“America has never lost and will never lose a war” says Patton in the opening speech of the classic film. This, of course, rang sadly ironic to audiences in 1970 as the Vietnam War wound down, and is even more so today, though as someone pointed out, even at the time it required Patton to quietly discount his own Confederate ancestors.

That said, it is true that, of all the wars that the American Republic engaged in during the first 200 years of her existence as an independent nation (including the Revolution that made her so), Vietnam at the tail-end of that time was the only war we certainly lost (and I suppose you could argue that point, as some do, though given that our objectives in the war did not come to pass, I would say it’s a loss). Again, the Confederacy is another debatable case, as it was Americans against Americans, but if we’re taking the American Republic mean ‘the political entity in continuity with the government in Washington’, then it’s a victory for that entity.

When this is brought up it is most commonly used, as Patton uses it, as an illustration of something fundamental about the American character: that we are, somehow, particularly built for victory, whether due to an independent spirit or free government, or what have you. Just as Britain at the height of her Empire cited it as an example of something fundamental about her own character or makeup. When a people are successful, they love to find a way to claim that it is only right and just that they should be so.

On closer examination, though, the record doesn’t quite show what it looks like at first glance.

I’ve said it before, but one of the possibly unique features of American history is that, for the entire time we have been in existence, we have never shared a border or been in close proximity with a rival nation of comparable size and power. England, France, Spain, Austria, Russia, and so on were each roughly a match for each other for most of their existence, and in different times of their history they’ve each scored wins off the other. The balance of power in Europe has always been in flux. The same in East Asia, within China, Japan, and the surrounding nations. The same, as I understand, is the case in South America.

That has never been the case in North America. There is the United States and there are its smaller, weaker neighbors (including its neighbors in South America), and there are the other world powers set safely behind oceans a half-a-world away. I suppose one could argue that Canada represented the British Empire at our doorstep, but Canada’s population and military capacity has always been far less than our own, meaning that the main force of British might was still at least an ocean away even at its height (and even then, Britain’s military might was mostly a matter of its navy). We have never once, in all our history, shared a land border or a narrow sea boundary with another nation of comparable might (save for Alaska bordering Russia, though as Alaska is separate from the main territory of the nation and its ‘border’ is a scarcely-inhabitable sub-arctic region in both countries, that doesn’t really count).

The consequence of this is that the vast majority of our wars were highly lopsided affairs. The wars with Mexico and Spain were more or less blatant land-grabs against far weaker opponents (Mexico in particular scarcely even had an army at the point; just conscripts grabbed straight from local villages), while a large amount of our 19th century military activity consisted of wars with the Indian Tribes. Even in the Civil War, bloody and brutal as it was, the Union had a population that, by some estimates, was nearly four times that of their opponent (not counting the slave population), as well as almost complete naval and economic superiority. For all the brilliance of the Southern generals and the phenomenal courage of the Confederate soldiers, the South stood almost no chance of actually winning the war on the battlefield. The fact that it dragged on for four years and cost half-a-million men is a testimony to the brilliance of Lee and the incompetence of the Union commanders, but it was in no sense a battle between equal or nearly-equal opponents.

But what of our two wars with Britain? Surely that is a fight with a stronger opponent?

The answer is yes and no. Britain was far stronger than its restive colonies, of course. In fact, so much so that, on paper, the rebels had no chance of winning that war (much less than the Confederacy had). The details of why things turned out as they did would require a discussion in itself, but to summarize, the Americans were saved by two factors: first and foremost was the political division in England between the Whigs and the recently-empowered Tories. The Whigs opposed the war, partly out of ideological sympathy with the Americans, partly because American success would hurt the Tory government, which manifested on the battlefield in General Howe and several of his commanders – prominent Whigs – deliberately under-utilizing their position and resources (for instance, when Washington was retreating across New Jersey following the fall of New York, General Cornwallis somehow took six days to travel thirty miles in pursuit of him), essentially throwing the first phase of the war. The second factor, brought on by the first, was the entry of France and Spain, forcing the British to redirect most of their forces (and, incidentally, inspiring them to be far more brutal towards the Americans for the second half of the war for calling up the threat of a French invasion of Britain).

As I say, that’s a topic in itself, and a fascinating study. I’ll probably go into it in more detail another time. But my point here is that in our Revolution we were not fighting a fully-committed enemy, but an almost literally halfhearted one. It’s a little like in Rocky, where a key reason the titular character did as well as he did in the final bout was that Apollo Creed hadn’t been taking the fight seriously and was under prepared (“He doesn’t know it’s a goddamn show; he thinks it’s a goddamn fight!”).

(On that note, RIP Carl Weathers. What a cool, charismatic actor he was!).

Our second war with Britain, the War of 1812, came at the tail end of the Napoleonic Wars, when Britain was focused on Europe and exhausted from decades of fighting. It was really more or less a land-grab for Canada (our reasons for getting into that war are a matter of debate, but all things considered it seems to me mostly a matter of trying to snatch Canada while Britain was preoccupied, with the stated causes being a plausible pretense). It gets called ‘the second war of Independence’, but realistically Britain had no interest in re-conquering us and really just wanted us to go away. At most we would have lost some territory at the negotiating table (probably Maine and Michigan, and who cares about them? Wait…).

In any case, we failed to take Canada despite burning Toronto, Napoleon fell from power and the British were able to re-direct forces back to America, burned Washington, and blockaded the American ports very effectively, but then we also won a few last-minute victories, leading to a status quo ante bellum treaty.

Honestly, with the War of 1812, I would argue it was a defeat, since we failed to take Canada, but it’s debatable either way. In any case, again, England was a stronger opponent, but not fully committed. They were already exhausted from a bigger and more important war and had no interest in fighting us; the whole time their goals were to protect their own territory and force us to the bargaining table (preferably with themselves in as strong a position as possible).

(Incidentally, that’s another rather interesting point: of our immediate neighbors we’ve invaded, annexed, or tried to annex every single one of them at some point. The United States is much more expansionist – especially in our early years – than we’re usually given credit for. Just read, say, Stephen Douglas assuming that America will of course take the rest of Mexico sooner or later).

In the twentieth century we had the two World Wars, as well as, at the very beginning our suppression of the Filipino Rebellion (inherited from Spain), and then the proxy wars of the latter-half of the century against Russia (Korea, Vietnam, etc), which also follow the pattern of the United States warring with smaller, less-developed nations (though Korea was also a war with Maoist China, albeit a China still modernizing and recovering from its own revolution). The First World War was indeed a fight with other world powers in the form of Germany and Austria…but it was the United States entering as a fresh opponent to a war that had already ground the enemy down to an exhausted remnant: the weight of American arms and numbers added to an already-balanced situation. Very like the War of 1812 again; the US joins an on-going fight against an opponent who would normally be on equal or stronger footing, but is already exhausted from a long fight with other opponents.

In fact, it seems to me that the only war we’ve had against an opponent who was roughly equal in terms of military power and equally committed to the fight – our only ‘typical’ war, you might say – was World War II, and especially the Pacific Theater against Japan, where it was mostly just the two of us (well, Japan was also tied up in China, and there were British elements as well, but the main thrust of the Pacific War was America vs. Japan).

What’s my point in all this? Well, from the fact that I’m citing Japan as the closest thing we’ve had to an even fight should indicate that I’m not trying to make the case that America is a paper tiger. Far from it; from at least the time of the Civil War, it should have been obvious to any observer that the United States, militarily speaking, is an absolute monster. We combine a huge population with near-infinite wealth and resources, all in a country that spans a continent and is separated from its rivals by two whole oceans. We also, traditionally, have an extremely stubborn, proud, and competitive national character that doesn’t accept defeat easily. We have the advantages of Russia, Britain, Germany, and Japan all in one, and that’s not even considering the logistics of actually trying to invade the country. Just consider the fact that we have never once lost territory through conquest. Since the Civil War, none of our cities have even been bombed successfully (by opposing militaries at least), let alone taken.

(Granted, the current situation complicates matters, as our civil unraveling is liable to make our military less effective, but that’s another story. The point is, that, on paper, and baring a nuclear exchange, we’re effectively unstoppable).

My point, in fact, is the exact opposite: it’s that I wonder whether this has been rather bad for us and warped our national character a little. Because I notice that while America excels at winning wars, we’re not good at being the victor. Simply because we are so powerful, and have rarely if ever had the experience of dealing with an equal opponent – one who potentially poses as much a threat to us as we do to them – we tend to be very heavy-handed in our victories (especially coupled with our tendency to turn everything into a moral crusade with ourselves as the good guys). Just the fact that we assume we have the right to dictate to our defeated opponents what kind of government they are to have from now on, or that we have the right to prosecute a war until ‘unconditional surrender’ seems illustrative of this.

Which means that, even when we don’t go to war, we tend to throw our weight around a lot. Like when Woodrow Wilson send gunboats to Vera Cruz, or, for that matter, McKinley sending the Maine to Havana harbor to influence decision making on the ground. Or, heck, even going as far back the Monroe doctrine, assuming we have the right to make policy regarding the whole Western Hemisphere. We can claim the best intentions in the world, but ultimately it doesn’t matter what our intentions are because either way no one can stop us and we know it.

I sometimes think it might have been better for our national character if we’d had a few similarly powerful rivals within our sphere. Like if Mexico had actually gotten its act together and became a great nation too (though our aforementioned interventionist habits didn’t help with that), or if the country actually did break into two or three smaller nations. Not because I want us to lose, but because that might have forced us to adopt a more modest and ultimately healthier idea of our place in the world.

Because as we are, we seem to be blindsided by the consequences of our own actions quite a lot, and to embark on ultimately doomed or ill-considered endeavors, like taking Afghanistan or getting involved in Vietnam without any idea of an endgame. Or trying to turn Austria and Germany into good little republics. Not only because the results are usually devastating to the people of those other countries (e.g. incinerating half-a-million Japanese civilians to force unconditional surrender), but because the results usually rebound upon us and leave us feeling we have to intervene again and again. That is, this hurts us too, if not as much as the nations we ride roughshod over (that would be going much too far all things considered), still enough to be a concern. Especially as we go through another ‘crisis’ phase.

The foreign policy of any nation rarely shows much foresight, but it seems to me we’re particularly bad at it. I can’t help wondering if this is because we’ve never had the experience of needing to ‘learn to play nice’ with the people around us.