When 'The X-Files' met the Army

The Men Who Stare at Goats
By Jon Ronson
Simon & Schuster, 259 pp., illustrated, $24

We know about the use of dogs and sexual humiliation to break down prisoners at Abu Ghraib but haven't read much about the use of subliminal sounds. Count on Jon Ronson, the talented British journalist, to address this oversight. Journalists who wade into the world of conspiracy theory open themselves up to ridicule for even dignifying weirdos with time and attention. Ronson, however, is making a name for himself by doing exactly that. Critics hailed the humor and unnerving insight of his 2001 book, ''Them: Adventures With Extremists," in which he details his time hanging out with racists, religious fundamentalists, and crazed conspiracists. In his latest work, ''The Men Who Stare at Goats," Ronson tracks down a number of current and former military officials who believe in telepathy, subliminal sounds, and psychic power, and he delivers a hilarious and unsettling book.

''Quite often journalists think that it's all down to facts," said Ronson in a recent interview. ''But I think it's all down to people. If you can work out why people behave the way they do, you can get to the bottom of the story." Indeed, ''The Men Who Stare at Goats" is driven by a cast of strange individuals whose ideas are in some way traced back to a Vietnam veteran named Jim Channon.

In 1977, Channon convinced the Pentagon to fund his research into ways the Army could be more ''cunning." His fact-finding mission led him to California, where he immersed himself in new age music and spirituality. Two years later, Channon delivered to high-ranking military officials his First Earth Battalion Operations Manual, a report of his findings motivated by the idea that ''the U.S. Army doesn't really have any serious alternative than to be wonderful."

The report envisioned the US Warrior Monk, a soldier whose weapons of first resort would not be M16 rifles or Abrams tanks, but sparkly eyes, a powerful mind, symbolic animals (baby lambs), hugs, and -- if things got nasty -- nonlethal weapons that could direct positive energy into hostile crowds, or loudspeakers blaring ''discordant sounds."

Channon's superiors could have easily dismissed the report as hogwash. But the new age spirituality actually struck a chord with the brass, who were emotionally devastated by Vietnam, so they created the First Earth Battalion. Channon's principles trickled through the services and even contributed -- through ramblings about lifting soldiers to a higher spiritual realm -- the Army slogan ''Be All You Can Be."

For much of the book, readers can be forgiven if they think they are reading fiction. At a secret Psychological Operations unit at North Carolina's Fort Bragg, soldiers attempt to kill goats by staring at them and telepathically stopping the goat's heart. The only man said to have been successful in felling a goat spends a day with Ronson, but offers only a home video that demonstrates his telepathic power on a hamster. A retired general injures his nose in his repeated attempts to walk through walls, and recalls fondly his days as a psychic spy. An Army colonel inspired by the First Earth Battalion Operations Manual invents a sticky foam that can immobilize crowds.

The seemingly fictional, however, bumps into reality. In 2004, the Special Forces call in the original goat killer -- a martial arts instructor named Guy Savelli -- for consultations in the wake of the Abu Ghraib scandal. The general who tried earnestly to walk through walls is former chief of Army intelligence Major General Albert Stubblebine III, a key player in US efforts to capture Panama's Manuel Noriega in the 1980s. And in 1993, US forces in Somalia sprayed a fast-solidifying sticky foam in an unsuccessful attempt to contain a crowd of Somalian rioters. To top it off, the US Army Chief of Staff Pete Schoomaker rubs shoulders with the ultimate First Earther in 2003 when he meets repeatedly with Channon.

Channon's 1979 manual envisioned using out-of-sync music and discordant sounds to disorient hostiles. That idea, Ronson attempts to demonstrate, morphed into malicious methods of getting information from prisoners, which were tested once the war on terrorism opened a wave of interrogation opportunities. In 2003, Newsweek reported that US interrogators in Iraq were blasting songs by Barney the Purple Dinosaur and Metallica into detainees' ears for continuous 24-hour loops. Oddly enough, a former Guantanamo detainee recounts being subjected to soft rock at normal volume (Fleetwood Mac songs covered by an all-female band). Ronson fails to detail a coordinated program of torture. But he does offer facts that suggest the military intelligence apparatus is (or was) experimenting with bizarre and cruel interrogation methods, including subliminal sounds.

Ronson strives to find traces of Channon's influence among US forces in Iraq, stumbling upon what he terms ''Black and White Ninjas" -- good and bad First Earthers. One White Ninja stationed north of Baghdad dutifully employs yoga, qigong, relaxation, and visualization, and enthusiastically recommends the First Earth Battalion Operations Manual to his commanding officer. Abu Ghraib bears the hallmarks of a Black Ninja presence. A guard at the prison recounts a ''casserole" of intelligence there, with influences ranging from an all-Mormon intelligence unit, to civilian contractors, to two random British guys. First Earth-inspired torture, we are urged to believe, was part of the mix.

For the reader not overly concerned about getting hard answers, ''The Men Who Stare at Goats" is a good read. Ronson comes off as an unusual cross between Comedy Central's Jon Stewart and The New Yorker's Seymour Hersh. He is too serious and inquisitive to be pure comedian, and too personality driven and anecdotal to be an investigative reporter. A serious treatment of his subject, come to think of it, would have to explicitly do what Ronson does tacitly: ridicule the wild conspiracy theories even while fleshing out some of the truth behind them. He might as well have some fun in the process.

Jai Singh is research editor at Foreign Policy.