your best friend and, a second later, seeing the stump of his leg leaning against a wall?

It wasn't grown men crying that bothered me. It was those with minds that began to wander, without them realising it, mid-sentence, jumping like a needle on vinyl as they conflated one horror into the next: a stirred-up soup of things that seemingly can't get any worse but then still do.

And it wasn't just combat soldiers. They at least got attention and perhaps counselling. Few would think of checking up on the storeman who broke down, blaming himself for not sending the bit of kit that might have saved a life. Or the young captains in the operations room who told me how they had to play God: to interpret the rules on which young kid who turned up at the base could get a ride to a hospital in a helicopter, and which might just be left with his family, probably to die. Or the padres who were not only the sponges for every bit of dark emotion from all around, but who helped, literally, to pick up bits of flesh and tried to put them together to create a semblance of a body to send back home.

Speaking at Chatham House in May this year, General Sir Richard Dannatt - the outgoing chief of general staff and one of the few to have the courage to speak his mind while in post - used Leon Trotsky's warning that "you may not be interested in this war, but this war is interested in you" to underline what he called the globalisation of our national security interests. In effect, interventions such as Helmand are at the core of those interests: international activism is "hardwired into our political and national DNA", he said.

The weakness with such arguments, over which so many in power now labour, is not the assumption that global issues affect British security, but the implication that the way we have intervened in places such as Basra and Helmand has matched the British military official slogan of being a "force for good".

Whether you like these wars or not, Dannatt was right to emphasise the consequences of them to us all. If not the cost of billions of pounds diverted, or the cost in blood, or the cost for years to come of so many young men going through such trauma, then consider the strategic cost to national interests if such a grand adventure turns out again to be a grand failure.

Stephen Grey is the author of "Operation Snakebite: the Explosive True Story of an Afghan Desert Siege" (Viking, £16.99).

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Afghanistan: The Lost War

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Goodbye to the Confederate flag

After the shootings in Charleston, the Republican right showed it was finally ready to reject the old symbols of the Confederacy.

On 27 June, an African-American activist named Bree Newsome woke up before dawn, put on her climbing equipment and scaled a 30-foot flagpole on the lawn of State House in Columbia, South Carolina. She then removed the Confederate battle flag that flew from it. “We can’t wait any longer,” she explained later in an online statement. “It’s time for a new chapter where we are sincere about dismantling white supremacy.”

After she was led away in handcuffs, the flag was raised again.

Newsome’s protest reflected a growing impatience within America’s black community and anger about liberal inaction. Political rallies by the Democratic presidential contenders Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders have been disrupted by the Black Lives Matter campaign against violence committed on young African Americans and the cultural and legal biases that justify it. While promoting his book on race in the US, the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates argued that, to African Americans, the battle flag represents a lingering attempt “to bury the fact that half this country thought it was a good idea to raise an empire rooted in slavery”.

Yet, on this matter, to everyone’s surprise, the black civil rights movement and many southern Republicans have proved to be of one mind. On 9 July the House of Representatives in South Carolina voted to lower the battle flag for good. It stood, representatives said, for racism. It had to go.

The context of this agreement was a painful one. Ten days before Newsome’s act, a 21-year-old white man named Dylann Roof shot and killed nine black worshippers at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. According to his room-mate, he wanted to start a race war. The TV screens showed a photo of him holding a gun in one hand and a Confederate battle flag in the other.

If the demands for redress made by civil rights groups didn’t come as a surprise, conservative acquiescence did. The Republican Party had built a solid base in the South by courting white voters who cherished the memory of the Confederacy. Yet the party’s presidential hopefuls from both the North and the South – including Jeb Bush, Lindsey Graham, Scott Walker and George Pataki – said that the battle flag ought to be lowered. The most striking intervention was made by the governor of South Carolina, Nikki Haley, who denounced the use of the Confederate flag and signed the bill removing it. Haley is now tipped to figure on the list of potential vice-presidential nominees.

The volte-face of the US right is in part a result of the horror of the Charleston shootings. Yet it also occurs in the context of major shifts within American society. There are still many conservatives who will defend Confederate heritage as a matter of southern pride but the culture wars are changing as the US becomes increasingly European in outlook. This is taking place across the country. It just happens to be more pronounced in the South because no other region has fought so violently and so long to resist the liberal tide.

The story of the battle flag is the story of the South. The first official Confederate flag used in the civil war of 1861-65 caused confusion during fighting – through the haze of gun smoke, its design of 13 stars and red and white bars was hard to distinguish from the Stars and Stripes. An alternative blue cross was rejected for being too sectarian; the racist Confederacy was anxious not to offend its Jewish citizens. So the cross became a diagonal X. This flag was never officially adopted by the Confederate army. In the years after the war its use was infrequent.

There was little need to visualise southern difference in a flag. It was self-evident in the physical signs of racial segregation: separate schools, pools and drinking fountains; black people confined to the back of the bus. Political displays of the battle flag of Dixie (the historical nickname for the states that seceded from the Union) only really resurfaced when that racial order was challenged by northern liberals. In 1948, the Democrats – then the party overwhelmingly in control of the South – split over modest calls for civil rights. The conservatives who refused to support that year’s presidential ticket, the “Dixiecrats”, triggered a rev­ival of flag-waving across the region.

The old battle flag suddenly appeared on private lawns, on cars and at political rallies. Supposedly ancient cultural traditions were invented overnight. For instance, the 1948 student handbook of the University of Mississippi confessed: “Many Ole Miss customs are fairly new; they lack only the savouring which time brings . . . Ole Miss has adopted the Confederate flag as a symbol of the Mississippi spirit. Each football game finds the scarlet flag frantically waving to the rhythm of the Rebel band.”

I can confirm that this “tradition” was still going as recently as in 2005. That year, I attended an American football game at Ole Miss and was surprised when the band played “Dixie” at the end. White boys and white girls stood up and belted out the folk song of the Confederacy, while black students filed out.

In 1958, South Carolina made it a crime to desecrate the battle flag. Three years later, on the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the civil war, it was hoisted above its Capitol building in Columbia. That day, there was a struggle in the US Congress to keep federal funding going for segregated schools.

So clear is the link between the postwar white resistance to civil rights and the battle flag that many see it as the symbolic equivalent of the N-word. Jack Hunter, the editor of the conservative website Rare Politics, says: “Some people insist that it’s not about racism, not about slavery, not about segregation. But it’s about all those things.” Hunter grew up in Charleston and used to skateboard in the car park of the church that Dylann Roof attacked. When he was a young journalist, he appeared on local radio as a rabidly right-wing masked character called “the Southern Avenger”. His past was exposed in 2013 while he was working for Rand Paul, a Republican presidential candidate, and Hunter stepped down from his position. He publicly renounced his youthful association with racial conservatism. He now eschews any romanticism about the Confederate cause and its demand for states’ rights. “States’ rights to do what?” he asks: the right to discriminate against African Americans? He is glad that the State House flag is gone. He ascribes its longevity to ignorance, which was corrected by Roof’s rampage: “It was the first time that [southern Republicans] were able to see a different perspective on this symbol.”

Not everyone agrees. Richard Hines – a former South Carolina legislator, Reagan campaign state co-chair and senior activist with the Sons of Confederate Veterans – insists that the flag is “an enduring symbol of the southern fighting man”. Indeed, a poll in July found that 57 per cent of Americans think it stands for southern heritage, rather than racism. Yet that heritage has a political dimension. “Southern people are proud of who they are and there is a leftist assault to destroy the best part of America,” Hines says. “The Trotskyite elite in control of the establishment wants to root out the southern tradition” – a tradition of religious devotion, chivalry and military honour. It is possible to cast the battle flag as a pawn in a much larger cultural conflict.

In 2000, civil rights activists lobbied hard to get the battle flag removed from the top of the South Carolina Capitol and succeeded in having it shrunk in size and relocated to the grounds of State House. The issue came up in that year’s Republican presidential primaries – an unusually poisonous contest between George W Bush and John McCain. Supporters of Bush put out a false story that McCain had fathered an interracial child out of wedlock. McCain added to his woes by opining that the battle flag was “a symbol of racism and slavery”. An organisation called Keep It Flying flooded the state with 250,000 letters attacking him and he lost the crucial competition here to Bush.

The battle flag has retained a strong emotional power for a long time. This makes the Republican establishment’s abandonment of the flag all the more surprising. Then again, those who run the South are probably the people most likely to grasp how much the region has changed in just a decade.

***

In 2010 I took a trip through North Carolina. The landscape told a story. Dotted along the roadside were abandoned black buildings, the old tobacco sheds. The decline of the rural economy had rendered them obsolete. Over the fields that would once have been full of farmers were freshly tarmacked roads, stretching out to nowhere. My guide explained that these were supposed to be cul-de-sacs for new houses. North Carolina was going through a property boom. But who was going to buy all those homes, I asked? The answer: damn Yankees.

Demography is destiny. This once agri­cultural region developed fast from the 1960s onwards by keeping union membership, taxes and regulation as low as possible. Yet capitalism proved disastrous for southern conservatism. Northerners flooded in, seeking work or retirement and bringing their own values. The forecast is that North Carolina’s Research Triangle – the South’s Silicon Valley – will grow by 700,000 jobs and 1.2 million people in two decades.

White migration was accompanied by an influx of Spanish speakers as the service sector flourished. Between 2000 and 2010, the white share of the population of North Carolina fell from 70 to 65 per cent. The black proportion remained at roughly 21 per cent. The Latino proportion, however, jumped from 4.7 per cent to 8.4 per cent. Today, the proportion of people who are non-white and over 60 is about a third. But it’s approaching nearly half for those under 18. As a result, politics in the South is no longer biracial: a contest between white and black. It is increasingly multiracial and uncoupled from the region’s complex past.

The impact of these changes is reflected in voting patterns. In 2000, the South was still overwhelmingly Republican in presidential contests. Even the Democratic nominee, Al Gore, a southerner, lost his home state of Tennessee. But in 2008 and 2012, Barack Obama took those states with the fastest-changing demographics: Florida and Virginia. He won North Carolina in 2008 and lost it in 2012 – but by less than 100,000 votes. It is true that the Republicans won back control in the 2014 midterm elections, with the result that the Deep South now sends few Democrats to Congress; but the region’s political masters are not quite as traditional-minded as they once were.

The Republican relationship with the Confederate past is complex. As the party of Abraham Lincoln and the Union, the GOPs’ southern support was historically small. But in the 1960s the national Democratic Party embraced civil rights and alienated its once loyal southern following; the Republicans took the opportunity to steal some conservative white voters.

The growing southern Republican vote had a class component. Its success in local and congressional races was built more on winning over middle-class moderates than on appealing to the working-class racists who filled the ranks of the Ku Klux Klan. The southern Republican Party did enthusiastically embrace the Confederate battle flag in many quarters. But some office-holders did so only with ambiguity, while large sections of the party never identified with it at all. The period of Republican ascendancy in the South was, in reality, linked with a softening of the area’s racial politics.

Two of the Republicans’ current southern stars are Indian Americans: Bobby Jindal, the governor of Louisiana, and Nikki Haley, the anti-flag governor of South Carolina. There are just two black people in the US Senate and one of them is a Republican, the Tea Party-backed senator for South Carolina, Tim Scott. Marco Rubio, the Floridian senator and presidential candidate, is Cuban American, and the former Florida governor Jeb Bush is married to a Mexican-born woman and speaks fluent Spanish. Bush has tried to push a more moderate line on immigration, in deference to how the GOP will struggle to win the White House if it appeals only to angry white voters. The Kentucky libertarian senator Rand Paul, Jack Hunter’s former boss, has called for legal reforms to correct the trend of keeping far more black than white people in prison. And he is not the only Republican to have been moved by recent race riots sparked by police violence.

***

Violence on the streets of Ferguson, Missouri, and Baltimore, Maryland, confirmed that there still is a culture war in the US. Yet its character has changed. In the past, civil disturbances were typically leapt upon by conservative politicians as evidence of social decline. The 1992 LA riots were blamed on single parenthood and rap lyrics. In contrast, conservative leaders today are far more likely to acknowledge the problems of white racism. There is no place in their ranks for the likes of Dylann Roof. White supremacists are tiny in number.

Jack Hunter claims: “The KKK is like 12 guys in a telephone booth. Liberal groups will use their threat for fundraising but it doesn’t exist. It hasn’t properly since the 1960s.” Roof’s actions say more about gun control, mental illness and the angst of the young than they do about popular, largely liberal views on race, as polling shows.

We can see a similar liberal shift in other areas of the historic culture war. In May 2015 Gallup released the results of a “moral acceptability” survey charting changes in national attitude across all age groups, from 2001 to 2015. Approval of gay relationships jumped from 40 to 63 per cent; having a baby out of wedlock from 45 to 61 per cent; sex between unmarried men and women from 53 to 68 per cent; doctor-assisted suicide from 49 to 56 per cent; even polygamy went from 7 to 16 per cent. Abortion remained narrowly disapproved of: support for access has only crept up from 42 to 45 per cent. This is probably a result of an unusual concentration of political and religious opposition and because it involves a potential life-or-death decision. But the general trend is that young people just don’t care as much about what consenting adults get up to.

Why? It might be because old forms of identity are dying. One way of measuring that is religious affiliation. From 2007 to 2014, according to Pew Research, the proportion of Americans describing themselves as Christian fell from 78 to 71 per cent. Today, only a quarter of the population is evangelical and 21 per cent Catholic, down despite high immigration. Then there is the decline in civic or communal activity. Since 2012, the organisers of Nascar, the stock-car races, have not published attendance figures at their tracks, probably because they have fallen so sharply. The decline of this most macho and working class of sports parallels the fall in conservative forms of collective identity such as southern traditionalism.

The old culture war was, like the racial politics of the old South, binary. In the 1950s, around the same time as the South invented its tradition of flying the battle flag in colleges, the US constructed an ideal of the “normal” nuclear family unit: straight, white, patriarchal, religious. On the other side was the “abnormal”: gay, black, feminist, atheist, and the rest. The surest way to get elected in the US between 1952 and 2004 was to associate yourself with the economic needs and cultural prejudices of the majority. The approach was once summed up by a Richard Nixon strategist thus: split the country in two and the Republicans will take the larger half. But that is changing. The old normal is no longer the cultural standard but just one of many identities to choose from. The races are mixing. Women want to work more and have children later in life, possibly without marriage. Many religious people are having to rethink their theology when a child comes out as gay. And the enforcers of the old ways – the unions, churches or political parties – are far less attractive than the atomising internet.

***

Politicians are scrabbling to keep up with the diffusion of American identity. Democrats got lucky when they nominated Barack Obama and chose a presidential candidate who reflected the fractured era well: interracial, non-denominational Christian, and so on. In the 2012 presidential race the Republicans got burned when they tried to play the old culture war card on abortion. They won’t repeat that mistake. After the Supreme Court legalised gay marriage across the country in June, the right’s response was not as uniformly loud and outraged as it would have been in the past. Some protested, but serious presidential contenders such as Jeb Bush grasped the implications of the defeat. There is a cultural and political realignment going on and no one is sure where it will lead. It’s encouraging caution among the Republican top brass. It is time, they think, to abandon lost causes.

The death of southern traditionalism is part of the ebb and flow of cultural history. Identities flourish and die. As political fashions change, you find the typically American mix of triumph on one side and jeremiad on the other. Richard Hines stood vigil as the battle flag was lowered in Columbia and noted with disgust the presence of what he described as “bussed-in” activists. “They pulled out all these gay pride flags and started shouting, ‘USA, USA, USA!’ It reminded me of the Bolshevik Revolution.”

Hines reckons that more southerners will now fly the flag than ever before and says he has attended overflow rallies of ordinary folks who love their region. He may well be correct. The faithful will keep the old Confederate standard fluttering on their lawns – an act of secession from the 21st century. But in the public domain, the battle flag is on its way down and in its place will be raised the standard of the new America. The rainbow flag flutters high. For now.

Tim Stanley is a historian and a columnist for the Telegraph

This article first appeared in the 20 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn wars