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On War
by Carl von Clausewitz
October, 1999 [Etext #1946]
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On War
by General Carl von Clausewitz
ON WAR
GENERAL CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ
TRANSLATED BY
COLONEL J.J. GRAHAM
{1874 was 1st edition of this translation.
1909 was the London
reprinting.}
NEW AND REVISED EDITION
WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY
COLONEL F.N. MAUDE C.B. (LATE R.E.)
EIGHTH IMPRESSION
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOLUME I
INTRODUCTION
THE Germans interpret their new national colours--black,
red, and white-by the saying, "Durch Nacht und Blut zur
licht." ("Through night and blood to light"), and no work
yet written conveys to the thinker a clearer conception
of all that the red streak in their flag stands for than this
deep and philosophical analysis of "War" by Clausewitz.
It reveals "War," stripped of all accessories, as the
exercise of force for the attainment of a political object,
unrestrained by any law save that of expediency, and
thus gives the key to the interpretation of German political
aims, past, present, and future, which is unconditionally
necessary for every student of the modern conditions
of Europe. Step by step, every event since
Waterloo follows with logical consistency from the
teachings of Napoleon, formulated for the first time,
some twenty years afterwards, by this remarkable
thinker.
What Darwin accomplished for Biology generally
Clausewitz did for the Life-History of Nations nearly half
a century before him, for both have proved the existence
of the same law in each case, viz., "The survival of the
fittest"--the "fittest," as Huxley long since pointed out,
not being necessarily synonymous with the ethically
"best." Neither of these thinkers was concerned with
the ethics of the struggle which each studied so exhaustively,
but to both men the phase or condition presented
itself neither as moral nor immoral, any more than
are famine, disease, or other natural phenomena, but as
emanating from a force inherent in all living organisms
which can only be mastered by understanding its nature.
It is in that spirit that, one after the other, all the
Nations of the Continent, taught by such drastic lessons as
Koniggr<a:>tz and Sedan, have accepted the lesson, with the
result that to-day Europe is an armed camp, and peace is
maintained by the equilibrium of forces, and will continue
just as long as this equilibrium exists, and no longer.
Whether this state of equilibrium is in itself a good or
desirable thing may be open to argument. I have discussed
it at length in my "War and the World's Life";
but I venture to suggest that to no one would a renewal
of the era of warfare be a change for the better, as far
as existing humanity is concerned. Meanwhile, however,
with every year that elapses the forces at present in
equilibrium are changing in magnitude--the pressure of
populations which have to be fed is rising, and an explosion
along the line of least resistance is, sooner or later,
inevitable.
As I read the teaching of the recent Hague Conference,
no responsible Government on the Continent is anxious
to form in themselves that line of least resistance; they
know only too well what War would mean; and we alone,
absolutely unconscious of the trend of the dominant
thought of Europe, are pulling down the dam which may
at any moment let in on us the flood of invasion.
Now no responsible man in Europe, perhaps least of
all in Germany, thanks us for this voluntary destruction
of our defences, for all who are of any importance would
very much rather end their days in peace than incur the
burden of responsibility which War would entail. But
they realise that the gradual dissemination of the principles
taught by Clausewitz has created a condition of
molecular tension in the minds of the Nations they
govern analogous to the "critical temperature of water
heated above boiling-point under pressure," which may at
any moment bring about an explosion which they will be
powerless to control.
The case is identical with that of an ordinary steam
boiler, delivering so and so many pounds of steam to its
engines as long as the envelope can contain the pressure;
but let a breach in its continuity arise--relieving the
boiling water of all restraint--and in a moment the whole
mass flashes into vapour, developing a power no work of
man can oppose.
The ultimate consequences of defeat no man can foretell.
The only way to avert them is to ensure victory;
and, again following out the principles of Clausewitz,
victory can only be ensured by the creation in
peace of an organisation which will bring every available
man, horse, and gun (or ship and gun, if the war be on
the sea) in the shortest possible time, and with the utmost
possible momentum, upon the decisive field of action--
which in turn leads to the final doctrine formulated by
Von der Goltz in excuse for the action of the late President
Kruger in 1899:
"The Statesman who, knowing his instrument to be
ready, and seeing War inevitable, hesitates to strike first
is guilty of a crime against his country."
It is because this sequence of cause and effect is absolutely
unknown to our Members of Parliament, elected
by popular representation, that all our efforts to ensure a
lasting peace by securing efficiency with economy in our
National Defences have been rendered nugatory.
This estimate of the influence of Clausewitz's sentiments
on contemporary thought in Continental Europe
may appear exaggerated to those who have not familiarised
themselves with M. Gustav de Bon's exposition of
the laws governing the formation and conduct of crowds
I do not wish for one minute to be understood as asserting
that Clausewitz has been conscientiously studied and
understood in any Army, not even in the Prussian, but
his work has been the ultimate foundation on which every
drill regulation in Europe, except our own, has been
reared. It is this ceaseless repetition of his fundamental
ideas to which one-half of the male population of every
Continental Nation has been subjected for two to three
years of their lives, which has tuned their minds to
vibrate in harmony with his precepts, and those who
know and appreciate this fact at its true value have
only to strike the necessary chords in order to evoke a
response sufficient to overpower any other ethical conception
which those who have not organised their forces
beforehand can appeal to.
The recent set-back experienced by the Socialists in
Germany is an illustration of my position. The Socialist
leaders of that country are far behind the responsible
Governors in their knowledge of the management of
crowds. The latter had long before (in 1893, in fact)
made their arrangements to prevent the spread of Socialistic
propaganda beyond certain useful limits. As long
as the Socialists only threatened capital they were not
seriously interfered with, for the Government knew quite
well that the undisputed sway of the employer was not
for the ultimate good of the State. The standard of
comfort must not be pitched too low if men are to he
ready to die for their country. But the moment the
Socialists began to interfere seriously with the discipline
of the Army the word went round, and the Socialists
lost heavily at the polls.
If this power of predetermined reaction to acquired
ideas can be evoked successfully in a matter of internal
interest only, in which the "obvious interest" of the
vast majority of the population is so clearly on the side
of the Socialist, it must be evident how enormously greater
it will prove when set in motion against an external
enemy, where the "obvious interest" of the people is,
from the very nature of things, as manifestly on the side
of the Government; and the Statesman who failed to
take into account the force of the "resultant thought
wave" of a crowd of some seven million men, all trained
to respond to their ruler's call, would be guilty of treachery
as grave as one who failed to strike when he knew the
Army to be ready for immediate action.
As already pointed out, it is to the spread of Clausewitz's
ideas that the present state of more or less immediate
readiness for war of all European Armies is due,
and since the organisation of these forces is uniform this
"more or less" of readiness exists in precise proportion
to the sense of duty which animates the several Armies.
Where the spirit of duty and self-sacrifice is low the
troops are unready and inefficient; where, as in Prussia,
these qualities, by the training of a whole century, have
become instinctive, troops really are ready to the last
button, and might be poured down upon any one of her
neighbours with such rapidity that the very first collision
must suffice to ensure ultimate success--a success by no
means certain if the enemy, whoever he may be, is
allowed breathing-time in which to set his house in order.
An example will make this clearer. In 1887 Germany
was on the very verge of War with France and Russia.
At that moment her superior efficiency, the consequence
of this inborn sense of duty--surely one of the highest
qualities of humanity--was so great that it is more than
probable that less than six weeks would have sufficed to
bring the French to their knees. Indeed, after the first
fortnight it would have been possible to begin transferring
troops from the Rhine to the Niemen; and the same
case may arise again. But if France and Russia had
been allowed even ten days' warning the German plan
would have been completely defeated. France alone
might then have claimed all the efforts that Germany
could have put forth to defeat her.
Yet there are politicians in England so grossly ignorant
of the German reading of the Napoleonic lessons that
they expect that Nation to sacrifice the enormous advantage
they have prepared by a whole century of self-
sacrifice and practical patriotism by an appeal to a
Court of Arbitration, and the further delays which must
arise by going through the medieaeval formalities of recalling
Ambassadors and exchanging ultimatums.
Most of our present-day politicians have made their
money in business--a "form of human competition
greatly resembling War," to paraphrase Clausewitz.
Did they, when in the throes of such competition, send
formal notice to their rivals of their plans to get the better
of them in commerce? Did Mr. Carnegie, the arch-
priest of Peace at any price, when he built up the Steel
Trust, notify his competitors when and how he proposed
to strike the blows which successively made him master
of millions? Surely the Directors of a Great Nation
may consider the interests of their shareholders--i.e., the
people they govern--as sufficiently serious not to be
endangered by the deliberate sacrifice of the preponderant
position of readiness which generations of self-devotion,
patriotism and wise forethought have won for them?
As regards the strictly military side of this work,
though the recent researches of the French General Staff
into the records and documents of the Napoleonic period
have shown conclusively that Clausewitz had never
grasped the essential point of the Great Emperor's strategic
method, yet it is admitted that he has completely fathomed
the spirit which gave life to the form; and notwithstandingthe
variations in
application which have
resulted from the progress of invention in every field of
national activity (not in the technical improvements in
armament alone), this spirit still remains the essential
factor in the whole matter. Indeed, if anything, modern
appliances have intensified its importance, for though,
with equal armaments on both sides, the form of battles
must always remain the same, the facility and certainty
of combination which better methods of communicating
orders and intelligence have conferred upon the Commanders
has rendered the control of great masses immeasurably
more certain than it was in the past.
Men kill each other at greater distances, it is true--
but killing is a constant factor in all battles. The difference
between "now and then" lies in this, that, thanks
to the enormous increase in range (the essential feature
in modern armaments), it is possible to concentrate by
surprise, on any chosen spot, a man-killing power fully
twentyfold greater than was conceivable in the days of
Waterloo; and whereas in Napoleon's time this concentration
of man-killing power (which in his hands took the
form of the great case-shot attack) depended almost
entirely on the shape and condition of the ground, which
might or might not be favourable, nowadays such concentration
of fire-power is almost independent of the
country altogether.
Thus, at Waterloo, Napoleon was compelled to wait till
the ground became firm enough for his guns to gallop
over; nowadays every gun at his disposal, and five times
that number had he possessed them, might have opened
on any point in the British position he had selected, as
soon as it became light enough to see.
Or, to take a more modern instance, viz., the battle
of St. Privat-Gravelotte, August 18, 1870, where the
Germans were able to concentrate on both wings batteries
of two hundred guns and upwards, it would have been
practically impossible, owing to the section of the slopes
of the French position, to carry out the old-fashioned
case-shot attack at all. Nowadays there would be no
difficulty in turning on the fire of two thousand guns on
any point of the position, and switching this fire up and
down the line like water from a fire-engine hose, if the
occasion demanded such concentration.
But these alterations in method make no difference
in the truth of the picture of War which Clausewitz
presents, with which every soldier, and above all every
Leader, should be saturated.
Death, wounds, suffering, and privation remain the
same, whatever the weapons employed, and their reaction
on the ultimate nature of man is the same now as
in the struggle a century ago. It is this reaction that
the Great Commander has to understand and prepare
himself to control; and the task becomes ever greater as,
fortunately for humanity, the opportunities for gathering
experience become more rare.
In the end, and with every improvement in science,
the result depends more and more on the character of
the Leader and his power of resisting "the sensuous
impressions of the battlefield." Finally, for those who
would fit themselves in advance for such responsibility,
I know of no more inspiring advice than that given by
Krishna to Arjuna ages ago, when the latter trembled
before the awful responsibility of launching his Army
against the hosts of the Pandav's:
This Life within all living things, my Prince,
Hides beyond harm. Scorn thou to suffer, then,
For that which cannot suffer. Do thy part!
Be mindful of thy name, and tremble not.
Nought better can betide a martial soul
Than lawful war. Happy the warrior
To whom comes joy of battle....
. . . But if thou shunn'st
This honourable field--a Kshittriya--
If, knowing thy duty and thy task, thou bidd'st
Duty and task go by--that shall be sin!
And those to come shall speak thee infamy
From age to age. But infamy is worse
For men of noble blood to bear than death!
. . . . . .
Therefore arise, thou Son of Kunti! Brace
Thine arm for conflict; nerve thy heart to meet,
As things alike to thee, pleasure or pain,
Profit or ruin, victory or defeat.
So minded, gird thee to the fight, for so
Thou shalt not sin!
COL. F. N. MAUDE, C.B., late R.E.
CONTENTS
BOOK I ON THE NATURE OF WAR
I WHAT IS WAR? page 1
II END AND MEANS IN WAR 27
III THE GENIUS FOR WAR 46
IV OF DANGER IN WAR 71
V OF BODILY EXERTION IN WAR 73
VI INFORMATION IN WAR 75
VII FRICTION IN WAR 77
VIII CONCLUDING REMARKS 81
BOOK II ON THE THEORY OF WAR
I BRANCHES OF THE ART OF WAR 84
II ON THE THEORY OF WAR 95
III ART OR SCIENCE OF WAR 119
IV METHODICISM 122V CRITICISM 130
VI ON EXAMPLES 156
BOOK III OF STRATEGY IN GENERAL
I STRATEGY 165
II ELEMENTS OF STRATEGY 175
III MORAL FORCES 177
IV THE CHIEF MORAL POWERS 179
V MILITARY VIRTUE OF AN ARMY 180
VI BOLDNESS 186
VII PERSEVERANCE 191
VIII SUPERIORITY OF NUMBERS 192
IX THE SURPRISE 199
X STRATAGEM 205
XI ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN SPACE 207
XII ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN TIME 208
XIII STRATEGIC RESERVE 217
XIV ECONOMY OF FORCES 221
XV GEOMETRICAL ELEMENT 222
XVI ON THE SUSPENSION OF THE ACT IN WAR page 224
XVII ON THE CHARACTER OF MODERN WAR 230
XVIII TENSION AND REST 231
BOOK IV THE COMBAT
I INTRODUCTORY 235
II CHARACTER OF THE MODERN BATTLE 236
III THE COMBAT IN GENERAL 238
IV THE COMBAT IN GENERAL (continuation) 243
V ON THE SIGNIFICATION OF THE COMBAT 253
VI DURATION OF THE COMBAT 256
VII DECISION OF THE COMBAT 257
VIII MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING AS TO A BATTLE 266
IX THE BATTLE 270
X EFFECTS OF VICTORY 277
XI THE USE OF THE BATTLE 284
XII STRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISING VICTORY 292
XIII RETREAT AFTER A LOST BATTLE 305
XIV NIGHT FIGHTING 308
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
IT will naturally excite surprise that a preface by a
female hand should accompany a work on such a subject
as the present. For my friends no explanation of the
circumstance is required; but I hope by a simple relation
of the cause to clear myself of the appearance of presumption
in the eyes also of those to whom I am not
known.
The work to which these lines serve as a preface
occupied almost entirely the last twelve years of the life
of my inexpressibly beloved husband, who has unfortunately
been torn too soon from myself and his
country. To complete it was his most earnest desire;
but it was not his intention that it should be published
during his life; and if I tried to persuade him to alter
that intention, he often answered, half in jest, but also,
perhaps, half in a foreboding of early death: "Thou
shalt publish it." These words (which in those happy
days often drew tears from me, little as I was inclined to
attach a serious meaning to them) make it now, in the
opinion of my friends, a duty incumbent on me to introduce
the posthumous works of my beloved husband,
with a few prefatory lines from myself; and although
here may be a difference of opinion on this point, still
I am sure there will be no mistake as to the feeling which
has prompted me to overcome the timidity which makes
any such appearance, even in a subordinate part, so
difficult for a woman.
It will be understood, as a matter of course, that I
cannot have the most remote intention of considering
myself as the real editress of a work which is far above
the scope of my capacity: I only stand at its side as an
affectionate companion on its entrance into the world.
This position I may well claim, as a similar one was
allowed me during its formation and progress. Those
who are acquainted with our happy married life, and
know how we shared everything with each other--not
only joy and sorrow, but also every occupation, every
interest of daily life--will understand that my beloved
husband could not be occupied on a work of this kind
without its being known to me. Therefore, no one can
like me bear testimony to the zeal, to the love with which
he laboured on it, to the hopes which he bound up with
it, as well as the manner and time of its elaboration.
His richly gifted mind had from his early youth longed
for light and truth, and, varied as were his talents, still
he had chiefly directed his reflections to the science of
war, to which the duties of his profession called him, and
which are of such importance for the benefit of States.
Scharnhorst was the first to lead him into the right road,
and his subsequent appointment in 1810 as Instructor
at the General War School, as well as the honour conferred
on him at the same time of giving military instruction
to H.R.H. the Crown Prince, tended further to give his
investigations and studies that direction, and to lead
him to put down in writing whatever conclusions he
arrived at. A paper with which he finished the instruction
of H.R.H. the Crown Prince contains the germ of his
subsequent works. But it was in the year 1816, at
Coblentz, that he first devoted himself again to scientific
labours, and to collecting the fruits which his rich experience
in those four eventful years had brought to
maturity. He wrote down his views, in the first place,
in short essays, only loosely connected with each other.
The following, without date, which has been found
amongst his papers, seems to belong to those early days.
"In the principles here committed to paper, in my
opinion, the chief things which compose Strategy, as it
is called, are touched upon. I looked upon them only
as materials, and had just got to such a length towards
the moulding them into a whole.
"These materials have been amassed without any
regularly preconceived plan. My view was at first,
without regard to system and strict connection, to put
down the results of my reflections upon the most important
points in quite brief, precise, compact propositions.
The manner in which Montesquieu has treated his subject
floated before me in idea. I thought that concise,
sententious chapters, which I proposed at first to call
grains, would attract the attention of the intelligent just
as much by that which was to be developed from them,
as by that which they contained in themselves. I had,
therefore, before me in idea, intelligent readers already
acquainted with the subject. But my nature, which
always impels me to development and systematising, at
last worked its way out also in this instance. For some
time I was able to confine myself to extracting only the
most important results from the essays, which, to attain
clearness and conviction in my own mind, I wrote upon
different subjects, to concentrating in that manner their
spirit in a small compass; but afterwards my peculiarity
gained ascendency completely--I have developed what
I could, and thus naturally have supposed a reader not
yet acquainted with the subject.
"The more I advanced with the work, and the more
I yielded to the spirit of investigation, so much the more
I was also led to system; and thus, then, chapter after
chapter has been inserted.
"My ultimate view has now been to go through the
whole once more, to establish by further explanation
much of the earlier treatises, and perhaps to condense
into results many analyses on the later ones, and thus to
make a moderate whole out of it, forming a small octavo
volume. But it was my wish also in this to avoid
everything common, everything that is plain of itself,
that has been said a hundred times, and is generally
accepted; for my ambition was to write a book that
would not be forgotten in two or three years, and which
any one interested in the subject would at all events
take up more than once."
In Coblentz, where he was much occupied with duty,
he could only give occasional hours to his private studies.
It was not until 1818, after his appointment as Director
of the General Academy of War at Berlin, that he had
the leisure to expand his work, and enrich it from the
history of modern wars. This leisure also reconciled
him to his new avocation, which, in other respects, was
not satisfactory to him, as, according to the existing
organisation of the Academy, the scientific part of the
course is not under the Director, but conducted by a
Board of Studies. Free as he was from all petty vanity,
from every feeling of restless, egotistical ambition, still
he felt a desire to be really useful, and not to leave
inactive the abilities with which God had endowed him.
In active life he was not in a position in which this longing
could be satisfied, and he had little hope of attaining to
any such position: his whole energies were therefore
directed upon the domain of science, and the benefit
which he hoped to lay the foundation of by his work was
the object of his life. That, notwithstanding this, the
resolution not to let the work appear until after his
death became more confirmed is the best proof that
no vain, paltry longing for praise and distinction, no
particle of egotistical views, was mixed up with this
noble aspiration for great and lasting usefulness.
Thus he worked diligently on, until, in the spring of
1830, he was appointed to the artillery, and his energies
were called into activity in such a different sphere, and
to such a high degree, that he was obliged, for the moment
at least, to give up all literary work. He then put his
papers in order, sealed up the separate packets, labelled
them, and took sorrowful leave of this employment which
he loved so much. He was sent to Breslau in August of
the same year, as Chief of the Second Artillery District,
but in December recalled to Berlin, and appointed Chief
of the Staff to Field-Marshal Count Gneisenau (for the
term of his command). In March 1831, he accompanied
his revered Commander to Posen. When he returned
from there to Breslau in November after the melancholy
event which had taken place, he hoped to resume his
work and perhaps complete it in the course of the winter.
The Almighty has willed it should be otherwise. On
the 7th November he returned to Breslau; on the 16th
he was no more; and the packets sealed by himself were
not opened until after his death.
The papers thus left are those now made public in
the following volumes, exactly in the condition in which
they were found, without a word being added or erased.
Still, however, there was much to do before publication,
in the way of putting them in order and consulting about
them; and I am deeply indebted to several sincere
friends for the assistance they have afforded me, particularly
Major O'Etzel, who kindly undertook the
correction of the Press, as well as the preparation of the
maps to accompany the historical parts of the work. I
must also mention my much-loved brother, who was my
support in the hour of my misfortune, and who has also
done much for me in respect of these papers; amongst
other things, by carefully examining and putting them in
order, he found the commencement of the revision which
my dear husband wrote in the year 1827, and mentions
in the Notice hereafter annexed as a work he had in view.
This revision has been inserted in the place intended for
it in the first book (for it does not go any further).
There are still many other friends to whom I might
offer my thanks for their advice, for the sympathy and
friendship which they have shown me; but if I do not
name them all, they will, I am sure, not have any doubts
of my sincere gratitude. It is all the greater, from my
firm conviction that all they have done was not only on
my own account, but for the friend whom God has thus
called away from them so soon.
If I have been highly blessed as the wife of such a
man during one and twenty years, so am I still,
notwithstanding my irreparable loss, by the treasure of
my recollections and of my hopes, by the rich legacy of
sympathy and friendship which I owe the beloved
departed, by the elevating feeling which I experience
at seeing his rare worth so generally and honourably
acknowledged.
The trust confided to me by a Royal Couple is a fresh
benefit for which I have to thank the Almighty, as it
opens to me an honourable occupation, to which Idevote myself.
May this
occupation be
blessed, and may the dear little Prince who is now
entrusted to my care, some day read this book, and
be animated by it to deeds like those of his glorious
ancestors.
Written at the Marble Palace, Potsdam, 30th June, 1832.
MARIE VON CLAUSEWITZ,
Born Countess Bruhl,
Oberhofmeisterinn to H.R.H. the Princess William.
NOTICE
I LOOK upon the first six books, of which a fair copy has
now been made, as only a mass which is still in a manner
without form, and which has yet to be again revised.
In this revision the two kinds of War will be everywhere
kept more distinctly in view, by which all ideas will
acquire a clearer meaning, a more precise direction, and
a closer application. The two kinds of War are, first,
those in which the object is the OVERTHROW OF THE ENEMY,
whether it be that we aim at his destruction, politically,
or merely at disarming him and forcing him to conclude
peace on our terms; and next, those in which our object
is MERELY TO MAKE SOME CONQUESTS ON THE FRONTIERS OF HIS
COUNTRY, either for the purpose of retaining them permanently,
or of turning them to account as matter of
exchange in the settlement of a peace. Transition from
one kind to the other must certainly continue to exist,
but the completely different nature of the tendencies of
the two must everywhere appear, and must separate
from each other things which are incompatible.
Besides establishing this real difference in Wars,
another practically necessary point of view must at the
same time be established, which is, that WAR IS ONLY A
CONTINUATION OF STATE POLICY BY OTHER MEANS. This point of
view being adhered to everywhere, will introduce much
more unity into the consideration of the subject, and
things will be more easily disentangled from each other.
Although the chief application of this point of view does
not commence until we get to the eighth book, still it
must be completely developed in the first book, and also
lend assistance throughout the revision of the first six
books. Through such a revision the first six books will
get rid of a good deal of dross, many rents and chasms
will be closed up, and much that is of a general nature
will be transformed into distinct conceptions and forms.
The seventh book--on attack--for the different
chapters of which sketches are already made, is to be
considered as a reflection of the sixth, and must be
completed at once, according to the above-mentioned
more distinct points of view, so that it will require no
fresh revision, but rather may serve as a model in the
revision of the first six books.
For the eighth book--on the Plan of a War, that is,
of the organisation of a whole War in general--several
chapters are designed, but they are not at all to be regarded
as real materials, they are merely a track, roughly cleared,
as it were, through the mass, in order by that means to
ascertain the points of most importance. They have
answered this object, and I propose, on finishing the seventh
book, to proceed at once to the working out of the eighth,
where the two points of view above mentioned will be
chiefly affirmed, by which everything will be simplified,
and at the same time have a spirit breathed into it. I
hope in this book to iron out many creases in the heads of
strategists and statesmen, and at least to show the object
of action, and the real point to be considered in War.
Now, when I have brought my ideas clearly out by
finishing this eighth book, and have properly established
the leading features of War, it will be easier for me to
carry the spirit of these ideas in to the first six books, and
to make these same features show themselves everywhere.
Therefore I shall defer till then the revision of the first
six books.
Should the work be interrupted by my death, then
what is found can only be called a mass of conceptions
not brought into form; but as these are open to endless
misconceptions, they will doubtless give rise to a number
of crude criticisms: for in these things, every one thinks,
when he takes up his pen, that whatever comes into his
head is worth saying and printing, and quite as incontrovertible
as that twice two make four. If such a one
would take the pains, as I have done, to think over the
subject, for years, and to compare his ideas with military
history, he would certainly be a little more guarded in
his criticism.
Still, notwithstanding this imperfect form, I believe
that an impartial reader thirsting for truth and conviction
will rightly appreciate in the first six books the
fruits of several years' reflection and a diligent study of
War, and that, perhaps, he will find in them some
leading ideas which may bring about a revolution in the
theory of War.
Berlin, 10th July, 1827.
Besides this notice, amongst the papers left the
following unfinished memorandum was found, which
appears of very recent date:
The manuscript on the conduct of the Grande Guerre,
which will be found after my death, in its present state
can only be regarded as a collection of materials from
which it is intended to construct a theory of War. With
the greater part I am not yet satisfied; and the sixth
book is to be looked at as a mere essay: I should have
completely remodelled it, and have tried a different line.
But the ruling principles which pervade these materials
I hold to be the right ones: they are the result of a
very varied reflection, keeping always in view the reality,
and always bearing in mind what I have learnt by experience
and by my intercourse with distinguished soldiers.
The seventh book is to contain the attack, the
subjects of which are thrown together in a hasty manner:
the eighth, the plan for a War, in which I would have
examined War more especially in its political and human
aspects.
The first chapter of the first book is the only one
which I consider as completed; it will at least serve to
show the manner in which I proposed to treat the subject
throughout.
The theory of the Grande Guerre, or Strategy, as it is
called, is beset with extraordinary difficulties, and we
may affirm that very few men have clear conceptions of
the separate subjects, that is, conceptions carried up to
their full logical conclusions. In real action most men
are guided merely by the tact of judgment which hits
the object more or less accurately, according as they possess
more or less genius.
This is the way in which all great Generals have
acted, and therein partly lay their greatness and their
genius, that they always hit upon what was right by
this tact. Thus also it will always be in action, and so
far this tact is amply sufficient. But when it is a question,
not of acting oneself, but of convincing others in a
consultation, then all depends on clear conceptions and
demonstration of the inherent relations, and so little
progress has been made in this respect that most deliberations
are merely a contention of words, resting on no
firm basis, and ending either in every one retaining his own
opinion, or in a compromise from mutual considerations
of respect, a middle course really without any value.[*]
[*] Herr Clausewitz evidently had before his mind the endless
consultations
at the Headquarters of the Bohemian Army in the Leipsic
Campaign 1813.
Clear ideas on these matters are therefore not wholly
useless; besides, the human mind has a general tendency
to clearness, and always wants to be consistent
with the necessary order of things.
Owing to the great difficulties attending a philosophical
construction of the Art of War, and the many
attempts at it that have failed, most people have come
to the conclusion that such a theory is impossible, because
it concerns things which no standing law can embrace.
We should also join in this opinion and give up any
attempt at a theory, were it not that a great number of
propositions make themselves evident without any
difficulty, as, for instance, that the defensive form, with
a negative object, is the stronger form, the attack, with the
positive object, the weaker--that great results carry the
little ones with them--that, therefore, strategic effects
may be referred to certain centres of gravity--that a
demonstration is a weaker application of force than a
real attack, that, therefore, there must be some special
reason for resorting to the former--that victory consists
not merely in the conquest on the field of battle, but in
the destruction of armed forces, physically and morally,
which can in general only be effected by a pursuit after
the battle is gained--that successes are always greatest
at the point where the victory has been gained, that,
therefore, the change from one line and object to another
can only be regarded as a necessary evil--that a turning
movement is only justified by a superiority of numbers
generally or by the advantage of our lines of communication
and retreat over those of the enemy--that flank
positions are only justifiable on similar grounds--that
every attack becomes weaker as it progresses.
THE INTRODUCTION OF THE AUTHOR
THAT the conception of the scientific does not consist
alone, or chiefly, in system, and its finished theoretical
constructions, requires nowadays no exposition. System
in this treatise is not to be found on the surface, and
instead of a finished building of theory, there are only
materials.
The scientific form lies here in the endeavour to
explore the nature of military phenomena to show their
affinity with the nature of the things of which they are
composed. Nowhere has the philosophical argument
been evaded, but where it runs out into too thin a thread
the Author has preferred to cut it short, and fall back
upon the corresponding results of experience; for in
the same way as many plants only bear fruit when they
do not shoot too high, so in the practical arts the theoretical
leaves and flowers must not be made to sprout
too far, but kept near to experience, which is their proper
soil.
Unquestionably it would be a mistake to try to
discover from the chemical ingredients of a grain of corn
the form of the ear of corn which it bears, as we have only
to go to the field to see the ears ripe. Investigation and
observation, philosophy and experience, must neither
despise nor exclude one another; they mutually afford
each other the rights of citizenship. Consequently,
the propositions of this book, with their arch of inherent
necessity, are supported either by experience or by the
conception of War itself as external points, so that they
are not without abutments.[*]
[*] That this is not the case in the works of many military
writers
especially of those who have aimed at treating of War itself in a
scientific manner, is shown in many instances, in which by their
reasoning,
the pro and contra swallow each other up so effectually that
there
is no vestige of the tails even which were left in the case of
the two
lions.
It is, perhaps, not impossible to write a systematic
theory of War full of spirit and substance, but ours.
hitherto, have been very much the reverse. To say
nothing of their unscientific spirit, in their striving after
coherence and completeness of system, they overflow
with commonplaces, truisms, and twaddle of every kind.
If we want a striking picture of them we have only to
read Lichtenberg's extract from a code of regulations
in case of fire.
If a house takes fire, we must seek, above all things,
to protect the right side of the house standing on the left,
and, on the other hand, the left side of the house on the
right; for if we, for example, should protect the left side
of the house on the left, then the right side of the house
lies to the right of the left, and consequently as the fire
lies to the right of this side, and of the right side (for we
have assumed that the house is situated to the left of
the fire), therefore the right side is situated nearer to
the fire than the left, and the right side of the house might
catch fire if it was not protected before it came to the
left, which is protected. Consequently, something might
be burnt that is not protected, and that sooner than
something else would be burnt, even if it was not protected;
consequently we must let alone the latter and
protect the former. In order to impress the thing on
one's mind, we have only to note if the house is situated
to the right of the fire, then it is the left side, and if the
house is to the left it is the right side.
In order not to frighten the intelligent reader by
such commonplaces, and to make the little good that
there is distasteful by pouring water upon it, the Author
has preferred to give in small ingots of fine metal his
impressions and convictions, the result of many years'
reflection on War, of his intercourse with men of ability,
and of much personal experience. Thus the seemingly
weakly bound-together chapters of this book have
arisen, but it is hoped they will not be found wanting
in logical connection. Perhaps soon a greater head may
appear, and instead of these single grains, give the whole
in a casting of pure metal without dross.
BRIEF MEMOIR OF GENERAL
CLAUSEWITZ
(BY TRANSLATOR)
THE Author of the work here translated, General Carl
Von Clausewitz, was born at Burg, near Magdeburg, in
1780, and entered the Prussian Army as Fahnenjunker
(i.e., ensign) in 1792. He served in the campaigns of
1793-94 on the Rhine, after which he seems to have
devoted some time to the study of the scientific branches
of his profession. In 1801 he entered the Military School
at Berlin, and remained there till 1803. During his
residence there he attracted the notice of General
Scharnhorst, then at the head of the establishment; and
the patronage of this distinguished officer had immense
influence on his future career, and we may gather
from his writings that he ever afterwards continued
to entertain a high esteem for Scharnhorst. In the
campaign of 1806 he served as Aide-de-camp to Prince
Augustus of Prussia; and being wounded and taken
prisoner, he was sent into France until the close of that
war. On his return, he was placed on General Scharnhorst's
Staff, and employed in the work then going on
for the reorganisation of the Army. He was also at this
time selected as military instructor to the late King of
Prussia, then Crown Prince. In 1812 Clausewitz, with
several other Prussian officers, having entered the
Russian service, his first appointment was as Aide-de-camp
to General Phul. Afterwards, while serving with Wittgenstein's
army, he assisted in negotiating the famous convention
of Tauroggen with York. Of the part he took in
that affair he has left an interesting account in his work
on the "Russian Campaign." It is there stated that,
in order to bring the correspondence which had been
carried on with York to a termination in one way or
another, the Author was despatched to York's headquarters
with two letters, one was from General d'Auvray,
the Chief of the Staff of Wittgenstein's army, to General
Diebitsch, showing the arrangements made to cut off
York's corps from Macdonald (this was necessary in order
to give York a plausible excuse for seceding from the
French); the other was an intercepted letter from
Macdonald to the Duke of Bassano. With regard to
the former of these, the Author says, "it would not have
had weight with a man like York, but for a military
justification, if the Prussian Court should require one
as against the French, it was important."
The second letter was calculated at the least to call
up in General York's mind all the feelings of bitterness
which perhaps for some days past bad been diminished by
the consciousness of his own behaviour towards the writer.
As the Author entered General York's chamber, the
latter called out to him, "Keep off from me; I will have
nothing more to do with you; your d----d Cossacks
have let a letter of Macdonald's pass through them,
which brings me an order to march on Piktrepohnen, in
order there to effect our junction. All doubt is now at
an end; your troops do not come up; you are too
weak; march I must, and I must excuse myself from
further negotiation, which may cost me my head."
The Author said that be would make no opposition to
all this, but begged for a candle, as he had letters to show
the General, and, as the latter seemed still to hesitate,
the Author added, "Your Excellency will not surely
place me in the embarrassment of departing without
having executed my commission." The General ordered
candles, and called in Colonel von Roeder, the chief of his
staff, from the ante-chamber. The letters were read.
After a pause of an instant, the General said, "Clausewitz,
you are a Prussian, do you believe that the letter of
General d'Auvray is sincere, and that Wittgenstein's
troops will really be at the points he mentioned on the
31st?" The Author replied, "I pledge myself for the
sincerity of this letter upon the knowledge I have of
General d'Auvray and the other men of Wittgenstein's
headquarters; whether the dispositions he announces
can be accomplished as he lays down I certainly cannot
pledge myself; for your Excellency knows that in war
we must often fall short of the line we have drawn for
ourselves." The General was silent for a few minutes
of earnest reflection; then he held out his hand to the
Author, and said, "You have me. Tell General Diebitsch
that we must confer early to-morrow at the mill of
Poschenen, and that I am now firmly determined to
separate myself from the French and their cause." The
hour was fixed for 8 A.M. After this was settled, the
General added, "But I will not do the thing by halves,
I will get you Massenbach also." He called in an officer
who was of Massenbach's cavalry, and who had just left
them. Much like Schiller's Wallenstein, he asked, walking
up and down the room the while, "What say your
regiments?" The officer broke out with enthusiasm at
the idea of a riddance from the French alliance, and said
that every man of the troops in question felt the same.
"You young ones may talk; but my older head is
shaking on my shoulders," replied the General.[*]
[*] "Campaign in Russia in 1812"; translated from the German of
General Von Clausewitz (by Lord Ellesmere).
After the close of the Russian campaign Clausewitz
remained in the service of that country, but was attached
as a Russian staff officer to Blucher's headquarters till
the Armistice in 1813.
In 1814, he became Chief of the Staff of General
Walmoden's Russo-German Corps, which formed part
of the Army of the North under Bernadotte. His
name is frequently mentioned with distinction in that
campaign, particularly in connection with the affair
of Goehrde.
Clausewitz re-entered the Prussian service in 1815,
and served as Chief of the Staff to Thielman's corps,
which was engaged with Grouchy at Wavre, on the 18th
of June.
After the Peace, he was employed in a command on
the Rhine. In 1818, he became Major-General, and
Director of the Military School at which he had been
previously educated.
In 1830, he was appointed Inspector of Artillery at
Breslau, but soon after nominated Chief of the Staff to
the Army of Observation, under Marshal Gneisenau on
the Polish frontier.
The latest notices of his life and services are probably
to be found in the memoirs of General Brandt, who,
from being on the staff of Gneisenau's army, was brought
into daily intercourse with Clausewitz in matters of
duty, and also frequently met him at the table of Marshal
Gneisenau, at Posen.
Amongst other anecdotes, General Brandt relates
that, upon one occasion, the conversation at the Marshal's
table turned upon a sermon preached by a priest, in
which some great absurdities were introduced, and a
discussion arose as to whether the Bishop should not be
made responsible for what the priest had said. This
led to the topic of theology in general, when General
Brandt, speaking of himself, says, "I expressed an
opinion that theology is only to be regarded as an historical
process, as a MOMENT in the gradual development of the
human race. This brought upon me an attack from all
quarters, but more especially from Clausewitz, who ought
to have been on my side, he having been an adherent
and pupil of Kiesewetter's, who had indoctrinated him
in the philosophy of Kant, certainly diluted--I
might even say in homoeopathic doses." This anecdote
is only interesting as the mention of Kiesewetter points
to a circumstance in the life of Clausewitz that may have
had an influence in forming those habits of thought
which distinguish his writings.
"The way," says General Brandt, "in which General
Clausewitz judged of things, drew conclusions from movements
and marches, calculated the times of the marches,
and the points where decisions would take place, was extremely
interesting. Fate has unfortunately denied him
an opportunity of showing his talents in high command,
but I have a firm persuasion that as a strategist he would
have greatly distinguished himself. As a leader on the
field of battle, on the other hand, he would not have been
so much in his right place, from a manque d'habitude
du commandement, he wanted the art d'enlever les
troupes."
After the Prussian Army of Observation was dissolved,
Clausewitz returned to Breslau, and a few days after his
arrival was seized with cholera, the seeds of which
he must have brought with him from the army on the
Polish frontier. His death took place in November
1831.
His writings are contained in nine volumes, published
after his death, but his fame rests most upon the three
volumes forming his treatise on "War." In the present
attempt to render into English this portion of the works
of Clausewitz, the translator is sensible of many deficiencies,
but he hopes at all events to succeed in making this
celebrated treatise better known in England, believing,
as he does, that so far as the work concerns the interests
of this country, it has lost none of the importance it
possessed at the time of its first publication.
J. J. GRAHAM (Col.)
BOOK I. ON THE NATURE OF WAR
CHAPTER I. WHAT IS WAR?
1. INTRODUCTION.
WE propose to consider first the single elements of our
subject, then each branch or part, and, last of all, the
whole, in all its relations--therefore to advance from the
simple to the complex. But it is necessary for us to commence
with a glance at the nature of the whole, because
it is particularly necessary that in the consideration of
any of the parts their relation to the whole should be
kept constantly in view.
2. DEFINITION.
We shall not enter into any of the abstruse definitions
of War used by publicists. We shall keep to the element
of the thing itself, to a duel. War is nothing but a duel
on an extensive scale. If we would conceive as a unit
the countless number of duels which make up a War, we
shall do so best by supposing to ourselves two wrestlers.
Each strives by physical force to compel the other to
submit to his will: each endeavours to throw his adversary,
and thus render him incapable of further resistance.
WAR THEREFORE IS AN ACT OF VIOLENCE INTENDED TO COMPEL OUR
OPPONENT TO FULFIL OUR WILL.
Violence arms itself with the inventions of Art and
Science in order to contend against violence. Self-
imposed restrictions, almost imperceptible and hardly
worth mentioning, termed usages of International Law,
accompany it without essentially impairing its power.
Violence, that is to say, physical force (for there is no moral
force without the conception of States and Law), is therefore
the MEANS; the compulsory submission of the enemy
to our will is the ultimate object. In order to attain
this object fully, the enemy must be disarmed, and
disarmament becomes therefore the immediate OBJECT of
hostilities in theory. It takes the place of the final object,
and puts it aside as something we can eliminate from
our calculations.
3. UTMOST USE OF FORCE.
Now, philanthropists may easily imagine there is a skilful
method of disarming and overcoming an enemy withoutgreat
bloodshed, and that
this is the proper
tendency of the Art of War. However plausible this may
appear, still it is an error which must be extirpated;
for in such dangerous things as War, the errors which
proceed from a spirit of benevolence are the worst.
As the use of physical power to the utmost extent by no
means excludes the co-operation of the intelligence, it
follows that he who uses force unsparingly, without
reference to the bloodshed involved, must obtain a
superiority if his adversary uses less vigour in its application.
The former then dictates the law to the latter,
and both proceed to extremities to which the only
limitations are those imposed by the amount of counter-
acting force on each side.
This is the way in which the matter must be viewed
and it is to no purpose, it is even against one's own
interest, to turn away from the consideration of the real
nature of the affair because the horror of its elements
excites repugnance.
If the Wars of civilised people are less cruel and destructive
than those of savages, the difference arises from the
social condition both of States in themselves and in their
relations to each other. Out of this social condition and
its relations War arises, and by it War is subjected to
conditions, is controlled and modified. But these things
do not belong to War itself; they are only given conditions;
and to introduce into the philosophy of War itself
a principle of moderation would be an absurdity.
Two motives lead men to War: instinctive hostility
and hostile intention. In our definition of War, we
have chosen as its characteristic the latter of these
elements, because it is the most general. It is
impossible to conceive the passion of hatred of the
wildest description, bordering on mere instinct, without
combining with it the idea of a hostile intention. On
the other hand, hostile intentions may often exist without
being accompanied by any, or at all events by any
extreme, hostility of feeling. Amongst savages views
emanating from the feelings, amongst civilised nations
those emanating from the understanding, have the
predominance; but this difference arises from attendant
circumstances, existing institutions, &c., and, therefore,
is not to be found necessarily in all cases, although
it prevails in the majority. In short, even the most
civilised nations may burn with passionate hatred of each
other.
We may see from this what a fallacy it would be to
refer the War of a civilised nation entirely to an intelligent
act on the part of the Government, and to imagine it as
continually freeing itself more and more from all feeling
of passion in such a way that at last the physical masses
of combatants would no longer be required; in reality,
their mere relations would suffice--a kind of algebraic
action.
Theory was beginning to drift in this direction until
the facts of the last War[*] taught it better. If War is an
ACT of force, it belongs necessarily also to the feelings.
If it does not originate in the feelings, it REACTS, more or
less, upon them, and the extent of this reaction depends
not on the degree of civilisation, but upon the importance
and duration of the interests involved.
[*] Clausewitz alludes here to the "Wars of Liberation,"
1813,14,15.
Therefore, if we find civilised nations do not put their
prisoners to death, do not devastate towns and countries,
this is because their intelligence exercises greater influence
on their mode of carrying on War, and has taught them
more effectual means of applying force than these rude
acts of mere instinct. The invention of gunpowder, the
constant progress of improvements in the construction
of firearms, are sufficient proofs that the tendency to
destroy the adversary which lies at the bottom of the conception
of War is in no way changed or modified through
the progress of civilisation.
We therefore repeat our proposition, that War is an
act of violence pushed to its utmost bounds; as one
side dictates the law to the other, there arises a sort
of reciprocal action, which logically must lead to an
extreme. This is the first reciprocal action, and the
first extreme with which we meet (FIRST RECIPROCAL ACTION).
4. THE AIM IS TO DISARM THE ENEMY.
We have already said that the aim of all action in
War is to disarm the enemy, and we shall now show that
this, theoretically at least, is indispensable.
If our opponent is to be made to comply with our will,
we must place him in a situation which is more oppressive
to him than the sacrifice which we demand; but the
disadvantages of this position must naturally not be of a
transitory nature, at least in appearance, otherwise the
enemy, instead of yielding, will hold out, in the prospect
of a change for the better. Every change in this position
which is produced by a continuation of the War should
therefore be a change for the worse. The worst condition
in which a belligerent can be placed is that of
being completely disarmed. If, therefore, the enemy is
to be reduced to submission by an act of War, he must
either be positively disarmed or placed in such a
position that he is threatened with it. From this it
follows that the disarming or overthrow of the
enemy, whichever we call it, must always be the aim
of Warfare. Now War is always the shock of two
hostile bodies in collision, not the action of a living
power upon an inanimate mass, because an absolute
state of endurance would not be making War; therefore,
what we have just said as to the aim of action in
War applies to both parties. Here, then, is another
case of reciprocal action. As long as the enemy is not
defeated, he may defeat me; then I shall be no
longer my own master; he will dictate the law to me
as I did to him. This is the second reciprocal action,
and leads to a second extreme (SECOND RECIPROCAL ACTION).
5. UTMOST EXERTION OF POWERS.
If we desire to defeat the enemy, we must proportion
our efforts to his powers of resistance. This is expressed
by the product of two factors which cannot be separated,
namely, the sum of available means and the strength of the
Will. The sum of the available means may be estimated
in a measure, as it depends (although not entirely) upon
numbers; but the strength of volition is more difficult
to determine, and can only be estimated to a certain
extent by the strength of the motives. Granted we have
obtained in this way an approximation to the strength
of the power to be contended with, we can then take of our own
means, and
either increase them so as to obtain a preponderance, or, in case
we have
not the resources to effect this, then do our best by increasing
our means as far as possible. But the adversary does the
same; therefore, there is a new mutual enhancement,
which, in pure conception, must create a fresh effort
towards an extreme. This is the third case of reciprocal
action, and a third extreme with which we meet (THIRD
RECIPROCAL ACTION).
6. MODIFICATION IN THE REALITY.
Thus reasoning in the abstract, the mind cannot stop
short of an extreme, because it has to deal with an extreme,
with a conflict of forces left to themselves, and obeying
no other but their own inner laws. If we should seek to
deduce from the pure conception of War an absolute point
for the aim which we shall propose and for the means
which we shall apply, this constant reciprocal action would
involve us in extremes, which would be nothing but a play
of ideas produced by an almost invisible train of logical
subtleties. If, adhering closely to the absolute, we try
to avoid all difficulties by a stroke of the pen, and insist
with logical strictness that in every case the extreme must
be the object, and the utmost effort must be exerted
in that direction, such a stroke of the pen would be
a mere paper law, not by any means adapted to the real
world.
Even supposing this extreme tension of forces was an
absolute which could easily be ascertained, still we must
admit that the human mind would hardly submit itself
to this kind of logical chimera. There would be in many
cases an unnecessary waste of power, which would be
in opposition to other principles of statecraft; an effort
of Will would be required disproportioned to the proposed
object, which therefore it would be impossible to
realise, for the human will does not derive its impulse
from logical subtleties.
But everything takes a different shape when we pass
from abstractions to reality. In the former, everything
must be subject to optimism, and we must imagine the
one side as well as the other striving after perfection and
even attaining it. Will this ever take place in reality?
It will if,
(1) War becomes a completely isolated act, which
arises suddenly, and is in no way connected with the
previous history of the combatant States.
(2) If it is limited to a single solution, or to several
simultaneous solutions.
(3) If it contains within itself the solution perfect and
complete, free from any reaction upon it, through a calculation
beforehand of the political situation which will
follow from it.
7. WAR IS NEVER AN ISOLATED ACT.
With regard to the first point, neither of the two
opponents is an abstract person to the other, not even
as regards that factor in the sum of resistance which
does not depend on objective things, viz., the Will. This
Will is not an entirely unknown quantity; it indicates
what it will be to-morrow by what it is to-day. War
does not spring up quite suddenly, it does not spread
to the full in a moment; each of the two opponents
can, therefore, form an opinion of the other, in a great
measure, from what he is and what he does, instead of
judging of him according to what he, strictly speaking,
should be or should do. But, now, man with his incomplete
organisation is always below the line of absolute
perfection, and thus these deficiencies, having an influence
on both sides, become a modifying principle.
8. WAR DOES NOT CONSIST OF A SINGLE INSTANTANEOUS
BLOW.
The second point gives rise to the following
considerations:--
If War ended in a single solution, or a number of simultaneous
ones, then naturally all the preparations for the
same would have a tendency to the extreme, for an
omission could not in any way be repaired; the utmost,
then, that the world of reality could furnish as a guide
for us would be the preparations of the enemy, as far as
they are known to us; all the rest would fall into the
domain of the abstract. But if the result is made up
from several successive acts, then naturally that which
precedes with all its phases may be taken as a measure
for that which will follow, and in this manner the world
of reality again takes the place of the abstract, and thus
modifies the effort towards the extreme.
Yet every War would necessarily resolve itself into a
single solution, or a sum of simultaneous results, if all the
means required for the struggle were raised at once, or
could be at once raised; for as one adverse result necessarily
diminishes the means, then if all the means have
been applied in the first, a second cannot properly be
supposed. All hostile acts which might follow would
belong essentially to the first, and form, in reality only
its duration.
But we have already seen that even in the preparation
for War the real world steps into the place of mere
abstract conception--a material standard into the place
of the hypotheses of an extreme: that therefore in that
way both parties, by the influence of the mutual reaction,
remain below the line of extreme effort, and therefore all
forces are not at once brought forward.
It lies also in the nature of these forces and their application
that they cannot all be brought into activity at the
same time. These forces are THE ARMIES ACTUALLY ON FOOT,
THE COUNTRY, with its superficial extent and its population,
AND THE ALLIES.
In point of fact, the country, with its superficial area
and the population, besides being the source of all military
force, constitutes in itself an integral part of the efficient
quantities in War, providing either the theatre of war
or exercising a considerable influence on the same.
Now, it is possible to bring all the movable military
forces of a country into operation at once, but not all
fortresses, rivers, mountains, people, &c.--in short, not
the whole country, unless it is so small that it may be
completely embraced by the first act of the War. Further,
the co-operation of allies does not depend on the Will of
the belligerents; and from the nature of the political
relations of states to each other, this co-operation is
frequently not afforded until after the War has commenced,
or it may be increased to restore the balance of power.
That this part of the means of resistance, which cannot
at once be brought into activity, in many cases, is a much
greater part of the whole than might at first be supposed,
and that it often restores the balance of power, seriously
affected by the great force of the first decision, will be
more fully shown hereafter. Here it is sufficient to show
that a complete concentration of all available means in a
moment of time is contradictory to the nature of War.
Now this, in itself, furnishes no ground for relaxing
our efforts to accumulate strength to gain the first result,
because an unfavourable issue is always a disadvantage
to which no one would purposely expose himself, and
also because the first decision, although not the only
one, still will have the more influence on subsequent
events, the greater it is in itself.
But the possibility of gaining a later result causes men
to take refuge in that expectation, owing to the repugnance
in the human mind to making excessive efforts; and
therefore forces are not concentrated and measures are
not taken for the first decision with that energy which
would otherwise be used. Whatever one belligerent
omits from weakness, becomes to the other a real objective
ground for limiting his own efforts, and thus again,
through this reciprocal action, extreme tendencies are
brought down to efforts on a limited scale.
9. THE RESULT IN WAR IS NEVER ABSOLUTE.
Lastly, even the final decision of a whole War is not
always to be regarded as absolute. The conquered State
often sees in it only a passing evil, which may be repaired
in after times by means of political combinations. How
much this must modify the degree of tension, and the
vigour of the efforts made, is evident in itself.
10. THE PROBABILITIES OF REAL LIFE TAKE THE PLACE
OF THE CONCEPTIONS OF THE EXTREME AND THE
ABSOLUTE.
In this manner, the whole act of War is removed from
the rigorous law of forces exerted to the utmost. If
the extreme is no longer to be apprehended, and no
longer to be sought for, it is left to the judgment to determine
the limits for the efforts to be made in place of it,
and this can only be done on the data furnished by the
facts of the real world by the LAWS OF PROBABILITY. Once
the belligerents are no longer mere conceptions, but
individual States and Governments, once the War is
no longer an ideal, but a definite substantial procedure,
then the reality will furnish the data to compute the
unknown quantities which are required to be found.
From the character, the measures, the situation of
the adversary, and the relations with which he is
surrounded, each side will draw conclusions by the law
of probability as to the designs of the other, and act
accordingly.
11. THE POLITICAL OBJECT NOW REAPPEARS.
Here the question which we had laid aside forces
itself again into consideration (see No. 2), viz., the
political object of the War. The law of the extreme, the
view to disarm the adversary, to overthrow him, has
hitherto to a certain extent usurped the place of this end
or object. Just as this law loses its force, the political must
again come
forward. If the whole consideration
is a calculation of probability based on definite
persons and relations, then the political object, being
the original motive, must be an essential factor in the
product. The smaller the sacrifice we demand from our, the
smaller, it may
be expected, will be the
means of resistance which he will employ; but the
smaller his preparation, the smaller will ours require
to be. Further, the smaller our political object, the
less value shall we set upon it, and the more easily shall
we be induced to give it up altogether.
Thus, therefore, the political object, as the original
motive of the War, will be the standard for determining
both the aim of the military force and also the amount
of effort to be made. This it cannot be in itself, but it
is so in relation to both the belligerent States, because
we are concerned with realities, not with mere abstractions.
One and the same political object may produce totally
different effects upon different people, or even upon the
same people at different times; we can, therefore, only
admit the political object as the measure, by considering
it in its effects upon those masses which it is to move,
and consequently the nature of those masses also comes
into consideration. It is easy to see that thus the result
may be very different according as these masses are
animated with a spirit which will infuse vigour into the
action or otherwise. It is quite possible for such a state
of feeling to exist between two States that a very trifling
political motive for War may produce an effect quite
disproportionate--in fact, a perfect explosion.
This applies to the efforts which the political object
will call forth in the two States, and to the aim which the
military action shall prescribe for itself. At times it
may itself be that aim, as, for example, the conquest of a
province. At other times the political object itself
is not suitable for the aim of military action; then such
a one must be chosen as will be an equivalent for it,
and stand in its place as regards the conclusion of
peace. But also, in this, due attention to the peculiar
character of the States concerned is always supposed.
There are circumstances in which the equivalent must be
much greater than the political object, in order to secure
the latter. The political object will be so much the more
the standard of aim and effort, and have more influence
in itself, the more the masses are indifferent, the less that
any mutual feeling of hostility prevails in the two States
from other causes, and therefore there are cases where
the political object almost alone will be decisive.
If the aim of the military action is an equivalent for the
political object, that action will in general diminish as
the political object diminishes, and in a greater degree
the more the political object dominates. Thus it is
explained how, without any contradiction in itself, there
may be Wars of all degrees of importance and energy,
from a War of extermination down to the mere use of an
army of observation. This, however, leads to a question
of another kind which we have hereafter to develop and
answer.
12. A SUSPENSION IN THE ACTION OF WAR UNEXPLAINED
BY ANYTHING SAID AS YET.
However insignificant the political claims mutually
advanced, however weak the means put forth, however
small the aim to which military action is directed, can
this action be suspended even for a moment? This is a
question which penetrates deeply into the nature of the
subject.
Every transaction requires for its accomplishment a
certain time which we call its duration. This may be
longer or shorter, according as the person acting throws
more or less despatch into his movements.
About this more or less we shall not trouble ourselves
here. Each person acts in his own fashion; but the
slow person does not protract the thing because he wishes
to spend more time about it, but because by his nature
he requires more time, and if he made more haste would
not do the thing so well. This time, therefore, depends
on subjective causes, and belongs to the length, so called,
of the action.
If we allow now to every action in War this, its length,
then we must assume, at first sight at least, that any
expenditure of time beyond this length, that is, every
suspension of hostile action, appears an absurdity; with
respect to this it must not be forgotten that we now speak
not of the progress of one or other of the two opponents,
but of the general progress of the whole action of the
War.
13. THERE IS ONLY ONE CAUSE WHICH CAN SUSPEND
THE ACTION, AND THIS SEEMS TO BE ONLY
POSSIBLE ON ONE SIDE IN ANY CASE.
If two parties have armed themselves for strife, then a
feeling of animosity must have moved them to it; as
long now as they continue armed, that is, do not come to
terms of peace, this feeling must exist; and it can only
be brought to a standstill by either side by one single
motive alone, which is, THAT HE WAITS FOR A MORE FAVOURABLE
MOMENT FOR ACTION. Now, at first sight, it appears that
this motive can never exist except on one side, because
it, eo ipso, must be prejudicial to the other. If the one
has an interest in acting, then the other must have an
interest in waiting.
A complete equilibrium of forces can never produce
a suspension of action, for during this suspension he who
has the positive object (that is, the assailant) must continue
progressing; for if we should imagine an equilibrium
in this way, that he who has the positive object, therefore
the strongest motive, can at the same time only command
the lesser means, so that the equation is made up by the
product of the motive and the power, then we must say,
if no alteration in this condition of equilibrium is to be
expected, the two parties must make peace; but if an
alteration is to be expected, then it can only be favourable
to one side, and therefore the other has a manifest
interest to act without delay. We see that the conception
of an equilibrium cannot explain a suspension of
arms, but that it ends in the question of the EXPECTATION
OF A MORE FAVOURABLE MOMENT.
Let us suppose, therefore, that one of two States has
a positive object, as, for instance, the conquest of one of
the enemy's provinces--which is to be utilised in the
settlement of peace. After this conquest, his political
object is accomplished, the necessity for action ceases,
and for him a pause ensues. If the adversary is also
contented with this solution, he will make peace; if not,
he must act. Now, if we suppose that in four weeks he
will be in a better condition to act, then he has sufficient
grounds for putting off the time of action.
But from that moment the logical course for the enemy
appears to be to act that he may not give the conquered
party THE DESIRED time. Of course, in this mode of reasoning
a complete insight into the state of circumstances
on both sides is supposed.
14. THUS A CONTINUANCE OF ACTION WILL ENSUE
WHICH WILL ADVANCE TOWARDS A CLIMAX.
If this unbroken continuity of hostile operations really
existed, the effect would be that everything would again
be driven towards the extreme; for, irrespective of the
effect of such incessant activity in inflaming the feelings,
and infusing into the whole a greater degree of passion,
a greater elementary force, there would also follow from
this continuance of action a stricter continuity, a closer
connection between cause and effect, and thus every
single action would become of more importance, and
consequently more replete with danger.
But we know that the course of action in War has
seldom or never this unbroken continuity, and that there
have been many Wars in which action occupied by far
the smallest portion of time employed, the whole of the
rest being consumed in inaction. It is impossible that
this should be always an anomaly; suspension of action
in War must therefore be possible, that is no contradiction
in itself. We now proceed to show how this is.
15. HERE, THEREFORE, THE PRINCIPLE OF POLARITY
IS BROUGHT INTO REQUISITION.
As we have supposed the interests of one Commander
to be always antagonistic to those of the other, we have
assumed a true POLARITY. We reserve a fuller explanation
of this for another chapter, merely making the following
observation on it at present.
The principle of polarity is only valid when it can be
conceived in one and the same thing, where the positive
and its opposite the negative completely destroy each
other. In a battle both sides strive to conquer; that is
true polarity, for the victory of the one side destroys
that of the other. But when we speak of two different
things which have a common relation external to themselves,
then it is not the things but their relations which
have the polarity.
16. ATTACK AND DEFENCE ARE THINGS DIFFERING
IN KIND AND OF UNEQUAL FORCE. POLARITY IS,
THEREFORE, NOT APPLICABLE TO THEM.
If there was only one form of War, to wit, the attack
of the enemy, therefore no defence; or, in other words,
if the attack was distinguished from the defence merely
by the positive motive, which the one has and the other
has not, but the methods of each were precisely one and
the same: then in this sort of fight every advantage
gained on the one side would be a corresponding disadvantage
on the other, and true polarity would exist.
But action in War is divided into two forms, attack
and defence, which, as we shall hereafter explain more
particularly, are very different and of unequal strength.
Polarity therefore lies in that to which both bear a
relation, in the decision, but not in the attack or defence
itself.
If the one Commander wishes the solution put off, the
other must wish to hasten it, but only by the same
form of action. If it is A's interest not to attack
his enemy at present, but four weeks hence, then it is
B's interest to be attacked, not four weeks hence, but at
the present moment. This is the direct antagonism of
interests, but it by no means follows that it would be for
B's interest to attack A at once. That is plainly something
totally different.
17. THE EFFECT OF POLARITY IS OFTEN DESTROYED BY
THE SUPERIORITY OF THE DEFENCE OVER THE
ATTACK, AND THUS THE SUSPENSION OF ACTION
IN WAR IS EXPLAINED.
If the form of defence is stronger than that of offence,
as we shall hereafter show, the question arises, Is the
advantage of a deferred decision as great on the one side
as the advantage of the defensive form on the other?
If it is not, then it cannot by its counter-weight over-
balance the latter, and thus influence the progress of the
action of the War. We see, therefore, that the impulsive
force existing in the polarity of interests may be lost in
the difference between the strength of the offensive and
the defensive, and thereby become ineffectual.
If, therefore, that side for which the present is favourable,
is too weak to be able to dispense with the advantage
of the defensive, he must put up with the unfavourable
prospects which the future holds out; for it may still be
better to fight a defensive battle in the unpromising future
than to assume the offensive or make peace at present.
Now, being convinced that the superiority of the defensive[*]
(rightly understood) is very great, and much greater
than may appear at first sight, we conceive that the
greater number of those periods of inaction which occur
in war are thus explained without involving any contradiction.
The weaker the motives to action are, the
more will those motives be absorbed and neutralised
by this difference between attack and defence, the more
frequently, therefore, will action in warfare be stopped,
as indeed experience teaches.
[*] It must be remembered that all this antedates by some years
the introduction of long-range weapons.
18 A SECOND GROUND CONSISTS IN THE IMPERFECT
KNOWLEDGE OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
But there is still another cause which may stop action
in War, viz., an incomplete view of the situation. Each
Commander can only fully know his own position; that
of his opponent can only be known to him by reports,
which are uncertain; he may, therefore, form a wrong
judgment with respect to it upon data of this description,
and, in consequence of that error, he may suppose that
the power of taking the initiative rests with his adversary
when it lies really with himself. This want of perfect
insight might certainly just as often occasion an untimely
action as untimely inaction, and hence it would in itself
no more contribute to delay than to accelerate action in
War. Still, it must always be regarded as one of the
natural causes which may bring action in War to a standstill
without involving a contradiction. But if we reflect
how much more we are inclined and induced to estimate
the power of our opponents too high than too low, because
it lies in human nature to do so, we shall admit that our
imperfect insight into facts in general must contribute
very much to delay action in War, and to modify the
application of the principles pending our conduct.
The possibility of a standstill brings into the action
of War a new modification, inasmuch as it dilutes that
action with the element of time, checks the influence or
sense of danger in its course, and increases the means of
reinstating a lost balance of force. The greater the
tension of feelings from which the War springs, the greater
therefore the energy with which it is carried on, so much
the shorter will be the periods of inaction; on the other
hand, the weaker the principle of warlike activity, the
longer will be these periods: for powerful motives increase
the force of the will, and this, as we know, is always a
factor in the product of force.
19. FREQUENT PERIODS OF INACTION IN WAR REMOVE
IT FURTHER FROM THE ABSOLUTE, AND MAKE IT
STILL MORE A CALCULATION OF PROBABILITIES.
But the slower the action proceeds in War, the more
frequent and longer the periods of inaction, so much the
more easily can an error be repaired; therefore, so much
the bolder a General will be in his calculations, so much
the more readily will he keep them below the line of
the absolute, and build everything upon probabilities and
conjecture. Thus, according as the course of the War is
more or less slow, more or less time will be allowed for
that which the nature of a concrete case particularly
requires, calculation of probability based on given
circumstances.
20. THEREFORE, THE ELEMENT OF CHANCE ONLY IS
WANTING TO MAKE OF WAR A GAME, AND IN THAT
ELEMENT IT IS LEAST OF ALL DEFICIENT.
We see from the foregoing how much the objective
nature of War makes it a calculation of probabilities;
now there is only one single element still wanting to make
it a game, and that element it certainly is not without:
it is chance. There is no human affair which stands
so constantly and so generally in close connection with
chance as War. But together with chance, the accidental,
and along with it good luck, occupy a great place in
War.
21. WAR IS A GAME BOTH OBJECTIVELY AND
SUBJECTIVELY.
If we now take a look at the subjective nature of War,
that is to say, at those conditions under which it is carried
on, it will appear to us still more like a game. Primarily
the element in which the operations of War are carried on
is danger; but which of all the moral qualities is the first in
danger? COURAGE. Now certainly courage is quite compatible
with prudent calculation, but still they are things
of quite a different kind, essentially different qualities of
the mind; on the other hand, daring reliance on good
fortune, boldness, rashness, are only expressions of
courage, and all these propensities of the mind look for
the fortuitous (or accidental), because it is their element.
We see, therefore, how, from the commencement, the
absolute, the mathematical as it is called, nowhere finds
any sure basis in the calculations in the Art of War; and
that from the outset there is a play of possibilities,
probabilities, good and bad luck, which spreads about with all
the coarse and fine threads of its web, and makes War of all
branches of human activity the most like a gambling game.
22. HOW THIS ACCORDS BEST WITH THE HUMAN MIND IN
GENERAL.
Although our intellect always feels itself urged towards
clearness and certainty, still our mind often feels itself
attracted by uncertainty. Instead of threading its way
with the understanding along the narrow path of philosophical
investigations and logical conclusions, in order,
almost unconscious of itself, to arrive in spaces where it
feels itself a stranger, and where it seems to part from
all well-known objects, it prefers to remain with the
imagination in the realms of chance and luck. Instead
of living yonder on poor necessity, it revels here in the
wealth of possibilities; animated thereby, courage
then takes wings to itself, and daring and danger make
the element into which it launches itself as a fearless
swimmer plunges into the stream.
Shall theory leave it here, and move on, self-satisfied
with absolute conclusions and rules? Then it is of no
practical use. Theory must also take into account
the human element; it must accord a place to courage,
to boldness, even to rashness. The Art of War has to deal
with living and with moral forces, the consequence of
which is that it can never attain the absolute and positive.
There is therefore everywhere a margin for the accidental,
and just as much in the greatest things as in the smallest.
As there is room for this accidental on the one hand, so
on the other there must be courage and self-reliance in
proportion to the room available. If these qualities are
forthcoming in a high degree, the margin left may likewise
be great. Courage and self-reliance are, therefore,
principles quite essential to War; consequently, theory
must only set up such rules as allow ample scope for all
degrees and varieties of these necessary and noblest
of military virtues. In daring there may still be wisdom,
and prudence as well, only they are estimated by a
different standard of value.
23. WAR IS ALWAYS A SERIOUS MEANS FOR A SERIOUS
OBJECT. ITS MORE PARTICULAR DEFINITION.
Such is War; such the Commander who conducts it;
such the theory which rules it. But War is no pastime;
no mere passion for venturing and winning; no work
of a free enthusiasm: it is a serious means for a serious
object. All that appearance which it wears from the
varying hues of fortune, all that it assimilates into itself
of the oscillations of passion, of courage, of imagination,
of enthusiasm, are only particular properties of this means.
The War of a community--of whole Nations, and particularly
of civilised Nations--always starts from a
political condition, and is called forth by a political
motive. It is, therefore, a political act. Now if it was a
perfect, unrestrained, and absolute expression of force, as
we had to deduct it from its mere conception, then the
moment it is called forth by policy it would step into the
place of policy, and as something quite independent of it
would set it aside, and only follow its own laws, just as a
mine at the moment of explosion cannot be guided into
any other direction than that which has been given to it by
preparatory arrangements. This is how the thing has
really been viewed hitherto, whenever a want of harmony
between policy and the conduct of a War has led to
theoretical distinctions of the kind. But it is not so,
and the idea is radically false. War in the real world,
as we have already seen, is not an extreme thing which
expends itself at one single discharge; it is the operation
of powers which do not develop themselves completely
in the same manner and in the same measure, but which
at one time expand sufficiently to overcome the resistance
opposed by inertia or friction, while at another they are
too weak to produce an effect; it is therefore, in a
certain measure, a pulsation of violent force more or less
vehement, consequently making its discharges and
exhausting its powers more or less quickly--in other words,
conducting more or less quickly to the aim, but always
lasting long enough to admit of influence being exerted
on it in its course, so as to give it this or that direction,
in short, to be subject to the will of a guiding intelligence.,
if we
reflect that War has its root in a political object,
then naturally this original motive which called it into
existence should also continue the first and highest
consideration in its conduct. Still, the political object
is no despotic lawgiver on that account; it must accommodate
itself to the nature of the means, and though
changes in these means may involve modification in the
political objective, the latter always retains a prior right
to consideration. Policy, therefore, is interwoven with
the whole action of War, and must exercise a continuous
influence upon it, as far as the nature of the forces liberated
by it will permit.
24. WAR IS A MERE CONTINUATION OF POLICY BY
OTHER MEANS.
We see, therefore, that War is not merely a political
act, but also a real political instrument, a continuation
of political commerce, a carrying out of the same by
other means. All beyond this which is strictly peculiar
to War relates merely to the peculiar nature of the means
which it uses. That the tendencies and views of policy
shall not be incompatible with these means, the Art of
War in general and the Commander in each particular
case may demand, and this claim is truly not a trifling
one. But however powerfully this may react on political
views in particular cases, still it must always be regarded
as only a modification of them; for the political view
is the object, War is the means, and the means must
always include the object in our conception.
25. DIVERSITY IN THE NATURE OF WARS.
The greater and the more powerful the motives of a
War, the more it affects the whole existence of a people.
The more violent the excitement which precedes the War,
by so much the nearer will the War approach to its abstract
form, so much the more will it be directed to the destruction
of the enemy, so much the nearer will the military
and political ends coincide, so much the more purely
military and less political the War appears to be; but
the weaker the motives and the tensions, so much the
less will the natural direction of the military element--
that is, force--be coincident with the direction which
the political element indicates; so much the more must,
therefore, the War become diverted from its natural
direction, the political object diverge from the aim of
an ideal War, and the War appear to become political.
But, that the reader may not form any false conceptions,
we must here observe that by this natural tendency
of War we only mean the philosophical, the strictly
logical, and by no means the tendency of forces actually
engaged in conflict, by which would be supposed to be
included all the emotions and passions of the combatants.
No doubt in some cases these also might be excited to
such a degree as to be with difficulty restrained and
confined to the political road; but in most cases such a
contradiction will not arise, because by the existence of
such strenuous exertions a great plan in harmony therewith
would be implied. If the plan is directed only upon
a small object, then the impulses of feeling amongst
the masses will be also so weak that these masses will
require to be stimulated rather than repressed.
26. THEY MAY ALL BE REGARDED AS POLITICAL ACTS.
Returning now to the main subject, although it is true
that in one kind of War the political element seems
almost to disappear, whilst in another kind it occupies
a very prominent place, we may still affirm that the one
is as political as the other; for if we regard the State
policy as the intelligence of the personified State, then
amongst all the constellations in the political sky whose
movements it has to compute, those must be included which
arise when the nature of its relations imposes the necessity
of a great War. It is only if we understand by policy
not a true appreciation of affairs in general, but the
conventional conception of a cautious, subtle, also dishonest
craftiness, averse from violence, that the latter
kind of War may belong more to policy than the first.
27. INFLUENCE OF THIS VIEW ON THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING
OF MILITARY HISTORY, AND ON THE
FOUNDATIONS OF THEORY.
We see, therefore, in the first place, that under all
circumstances War is to be regarded not as an independent
thing, but as a political instrument; and it is only by
taking this point of view that we can avoid finding ourselves
in opposition to all military history. This is the
only means of unlocking the great book and making it
intelligible. Secondly, this view shows us how Wars
must differ in character according to the nature of the
motives and circumstances from which they proceed.
Now, the first, the grandest, and most decisive act of
judgment which the Statesman and General exercises is
rightly to understand in this respect the War in which
he engages, not to take it for something, or to wish to
make of it something, which by the nature of its relations
it is impossible for it to be. This is, therefore, the first,
the most comprehensive, of all strategical questions.
We shall enter into this more fully in treating of the
plan of a War.
For the present we content ourselves with having
brought the subject up to this point, and having thereby
fixed the chief point of view from which War and its theory
are to be studied.
28. RESULT FOR THEORY.
War is, therefore, not only chameleon-like in character,
because it changes its colour in some degree in each
particular case, but it is also, as a whole, in relation to the
predominant tendencies which are in it, a wonderful
trinity, composed of the original violence of its elements,
hatred and animosity, which may be looked upon as blind
instinct; of the play of probabilities and chance, which
make it a free activity of the soul; and of the subordinate
nature of a political instrument, by which it belongs purely
to the reason.
The first of these three phases concerns more the people
the second, more the General and his Army; the third,
more the Government. The passions which break forth
in War must already have a latent existence in the peoples.
The range which the display of courage and talents shall
get in the realm of probabilities and of chance depends on
the particular characteristics of the General and his
Army, but the political objects belong to the Government
alone.
These three tendencies, which appear like so many
different law-givers, are deeply rooted in the nature of the
subject, and at the same time variable in degree. A
theory which would leave any one of them out of account,
or set up any arbitrary relation between them, would
immediately become involved in such a contradiction
with the reality, that it might be regarded as destroyed
at once by that alone.
The problem is, therefore, that theory shall keep itself
poised in a manner between these three tendencies, as
between three points of attraction.
The way in which alone this difficult problem can be
solved we shall examine in the book on the "Theory of
War." In every case the conception of War, as here
defined, will be the first ray of light which shows us the
true foundation of theory, and which first separates the
great masses and allows us to distinguish them from
one another.
CHAPTER II. END AND MEANS IN WAR
HAVING in the foregoing chapter ascertained the complicated
and variable nature of War, we shall now occupy
ourselves in examining into the influence which this
nature has upon the end and means in War.
If we ask, first of all, for the object upon which the
whole effort of War is to be directed, in order that it may
suffice for the attainment of the political object, we
shall find that it is just as variable as are the political
object and the particular circumstances of the War.
If, in the next place, we keep once more to the pure
conception of War, then we must say that the political
object properly lies out of its province, for if War is an act
of violence to compel the enemy to fulfil our will, then
in every case all depends on our overthrowing the enemy,
that is, disarming him, and on that alone. This object,
developed from abstract conceptions, but which is also
the one aimed at in a great many cases in reality, we shall,
in the first place, examine in this reality.
In connection with the plan of a campaign we shall
hereafter examine more closely into the meaning of disarming
a nation, but here we must at once draw a distinction
between three things, which, as three general objects,
comprise everything else within them. They are the
MILITARY POWER, THE COUNTRY, and THE WILL OF THE ENEMY.
The military power must be destroyed, that is, reduced
to such a state as not to be able to prosecute the War.
This is the sense in which we wish to be understood hereafter,
whenever we use the expression "destruction of
the enemy's military power."
The country must be conquered, for out of the country
a new military force may be formed.
But even when both these things are done, still the War,
that is, the hostile feeling and action of hostile agencies,
cannot be considered as at an end as long as the will of
the enemy is not subdued also; that is, its Government
and its Allies must be forced into signing a peace, or the
people into submission; for whilst we are in full occupation
of the country, the War may break out afresh, either in the
interior or through assistance given by Allies. No doubt,
this may also take place after a peace, but that shows
nothing more than that every War does not carry in itself
the elements for a complete decision and final settlement.
But even if this is the case, still with the conclusion
of peace a number of sparks are always extinguished
which would have smouldered on quietly, and the excitement
of the passions abates, because all those whose
minds are disposed to peace, of which in all nations and
under all circumstances there is always a great number,
turn themselves away completely from the road to resistance.
Whatever may take place subsequently, we must
always look upon the object as attained, and the business
of War as ended, by a peace.
As protection of the country is the primary object
for which the military force exists, therefore the
natural order is, that first of all this force should be
destroyed, then the country subdued; and through the
effect of these two results, as well as the position we then
hold, the enemy should be forced to make peace. Generally
the destruction of the enemy's force is done by
degrees, and in just the same measure the conquest of
the country follows immediately. The two likewise
usually react upon each other, because the loss of provinces
occasions a diminution of military force. But
this order is by no means necessary, and on that account
it also does not always take place. The enemy's Army,
before it is sensibly weakened, may retreat to the opposite
side of the country, or even quite outside of it. In
this case, therefore, the greater part or the whole of the
country is conquered.
But this object of War in the abstract, this final means
of attaining the political object in which all others are
combined, the DISARMING THE ENEMY, is rarely attained
in practice and is not a condition necessary to peace.
Therefore it can in no wise be set up in theory as a
law. There are innumerable instances of treaties in which
peace has been settled before either party could be looked
upon as disarmed; indeed, even before the balance of
power had undergone any sensible alteration. Nay,
further, if we look at the case in the concrete, then we
must say that in a whole class of cases, the idea of a complete
defeat of the enemy would be a mere imaginative
flight, especially when the enemy is considerably superior.
The reason why the object deduced from the conception
of War is not adapted in general to real War lies in
the difference between the two, which is discussed in the
preceding chapter. If it was as pure theory gives
it, then a War between two States of very unequal
military strength would appear an absurdity; therefore
impossible. At most, the inequality between the physical
forces might be such that it could be balanced by the
moral forces, and that would not go far with our present
social condition in Europe. Therefore, if we have seen
Wars take place between States of very unequal power,
that has been the case because there is a wide difference
between War in reality and its original conception.
There are two considerations which as motives may
practically take the place of inability to continue the
contest. The first is the improbability, the second is
the excessive price, of success.
According to what we have seen in the foregoing chapter,
War must always set itself free from the strict law of logical
necessity, and seek aid from the calculation of probabilities;
and as this is so much the more the case, the more
the War has a bias that way, from the circumstances
out of which it has arisen--the smaller its motives are,
and the excitement it has raised--so it is also conceivable
how out of this calculation of probabilities even motives
to peace may arise. War does not, therefore, always
require to be fought out until one party is overthrown;
and we may suppose that, when the motives and passions
are slight, a weak probability will suffice to move that
side to which it is unfavourable to give way. Now, were
the other side convinced of this beforehand, it is natural
that he would strive for this probability only, instead of
first wasting time and effort in the attempt to achieve
the total destruction of the enemy's Army.
Still more general in its influence on the resolution to
peace is the consideration of the expenditure of force
already made, and further required. As War is no act
of blind passion, but is dominated by the political
object, therefore the value of that object determines
the measure of the sacrifices by which it is to be purchased.
This will be the case, not only as regards extent, but also
as regards duration. As soon, therefore, as the required
outlay becomes so great that the political object is no
longer equal in value, the object must be given up, and
peace will be the result.
We see, therefore, that in Wars where one side cannot
completely disarm the other, the motives to peace on
both sides will rise or fall on each side according to the
probability of future success and the required outlay.
If these motives were equally strong on both sides, they
would meet in the centre of their political difference.
Where they are strong on one side, they might be weak on
the other. If their amount is only sufficient, peace will
follow, but naturally to the advantage of that side which
has the weakest motive for its conclusion. We purposely
pass over here the difference which the POSITIVE and
NEGATIVE character of the political end must necessarily
produce practically; for although that is, as we shall
hereafter show, of the highest importance, still we are
obliged to keep here to a more general point of view,
because the original political views in the course of the
War change very much, and at last may become totally
different, JUST BECAUSE THEY ARE DETERMINED BY RESULTS AND
PROBABLE EVENTS.
Now comes the question how to influence the probability
of success. In the first place, naturally by the same
means which we use when the object is the subjugation
of the enemy, by the destruction of his military force
and the conquest of his provinces; but these two means
are not exactly of the same import here as they would be
in reference to that object. If we attack the enemy's
Army, it is a very different thing whether we intend to
follow up the first blow with a succession of others, until
the whole force is destroyed, or whether we mean to
content ourselves with a victory to shake the enemy's
feeling of security, to convince him of our superiority,
and to instil into him a feeling of apprehension about
the future. If this is our object, we only go so far in the
destruction of his forces as is sufficient. In like manner,
the conquest, of the enemy's provinces is quite a different
measure if the object is not the destruction of the enemy's
Army. In the latter case the destruction of the Army is
the real effectual action, and the taking of the provinces
only a consequence of it; to take them before the Army
had been defeated would always be looked upon only as
a necessary evil. On the other hand, if our views are not
directed upon the complete destruction of the enemy's
force, and if we are sure that the enemy does not seek
but fears to bring matters to a bloody decision, the taking
possession of a weak or defenceless province is an advantage
in itself, and if this advantage is of sufficient importance
to make the enemy apprehensive about the general
result, then it may also be regarded as a shorter road to
peace.
But now we come upon a peculiar means of influencing
the probability of the result without destroying the
enemy's Army, namely, upon the expeditions which have
a direct connection with political views. If there are any
enterprises which are particularly likely to break up the
enemy's alliances or make them inoperative, to gain
new alliances for ourselves, to raise political powers in
our own favour, &c. &c., then it is easy to conceive how
much these may increase the probability of success, and
become a shorter way towards our object than the routing
of the enemy's forces.
The second question is how to act upon the enemy's
expenditure in strength, that is, to raise the price of
success.
The enemy's outlay in strength lies in the WEAR AND
TEAR of his forces, consequently in the DESTRUCTION of them
on our part, and in the LOSS of PROVINCES, consequently
the CONQUEST of them by us.
Here, again, on account of the various significations
of these means, so likewise it will be found that neither
of them will be identical in its signification in all cases
if the objects are different. The smallness in general
of this difference must not cause us perplexity, for in
reality the weakest motives, the finest shades of difference,
often decide in favour of this or that method of applying
force. Our only business here is to show that, certain
conditions being supposed, the possibility of attaining
our purpose in different ways is no contradiction,
absurdity, nor even error.
Besides these two means, there are three other peculiar
ways of directly increasing the waste of the enemy's
force. The first is INVASION, that is THE OCCUPATION OF THE
ENEMY'S TERRITORY, NOT WITH A VIEW TO KEEPING IT, but in order
to levy contributions upon it, or to devastate it.
The immediate object here is neither the conquest of
the enemy's territory nor the defeat of his armed force, but
merely to DO HIM DAMAGE IN A GENERAL WAY. The second
way is to select for the object of our enterprises those
points at which we can do the enemy most harm. Nothing
is easier to conceive than two different directions in which
our force may be employed, the first of which is to be preferred
if our object is to defeat the enemy's Army, while
the other is more advantageous if the defeat of the enemy
is out of the question. According to the usual mode of
speaking, we should say that the first is primarily military,
the other more political. But if we take our view from
the highest point, both are equally military, and neither
the one nor the other can be eligible unless it suits the
circumstances of the case. The third, by far the most
important, from the great number of cases which it
embraces, is the WEARING OUT of the enemy. We choose this
expression not only to explain our meaning in few words,
but because it represents the thing exactly, and is not
so figurative as may at first appear. The idea of wearing
out in a struggle amounts in practice to A GRADUAL EXHAUSTION
OF THE PHYSICAL POWERS AND OF THE WILL BY THE LONG CONTINUANCE
OF EXERTION.
Now, if we want to overcome the enemy by the duration
of the contest, we must content ourselves with as small
objects as possible, for it is in the nature of the thing that
a great end requires a greater expenditure of force than a
small one; but the smallest object that we can propose to
ourselves is simple passive resistance, that is a combat
without any positive view. In this way, therefore, our
means attain their greatest relative value, and therefore
the result is best secured. How far now can this negative
mode of proceeding be carried? Plainly not to absolute
passivity, for mere endurance would not be fighting;
and the defensive is an activity by which so much of the
enemy's power must be destroyed that he must give up
his object. That alone is what we aim at in each single
act, and therein consists the negative nature of our
object.
No doubt this negative object in its single act is not
so effective as the positive object in the same direction
would be, supposing it successful; but there is this
difference in its favour, that it succeeds more easily than
the positive, and therefore it holds out greater certainty
of success; what is wanting in the efficacy of its single
act must be gained through time, that is, through the
duration of the contest, and therefore this negative
intention, which constitutes the principle of the pure
defensive, is also the natural means of overcoming the
enemy by the duration of the combat, that is of wearing
him out.
Here lies the origin of that difference of OFFENSIVE and
DEFENSIVE, the influence of which prevails throughout the
whole province of War. We cannot at present pursue this
subject further than to observe that from this negative
intention are to be deduced all the advantages and all
the stronger forms of combat which are on the side of
the Defensive, and in which that philosophical-dynamic
law which exists between the greatness and the certainty
of success is realised. We shall resume the consideration
of all this hereafter.
If then the negative purpose, that is the concentration
of all the means into a state of pure resistance, affords a
superiority in the contest, and if this advantage is sufficient
to BALANCE whatever superiority in numbers the
adversary may have, then the mere DURATION of the contest
will suffice gradually to bring the loss of force on the part
of the adversary to a point at which the political object
can no longer be an equivalent, a point at which, therefore,
he must give up the contest. We see then that this class
of means, the wearing out of the enemy, includes the great
number of cases in which the weaker resists the stronger.
Frederick the Great, during the Seven Years' War,
was never strong enough to overthrow the Austrian
monarchy; and if he had tried to do so after the fashion
of Charles the Twelfth, he would inevitably have had to
succumb himself. But after his skilful application of the
system of husbanding his resources had shown the powers
allied against him, through a seven years' struggle, that the
actual expenditure of strength far exceeded what they
had at first anticipated, they made peace.
We see then that there are many ways to one's object
in War; that the complete subjugation of the enemy is
not essential in every case; that the destruction of the
enemy's military force, the conquest of the enemy's provinces,
the mere occupation of them, the mere invasion of
them--enterprises which are aimed directly at political
objects--lastly, a passive expectation of the enemy's
blow, are all means which, each in itself, may be used
to force the enemy's will according as the peculiar
circumstances of the case lead us to expect more from
the one or the other. We could still add to these a
whole category of shorter methods of gaining the end,
which might be called arguments ad hominem. What
branch of human affairs is there in which these sparks
of individual spirit have not made their appearance,
surmounting all formal considerations? And least of all
can they fail to appear in War, where the personal character
of the combatants plays such an important part, both in
the cabinet and in the field. We limit ourselves to pointing
this out, as it would be pedantry to attempt to reduce
such influences into classes. Including these, we may
say that the number of possible ways of reaching the
object rises to infinity.
To avoid under-estimating these different short roads to
one's purpose, either estimating them only as rare exceptions,
or holding the difference which they cause in the
conduct of War as insignificant, we must bear in mind the
diversity of political objects which may cause a War--
measure at a glance the distance which there is between
a death struggle for political existence and a War which
a forced or tottering alliance makes a matter of disagreeable
duty. Between the two innumerable gradations
occur in practice. If we reject one of these gradations
in theory, we might with equal right reject the whole,
which would be tantamount to shutting the real world
completely out of sight.
These are the circumstances in general connected with
the aim which we have to pursue in War; let us now turn
to the means.
There is only one single means, it is the FIGHT. However
diversified this may be in form, however widely
it may differ from a rough vent of hatred and animosity
in a hand-to-hand encounter, whatever number of things
may introduce themselves which are not actual fighting,
still it is always implied in the conception of War that all
the effects manifested have their roots in the combat.
That this must always be so in the greatest diversity
and complication of the reality is proved in a very simple
manner. All that takes place in War takes place through
armed forces, but where the forces of War, i.e., armed
men, are applied, there the idea of fighting must of necessity
be at the foundation.
All, therefore, that relates to forces of War--all that is
connected with their creation, maintenance, and application--
belongs to military activity.
Creation and maintenance are obviously only the means,
whilst application is the object.
The contest in War is not a contest of individual against
individual, but an organised whole, consisting of manifold
parts; in this great whole we may distinguish units of two
kinds, the one determined by the subject, the other by the
object. In an Army the mass of combatants ranges itself
always into an order of new units, which again form
members of a higher order. The combat of each of these
members forms, therefore, also a more or less distinct unit.
Further, the motive of the fight; therefore its object
forms its unit.
Now, to each of these units which we distinguish in
the contest we attach the name of combat.
If the idea of combat lies at the foundation of every
application of armed power, then also the application
of armed force in general is nothing more than the determining
and arranging a certain number of combats.
Every activity in War, therefore, necessarily relates to
the combat either directly or indirectly. The soldier is
levied, clothed, armed, exercised, he sleeps, eats, drinks,
and marches, all MERELY TO FIGHT AT THE RIGHT TIME AND PLACE.
If, therefore, all the threads of military activity terminate
in the combat, we shall grasp them all when we
settle the order of the combats. Only from this order
and its execution proceed the effects, never directly
from the conditions preceding them. Now, in the combat
all the action is directed to the DESTRUCTION of the enemy,
or rather of HIS FIGHTING POWERS, for this lies in the conception
of combat. The destruction of the enemy's fighting
power is, therefore, always the means to attain the object
of the combat.
This object may likewise be the mere destruction of
the enemy's armed force; but that is not by any means
necessary, and it may be something quite different.
Whenever, for instance, as we have shown, the defeat
of the enemy is not the only means to attain the political
object, whenever there are other objects which may be
pursued as the aim in a War, then it follows of itself that
such other objects may become the object of particular
acts of Warfare, and therefore also the object of combats.
But even those combats which, as subordinate acts,
are in the strict sense devoted to the destruction of the
enemy's fighting force need not have that destruction
itself as their first object.
If we think of the manifold parts of a great armed force,
of the number of circumstances which come into activity
when it is employed, then it is clear that the combat of
such a force must also require a manifold organisation,
a subordinating of parts and formation. There may
and must naturally arise for particular parts a number of
objects which are not themselves the destruction of the
enemy's armed force, and which, while they certainly
contribute to increase that destruction, do so only in an
indirect manner. If a battalion is ordered to drive the
enemy from a rising ground, or a bridge, &c., then properly
the occupation of any such locality is the real object,
the destruction of the enemy's armed force which takes
place only the means or secondary matter. If the enemy
can be driven away merely by a demonstration, the object
is attained all the same; but this hill or bridge is, in point
of fact, only required as a means of increasing the gross
amount of loss inflicted on the enemy's armed force. It
is the case on the field of battle, much more must it
be so on the whole theatre of war, where not only one
Army is opposed to another, but one State, one Nation,
one whole country to another. Here the number of
possible relations, and consequently possible combinations,
is much greater, the diversity of measures increased, and
by the gradation of objects, each subordinate to another
the first means employed is further apart from the ultimate
object.
It is therefore for many reasons possible that the object
of a combat is not the destruction of the enemy's force,
that is, of the force immediately opposed to us, but
that this only appears as a means. But in all such
cases it is no longer a question of complete destruction,
for the combat is here nothing else but a measure of
strength--has in itself no value except only that of the
present result, that is, of its decision.
But a measuring of strength may be effected in cases
where the opposing sides are very unequal by a mere
comparative estimate. In such cases no fighting
will take place, and the weaker will immediately give
way.
If the object of a combat is not always the destruction
of the enemy's forces therein engaged--and if its object
can often be attained as well without the combat taking
place at all, by merely making a resolve to fight, and by
the circumstances to which this resolution gives rise--
then that explains how a whole campaign may be
carried on with great activity without the actual combat
playing any notable part in it.
That this may be so military history proves by a
hundred examples. How many of those cases can be
justified, that is, without involving a contradiction
and whether some of the celebrities who rose out of
them would stand criticism, we shall leave undecided,
for all we have to do with the matter is to show the
possibility of such a course of events in War.
We have only one means in War--the battle; but this
means, by the infinite variety of paths in which it may be
applied, leads us into all the different ways which the
multiplicity of objects allows of, so that we seem to have
gained nothing; but that is not the case, for from this
unity of means proceeds a thread which assists the study
of the subject, as it runs through the whole web of military
activity and holds it together.
But we have considered the destruction of the enemy's
force as one of the objects which maybe pursued in War,
and left undecided what relative importance should be
given to it amongst other objects. In certain cases it
will depend on circumstances, and as a general question
we have left its value undetermined. We are once more
brought back upon it, and we shall be able to get an
insight into the value which must necessarily be accorded
to it.
The combat is the single activity in War; in the combat
the destruction of the enemy opposed to us is the means
to the end; it is so even when the combat does not
actually take place, because in that case there lies at
the root of the decision the supposition at all events
that this destruction is to be regarded as beyond doubt.
It follows, therefore, that the destruction of the enemy's
military force is the foundation-stone of all action in War,
the great support of all combinations, which rest upon it
like the arch on its abutments. All action, therefore,
takes place on the supposition that if the solution by force
of arms which lies at its foundation should be realised,
it will be a favourable one. The decision by arms is, for
all operations in War, great and small, what cash payment
is in bill transactions. However remote from
each other these relations, however seldom the realisation
may take place, still it can never entirely fail to
occur.
If the decision by arms lies at the foundation of all
combinations, then it follows that the enemy can defeat
each of them by gaining a victory on the field, not
merely in the one on which our combination directly
depends, but also in any other encounter, if it is only
important enough; for every important decision by arms
--that is, destruction of the enemy's forces--reacts upon
all preceding it, because, like a liquid element, they tend
to bring themselves to a level.
Thus, the destruction of the enemy's armed force
appears, therefore, always as the superior and more
effectual means, to which all others must give way.
It is, however, only when there is a supposed equality
in all other conditions that we can ascribe to the destruction
of the enemy's armed force the greater efficacy.
It would, therefore, be a great mistake to draw the
conclusion that a blind dash must always gain the
victory over skill and caution. An unskilful attack would
lead to the destruction of our own and not of the enemy's
force, and therefore is not what is here meant. The
superior efficacy belongs not to the MEANS but to the END,
and we are only comparing the effect of one realised
purpose with the other.
If we speak of the destruction of the enemy's armed
force, we must expressly point out that nothing obliges
us to confine this idea to the mere physical force; on
the contrary, the moral is necessarily implied as well,
because both in fact are interwoven with each other,
even in the most minute details, and therefore cannot
be separated. But it is just in connection with the
inevitable effect which has been referred to, of a great
act of destruction (a great victory) upon all other decisions
by arms, that this moral element is most fluid, if we may
use that expression, and therefore distributes itself the
most easily through all the parts.
Against the far superior worth which the destruction
of the enemy's armed force has over all other means
stands the expense and risk of this means, and it is
only to avoid these that any other means are taken.
That these must be costly stands to reason, for
the waste of our own military forces must, ceteris
paribus, always be greater the more our aim is directed
upon the destruction of the enemy's power.
The danger lies in this, that the greater efficacy
which we seek recoils on ourselves, and therefore has
worse consequences in case we fail of success.
Other methods are, therefore, less costly when they
succeed, less dangerous when they fail; but in this is
necessarily lodged the condition that they are only opposed
to similar ones, that is, that the enemy acts on the same
principle; for if the enemy should choose the way of a
great decision by arms, OUR MEANS MUST ON THAT ACCOUNT
BE CHANGED AGAINST OUR WILL, IN ORDER TO CORRESPOND WITH
HIS. Then all depends on the issue of the act of destruction;
but of course it is evident that, ceteris paribus,
in this act we must be at a disadvantage in all respects
because our views and our means had been directed in
part upon other objects, which is not the case with the
enemy. Two different objects of which one is not partthe other
exclude each
other, and therefore a force
which may be applicable for the one may not serve for
the other. If, therefore, one of two belligerents is
determined to seek the great decision by arms, then he has
a high probability of success, as soon as he is certain
his opponent will not take that way, but follows a
different object; and every one who sets before himself
any such other aim only does so in a reasonable manner,
provided he acts on the supposition that his adversary
has as little intention as he has of resorting to the
great decision by arms.
But what we have here said of another direction of
views and forces relates only to other POSITIVE OBJECTS,
which we may propose to ourselves in War, besides the
destruction of the enemy's force, not by any means
to the pure defensive, which may be adopted with a view
thereby to exhaust the enemy's forces. In the pure
defensive the positive object is wanting, and therefore,
while on the defensive, our forces cannot at the same time
be directed on other objects; they can only be employed
to defeat the intentions of the enemy.
We have now to consider the opposite of the destruction
of the enemy's armed force, that is to say, the
preservation of our own. These two efforts always go
together, as they mutually act and react on each other;
they are integral parts of one and the same view, and
we have only to ascertain what effect is produced when
one or the other has the predominance. The endeavour
to destroy the enemy's force has a positive object, and
leads to positive results, of which the final aim is the
conquest of the enemy. The preservation of our own forces
has a negative object, leads therefore to the defeat of the
enemy's intentions, that is to pure resistance, of which
the final aim can be nothing more than to prolong the
duration of the contest, so that the enemy shall exhaust
himself in it.
The effort with a positive object calls into existence
the act of destruction; the effort with the negative
object awaits it.
How far this state of expectation should and may be
carried we shall enter into more particularly in the
theory of attack and defence, at the origin of which we
again find ourselves. Here we shall content ourselves
with saying that the awaiting must be no absolute
endurance, and that in the action bound up with it
the destruction of the enemy's armed force engaged in
this conflict may be the aim just as well as anything else.
It would therefore be a great error in the fundamental
idea to suppose that the consequence of the negative
course is that we are precluded from choosing the destruction
of the enemy's military force as our object, and must
prefer a bloodless solution. The advantage which the
negative effort gives may certainly lead to that, but only
at the risk of its not being the most advisable method,
as that question is dependent on totally different conditions,
resting not with ourselves but with our opponents.
This other bloodless way cannot, therefore, be looked
upon at all as the natural means of satisfying our
great anxiety to spare our forces; on the contrary,
when circumstances are not favourable, it would be
the means of completely ruining them. Very many
Generals have fallen into this error, and been ruined
by it. The only necessary effect resulting from the
superiority of the negative effort is the delay of the decision,
so that the party acting takes refuge in that way,
as it were, in the expectation of the decisive moment.
The consequence of that is generally THE POSTPONEMENT
OF THE ACTION as much as possible in time, and also in space,
in so far as space is in connection with it. If the moment
has arrived in which this can no longer be done without
ruinous disadvantage, then the advantage of the negative
must be considered as exhausted, and then comes forward
unchanged the effort for the destruction of the enemy's
force, which was kept back by a counterpoise, but never
discarded.
We have seen, therefore, in the foregoing reflections,
that there are many ways to the aim, that is, to the
attainment of the political object; but that the only
means is the combat, and that consequently everything
is subject to a supreme law: which is the DECISION BY
ARMS; that where this is really demanded by one, it is
a redress which cannot be refused by the other; that,
therefore, a belligerent who takes any other way must
make sure that his opponent will not take this means of
redress, or his cause may be lost in that supreme court;
hence therefore the destruction of the enemy's armed
force, amongst all the objects which can be pursued in War,
appears always as the one which overrules all others.
What may be achieved by combinations of another
kind in War we shall only learn in the sequel, and naturally
only by degrees. We content ourselves here with acknowledging
in general their possibility, as something pointing
to the difference between the reality and the conception,
and to the influence of particular circumstances. But we
could not avoid showing at once that the BLOODY SOLUTION
OF THE CRISIS, the effort for the destruction of the enemy's
force, is the firstborn son of War. If when political
objects are unimportant, motives weak, the excitement
of forces small, a cautious commander tries in all kinds
of ways, without great crises and bloody solutions, to
twist himself skilfully into a peace through the characteristic
weaknesses of his enemy in the field and in the
Cabinet, we have no right to find fault with him, if the
premises on which he acts are well founded and justified
by success; still we must require him to remember that
he only travels on forbidden tracks, where the God of
War may surprise him; that he ought always to keep his
eye on the enemy, in order that he may not have to defend
himself with a dress rapier if the enemy takes up a sharp
sword.
The consequences of the nature of War, how ends and
means act in it, how in the modifications of reality it
deviates sometimes more, sometimes less, from its strict
original conception, fluctuating backwards and forwards,
yet always remaining under that strict conception as under
a supreme law: all this we must retain before us, and
bear constantly in mind in the consideration of each of
the succeeding subjects, if we would rightly comprehend
their true relations and proper importance, and not
become involved incessantly in the most glaring contradictions
with the reality, and at last with our own selves.
CHAPTER III. THE GENIUS FOR WAR
EVERY special calling in life, if it is to be followed with
success, requires peculiar qualifications of understanding
and soul. Where these are of a high order, and manifest
themselves by extraordinary achievements, the mind
to which they belong is termed GENIUS.
We know very well that this word is used in many
significations which are very different both in extent and
nature, and that with many of these significations it is
a very difficult task to define the essence of Genius;
but as we neither profess to be philosopher nor grammarian,
we must be allowed to keep to the meaning
usual in ordinary language, and to understand by
"genius" a very high mental capacity for certain employments.
We wish to stop for a moment over this faculty and
dignity of the mind, in order to vindicate its title, and to
explain more fully the meaning of the conception. But
we shall not dwell on that (genius) which has obtained
its title through a very great talent, on genius properly
so called, that is a conception which has no defined limits.
What we have to do is to bring under consideration
every common tendency of the powers of the mind and
soul towards the business of War, the whole of which
common tendencies we may look upon as the ESSENCE OF
MILITARY GENIUS. We say "common," for just therein
consists military genius, that it is not one single quality
bearing upon War, as, for instance, courage, while other
qualities of mind and soul are wanting or have a direction
which is unserviceable for War, but that it is AN
HARMONIOUS ASSOCIATION OF POWERS, in which one or other
may predominate, but none must be in opposition.
If every combatant required to be more or less endowed
with military genius, then our armies would be very weak;
for as it implies a peculiar bent of the intelligent powers,
therefore it can only rarely be found where the mental
powers of a people are called into requisition and trained
in many different ways. The fewer the employments
followed by a Nation, the more that of arms predominates,
so much the more prevalent will military genius also be
found. But this merely applies to its prevalence, by no
means to its degree, for that depends on the general state
of intellectual culture in the country. If we look at a
wild, warlike race, then we find a warlike spirit in
individuals much more common than in a civilised people;
for in the former almost every warrior possesses it, whilst
in the civilised whole, masses are only carried away by it
from necessity, never by inclination. But amongst
uncivilised people we never find a really great General,
and very seldom what we can properly call a military
genius, because that requires a development of the
intelligent powers which cannot be found in an uncivilised
state. That a civilised people may also have a warlike
tendency and development is a matter of course; and
the more this is general, the more frequently also will
military spirit be found in individuals in their armies.
Now as this coincides in such case with the higher degree
of civilisation, therefore from such nations have issued
forth the most brilliant military exploits, as the Romans
and the French have exemplified. The greatest names
in these and in all other nations that have been renowned
in War belong strictly to epochs of higher culture.
From this we may infer how great a share the intelligent
powers have in superior military genius. We shall now
look more closely into this point.
War is the province of danger, and therefore courage
above all things is the first quality of a warrior.
Courage is of two kinds: first, physical courage, or
courage in presence of danger to the person; and next,
moral courage, or courage before responsibility, whether
it be before the judgment-seat of external authority, or
of the inner power, the conscience. We only speak
here of the first.
Courage before danger to the person, again, is of two
kinds. First, it may be indifference to danger, whether
proceeding from the organism of the individual, contempt
of death, or habit: in any of these cases it is to be regarded
as a permanent condition.
Secondly, courage may proceed from positive motives,
such as personal pride, patriotism, enthusiasm of any
kind. In this case courage is not so much a normal
condition as an impulse.
We may conceive that the two kinds act differently.
The first kind is more certain, because it has become a
second nature, never forsakes the man; the second
often leads him farther. In the first there is more of
firmness, in the second, of boldness. The first leaves the
judgment cooler, the second raises its power at times,
but often bewilders it. The two combined make up the
most perfect kind of courage.
War is the province of physical exertion and suffering.
In order not to be completely overcome by them, a certain
strength of body and mind is required, which, either
natural or acquired, produces indifference to them.
With these qualifications, under the guidance of simply a
sound understanding, a man is at once a proper instrument
for War; and these are the qualifications so generally
to be met with amongst wild and half-civilised tribes.
If we go further in the demands which War makes on it,
then we find the powers of the understanding
predominating. War is the province of uncertainty:
three-fourths of those things upon which action in War
must be calculated, are hidden more or less in the clouds
of great uncertainty. Here, then, above all a fine and
penetrating mind is called for, to search out the truth by
the tact of its judgment.
An average intellect may, at one time, perhaps hit
upon this truth by accident; an extraordinary courage,
at another, may compensate for the want of this tact;
but in the majority of cases the average result will always
bring to light the deficient understanding.
War is the province of chance. In no sphere of human
activity is such a margin to be left for this intruder,
because none is so much in constant contact with him on
all sides. He increases the uncertainty of every circumstance,
and deranges the course of events.
From this uncertainty of all intelligence and suppositions,
this continual interposition of chance, the actor
in War constantly finds things different from his expectations;
and this cannot fail to have an influence on his
plans, or at least on the presumptions connected with
these plans. If this influence is so great as to render
the pre-determined plan completely nugatory, then, as
a rule, a new one must be substituted in its place; but
at the moment the necessary data are often wanting for
this, because in the course of action circumstances press
for immediate decision, and allow no time to look about
for fresh data, often not enough for mature consideration.
But it more often happens that the correction of
one premise, and the knowledge of chance events which
have arisen, are not sufficient to overthrow our plans
completely, but only suffice to produce hesitation.
Our knowledge of circumstances has increased, but our
uncertainty, instead of having diminished, has only
increased. The reason of this is, that we do not gain all our
experience at once, but by degrees; thus our determinations
continue to be assailed incessantly by fresh experi-
ence; and the mind, if we may use the expression, must
always be "under arms."
Now, if it is to get safely through this perpetual conflict
with the unexpected, two qualities are indispensable:
in the first place an intellect which, even in the midst
of this intense obscurity, is not without some traces
of inner light, which lead to the truth, and then the
courage to follow this faint light. The first is figuratively
expressed by the French phrase coup d'oeil. The other is
resolution. As the battle is the feature in War to which
attention was originally chiefly directed, and as time
and space are important elements in it, more particularly
when cavalry with their rapid decisions were the
chief arm, the idea of rapid and correct decision related
in the first instance to the estimation of these two elements,
and to denote the idea an expression was adopted which
actually only points to a correct judgment by eye. Many
teachers of the Art of War then gave this limited
signification as the definition of coup d'oeil. But it is
undeniable that all able decisions formed in the moment
of action soon came to be understood by the expression,
as, for instance, the hitting upon the right point of attack,
&c. It is, therefore, not only the physical, but more
frequently the mental eye which is meant in coup d'oeil.
Naturally, the expression, like the thing, is always more
in its place in the field of tactics: still, it must not be
wanting in strategy, inasmuch as in it rapid decisions are
often necessary. If we strip this conception of that which
the expression has given it of the over-figurative and
restricted, then it amounts simply to the rapid discovery
of a truth which to the ordinary mind is either not
visible at all or only becomes so after long examination
and reflection.
Resolution is an act of courage in single instances,
and if it becomes a characteristic trait, it is a habit of
the mind. But here we do not mean courage in face of
bodily danger, but in face of responsibility, therefore,
to a certain extent against moral danger. This has
been often called courage d'esprit, on the ground that it
springs from the understanding; nevertheless, it is no
act of the understanding on that account; it is an act of
feeling. Mere intelligence is still not courage, for we
often see the cleverest people devoid of resolution. The
mind must, therefore, first awaken the feeling of courage,
and then be guided and supported by it, because in
momentary emergencies the man is swayed more by his
feelings than his thoughts.
We have assigned to resolution the office of removing
the torments of doubt, and the dangers of delay, when
there are no sufficient motives for guidance. Through
the unscrupulous use of language which is prevalent,
this term is often applied to the mere propensity to daring,
to bravery, boldness, or temerity. But, when there are
SUFFICIENT MOTIVES in the man, let them be objective or
subjective, true or false, we have no right to speak of
his resolution; for, when we do so, we put ourselves in
his place, and we throw into the scale doubts which did
not exist with him.
Here there is no question of anything but of strength
and weakness. We are not pedantic enough to dispute
with the use of language about this little misapplication,
our observation is only intended to remove wrong objections.
This resolution now, which overcomes the state of
doubting, can only be called forth by the intellect, and,
in fact, by a peculiar tendency of the same. We maintain
that the mere union of a superior understanding
and the necessary feelings are not sufficient to make
up resolution. There are persons who possess the keenest
perception for the most difficult problems, who are also
not fearful of responsibility, and yet in cases of difficulty
cannot come to a resolution. Their courage and their
sagacity operate independently of each other, do not give
each other a hand, and on that account do not produce
resolution as a result. The forerunner of resolution is an
act of the mind making evident the necessity of venturing,
and thus influencing the will. This quite peculiar direction
of the mind, which conquers every other fear in
man by the fear of wavering or doubting, is what makes
up resolution in strong minds; therefore, in our opinion,
men who have little intelligence can never be resolute.
They may act without hesitation under perplexing
circumstances, but then they act without reflection.
Now, of course, when a man acts without reflection he
cannot be at variance with himself by doubts, and such
a mode of action may now and then lead to the right
point; but we say now as before, it is the average result
which indicates the existence of military genius. Should
our assertion appear extraordinary to any one, because
he knows many a resolute hussar officer who is no deep
thinker, we must remind him that the question here is
about a peculiar direction of the mind, and not about great
thinking powers.
We believe, therefore, that resolution is indebted to a
special direction of the mind for its existence, a direction
which belongs to a strong head rather than to a brilliant
one. In corroboration of this genealogy of resolution
we may add that there have been many instances of men
who have shown the greatest resolution in an inferior
rank, and have lost it in a higher position. While, on
the one hand, they are obliged to resolve, on the other
they see the dangers of a wrong decision, and as they are
surrounded with things new to them, their understanding
loses its original force, and they become only the more
timid the more they become aware of the danger of the
irresolution into which they have fallen, and the more
they have formerly been in the habit of acting on the spur
of the moment.
From the coup d'oeil and resolution we are naturally to speak of
its
kindred quality, PRESENCE OF MIND,
which in a region of the unexpected like War must act a
great part, for it is indeed nothing but a great conquest
over the unexpected. As we admire presence of mind
in a pithy answer to anything said unexpectedly, so we
admire it in a ready expedient on sudden danger. Neither
the answer nor the expedient need be in themselves
extraordinary, if they only hit the point; for that which
as the result of mature reflection would be nothing
unusual, therefore insignificant in its impression on us,
may as an instantaneous act of the mind produce a
pleasing impression. The expression "presence of mind"
certainly denotes very fitly the readiness and rapidity
of the help rendered by the mind.
Whether this noble quality of a man is to be ascribed
more to the peculiarity of his mind or to the equanimity
of his feelings, depends on the nature of the case,
although neither of the two can be entirely wanting.
A telling repartee bespeaks rather a ready wit, a ready
expedient on sudden danger implies more particularly a
well-balanced mind.
If we take a general view of the four elements composing
the atmosphere in which War moves, of DANGER, PHYSICAL
EFFORT, UNCERTAINTY, and CHANCE, it is easy to conceive that
a great force of mind and understanding is requisite to
be able to make way with safety and success amongst
such opposing elements, a force which, according to the
different modifications arising out of circumstances,
we find termed by military writers and annalists as ENERGY,
FIRMNESS, STAUNCHNESS, STRENGTH OF MIND AND CHARACTER.
All these manifestations of the heroic nature might be
regarded as one and the same power of volition, modified
according to circumstances; but nearly related as these
things are to each other, still they are not one and the
same, and it is desirable for us to distinguish here a
little more closely at least the action of the powers of
the soul in relation to them.
In the first place, to make the conception clear, it is
essential to observe that the weight, burden, resistance,
or whatever it may be called, by which that force of the
soul in the General is brought to light, is only in a very
small measure the enemy's activity, the enemy's resistance,
the enemy's action directly. The enemy's activity
only affects the General directly in the first place in
relation to his person, without disturbing his action as
Commander.
If the enemy, instead of two hours, resists for
four, the Commander instead of two hours is four hours
in danger; this is a quantity which plainly diminishes
the higher the rank of the Commander. What is it for
one in the post of Commander-in-Chief? It is nothing.
Secondly, although the opposition offered by the enemy
has a direct effect on the Commander through the loss of
means arising from prolonged resistance, and the responsibility
connected with that loss, and his force of will is
first tested and called forth by these anxious considerations,
still we maintain that this is not the heaviest
burden by far which he has to bear, because he has only
himself to settle with. All the other effects of the enemy's
resistance act directly upon the combatants under his
command, and through them react upon him.
As long as his men full of good courage fight with zeal
and spirit, it is seldom necessary for the Chief to show
great energy of purpose in the pursuit of his object.
But as soon as difficulties arise--and that must always
happen when great results are at stake--then things
no longer move on of themselves like a well-oiled machine,
the machine itself then begins to offer resistance, and to
overcome this the Commander must have a great force
of will. By this resistance we must not exactly suppose
disobedience and murmurs, although these are frequent
enough with particular individuals; it is the whole
feeling of the dissolution of all physical and moral power,
it is the heartrending sight of the bloody sacrifice which
the Commander has to contend with in himself, and then
in all others who directly or indirectly transfer to him
their impressions, feelings, anxieties, and desires. As
the forces in one individual after another become prostrated,
and can no longer be excited and supported by an
effort of his own will, the whole inertia of the mass gradually
rests its weight on the Will of the Commander: by the
spark in his breast, by the light of his spirit, the spark
of purpose, the light of hope, must be kindled afresh in
others: in so far only as he is equal to this, he stands above
the masses and continues to be their master; whenever
that influence ceases, and his own spirit is no longer strong
enough to revive the spirit of all others, the masses drawing
him down with them sink into the lower region of animal
nature, which shrinks from danger and knows not shame.
These are the weights which the courage and intelligent
faculties of the military Commander have to overcome if
he is to make his name illustrious. They increase with the
masses, and therefore, if the forces in question are to
continue equal to the burden, they must rise in proportion
to the height of the station.
Energy in action expresses the strength of the motive
through which the action is excited, let the motive have
its origin in a conviction of the understanding, or in an
impulse. But the latter can hardly ever be wanting
where great force is to show itself.
Of all the noble feelings which fill the human heart in
the exciting tumult of battle, none, we must admit, are
so powerful and constant as the soul's thirst for honour
and renown, which the German language treats so unfairly
and tends to depreciate by the unworthy associations
in the words Ehrgeiz (greed of honour) and Ruhmsucht
(hankering after glory). No doubt it is just in War that
the abuse of these proud aspirations of the soul must
bring upon the human race the most shocking outrages,
but by their origin they are certainly to be counted
amongst the noblest feelings which belong to human
nature, and in War they are the vivifying principle which
gives the enormous body a spirit. Although other
feelings may be more general in their influence, and many
of them--such as love of country, fanaticism, revenge,
enthusiasm of every kind--may seem to stand higher,
the thirst for honour and renown still remains indispensable.
Those other feelings may rouse the great masses
in general, and excite them more powerfully, but they do
not give the Leader a desire to will more than others, which
is an essential requisite in his position if he is to make
himself distinguished in it. They do not, like a thirst
for honour, make the military act specially the property
of the Leader, which he strives to turn to the best account;
where he ploughs with toil, sows with care, that he may
reap plentifully. It is through these aspirations we have
been speaking of in Commanders, from the highest to the
lowest, this sort of energy, this spirit of emulation, these
incentives, that the action of armies is chiefly animated
and made successful. And now as to that which specially
concerns the head of all, we ask, Has there ever been
a great Commander destitute of the love of honour, or
is such a character even conceivable?
FIRMNESS denotes the resistance of the will in relation
to the force of a single blow, STAUNCHNESS in relation to a
continuance of blows. Close as is the analogy between
the two, and often as the one is used in place of the other,
still there is a notable difference between them which
cannot be mistaken, inasmuch as firmness against a
single powerful impression may have its root in the
mere strength of a feeling, but staunchness must be
supported rather by the understanding, for the greater the
duration of an action the more systematic deliberation
is connected with it, and from this staunchness partly
derives its power.
If we now turn to STRENGTH OF MIND OR SOUL, then the first
question is, What are we to understand thereby?
Plainly it is not vehement expressions of feeling, nor
easily excited passions, for that would be contrary to
all the usage of language, but the power of listening to
reason in the midst of the most intense excitement, in
the storm of the most violent passions. Should this
power depend on strength of understanding alone? We
doubt it. The fact that there are men of the greatest
intellect who cannot command themselves certainly
proves nothing to the contrary, for we might say that it
perhaps requires an understanding of a powerful rather
than of a comprehensive nature; but we believe we shall
be nearer the truth if we assume that the power of submitting
oneself to the control of the understanding,
even in moments of the most violent excitement of the
feelings, that power which we call SELF-COMMAND, has its
root in the heart itself. It is, in point of fact, another
feeling, which in strong minds balances the excited
passions without destroying them; and it is only through
this equilibrium that the mastery of the understanding
is secured. This counterpoise is nothing but a sense of
the dignity of man, that noblest pride, that deeply-
seated desire of the soul always to act as a being endued
with understanding and reason. We may therefore
say that a strong mind is one which does not lose its
balance even under the most violent excitement.
If we cast a glance at the variety to be observed in
the human character in respect to feeling, we find, first,
some people who have very little excitability, who are
called phlegmatic or indolent.
Secondly, some very excitable, but whose feelings
still never overstep certain limits, and who are therefore
known as men full of feeling, but sober-minded.
Thirdly, those who are very easily roused, whose feelings
blaze up quickly and violently like gunpowder, but do
not last.
Fourthly, and lastly, those who cannot be moved by
slight causes, and who generally are not to be roused
suddenly, but only gradually; but whose feelings become
very powerful and are much more lasting. These are
men with strong passions, lying deep and latent.
This difference of character lies probably close on
the confines of the physical powers which move the human
organism, and belongs to that amphibious organisation
which we call the nervous system, which appears to be
partly material, partly spiritual. With our weak philosophy,
we shall not proceed further in this mysterious
field. But it is important for us to spend a moment
over the effects which these different natures have on,
action in War, and to see how far a great strength of mind
is to be expected from them.
Indolent men cannot easily be thrown out of their
equanimity, but we cannot certainly say there is strength
of mind where there is a want of all manifestation of power.
At the same time, it is not to be denied that such men
have a certain peculiar aptitude for War, on account of
their constant equanimity. They often want the positive
motive to action, impulse, and consequently activity,
but they are not apt to throw things into disorder.
The peculiarity of the second class is that they are
easily excited to act on trifling grounds, but in great
matters they are easily overwhelmed. Men of this kind
show great activity in helping an unfortunate individual,
but by the distress of a whole Nation they are only inclined
to despond, not roused to action.
Such people are not deficient in either activity or
equanimity in War; but they will never accomplish
anything great unless a great intellectual force furnishes
the motive, and it is very seldom that a strong, independent
mind is combined with such a character.
Excitable, inflammable feelings are in themselves
little suited for practical life, and therefore they are
not very fit for War. They have certainly the advantage
of strong impulses, but that cannot long sustain them.
At the same time, if the excitability in such men takes
the direction of courage, or a sense of honour, they may
often be very useful in inferior positions in War, because
the action in War over which commanders in inferior
positions have control is generally of shorter duration.
Here one courageous resolution, one effervescence of the
forces of the soul, will often suffice. A brave attack,
a soul-stirring hurrah, is the work of a few moments,
whilst a brave contest on the battle-field is the work of
a day, and a campaign the work of a year.
Owing to the rapid movement of their feelings, it is
doubly difficult for men of this description to preserve
equilibrium of the mind; therefore they frequently
lose head, and that is the worst phase in their nature as
respects the conduct of War. But it would be contrary
to experience to maintain that very excitable spirits can
never preserve a steady equilibrium--that is to say, that
they cannot do so even under the strongest excitement.
Why should they not have the sentiment of self-respect,
for, as a rule, they are men of a noble nature? This
feeling is seldom wanting in them, but it has not time
to produce an effect. After an outburst they suffer most
from a feeling of inward humiliation. If through education,
self-observance, and experience of life, they have learned,
sooner or later, the means of being on their guard, so that
at the moment of powerful excitement they are conscious
betimes of the counteracting force within their own breasts,
then even such men may have great strength of mind.
Lastly, those who are difficult to move, but on that
account susceptible of very deep feelings, men who stand
in the same relation to the preceding as red heat to a flame,
are the best adapted by means of their Titanic strength
to roll away the enormous masses by which we may
figuratively represent the difficulties which beset command
in War. The effect of their feelings is like the movement
of a great body, slower, but more irresistible.
Although such men are not so likely to be suddenly
surprised by their feelings and carried away so as to be
afterwards ashamed of themselves, like the preceding,
still it would be contrary to experience to believe that
they can never lose their equanimity, or be overcome
by blind passion; on the contrary, this must always
happen whenever the noble pride of self-control is wanting,
or as often as it has not sufficient weight. We see examples
of this most frequently in men of noble minds belonging
to savage nations, where the low degree of mental cultivation
favours always the dominance of the passions. But
even amongst the most civilised classes in civilised States,
life is full of examples of this kind--of men carried away
by the violence of their passions, like the poacher of old
chained to the stag in the forest.
We therefore say once more a strong mind is not one
that is merely susceptible of strong excitement, but one
which can maintain its serenity under the most powerful
excitement, so that, in spite of the storm in the breast,
the perception and judgment can act with perfect freedom,
like the needle of the compass in the storm-tossed ship.
By the term STRENGTH OF CHARACTER, or simply CHARACTER,
is denoted tenacity of conviction, let it be the result of
our own or of others' views, and whether they are principles,
opinions, momentary inspirations, or any kind of emanations
of the understanding; but this kind of firmness
certainly cannot manifest itself if the views themselves
are subject to frequent change. This frequent change
need not be the consequence of external influences;
it may proceed from the continuous activity of our own
mind, in which case it indicates a characteristic unsteadiness
of mind. Evidently we should not say of a man who
changes his views every moment, however much the
motives of change may originate with himself, that he
has character. Only those men, therefore, can be said
to have this quality whose conviction is very constant,
either because it is deeply rooted and clear in itself,
little liable to alteration, or because, as in the case of
indolent men, there is a want of mental activity, and
therefore a want of motives to change; or lastly, because
an explicit act of the will, derived from an imperative
maxim of the understanding, refuses any change of
opinion up to a certain point.
Now in War, owing to the many and powerful
impressions to which the mind is exposed, and in the
uncertainty of all knowledge and of all science, more
things occur to distract a man from the road he has
entered upon, to make him doubt himself and others,
than in any other human activity.
The harrowing sight of danger and suffering easily
leads to the feelings gaining ascendency over the conviction
of the understanding; and in the twilight which
surrounds everything a deep clear view is so difficult
that a change of opinion is more conceivable and more
pardonable. It is, at all times, only conjecture or guesses
at truth which we have to act upon. This is why differences of
opinion are
nowhere so great as in War, and
the stream of impressions acting counter to one's own
convictions never ceases to flow. Even the greatest
impassibility of mind is hardly proof against them,
because the impressions are powerful in their nature,
and always act at the same time upon the feelings.
When the discernment is clear and deep, none but
general principles and views of action from a high standpoint
can be the result; and on these principles the
opinion in each particular case immediately under
consideration lies, as it were, at anchor. But to keep to
these results of bygone reflection, in opposition to the
stream of opinions and phenomena which the present
brings with it, is just the difficulty. Between the particular
case and the principle there is often a wide space
which cannot always be traversed on a visible chain of
conclusions, and where a certain faith in self is necessary
and a certain amount of scepticism is serviceable. Here
often nothing else will help us but an imperative maxim
which, independent of reflection, at once controls it:
that maxim is, in all doubtful cases to adhere to the first
opinion, and not to give it up until a clear conviction
forces us to do so. We must firmly believe in the superior
authority of well-tried maxims, and under the dazzling
influence of momentary events not forget that their value
is of an inferior stamp. By this preference which in
doubtful cases we give to first convictions, by adherence
to the same our actions acquire that stability and consistency
which make up what is called character.
It is easy to see how essential a well-balanced mind is
to strength of character; therefore men of strong minds
generally have a great deal of character.
Force of character leads us to a spurious variety of it
--OBSTINACY.
It is often very difficult in concrete cases to say where the
one ends and the other begins; on the other hand, it does
not seem difficult to determine the difference in idea.
Obstinacy is no fault of the understanding; we use the
term as denoting a resistance against our better judgment,
and it would be inconsistent to charge that to the
understanding, as the understanding is the power of
judgment. Obstinacy is A FAULT OF THE FEELINGS or heart.
This inflexibility of will, this impatience of contradiction,
have their origin only in a particular kind of egotism,
which sets above every other pleasure that of governing
both self and others by its own mind alone. We should
call it a kind of vanity, were it not decidedly something
better. Vanity is satisfied with mere show, but obstinacy
rests upon the enjoyment of the thing.
We say, therefore, force of character degenerates into
obstinacy whenever the resistance to opposing judgments
proceeds not from better convictions or a reliance upon a
trustworthy maxim,
but from a feeling of opposition.
If this definition, as we have already admitted, is of little
assistance practically, still it will prevent obstinacy
from being considered merely force of character intensified,
whilst it is something essentially different--something
which certainly lies close to it and is cognate to it, but is
at the same time so little an intensification of it that
there are very obstinate men who from want of understanding
have very little force of character.
Having in these high attributes of a great military Commander
made ourselves acquainted with those qualities
in which heart and head co-operate, we now come to a
speciality of military activity which perhaps may be looked
upon as the most marked if it is not the most important,
and which only makes a demand on the power of the mind
without regard to the forces of feelings. It is the connection
which exists between War and country or ground.
This connection is, in the first place, a permanent
condition of War, for it is impossible to imagine our
organised Armies effecting any operation otherwise than
in some given space; it is, secondly, of the most decisive
importance, because it modifies, at times completely
alters, the action of all forces; thirdly, while on the one
hand it often concerns the most minute features of locality,
on the other it may apply to immense tracts of country.
In this manner a great peculiarity is given to the effect
of this connection of War with country and ground.
If we think of other occupations of man which have a
relation to these objects, on horticulture, agriculture,
on building houses and hydraulic works, on mining,
on the chase, and forestry, they are all confined within
very limited spaces which may be soon explored with
sufficient exactness. But the Commander in War must
commit the business he has in hand to a corresponding
space which his eye cannot survey, which the keenest
zeal cannot always explore, and with which, owing to the
constant changes taking place, he can also seldom become
properly acquainted. Certainly the enemy generally
is in the same situation; still, in the first place, the
difficulty,
although common to both, is not the less a difficulty,
and he who by talent and practice overcomes it will
have a great advantage on his side; secondly, this equality
of the difficulty on both sides is merely an abstract
supposition which is rarely realised in the particular case,
as one of the two opponents (the defensive) usually knows
much more of the locality than his adversary.
This very peculiar difficulty must be overcome by a
natural mental gift of a special kind which is known by
the--too restricted--term of Orisinn sense of locality.
It is the power of quickly forming a correct geometrical
idea of any portion of country, and consequently of being
able to find one's place in it exactly at any time. This
is plainly an act of the imagination. The perception no
doubt is formed partly by means of the physical eye,
partly by the mind, which fills up what is wanting with
ideas derived from knowledge and experience, and out
of the fragments visible to the physical eye forms a whole;
but that this whole should present itself vividly to the
reason, should become a picture, a mentally drawn map,
that this picture should be fixed, that the details should
never again separate themselves--all that can only be
effected by the mental faculty which we call imagination.
If some great poet or painter should feel hurt that we
require from his goddess such an office; if he shrugs
his shoulders at the notion that a sharp gamekeeper must
necessarily excel in imagination, we readily grant that we
only speak here of imagination in a limited sense, of its
service in a really menial capacity. But, however slight
this service, still it must be the work of that natural
gift, for if that gift is wanting, it would be difficult to
imagine things plainly in all the completeness of the visible.
That a good memory is a great assistance we freely allow,
but whether memory is to be considered as an independent
faculty of the mind in this case, or whether it is just that
power of imagination which here fixes these things better
on the memory, we leave undecided, as in many respects
it seems difficult upon the whole to conceive these two
mental powers apart from each other.
That practice and mental acuteness have much to do
with it is not to be denied. Puysegur, the celebrated
Quartermaster-General of the famous Luxemburg, used
to say that he had very little confidence in himself
in this respect at first, because if he had to fetch the
parole from a distance he always lost his way.
It is natural that scope for the exercise of this talent
should increase along with rank. If the hussar and
rifleman in command of a patrol must know well all the
highways and byways, and if for that a few marks, a few
limited powers of observation, are sufficient, the Chief
of an Army must make himself familiar with the general
geographical features of a province and of a country;
must always have vividly before his eyes the direction
of the roads, rivers, and hills, without at the same
time being able to dispense with the narrower "sense
of locality" Orisinn. No doubt, information of
various kinds as to objects in general, maps, books,
memoirs, and for details the assistance of his Staff,
are a great help to him; but it is nevertheless certain
that if he has himself a talent for forming an ideal
picture of a country quickly and distinctly, it lends to
his action an easier and firmer step, saves him from a
certain mental helplessness, and makes him less dependent
on others.
If this talent then is to be ascribed to imagination, it
is also almost the only service which military activity
requires from that erratic goddess, whose influence is
more hurtful than useful in other respects.
We think we have now passed in review those
manifestations of the powers of mind and soul which military
activity requires from human nature. Everywhere
intellect appears as an essential co-operative force;
and thus we can understand how the work of War, although
so plain and simple in its effects, can never be conducted
with distinguished success by people without distinguished
powers of the understanding.
When we have reached this view, then we need no longer
look upon such a natural idea as the turning an enemy's
position, which has been done a thousand times, and a
hundred other similar conceptions, as the result of a
great effort of genius.
Certainly one is accustomed to regard the plain honest
soldier as the very opposite of the man of reflection,
full of inventions and ideas, or of the brilliant spirit
shining in the ornaments of refined education of every
kind. This antithesis is also by no means devoid of
truth; but it does not show that the efficiency of the
soldier consists only in his courage, and that there is no
particular energy and capacity of the brain required in
addition to make a man merely what is called a true
soldier. We must again repeat that there is nothing more
common than to hear of men losing their energy on being
raised to a higher position, to which they do not feel
themselves equal; but we must also remind our readers
that we are speaking of pre-eminent services, of such
as give renown in the branch of activity to which they
belong. Each grade of command in War therefore
forms its own stratum of requisite capacity of fame and
honour.
An immense space lies between a General--that is, one
at the head of a whole War, or of a theatre of War--and his
Second in Command, for the simple reason that the latter
is in more immediate subordination to a superior authority
and supervision, consequently is restricted to a more
limited sphere of independent thought. This is why
common opinion sees no room for the exercise of high
talent except in high places, and looks upon an ordinary
capacity as sufficient for all beneath: this is why people
are rather inclined to look upon a subordinate General
grown grey in the service, and in whom constant discharge
of routine duties has produced a decided poverty of mind,
as a man of failing intellect, and, with all respect for his
bravery, to laugh at his simplicity. It is not our object
to gain for these brave men a better lot--that would
contribute nothing to their efficiency, and little to their
happiness; we only wish to represent things as they
are, and to expose the error of believing that a mere
bravo without intellect can make himself distinguished
in War.
As we consider distinguished talents requisite for those
who are to attain distinction, even in inferior positions,
it naturally follows that we think highly of those who
fill with renown the place of Second in Command of an
Army; and their seeming simplicity of character as compared
with a polyhistor, with ready men of business, or
with councillors of state, must not lead us astray as to
the superior nature of their intellectual activity. It
happens sometimes that men import the fame gained
in an inferior position into a higher one, without in reality
deserving it in the new position; and then if they are
not much employed, and therefore not much exposed
to the risk of showing their weak points, the judgment
does not distinguish very exactly what degree of fame is
really due to them; and thus such men are often the
occasion of too low an estimate being formed of the
characteristics required to shine in certain situations.
For each station, from the lowest upwards, to render
distinguished services in War, there must be a particular
genius. But the title of genius, history and the judgment
of posterity only confer, in general, on those minds which
have shone in the highest rank, that of Commanders-
in-Chief. The reason is that here, in point of fact, the
demand on the reasoning and intellectual powers generally
is much greater.
To conduct a whole War, or its great acts, which we
call campaigns, to a successful termination, there must
be an intimate knowledge of State policy in its higher
relations. The conduct of the War and the policy of
the State here coincide, and the General becomes at
the same time the Statesman.
We do not give Charles XII. the name of a great genius,
because he could not make the power of his sword subservient
to a higher judgment and philosophy--could not
attain by it to a glorious object. We do not give that
title to Henry IV. (of France), because he did not live long
enough to set at rest the relations of different States by his
military activity, and to occupy himself in that higher field
where noble feelings and a chivalrous disposition have less
to do in mastering the enemy than in overcoming internal
dissension.
In order that the reader may appreciate all that must
be comprehended and judged of correctly at a glance by
a General, we refer to the first chapter. We say the General
becomes a Statesman, but he must not cease to be the
General. He takes into view all the relations of the
State on the one hand; on the other, he must know
exactly what he can do with the means at his disposal.
As the diversity, and undefined limits, of all the circumstances
bring a great number of factors into consideration
in War, as the most of these factors can only be
estimated according to probability, therefore, if the
Chief of an Army does not bring to bear upon them a
mind with an intuitive perception of the truth, a confusion
of ideas and views must take place, in the midst of which
the judgment will become bewildered. In this sense,
Buonaparte was right when he said that many of the
questions which come before a General for decision would
make problems for a mathematical calculation not
unworthy of the powers of Newton or Euler.
What is here required from the higher powers of the
mind is a sense of unity, and a judgment raised to such a
compass as to give the mind an extraordinary faculty of
vision which in its range allays and sets aside a thousand
dim notions which an ordinary understanding could only
bring to light with great effort, and over which it would
exhaust itself. But this higher activity of the mind,
this glance of genius, would still not become matter of
history if the qualities of temperament and character of
which we have treated did not give it their support.
Truth alone is but a weak motive of action with men,
and hence there is always a great difference between
knowing and action, between science and art. The man
receives the strongest impulse to action through the
feelings, and the most powerful succour, if we may use
the expression, through those faculties of heart and mind
which we have considered under the terms of resolution,
firmness, perseverance, and force of character.
If, however, this elevated condition of heart and mind
in the General did not manifest itself in the general
effects resulting from it, and could only be accepted on
trust and faith, then it would rarely become matter of
history.
All that becomes known of the course of events in War
is usually very simple, and has a great sameness in appearance;
no one on the mere relation of such events perceives
the difficulties connected with them which had to be
overcome. It is only now and again, in the memoirs of
Generals or of those in their confidence, or by reason of
some special historical inquiry directed to a particular
circumstance, that a portion of the many threads composing
the whole web is brought to light. The reflections,
mental doubts, and conflicts which precede the execution
of great acts are purposely concealed because they affect
political interests, or the recollection of them is accidentally
lost because they have been looked upon as mere
scaffolding which had to be removed on the completion
of the building.
If, now, in conclusion, without venturing upon a closer
definition of the higher powers of the soul, we should
admit a distinction in the intelligent faculties themselves
according to the common ideas established by language,
and ask ourselves what kind of mind comes closest to
military genius, then a look at the subject as well as at
experience will tell us that searching rather than inventive
minds,
comprehensive minds rather than such as have
a special bent, cool rather than fiery heads, are those to
which in time of War we should prefer to trust the welfare
of our women and children, the honour and the safety
of our fatherland.
CHAPTER IV. OF DANGER IN WAR
USUALLY before we have learnt what danger really is,
we form an idea of it which is rather attractive than
repulsive. In the intoxication of enthusiasm, to fall
upon the enemy at the charge--who cares then about
bullets and men falling? To throw oneself, blinded by
excitement for a moment, against cold death, uncertain
whether we or another shall escape him, and all this close
to the golden gate of victory, close to the rich fruit which
ambition thirsts for--can this be difficult? It will not be
difficult, and still less will it appear so. But such moments,
which, however, are not the work of a single pulse-beat,
as is supposed, but rather like doctors' draughts, must be
taken diluted and spoilt by mixture with time--such
moments, we say, are but few.
Let us accompany the novice to the battle-field. As
we approach, the thunder of the cannon becoming plainer
and plainer is soon followed by the howling of shot, which
attracts the attention of the inexperienced. Balls begin
to strike the ground close to us, before and behind. We
hasten to the hill where stands the General and his
numerous Staff. Here the close striking of the cannon
balls and the bursting of shells is so frequent that the
seriousness of life makes itself visible through the youthful
picture of imagination. Suddenly some one known to us
falls--a shell strikes amongst the crowd and causes
some involuntary movements--we begin to feel that we
are no longer perfectly at ease and collected; even the
bravest is at least to some degree confused. Now, a
step farther into the battle which is raging before us like
a scene in a theatre, we get to the nearest General of
Division; here ball follows ball, and the noise of our
own guns increases the confusion. From the General of
Division to the Brigadier. He, a man of acknowledged
bravery, keeps carefully behind a rising ground, a house,
or a tree--a sure sign of increasing danger. Grape rattles
on the roofs of the houses and in the fields; cannon
balls howl over us, and plough the air in all directions,
and soon there is a frequent whistling of musket balls.
A step farther towards the troops, to that sturdy infantry
which for hours has maintained its firmness under this
heavy fire; here the air is filled with the hissing of balls
which announce their proximity by a short sharp noise
as they pass within an inch of the ear, the head, or the
breast.
To add to all this, compassion strikes the beating heart
with pity at the sight of the maimed and fallen. The
young soldier cannot reach any of these different strata
of danger without feeling that the light of reason does not
move here in the same medium, that it is not refracted
in the same manner as in speculative contemplation.
Indeed, he must be a very extraordinary man who,
under these impressions for the first time, does not lose
the power of making any instantaneous decisions. It
is true that habit soon blunts such impressions; in half
in hour we begin to be more or less indifferent to all
that is going on around us: but an ordinary character
never attains to complete coolness and the natural
elasticity of mind; and so we perceive that here again
ordinary qualities will not suffice--a thing which gains
truth, the wider the sphere of activity which is to be filled.
Enthusiastic, stoical, natural bravery, great ambition,
or also long familiarity with danger--much of all this
there must be if all the effects produced in this resistant
medium are not to fall far short of that which in the student's
chamber may appear only the ordinary standard.
Danger in War belongs to its friction; a correct idea
of its influence is necessary for truth of perception, and
therefore it is brought under notice here.
CHAPTER V. OF BODILY EXERTION IN WAR
IF no one were allowed to pass an opinion on the events
of War, except at a moment when he is benumbed by frost,
sinking from heat and thirst, or dying with hunger and
fatigue, we should certainly have fewer judgments correct
*objectively; but they would be so, SUBJECTIVELY, at least;
that is, they would contain in themselves the exact relation
between the person giving the judgment and the
object. We can perceive this by observing how modestly
subdued, even spiritless and desponding, is the opinion
passed upon the results of untoward events by those
who have been eye-witnesses, but especially if they have
been parties concerned. This is, according to our view,
a criterion of the influence which bodily fatigue exercises,
and of the allowance to be made for it in matters of
opinion.
Amongst the many things in War for which no tariff
can be fixed, bodily effort may be specially reckoned.
Provided there is no waste, it is a coefficient of all the
forces, and no one can tell exactly to what extent it may
be carried. But what is remarkable is, that just as only
a strong arm enables the archer to stretch the bowstring
to the utmost extent, so also in War it is only by means
of a great directing spirit that we can expect the full power
latent in the troops to be developed. For it is one thing if
an Army, in consequence of great misfortunes, surrounded
with danger, falls all to pieces like a wall that has been
thrown down, and can only find safety in the utmost
exertion of its bodily strength; it is another thing
entirely when a victorious Army, drawn on by proud
feelings only, is conducted at the will of its Chief. The
same effort which in the one case might at most excite
our pity must in the other call forth our admiration,
because it is much more difficult to sustain.
By this comes to light for the inexperienced eye one
of those things which put fetters in the dark, as it were,
on the action of the mind, and wear out in secret the
powers of the soul.
Although here the question is strictly only respecting
the extreme effort required by a Commander from his
Army, by a leader from his followers, therefore of the
spirit to demand it and of the art of getting it, still the
personal physical exertion of Generals and of the Chief
Commander must not be overlooked. Having brought
the analysis of War conscientiously up to this point,
we could not but take account also of the weight of this
small remaining residue.
We have spoken here of bodily effort, chiefly because,
like danger, it belongs to the fundamental causes of friction,
and because its indefinite quantity makes it like an
elastic body, the friction of which is well known to be
difficult to calculate.
To check the abuse of these considerations, of such a
survey of things which aggravate the difficulties of War,
nature has given our judgment a guide in our sensibilities.
just as an individual cannot with advantage refer to his
personal deficiencies if he is insulted and ill-treated,
but may well do so if he has successfully repelled the
affront, or has fully revenged it, so no Commander or
Army will lessen the impression of a disgraceful defeat by
depicting the danger, the distress, the exertions, things
which would immensely enhance the glory of a victory.
Thus our feeling, which after all is only a higher kind
of judgment, forbids us to do what seems an act of justice
to which our judgment would be inclined.
CHAPTER VI. INFORMATION IN WAR
By the word "information" we denote all the knowledge
which we have of the enemy and his country; therefore,
in fact, the foundation of all our ideas and actions. Let
us just consider the nature of this foundation, its want
of trustworthiness, its changefulness, and we shall soon
feel what a dangerous edifice War is, how easily it may
fall to pieces and bury us in its ruins. For although it
is a maxim in all books that we should trust only certain
information, that we must be always suspicious, that is
only a miserable book comfort, belonging to that description
of knowledge in which writers of systems and compendiums
take refuge for want of anything better to say.
Great part of the information obtained in War is contradictory,
a still greater part is false, and by far the
greatest part is of a doubtful character. What is required
of an officer is a certain power of discrimination, which
only knowledge of men and things and good judgment
can give. The law of probability must be his guide.
This is not a trifling difficulty even in respect of the first
plans, which can be formed in the chamber outside the
real sphere of War, but it is enormously increased when
in the thick of War itself one report follows hard upon the
heels of another; it is then fortunate if these reports
in contradicting each other show a certain balance of
probability, and thus themselves call forth a scrutiny.
It is much worse for the inexperienced when accident
does not render him this service, but one report supports
another, confirms it, magnifies it, finishes off the picture
with fresh touches of colour, until necessity in urgent
haste forces from us a resolution which will soon be discovered
to be folly, all those reports having been lies,
exaggerations, errors, &c. &c. In a few words, most
reports are false, and the timidity of men acts as a multiplier
of lies and untruths. As a general rule, every one is
more inclined to lend credence to the bad than the good.
Every one is inclined to magnify the bad in some measure,
and although the alarms which are thus propagated
like the waves of the sea subside into themselves, still,
like them, without any apparent cause they rise again.
Firm in reliance on his own better convictions, the Chief
must stand like a rock against which the sea breaks its
fury in vain. The role is not easy; he who is not by
nature of a buoyant disposition, or trained by experience
in War, and matured in judgment, may let it be his rule
to do violence to his own natural conviction by inclining
from the side of fear to that of hope; only by that means
will he be able to preserve his balance. This difficulty
of seeing things correctly, which is one of the greatest
sources of friction in War, makes things appear quite
different from what was expected. The impression of the
senses is stronger than the force of the ideas resulting from
methodical reflection, and this goes so far that no important
undertaking was ever yet carried out without the
Commander having to subdue new doubts in himself
at the time of commencing the execution of his work.
Ordinary men who follow the suggestions of others
become, therefore, generally undecided on the spot;
they think that they have found circumstances different
from what they had expected, and this view gains strength
by their again yielding to the suggestions of others.
But even the man who has made his own plans, when he
comes to see things with his own eyes will often think
he has done wrong. Firm reliance on self must make
him proof against the seeming pressure of the moment;
his first conviction will in the end prove true, when the
foreground scenery which fate has pushed on to the
stage of War, with its accompaniments of terrific objects,
is drawn aside and the horizon extended. This is one
of the great chasms which separate CONCEPTION from
EXECUTION.
CHAPTER VII. FRICTION IN WAR
As long as we have no personal knowledge of War, we
cannot conceive where those difficulties lie of which
so much is said, and what that genius and those extraordinary
mental powers required in a General have really
to do. All appears so simple, all the requisite branches of
knowledge appear so plain, all the combinations so unimportant,
that in comparison with them the easiest problem
in higher mathematics impresses us with a certain
scientific dignity. But if we have seen War, all becomes
intelligible; and still, after all, it is extremely difficult
to describe what it is which brings about this change,
to specify this invisible and completely efficient factor.
Everything is very simple in War, but the simplest
thing is difficult. These difficulties accumulate and produce
a friction which no man can imagine exactly who
has not seen War, Suppose now a traveller, who towards
evening expects to accomplish the two stages at the end
of his day's journey, four or five leagues, with post-horses,
on the high road--it is nothing. He arrives now at the
last station but one, finds no horses, or very bad ones;
then a hilly country, bad roads; it is a dark night, and he
is glad when, after a great deal of trouble, he reaches
the next station, and finds there some miserable accommodation.
So in War, through the influence of an infinity
of petty circumstances, which cannot properly be described
on paper, things disappoint us, and we fall short of the
mark. A powerful iron will overcomes this friction;
it crushes the obstacles, but certainly the machine along
with them. We shall often meet with this result. Like
an obelisk towards which the principal streets of a town
converge, the strong will of a proud spirit stands prominent
and commanding in the middle of the Art of
War.
Friction is the only conception which in a general way
corresponds to that which distinguishes real War from
War on paper. The military machine, the Army and all
belonging to it, is in fact simple, and appears on this
account easy to manage. But let us reflect that no part
of it is in one piece, that it is composed entirely of
individuals, each of which keeps up its own friction in all
directions. Theoretically all sounds very well: the commander
of a battalion is responsible for the execution of
the order given; and as the battalion by its discipline
is glued together into one piece, and the chief must be a
man of acknowledged zeal, the beam turns on an iron
pin with little friction. But it is not so in reality, and all
that is exaggerated and false in such a conception manifests
itself at once in War. The battalion always remains
composed of a number of men, of whom, if chance so wills,
the most insignificant is able to occasion delay and even
irregularity. The danger which War brings with it,
the bodily exertions which it requires, augment this evil
so much that they may be regarded as the greatest causes
of it.
This enormous friction, which is not concentrated, as
in mechanics, at a few points, is therefore everywhere
brought into contact with chance, and thus incidents take
place upon which it was impossible to calculate, their chief
origin being chance. As an instance of one such chancethe
weather. Here the
fog prevents the enemy
from being discovered in time, a battery from firing at
the right moment, a report from reaching the General;
there the rain prevents a battalion from arriving
at the right time, because instead of for three it
had to march perhaps eight hours; the cavalry from
charging effectively because it is stuck fast in heavy
ground.
These are only a few incidents of detail by way of
elucidation, that the reader may be able to follow the
author, for whole volumes might be written on these
difficulties. To avoid this, and still to give a clear conception
of the host of small difficulties to be contended with
in War, we might go on heaping up illustrations, if we were
not afraid of being tiresome. But those who have already
comprehended us will permit us to add a few more.
Activity in War is movement in a resistant medium.
Just as a man immersed in water is unable to perform with
ease and regularity the most natural and simplest movement,
that of walking, so in War, with ordinary powers,
one cannot keep even the line of mediocrity. This is the
reason that the correct theorist is like a swimming master,
who teaches on dry land movements which are required
in the water, which must appear grotesque and ludicrous
to those who forget about the water. This is also why
theorists, who have never plunged in themselves, or who
cannot deduce any generalities from their experience,
are unpractical and even absurd, because they only teach
what every one knows--how to walk.
Further, every War is rich in particular facts, while
at the same time each is an unexplored sea, full of rocks
which the General may have a suspicion of, but which he
has never seen with his eye, and round which, moreover,
he must steer in the night. If a contrary wind also
springs up, that is, if any great accidental event declares
itself adverse to him, then the most consummate skill,
presence of mind, and energy are required, whilst to
those who only look on from a distance all seems to
proceed with the utmost ease. The knowledge of this
friction is a chief part of that so often talked of, experience
in War, which is required in a good General. Certainly
he is not the best General in whose mind it assumes the
greatest dimensions, who is the most over-awed by it
(this includes that class of over-anxious Generals, of
whom there are so many amongst the experienced);
but a General must be aware of it that he may overcome
it, where that is possible, and that he may not expect
a degree of precision in results which is impossible on
account of this very friction. Besides, it can never be
learnt theoretically; and if it could, there would still
be wanting that experience of judgment which is called
tact, and which is always more necessary in a field full
of innumerable small and diversified objects than in
great and decisive cases, when one's own judgment may
be aided by consultation with others. Just as the man
of the world, through tact of judgment which has become
habit, speaks, acts, and moves only as suits the occasion,
so the officer experienced in War will always, in great and
small matters, at every pulsation of War as we may say,
decide and determine suitably to the occasion. Through
this experience and practice the idea comes to his mind
of itself that so and so will not suit. And thus he will
not easily place himself in a position by which he is
compromised,
which, if it often occurs in War, shakes all the
foundations of confidence and becomes extremely dangerous.
It is therefore this friction, or what is so termed here,
which makes that which appears easy in War difficult in
reality. As we proceed, we shall often meet with this
subject again, and it will hereafter become plain that
besides experience and a strong will, there are still
many other rare qualities of the mind required to
make a man a consummate General.
CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUDING REMARKS, BOOK I
THOSE things which as elements meet together in the
atmosphere of War and make it a resistant medium for
every activity we have designated under the terms
danger, bodily effort (exertion), information, and friction.
In their impedient effects they may therefore be comprehended
again in the collective notion of a general friction.
Now is there, then, no kind of oil which is capable of
diminishing this friction? Only one, and that one is not
always available at the will of the Commander or his
Army. It is the habituation of an Army to War.
Habit gives strength to the body in great exertion, to
the mind in great danger, to the judgment against first
impressions. By it a valuable circumspection is generally
gained throughout every rank, from the hussar and rifleman
up to the General of Division, which facilitates the
work of the Chief Commander.
As the human eye in a dark room dilates its pupil,
draws in the little light that there is, partially distinguishes
objects by degrees, and at last knows them quite well,
so it is in War with the experienced soldier, whilst the
novice is only met by pitch dark night.
Habituation to War no General can give his Army at
once, and the camps of manoeuvre (peace exercises)
furnish but a weak substitute for it, weak in comparison
with real experience in War, but not weak in relation
to other Armies in which the training is limited to mere
mechanical exercises of routine. So to regulate the exercises
in peace time as to include some of these causes of
friction, that the judgment, circumspection, even resolution
of the separate leaders may be brought into exercise,
is of much greater consequence than those believe who
do not know the thing by experience. It is of immense
importance that the soldier, high or low, whatever rank
he has, should not have to encounter in War those
things which, when seen for the first time, set him
in astonishment and perplexity; if he has only met
with them one single time before, even by that he is half
acquainted with them. This relates even to bodily
fatigues. They should be practised less to accustom the
body to them than the mind. In War the young soldier
is very apt to regard unusual fatigues as the consequence
of faults, mistakes, and embarrassment in the conduct
of the whole, and to become distressed and despondent
as a consequence. This would not happen if he had
been prepared for this beforehand by exercises in peace.
Another less comprehensive but still very important
means of gaining habituation to War in time of peace is
to invite into the service officers of foreign armies who
have had experience in War. Peace seldom reigns over
all Europe, and never in all quarters of the world. A
State which has been long at peace should, therefore,
always seek to procure some officers who have done good
service at the different scenes of Warfare, or to send
there some of its own, that they may get a lesson in
War.
However small the number of officers of this description
may appear in proportion to the mass, still their
influence is very sensibly felt.[*] Their experience, the bent
of their genius, the stamp of their character, influence
their subordinates and comrades; and besides that, if
they cannot be placed in positions of superior command,
they may always be regarded as men acquainted with
the country, who may be questioned on many special
occasions.
[*] The War of 1870 furnishes a marked illustration. Von Moltke
and
von Goeben, not to mention many others, had both seen service in
this manner, the former in Turkey and Syria, the latter in
Spain--
EDITOR.
BOOK II. ON THE THEORY OF WAR
CHAPTER I. BRANCHES OF THE ART OF WAR
WAR in its literal meaning is fighting, for fighting alone
is the efficient principle in the manifold activity which
in a wide sense is called War. But fighting is a trial of
strength of the moral and physical forces by means of
the latter. That the moral cannot be omitted is evident
of itself, for the condition of the mind has always the
most decisive influence on the forces employed in War.
The necessity of fighting very soon led men to special
inventions to turn the advantage in it in their own favour:
in consequence of these the mode of fighting has undergone
great alterations; but in whatever way it is conducted
its conception remains unaltered, and fighting is
that which constitutes War.
The inventions have been from the first weapons and
equipments for the individual combatants. These have
to be provided and the use of them learnt before the War
begins. They are made suitable to the nature of the
fighting, consequently are ruled by it; but plainly
the activity engaged in these appliances is a different
thing from the fight itself; it is only the preparation for
the combat, not the conduct of the same. That arming
and equipping are not essential to the conception of fighting
is plain, because mere wrestling is also fighting.
Fighting has determined everything appertaining to
arms and equipment, and these in turn modify the mode of
fighting; there is, therefore, a reciprocity of action
between the two.
Nevertheless, the fight itself remains still an entirely
special activity, more particularly because it moves in an
entirely special element, namely, in the element of danger.
If, then, there is anywhere a necessity for drawing a
line between two different activities, it is here; and in
order to see clearly the importance of this idea, we need
only just to call to mind how often eminent personal
fitness in one field has turned out nothing but the most
useless pedantry in the other.
It is also in no way difficult to separate in idea the one
activity from the other, if we look at the combatant
forces fully armed and equipped as a given means, the
profitable use of which requires nothing more than a
knowledge of their general results.
The Art of War is therefore, in its proper sense, the art
of making use of the given means in fighting, and we
cannot give it a better name than the "Conduct of War."
On the other hand, in a wider sense all activities which
have their existence on account of War, therefore the
whole creation of troops, that is levying them, arming,
equipping, and exercising them, belong to the Art of War.
To make a sound theory it is most essential to separate
these two activities, for it is easy to see that if every act
of War is to begin with the preparation of military forces,
and to presuppose forces so organised as a primary condition
for conducting War, that theory will only be applicable
in the few cases to which the force available happens
to be exactly suited. If, on the other hand, we wish to
have a theory which shall suit most cases, and will not be
wholly useless in any case, it must be founded on those
means which are in most general use, and in respect to
these only on the actual results springing from them.
The conduct of War is, therefore, the formation and
conduct of the fighting. If this fighting was a single act,
there would be no necessity for any further subdivision,
but the fight is composed of a greater or less number of
single acts, complete in themselves, which we call combats,
as we have shown in the first chapter of the first book, and
which form new units. From this arises the totally
different activities, that of the FORMATION and CONDUCT of
these single combats in themselves, and the COMBINATION
of them with one another, with a view to the ultimate object
of the War. The first is called TACTICS, the other STRATEGY.
This division into tactics and strategy is now in almost
general use, and every one knows tolerably well under
which head to place any single fact, without knowing
very distinctly the grounds on which the classification
is founded. But when such divisions are blindly adhered
to in practice, they must have some deep root. We have
searched for this root, and we might say that it is just the
usage of the majority which has brought us to it. On the
other hand, we look upon the arbitrary, unnatural definitions
of these conceptions sought to be established
by some writers as not in accordance with the general
usage of the terms.
According to our classification, therefore, tactics IS THE
THEORY OF THE USE OF MILITARY FORCES IN COMBAT. Strategy
IS THE THEORY OF THE USE OF COMBATS FOR THE OBJECT OF THE WAR.
The way in which the conception of a single, or independent
combat, is more closely determined, the conditions
to which this unit is attached, we shall only be able to
explain clearly when we consider the combat; we must
content ourselves for the present with saying that in
relation to space, therefore in combats taking place at
the same time, the unit reaches just as far as PERSONAL
COMMAND reaches; but in regard to time, and therefore
in relation to combats which follow each other in close
succession, it reaches to the moment when the crisis which
takes place in every combat is entirely passed.
That doubtful cases may occur, cases, for instance,
in which several combats may perhaps be regarded also
as a single one, will not overthrow the ground of distinction
we have adopted, for the same is the case with all
grounds of distinction of real things which are differentiated
by a gradually diminishing scale. There may,
therefore, certainly be acts of activity in War which,
without any alteration in the point of view, may just
as well be counted strategic as tactical; for example,
very extended positions resembling a chain of posts, the
preparations for the passage of a river at several points, &c.
Our classification reaches and covers only the USE OF
THE MILITARY FORCE. But now there are in War a number
of activities which are subservient to it, and still are quite
different from it; sometimes closely allied, sometimes
less near in their affinity. All these activities relate to
the MAINTENANCE OF THE MILITARY FORCE. In the same way
as its creation and training precede its use, so its maintenance
is always a necessary condition. But, strictly
viewed, all activities thus connected with it are always
to be regarded only as preparations for fighting; they are
certainly nothing more than activities which are very
close to the action, so that they run through the hostile
act alternate in importance with the use of the forces. We
have therefore a right to exclude them as well as the other
preparatory activities from the Art of War in its restricted
sense, from the conduct of War properly so called; and
we are obliged to do so if we would comply with the first
principle of all theory, the elimination of all heterogeneous
elements. Who would include in the real "conduct
of War" the whole litany of subsistence and administration,
because it is admitted to stand in constant reciprocal
action with the use of the troops, but is something essentially
different from it?
We have said, in the third chapter of our first book, that
as the fight or combat is the only directly effective activity,
therefore the threads of all others, as they end in it, are
included in it. By this we meant to say that to all
others an object was thereby appointed which, in accordance
with the laws peculiar to themselves, they must seek
to attain. Here we must go a little closer into this
subject.
The subjects which constitute the activities outside of
the combat are of various kinds.
The one part belongs, in one respect, to the combat
itself, is identical with it, whilst it serves in another
respect for the maintenance of the military force. The
other part belongs purely to the subsistence, and has only,
in consequence of the reciprocal action, a limited influence
on the combats by its results. The subjects which in one
respect belong to the fighting itself are MARCHES, CAMPS,
and CANTONMENTS, for they suppose so many different situations
of troops, and where troops are supposed there the
idea of the combat must always be present.
The other subjects, which only belong to the maintenance,
are SUBSISTENCE, CARE OF THE SICK, the SUPPLY AND
REPAIR OF ARMS AND EQUIPMENT.
Marches are quite identical with the use of the troops.
The act of marching in the combat, generally called
manoeuvring, certainly does not necessarily include the
use of weapons, but it is so completely and necessarily combined
with it that it forms an integral part of that which
we call a combat. But the march outside the combat
is nothing but the execution of a strategic measure. By
the strategic plan is settled WHEN, WHERE, and WITH WHAT
FORCES a battle is to be delivered--and to carry that into
execution the march is the only means.
The march outside of the combat is therefore an
instrument of strategy, but not on that account exclusively
a subject of strategy, for as the armed force which
executes it may be involved in a possible combat at any
moment, therefore its execution stands also under tactical
as well as strategic rules. If we prescribe to a column
its route on a particular side of a river or of a branch of a
mountain, then that is a strategic measure, for it contains
the intention of fighting on that particular side of the hill
or river in preference to the other, in case a combat
should be necessary during the march.
But if a column, instead of following the road through a
valley, marches along the parallel ridge of heights, or
for the convenience of marching divides itself into several
columns, then these are tactical arrangements, for they
relate to the manner in which we shall use the troops in
the anticipated combat.
The particular order of march is in constant relation
with readiness for combat, is therefore tactical in its
nature, for it is nothing more than the first or preliminary
disposition for the battle which may possibly take
place.
As the march is the instrument by which strategy
apportions its active elements, the combats, but these
last often only appear by their results and not in the details
of their real course, it could not fail to happen that in
theory the instrument has often been substituted for the
efficient principle. Thus we hear of a decisive skilful
march, allusion being thereby made to those combat-
combinations to which these marches led. This substitution
of ideas is too natural and conciseness of expression
too desirable to call for alteration, but still it is only a
condensed chain of ideas in regard to which we must
never omit to bear in mind the full meaning, if we would
avoid falling into error.
We fall into an error of this description if we attribute
to strategical combinations a power independent of tactical
results. We read of marches and manoeuvres combined,
the object attained, and at the same time not a word about
combat, from which the conclusion is drawn that there
are means in War of conquering an enemy without fighting.
The prolific nature of this error we cannot show until
hereafter.
But although a march can be regarded absolutely as an
integral part of the combat, still there are in it certain
relations which do not belong to the combat, and therefore
are neither tactical nor strategic. To these belong
all arrangements which concern only the accommodation
of the troops, the construction of bridges, roads, &c.
These are only conditions; under many circumstances
they are in very close connection, and may almost identify
themselves with the troops, as in building a bridge in
presence of the enemy; but in themselves they are always
activities, the
theory of which does not form
part of the theory of the conduct of War.
Camps, by which we mean every disposition of troops
in concentrated, therefore in battle order, in
contradistinction to cantonments or quarters, are a state of
rest, therefore of restoration; but they are at the same
time also the strategic appointment of a battle on the spot,
chosen; and by the manner in which they are taken up
they contain the fundamental lines of the battle, a
condition from which every defensive battle starts;
they are therefore essential parts of both strategy and
tactics.
Cantonments take the place of camps for the better
refreshment of the troops. They are therefore, like
camps, strategic subjects as regards position and extent;
tactical subjects as regards internal organisation, with a
view to readiness to fight.
The occupation of camps and cantonments no doubt
usually combines with the recuperation of the troops
another object also, for example, the covering a district
of country, the holding a position; but it can very well
be only the first. We remind our readers that strategy
may follow a great diversity of objects, for everything
which appears an advantage may be the object of a combat,
and the preservation of the instrument with which
War is made must necessarily very often become the
object of its partial combinations.
If, therefore, in such a case strategy ministers only to
the maintenance of the troops, we are not on that account
out of the field of strategy, for we are still engaged
with the use of the military force, because every disposition
of that force upon any point Whatever of the
theatre of War is such a use.
But if the maintenance of the troops in camp or
quarters calls forth activities which are no employment
of the armed force, such as the construction of huts,
pitching of tents, subsistence and sanitary services in
camps or quarters, then such belong neither to strategy
nor tactics.
Even entrenchments, the site and preparation of which
are plainly part of the order of battle, therefore tactical
subjects, do not belong to the theory of the conduct of
War so far as respects the execution of their construction
the knowledge and skill required for such work being, in
point of fact, qualities inherent in the nature of an
organised Army; the theory of the combat takes them
for granted.
Amongst the subjects which belong to the mere keeping
up of an armed force, because none of the parts are
identified with the combat, the victualling of the troops
themselves comes first, as it must be done almost daily
and for each individual. Thus it is that it completely
permeates military action in the parts constituting
strategy--we say parts constituting strategy, because
during a battle the subsistence of troops will rarely have
any influence in modifying the plan, although the thing
is conceivable enough. The care for the subsistence of
the troops comes therefore into reciprocal action chiefly
with strategy, and there is nothing more common than
for the leading strategic features of a campaign and War
to be traced out in connection with a view to this supply.
But however frequent and however important these
views of supply may be, the subsistence of the troops
always remains a completely different activity from the
use of the troops, and the former has only an influence on
the latter by its results.
The other branches of administrative activity which
we have mentioned stand much farther apart from the
use of the troops. The care of sick and wounded, highly
important as it is for the good of an Army, directly affects
it only in a small portion of the individuals composing it,
and therefore has only a weak and indirect influence
upon the use of the rest. The completing and replacing
articles of arms and equipment, except so far as by the
organism of the forces it constitutes a continuous activity
inherent in them--takes place only periodically, and
therefore seldom affects strategic plans.
We must, however, here guard ourselves against a
mistake. In certain cases these subjects may be really
of decisive importance. The distance of hospitals and
depo^ts of munitions may very easily be imagined as the
sole cause of very important strategic decisions. We do
not wish either to contest that point or to throw it into
the shade. But we are at present occupied not with the
particular facts of a concrete case, but with abstract
theory; and our assertion therefore is that such an
influence is too rare to give the theory of sanitary measures
and the supply of munitions and arms an importance intheory of
the conduct
of War such as to make it worth
while to include in the theory of the conduct of War the
consideration of the different ways and systems which
the above theories may furnish, in the same way as is
certainly necessary in regard to victualling troops.
If we have clearly understood the results of our reflections,
then the activities belonging to War divide themselves
into two principal classes, into such as are only
"preparations for War" and into the "War itself."
This division must therefore also be made in theory.
The knowledge and applications of skill in the preparations
for War are engaged in the creation, discipline, and
maintenance of all the military forces; what general
names should be given to them we do not enter into, but
we see that artillery, fortification, elementary tactics, as
they are called, the whole organisation and administration
of the various armed forces, and all such things are
included. But the theory of War itself occupies itself
with the use of these prepared means for the object of
the war. It needs of the first only the results, that is, the
knowledge of the principal properties of the means taken
in hand for use. This we call "The Art of War" in a
limited sense, or "Theory of the Conduct of War," or
"Theory of the Employment of Armed Forces," all of
them denoting for us the same thing.
The present theory will therefore treat the combat as
the real contest, marches, camps, and cantonments as
circumstances which are more or less identical with it.
The subsistence of the troops will only come into consideration
like OTHER GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCES in respect of its
results, not as an activity belonging to the combat.
The Art of War thus viewed in its limited sense divides
itself again into tactics and strategy. The former occupies
itself with the form of the separate combat, the latter
with its use. Both connect themselves with the circumstances
of marches, camps, cantonments only through
the combat, and these circumstances are tactical or
strategic according as they relate to the form or to the
signification of the battle.
No doubt there will be many readers who will consider
superfluous this careful separation of two things lying so
close together as tactics and strategy, because it has no
direct effect on the conduct itself of War. We admit,
certainly that it would be pedantry to look for direct
effects on the field of battle from a theoretical distinction.
But the first business of every theory is to clear up
conceptions and ideas which have been jumbled together,
and, we may say, entangled and confused; and only when
a right understanding is established, as to names and
conceptions, can we hope to progress with clearness and
facility, and be certain that author and reader will always
see things from the same point of view. Tactics and
strategy are two activities mutually permeating each
other in time and space, at the same time essentially
different activities, the inner laws and mutual relations
of which cannot be intelligible at all to the mind until
a clear conception of the nature of each activity is
established.
He to whom all this is nothing, must either repudiate
all theoretical consideration, OR HIS UNDERSTANDING HAS
NOT AS YET BEEN PAINED by the confused and perplexing
ideas resting on no fixed point of view, leading to no
satisfactory result, sometimes dull, sometimes fantastic,
sometimes floating in vague generalities, which we are
often obliged to hear and read on the conduct of War,
owing to the spirit of scientific investigation having
hitherto been little directed to these subjects.
CHAPTER II. ON THE THEORY OF WAR
1. THE FIRST CONCEPTION OF THE "ART OF WAR" WAS
MERELY THE PREPARATION OF THE ARMED FORCES.
FORMERLY by the term "Art of War," or "Science of
War," nothing was understood but the totality of those
branches of knowledge and those appliances of skill
occupied with material things. The pattern and preparation
and the mode of using arms, the construction of
fortifications and entrenchments, the organism of an army
and the mechanism of its movements, were the subjectthese
branches of
knowledge and skill above referred
to, and the end and aim of them all was the establishment
of an armed force fit for use in War. All this concerned
merely things belonging to the material world and a one-
sided activity only, and it was in fact nothing but an
activity advancing by gradations from the lower occupations
to a finer kind of mechanical art. The relation of
all this to War itself was very much the same as the relation
of the art of the sword cutler to the art of using the
sword. The employment in the moment of danger and
in a state of constant reciprocal action of the particular
energies of mind and spirit in the direction proposed to
them was not yet even mooted.
2. TRUE WAR FIRST APPEARS IN THE ART OF SIEGES.
In the art of sieges we first perceive a certain degree of
guidance of the combat, something of the action of the
intellectual faculties upon the material forces placed under
their control, but generally only so far that it very soon
embodied itself again in new material forms, such as
approaches, trenches, counter-approaches, batteries, &c.,
and every step which this action of the higher faculties
took was marked by some such result; it was only the
thread that was required on which to string these material
inventions in order. As the intellect can hardly manifest
itself in this kind of War, except in such things, so therefore
nearly all that was necessary was done in that way.
3. THEN TACTICS TRIED TO FIND ITS WAY IN
THE SAME DIRECTION.
Afterwards tactics attempted to give to the mechanism
of its joints the character of a general disposition, built
upon the peculiar properties of the instrument, which
character leads indeed to the battle-field, but instead of
leading to the free activity of mind, leads to an Army made
like an automaton by its rigid formations and orders of
battle, which, movable only by the word of command,
is intended to unwind its activities like a piece of clockwork.
4. THE REAL CONDUCT OF WAR ONLY MADE ITS
APPEARANCE INCIDENTALLY AND INCOGNITO.
The conduct of War properly so called, that is, a use of
the prepared means adapted to the most special requirements,
was not considered as any suitable subject for
theory, but one which should be left to natural talents
alone. By degrees, as War passed from the hand-to-hand
encounters of the middle ages into a more regular and
systematic form, stray reflections on this point also forced
themselves into men's minds, but they mostly appeared
only incidentally in memoirs and narratives, and in a
certain measure incognito.
5. REFLECTIONS ON MILITARY EVENTS BROUGHT
ABOUT THE WANT OF A THEORY.
As contemplation on War continually increased, and its
history every day assumed more of a critical character,
the urgent want appeared of the support of fixed maxims
and rules, in order that in the controversies naturally
arising about military events the war of opinions might
be brought to some one point. This whirl of opinions,
which neither revolved on any central pivot nor according
to any appreciable laws, could not but be very distasteful
to people's minds.
6. ENDEAVOURS TO ESTABLISH A POSITIVE THEORY.
There arose, therefore, an endeavour to establish
maxims, rules, and even systems for the conduct of War.
By this the attainment of a positive object was proposed,
without taking into view the endless difficulties which
the conduct of War presents in that respect. The conduct
of War, as we have shown, has no definite limits in
any direction, while every system has the circumscribing
nature of a synthesis, from which results an irreconcileable
opposition between such a theory and practice.
7. LIMITATION TO MATERIAL OBJECTS.
Writers on theory felt the difficulty of the subject soon
enough, and thought themselves entitled to get rid of it
by directing their maxims and systems only upon material
things and a one-sided activity. Their aim was to reach
results, as in the science for the preparation for War,
entirely certain and positive, and therefore only to take
into consideration that which could be made matter of
calculation.
8. SUPERIORITY OF NUMBERS.
The superiority in numbers being a material condition,
it was chosen from amongst all the factors required to
produce victory, because it could be brought under
mathematical laws through combinations of time and
space. It was thought possible to leave out of sight all
other circumstances, by supposing them to be equal on
each side, and therefore to neutralise one another. This
would have been very well if it had been done to gain a
preliminary knowledge of this one factor, according to
its relations, but to make it a rule for ever to consider
superiority of numbers as the sole law; to see the whole
secret of the Art of War in the formula, IN A CERTAIN TIME,
AT A CERTAIN POINT, TO BRING UP SUPERIOR MASSES--was a
restriction overruled by the force of realities.
9. VICTUALLING OF TROOPS.
By one theoretical school an attempt was made to
systematise another material element also, by making the
subsistence of troops, according to a previously established
organism of the Army, the supreme legislator in the higher
conduct of War. In this way certainly they arrived at
definite figures, but at figures which rested on a number
of arbitrary calculations, and which therefore could not
stand the test of practical application.
10. BASE.
An ingenious author tried to concentrate in a single
conception, that of a BASE, a whole host of objects
amongst which sundry relations even with immaterial
forces found their way in as well. The list comprised the
subsistence of the troops, the keeping them complete in
numbers and equipment, the security of communications
with the home country, lastly, the security of retreat in
case it became necessary; and, first of all, he proposed to
substitute this conception of a base for all these things;
then for the base itself to substitute its own length
(extent); and, last of all, to substitute the angle
formed by the army with this base: all this was done to obtain a
pure
geometrical result utterly useless.
This last is, in fact, unavoidable, if we reflect that none
of these substitutions could be made without violating
truth and leaving out some of the things contained in the
original conception. The idea of a base is a real necessity
for strategy, and to have conceived it is meritorious;
but to make such a use of it as we have depicted is
completely inadmissible, and could not but lead to partial
conclusions which have forced these theorists into a direction
opposed to common sense, namely, to a belief in the
decisive effect of the enveloping form of attack.
11. INTERIOR LINES.
As a reaction against this false direction, another
geometrical principle, that of the so-called interior lines,
was then elevated to the throne. Although this principle
rests on a sound foundation, on the truth that the combat
is the only effectual means in War, still it is, just on
account of its purely geometrical nature, nothing but
another case of one-sided theory which can never gain
ascendency in the real world.
12. ALL THESE ATTEMPTS ARE OPEN TO OBJECTION.
All these attempts at theory are only to be considered
in their analytical part as progress in the province of truth,
but in their synthetical part, in their precepts and rules,
they are quite unserviceable.
They strive after determinate quantities, whilst in War
all is undetermined, and the calculation has always to
be made with varying quantities.
They direct the attention only upon material forces,
while the whole military action is penetrated throughout
by intelligent forces and their effects.
They only pay regard to activity on one side, whilst
War is a constant state of reciprocal action, the effects of
which are mutual.
13. AS A RULE THEY EXCLUDE GENIUS.
All that was not attainable by such miserable philosophy,
the offspring of partial views, lay outside the
precincts of science--and was the field of genius, which
RAISES ITSELF ABOVE RULES.
Pity the warrior who is contented to crawl about in
this beggardom of rules, which are too bad for genius,
over which it can set itself superior, over which it can
perchance make merry! What genius does must be
the best of all rules, and theory cannot do better than to
show how and why it is so.
Pity the theory which sets itself in opposition to the
mind! It cannot repair this contradiction by any
humility, and the humbler it is so much the sooner will
ridicule and contempt drive it out of real life.
14. THE DIFFICULTY OF THEORY AS SOON AS MORAL
QUANTITIES COME INTO CONSIDERATION.
Every theory becomes infinitely more difficult from the
moment that it touches on the province of moral quantities.
Architecture and painting know quite well what
they are about as long as they have only to do with matter;
there is no dispute about mechanical or optical construction.
But as soon as the moral activities begin their
work, as soon as moral impressions and feelings are produced,
the whole set of rules dissolves into vague ideas.
The science of medicine is chiefly engaged with bodily
phenomena only; its business is with the animal organism,
which, liable to perpetual change, is never exactly the
same for two moments. This makes its practice very
difficult, and places the judgment of the physician above
his science; but how much more difficult is the case if a
moral effect is added, and how much higher must we place
the physician of the mind?
15. THE MORAL QUANTITIES MUST NOT BE
EXCLUDED IN WAR.
But now the activity in War is never directed solely
against matter; it is always at the same time directed
against the intelligent force which gives life to this matter,
and to separate the two from each other is impossible.
But the intelligent forces are only visible to the inner
eye, and this is different in each person, and often different
in the same person at different times.
As danger is the general element in which everything
moves in War, it is also chiefly by courage, the feeling of
one's own power, that the judgment is differently influenced.
It is to a certain extent the crystalline lens
through which all appearances pass before reaching the
understanding.
And yet we cannot doubt that these things acquire a
certain objective value simply through experience.
Every one knows the moral effect of a surprise, of an
attack in flank or rear. Every one thinks less of the
enemy's courage as soon as he turns his back, and ventures
much more in pursuit than when pursued. Every
one judges of the enemy's General by his reputed talents,
by his age and experience, and shapes his course accordingly.
Every one casts a scrutinising glance at the spirit
and feeling of his own and the enemy's troops. All these
and similar effects in the province of the moral nature
of man have established themselves by experience, are
perpetually recurring, and therefore warrant our reckoning
them as real quantities of their kind. What
could we do with any theory which should leave them
out of consideration?
Certainly experience is an indispensable title for these
truths. With psychological and philosophical sophistries
no theory, no General, should meddle.
16. PRINCIPAL DIFFICULTY OF A THEORY FOR THE
CONDUCT OF WAR.
In order to comprehend clearly the difficulty of the
proposition which is contained in a theory for the conduct
of War, and thence to deduce the necessary characteristics
of such a theory, we must take a closer view of the chief
particulars which make up the nature of activity in War.
17. FIRST SPECIALITY.--MORAL FORCES AND THEIR
EFFECTS.
(HOSTILE FEELING.)
The first of these specialities consists in the moral
forces and effects.
The combat is, in its origin, the expression of HOSTILE
FEELING, but in our great combats, which we call Wars,
the hostile feeling frequently resolves itself into merely
a hostile VIEW, and there is usually no innate hostile
feeling residing in individual against individual. Nevertheless,
the combat never passes off without such feelings
being brought into activity. National hatred, which is
seldom wanting in our Wars, is a substitute for personal
hostility in the breast of individual opposed to individual.
But where this also is wanting, and at first no animosity
of feeling subsists, a hostile feeling is kindled by the
combat itself; for an act of violence which any one
commits upon us by order of his superior, will excite in
us a desire to retaliate and be revenged on him, sooner
than on the superior power at whose command the act
was done. This is human, or animal if we will; still it
is so. We are very apt to regard the combat in theory
as an abstract trial of strength, without any participation
on the part of the feelings, and that is one of the thousand
errors which theorists deliberately commit, because they
do not see its consequences.
Besides that excitation of feelings naturally arising
from the combat itself, there are others also which do not
essentially belong to it, but which, on account of their
relationship, easily unite with it--ambition, love of power,
enthusiasm of every kind, &c. &c.
18. THE IMPRESSIONS OF DANGER.
(COURAGE.)
Finally, the combat begets the element of danger, in
which all the activities of War must live and move, like
the bird in the air or the fish in the water. But the
influences of danger all pass into the feelings, either
directly--that is, instinctively--or through the medium
of the understanding. The effect in the first case would
be a desire to escape from the danger, and, if that cannot
be done, fright and anxiety. If this effect does not take
place, then it is COURAGE, which is a counterpoise to that
instinct. Courage is, however, by no means an act of
the understanding, but likewise a feeling, like fear; the
latter looks to the physical preservation, courage to the
moral preservation. Courage, then, is a nobler instinct.
But because it is so, it will not allow itself to be used as
a lifeless instrument, which produces its effects exactly
according to prescribed measure. Courage is therefore
no mere counterpoise to danger in order to neutralise
the latter in its effects, but a peculiar power in itself.
19. EXTENT OF THE INFLUENCE OF DANGER.
But to estimate exactly the influence of danger upon
the principal actors in War, we must not limit its sphere
to the physical danger of the moment. It dominates
over the actor, not only by threatening him, but also
by threatening all entrusted to him, not only at the
moment in which it is actually present, but also through
the imagination at all other moments, which have a
connection with the present; lastly, not only directly by
itself, but also indirectly by the responsibility which
makes it bear with tenfold weight on the mind of the chief
actor. Who could advise, or resolve upon a great battle,
without feeling his mind more or less wrought up, or perplexed
by, the danger and responsibility which such a
great act of decision carries in itself? We may say that
action in War, in so far as it is real action, not a mere
condition, is never out of the sphere of danger.
20. OTHER POWERS OF FEELING.
If we look upon these affections which are excited
by hostility and danger as peculiarly belonging to War,
we do not, therefore, exclude from it all others
accompanying man in his life's journey. They will also find
room here frequently enough. Certainly we may say
that many a petty action of the passions is silenced in
this serious business of life; but that holds good only
in respect to those acting in a lower sphere, who, hurried
on from one state of danger and exertion to another,
lose sight of the rest of the things of life, BECOME UNUSED
TO DECEIT, because it is of no avail with death, and so
attain to that soldierly simplicity of character which
has always been the best representative of the military
profession. In higher regions it is otherwise, for the
higher a man's rank, the more he must look around him;
then arise interests on every side, and a manifold activity
of the passions of good and bad. Envy and generosity,
pride and humility, fierceness and tenderness, all may
appear as active powers in this great drama.
21. PECULIARITY OF MIND.
The peculiar characteristics of mind in the chief actor
have, as well as those of the feelings, a high importance.
From an imaginative, flighty, inexperienced head, and
from a calm, sagacious understanding, different things
are to be expected.
22. FROM THE DIVERSITY IN MENTAL INDIVIDUALITIES
ARISES THE DIVERSITY OF WAYS LEADING TO THE
END.
It is this great diversity in mental individuality, the
influence of which is to be supposed as chiefly felt in the
higher ranks, because it increases as we progress upwards,
which chiefly produces the diversity of ways leading to the
end noticed by us in the first book, and which gives, to the
play of probabilities and chance, such an unequal share in
determining the course of events.
23. SECOND PECULIARITY.--LIVING REACTION.
The second peculiarity in War is the living reaction,
and the reciprocal action resulting therefrom. We do
not here speak of the difficulty of estimating that reaction,
for that is included in the difficulty before mentioned,
of treating the moral powers as quantities; but of this,
that reciprocal action, by its nature, opposes anything
like a regular plan. The effect which any measure produces
upon the enemy is the most distinct of all the data
which action affords; but every theory must keep to
classes (or groups) of phenomena, and can never take up
the really individual case in itself: that must everywhere
be left to judgment and talent. It is therefore natural
that in a business such as War, which in its plan--built
upon general circumstances--is so often thwarted by
unexpected and singular accidents, more must generally
be left to talent; and less use can be made of a THEORETICAL
GUIDE than in any other.
24. THIRD PECULIARITY.--UNCERTAINTY OF ALL DATA.
Lastly, the great uncertainty of all data in War is a
peculiar difficulty, because all action must, to a certain
extent, be planned in a mere twilight, which in addition
not unfrequently--like the effect of a fog or moonshine--
gives to things exaggerated dimensions and an unnatural
appearance.
What this feeble light leaves indistinct to the sight
talent must discover, or must be left to chance. It is
therefore again talent, or the favour of fortune, on which
reliance must be placed, for want of objective knowledge.
25. POSITIVE THEORY IS IMPOSSIBLE.
With materials of this kind we can only say to ourselves
that it is a sheer impossibility to construct for the Art of
War a theory which, like a scaffolding, shall ensure to
the chief actor an external support on all sides. In all
those cases in which he is thrown upon his talent he would
find himself away from this scaffolding of theory and in
opposition to it, and, however many-sided it might be
framed, the same result would ensue of which we spoke
when we said that talent and genius act beyond the law,
and theory is in opposition to reality.
26. MEANS LEFT BY WHICH A THEORY IS POSSIBLE
(THE DIFFICULTIES ARE NOT EVERYWHERE EQUALLY
GREAT).
Two means present themselves of getting out of this
difficulty. In the first place, what we have said of the
nature of military action in general does not apply in
the same manner to the action of every one, whatever
may be his standing. In the lower ranks the spirit of
self-sacrifice is called more into request, but the difficulties
which the understanding and judgment meet with are
infinitely less. The field of occurrences is more confined.
Ends and means are fewer in number. Data more
distinct; mostly also contained in the actually visible.
But the higher we ascend the more the difficulties increase,
until in the Commander-in-Chief they reach their climax,
so that with him almost everything must be left to genius.
Further, according to a division of the subject in AGREEMENT
WITH ITS NATURE, the difficulties are not everywhere
the same, but diminish the more results manifest themselves
in the material world, and increase the more they
pass into the moral, and become motives which influence
the will. Therefore it is easier to determine, by theoretical
rules, the order and conduct of a battle, than the use to
be made of the battle itself. Yonder physical weapons
clash with each other, and although mind is not wanting
therein, matter must have its rights. But in the effects
to be produced by battles when the material results
become motives, we have only to do with the moral
nature. In a word, it is easier to make a theory for
TACTICS than for STRATEGY.
27. THEORY MUST BE OF THE NATURE OF OBSERVATIONS
NOT OF DOCTRINE.
The second opening for the possibility of a theory lies
in the point of view that it does not necessarily require
to be a DIRECTION for action. As a general rule, whenever
an ACTIVITY is for the most part occupied with the same
objects over and over again, with the same ends and
means, although there may be trifling alterations and a
corresponding number of varieties of combination, such
things are capable of becoming a subject of study for the
reasoning faculties. But such study is just the most
essential part of every THEORY, and has a peculiar title to
that name. It is an analytical investigation of the subject
that leads to an exact knowledge; and if brought
to bear on the results of experience, which in our case
would be military history, to a thorough familiarity with
it. The nearer theory attains the latter object, so much
the more it passes over from the objective form of knowledge into
the
subjective one of skill in action; and so
much the more, therefore, it will prove itself effective
when circumstances allow of no other decision but that
of personal talents; it will show its effects in that talent
itself. If theory investigates the subjects which constitute
War; if it separates more distinctly that which
at first sight seems amalgamated; if it explains fully the
properties of the means; if it shows their probable effects;
if it makes evident the nature of objects; if it brings to
bear all over the field of War the light of essentially
critical investigation--then it has fulfilled the chief
duties of its province. It becomes then a guide to him
who wishes to make himself acquainted with War from
books; it lights up the whole road for him, facilitates his
progress, educates his judgment, and shields him from
error.
If a man of expertness spends half his life in the endeavour
to clear up an obscure subject thoroughly, he will
probably know more about it than a person who seeks
to master it in a short time. Theory is instituted that
each person in succession may not have to go through
the same labour of clearing the ground and toiling through
his subject, but may find the thing in order, and light
admitted on it. It should educate the mind of the future
leader in War, or rather guide him in his self-instruction,
but not accompany him to the field of battle; just as a
sensible tutor forms and enlightens the opening mind of a
youth without, therefore, keeping him in leading strings
all through his life.
If maxims and rules result of themselves from the considerations
which theory institutes, if the truth accretes
itself into that form of crystal, then theory will not oppose
this natural law of the mind; it will rather, if the arch
ends in such a keystone, bring it prominently out; but
so does this, only in order to satisfy the philosophical
law of reason, in order to show distinctly the point to
which the lines all converge, not in order to form out of
it an algebraical formula for use upon the battle-field;
for even these maxims and rules serve more to determine
in the reflecting mind the leading outline of its habitual
movements than as landmarks indicating to it the way
in the act of execution.
28. BY THIS POINT OF VIEW THEORY BECOMES POSSIBLE,
AND CEASES TO BE IN CONTRADICTION TO PRACTICE.
Taking this point of view, there is a possibility afforded
of a satisfactory, that is, of a useful, theory of the conduct
of War, never coming into opposition with the reality,
and it will only depend on rational treatment to bring it
so far into harmony with action that between theory
and practice there shall no longer be that absurd difference
which an unreasonable theory, in defiance of common
sense, has often produced, but which, just as often,
narrow-mindedness and ignorance have used as a pretext
for giving way to their natural incapacity.
29. THEORY THEREFORE CONSIDERS THE NATURE OF
ENDS AND MEANS--ENDS AND MEANS IN TACTICS.
Theory has therefore to consider the nature of the
means and ends.
In tactics the means are the disciplined armed forces
which are to carry on the contest. The object is victory.
The precise definition of this conception can be better
explained hereafter in the consideration of the combat.
Here we content ourselves by denoting the retirement of
the enemy from the field of battle as the sign of victory.
By means of this victory strategy gains the object for
which it appointed the combat, and which constitutes
its special signification. This signification has certainly
some influence on the nature of the victory. A victory
which is intended to weaken the enemy's armed forces
is a different thing from one which is designed only to put
us in possession of a position. The signification of a
combat may therefore have a sensible influence on the
preparation and conduct of it, consequently will be also
a subject of consideration in tactics.
30. CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH ALWAYS ATTEND THE
APPLICATION OF THE MEANS.
As there are certain circumstances which attend the
combat throughout, and have more or less influence upon
its result, therefore these must be taken into consideration
in the application of the armed forces.
These circumstances are the locality of the combat
(ground), the time of day, and the weather.
31. LOCALITY.
The locality, which we prefer leaving for solution,
under the head of "Country and Ground," might, strictly
speaking, be without any influence at all if the combat
took place on a completely level and uncultivated plain.
In a country of steppes such a case may occur, but in
the cultivated countries of Europe it is almost an imaginary
idea. Therefore a combat between civilised nations, in
which country and ground have no influence, is hardly
conceivable.
32. TIME OF DAY.
The time of day influences the combat by the difference
between day and night; but the influence naturally
extends further than merely to the limits of these divisions,
as every combat has a certain duration, and great battles
last for several hours. In the preparations for a great
battle, it makes an essential difference whether it begins
in the morning or the evening. At the same time, certainly many
battles may
be fought in which the question of the time of day is quite
immaterial, and
in the generality of cases its influence is only trifling.
33. WEATHER.
Still more rarely has the weather any decisive influence,
and it is mostly only by fogs that it plays a part.
34. END AND MEANS IN STRATEGY.
Strategy has in the first instance only the victory,
that is, the tactical result, as a means to its object, and
ultimately those things which lead directly to peace.
The application of its means to this object is at the same
time attended by circumstances which have an influence
thereon more or less.
35. CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH ATTEND THE APPLICATION
OF THE MEANS OF STRATEGY.
These circumstances are country and ground, the
former including the territory and inhabitants of the whole
theatre of war; next the time of the day, and the time of
the year as well; lastly, the weather, particularly any
unusual state of the same, severe frost, &c.
36. THESE FORM NEW MEANS.
By bringing these things into combination with the
results of a combat, strategy gives this result--and therefore
the combat--a special signification, places before it
a particular object. But when this object is not that
which leads directly to peace, therefore a subordinate
one, it is only to be looked upon as a means; and therefore
in strategy we may look upon the results of combats
or victories, in all their different significations, as means.
The conquest of a position is such a result of a combat
applied to ground. But not only are the different
combats with special objects to be considered as means,
but also every higher aim which we may have in view
in the combination of battles directed on a common
object is to be regarded as a means. A winter campaign
is a combination of this kind applied to the season.
There remain, therefore, as objects, only those things
which may be supposed as leading DIRECTLY to peace,
Theory investigates all these ends and means according
to the nature of their effects and their mutual relations.
37. STRATEGY DEDUCES ONLY FROM EXPERIENCE THE
ENDS AND MEANS TO BE EXAMINED.
The first question is, How does strategy arrive at a
complete list of these things? If there is to be a philosophical
inquiry leading to an absolute result, it would
become entangled in all those difficulties which the logical
necessity of the conduct of War and its theory exclude.
It therefore turns to experience, and directs its attention
on those combinations which military history can furnish.
In this manner, no doubt, nothing more than a limited
theory can be obtained, which only suits circumstances
such as are presented in history. But this incompleteness
is unavoidable, because in any case theory must either
have deduced from, or have compared with, history
what it advances with respect to things. Besides, this
incompleteness in every case is more theoretical than real.
One great advantage of this method is that theory
cannot lose itself in abstruse disquisitions, subtleties,
and chimeras, but must always remain practical.
38. HOW FAR THE ANALYSIS OF THE MEANS SHOULD
BE CARRIED.
Another question is, How far should theory go in its
analysis of the means? Evidently only so far as the
elements in a separate form present themselves for consideration
in
practice. The range and effect of different
weapons is very important to tactics; their construction,
although these effects result from it, is a matter of
indifference; for the conduct of War is not making powder
and cannon out of a given quantity of charcoal, sulphur,
and saltpetre, of copper and tin: the given quantities
for the conduct of War are arms in a finished state and
their effects. Strategy makes use of maps without
troubling itself about triangulations; it does not inquire
how the country is subdivided into departments and
provinces, and how the people are educated and governed,
in order to attain the best military results; but it takes
things as it finds them in the community of European
States, and observes where very different conditions have
a notable influence on War.
39. GREAT SIMPLIFICATION OF THE KNOWLEDGE
REQUIRED.
That in this manner the number of subjects for theory
is much simplified, and the knowledge requisite for the
conduct of War much reduced, is easy to perceive. The
very great mass of knowledge and appliances of skill
which minister to the action of War in general, and which
are necessary before an army fully equipped can take
the field, unite in a few great results before they are able
to reach, in actual War, the final goal of their activity;
just as the streams of a country unite themselves in
rivers before they fall into the sea. Only those activities
emptying themselves directly into the sea of War have
to be studied by him who is to conduct its operations.
40. THIS EXPLAINS THE RAPID GROWTH OF GREAT
GENERALS, AND WHY A GENERAL IS NOT A MAN
OF LEARNING.
This result of our considerations is in fact so necessary,any
other would
have made us distrustful of their
accuracy. Only thus is explained how so often men
have made their appearance with great success in War,
and indeed in the higher ranks even in supreme Command,
whose pursuits had been previously of a totally different
nature; indeed how, as a rule, the most distinguished
Generals have never risen from the very learned or really
erudite class of officers, but have been mostly men who,
from the circumstances of their position, could not have
attained to any great amount of knowledge. On that
account those who have considered it necessary or even
beneficial to commence the education of a future General
by instruction in all details have always been ridiculed
as absurd pedants. It would be easy to show the injurious
tendency of such a course, because the human mind is
trained by the knowledge imparted to it and the direction
given to its ideas. Only what is great can make it
great; the little can only make it little, if the mind itself
does not reject it as something repugnant.
41. FORMER CONTRADICTIONS.
Because this simplicity of knowledge requisite in War
was not attended to, but that knowledge was always
jumbled up with the whole impedimenta of subordinate
sciences and arts, therefore the palpable opposition to
the events of real life which resulted could not be solved
otherwise than by ascribing it all to genius, which requires
no theory and for which no theory could be prescribed.
42. ON THIS ACCOUNT ALL USE OF KNOWLEDGE WAS
DENIED, AND EVERYTHING ASCRIBED TO NATURAL
TALENTS.
People with whom common sense had the upper hand
felt sensible of the immense distance remaining to be filled
up between a genius of the highest order and a learned
pedant; and they became in a manner free-thinkers,
rejected all belief in theory, and affirmed the conduct of
War to be a natural function of man, which he performs
more or less well according as he has brought with him
into the world more or less talent in that direction. It
cannot be denied that these were nearer to the truth than
those who placed a value on false knowledge: at the same
time it may easily be seen that such a view is itself but
an exaggeration. No activity of the human understanding
is possible without a certain stock of ideas;
but these are, for the greater part at least, not innate but
acquired, and constitute his knowledge. The only question
therefore is, of what kind should these ideas be; and
we think we have answered it if we say that they should be
directed on those things which man has directly to deal
with in War.
43. THE KNOWLEDGE MUST BE MADE SUITABLE TO THE
POSITION.
Inside this field itself of military activity, the knowledge
required must be different according to the station of
the Commander. It will be directed on smaller and more
circumscribed objects if he holds an inferior, upon greater
and more comprehensive ones if he holds a higher situation.
There are Field Marshals who would not have
shone at the head of a cavalry regiment, and vice versa.
44. THE KNOWLEDGE IN WAR IS VERY SIMPLE, BUT NOT,
AT THE SAME TIME, VERY EASY.
But although the knowledge in War is simple, that
is to say directed to so few subjects, and taking up
those only in their final results, the art of execution
is not, on that account, easy. Of the difficulties to
which activity in War is subject generally, we have
already spoken in the first book; we here omit those
things which can only be overcome by courage, and
maintain also that the activity of mind, is only simple,
and easy in inferior stations, but increases in difficulty
with increase of rank, and in the highest position, in that
of Commander-in-Chief, is to be reckoned among the
most difficult which there is for the human mind.
45. OF THE NATURE OF THIS KNOWLEDGE.
The Commander of an Army neither requires to be a
learned explorer of history nor a publicist, but he must be
well versed in the higher affairs of State; he must know,
and be able to judge correctly of traditional tendencies,
interests at stake, the immediate questions at issue, and
the characters of leading persons; he need not be a close
observer of men, a sharp dissector of human character,
but he must know the character, the feelings, the habits,
the peculiar faults and inclinations of those whom he is
to command. He need not understand anything about
the make of a carriage, or the harness of a battery horse,
but he must know how to calculate exactly the march of
a column, under different circumstances, according to
the time it requires. These are matters the knowledge
of which cannot be forced out by an apparatus of scientific
formula and machinery: they are only to be gained by
the exercise of an accurate judgment in the observation
of things and of men, aided by a special talent for the
apprehension of both.
The necessary knowledge for a high position in military.
action is therefore distinguished by this, that by observation,
therefore by study and reflection, it is only to be
attained through a special talent which as an intellectual
instinct understands how to extract from the phenomena
of life only the essence or spirit, as bees do the honey
from the flowers; and that it is also to be gained by
experience of life as well as by study and reflection. Life
will never bring forth a Newton or an Euler by its rich
teachings, but it may bring forth great calculators in War,
such as Conde' or Frederick.
It is therefore not necessary that, in order to vindicate
the intellectual dignity of military activity, we should
resort to untruth and silly pedantry. There never has
been a great and distinguished Commander of contracted
mind, but very numerous are the instances of men who,
after serving with the greatest distinction in inferior
positions, remained below mediocrity in the highest, from
insufficiency of intellectual capacity. That even amongst
those holding the post of Commander-in-Chief there may
be a difference according to the degree of their plenitude
of power is a matter of course.
46. SCIENCE MUST BECOME ART.
Now we have yet to consider one condition which is
more necessary for the knowledge of the conduct of War
than for any other, which is, that it must pass completely
into the mind and almost completely cease to be something
objective. In almost all other arts and occupations
of life the active agent can make use of truths which he
has only learnt once, and in the spirit and sense of which
he no longer lives, and which he extracts from dusty
books. Even truths which he has in hand and uses daily
may continue something external to himself, If the
architect takes up a pen to settle the strength of a pier
by a complicated calculation, the truth found as a result
is no emanation from his own mind. He had first to
find the data with labour, and then to submit these to an
operation of the mind, the rule for which he did not
discover, the necessity of which he is perhaps at the
moment only partly conscious of, but which he applies,
for the most part, as if by mechanical dexterity. But
it is never so in War. The moral reaction, the ever-
changeful form of things, makes it necessary for the chief
actor to carry in himself the whole mental apparatus
of his knowledge, that anywhere and at every pulse-beat
he may be capable of giving the requisite decision from
himself. Knowledge must, by this complete assimilation
with his own mind and life, be converted into real power.
This is the reason why everything seems so easy with
men distinguished in War, and why everything is ascribed
to natural talent. We say natural talent, in order thereby
to distinguish it from that which is formed and matured
by observation and study.
We think that by these reflections we have explained
the problem of a theory of the conduct of War; and pointed
out the way to its solution.
Of the two fields into which we have divided the conduct
of War, tactics and strategy, the theory of the latter
contains unquestionably, as before observed, the greatest
difficulties, because the first is almost limited to a
circumscribed
field of objects, but the latter, in the direction of
objects leading directly to peace, opens to itself an
unlimited field of possibilities. Since for the most part
the Commander-in-Chief has only to keep these objects
steadily in view, therefore the part of strategy in which
he moves is also that which is particularly subject to this
difficulty.
Theory, therefore, especially where it comprehends
the highest services, will stop much sooner in strategy
than in tactics at the simple consideration of things, and
content itself to assist the Commander to that insight
into things which, blended with his whole thought,
makes his course easier and surer, never forces him into
opposition with himself in order to obey an objective
truth.
CHAPTER III. ART OR SCIENCE OF WAR
1.--USAGE STILL UNSETTLED
(POWER AND KNOWLEDGE. SCIENCE WHEN MERE KNOWING;
ART, WHEN DOING, IS THE OBJECT.)
THE choice between these terms seems to be still unsettled,
and no one seems to know rightly on what grounds
it should be decided, and yet the thing is simple. We
have already said elsewhere that "knowing" is something
different from "doing." The two are so different that they
should not easily be mistaken the one for the other. The
"doing" cannot properly stand in any book, and therefore
also Art should never be the title of a book. But because
we have once accustomed ourselves to combine in conception,
under the name of theory of Art, or simply Art,
the branches of knowledge (which may be separately
pure sciences) necessary for the practice of an Art,
therefore it is consistent to continue this ground of
distinction, and to call everything Art when the object
is to carry out the "doing" (being able), as for example,
Art of building; Science, when merely knowledge is the
object; as Science of mathematics, of astronomy. That
in every Art certain complete sciences may be included is
intelligible of itself, and should not perplex us. But still
it is worth observing that there is also no science without
a mixture of Art. In mathematics, for instance, the use
of figures and of algebra is an Art, but that is only one
amongst many instances. The reason is, that however
plain and palpable the difference is between knowledge
and power in the composite results of human knowledge,
yet it is difficult to trace out their line of separation in
man himself.
2. DIFFICULTY OF SEPARATING PERCEPTION FROM JUDGMENT.
(ART OF WAR.)
All thinking is indeed Art. Where the logician draws
the line, where the premises stop which are the result
of cognition--where judgment begins, there Art begins.
But more than this even the perception of the mind is
judgment again, and consequently Art; and at last,
even the perception by the senses as well. In a word,
if it is impossible to imagine a human being possessing
merely the faculty of cognition, devoid of judgment or
the reverse, so also Art and Science can never be
completely separated from each other. The more these
subtle elements of light embody themselves in the outward
forms of the world, so much the more separate
appear their domains; and now once more, where the
object is creation and production, there is the province
of Art; where the object is investigation and knowledge
Science holds sway.--After all this it results of itself that
it is more fitting to say Art of War than Science of War.
So much for this, because we cannot do without these
conceptions. But now we come forward with the assertion
that War is neither an Art nor a Science in the real
signification, and that it is just the setting out from that
starting-point of ideas which has led to a wrong direction
being taken, which has caused War to be put on a par
with other arts and sciences, and has led to a number of
erroneous analogies.
This has indeed been felt before now, and on that it was
maintained that
War is a handicraft; but there was more lost than gained by that,
for a
handicraft is only an inferior art, and as such is also subject
to definite and rigid laws. In reality the Art of War did
go on for some time in the spirit of a handicraft--we
allude to the times of the Condottieri--but then it received
that direction, not from intrinsic but from external
causes; and military history shows how little it was at
that time in accordance with the nature of the thing.
3. WAR IS PART OF THE INTERCOURSE OF THE HUMAN
RACE.
We say therefore War belongs not to the province of
Arts and Sciences, but to the province of social life. It
is a conflict of great interests which is settled by bloodshed,
and only in that is it different from others. It
would be better, instead of comparing it with any Art, to
liken it to business competition, which is also a conflict of
human interests and activities; and it is still more like
State policy, which again, on its part, may be looked upon
as a kind of business competition on a great scale. Besides,
State policy is the womb in which War is developed, in
which its outlines lie hidden in a rudimentary state, like
the qualities of living creatures in their germs.[*]
[*] The analogy has become much closer since Clausewitz's time.
Now
that the first business of the State is regarded as the
development of
facilities for trade, War between great nations is only a
question of
time. No Hague Conferences can avert it--EDITOR.
4. DIFFERENCE.
The essential difference consists in this, that War is no
activity of the will, which exerts itself upon inanimate
matter like the mechanical Arts; or upon a living but
still passive and yielding subject, like the human mind
and the human feelings in the ideal Arts, but against a
living and reacting force. How little the categories
of Arts and Sciences are applicable to such an activity
strikes us at once; and we can understand at the same
time how that constant seeking and striving after laws
like those which may be developed out of the dead
material world could not but lead to constant errors.
And yet it is just the mechanical Arts that some people
would imitate in the Art of War. The imitation of the
ideal Arts was quite out of the question, because these
themselves dispense too much with laws and rules, and
those hitherto tried, always acknowledged as insufficient
and one-sided, are perpetually undermined and washed
away by the current of opinions, feelings, and customs.
Whether such a conflict of the living, as takes place
and is settled in War, is subject to general laws, and
whether these are capable of indicating a useful line of
action, will be partly investigated in this book; but so
much is evident in itself, that this, like every other
subject which does not surpass our powers of understanding,
may be lighted up, and be made more or less
plain in its inner relations by an inquiring mind, and
that alone is sufficient to realise the idea of a THEORY.
CHAPTER IV. METHODICISM
IN order to explain ourselves clearly as to the conception
of method, and method of action, which play such an important
part in War, we must be allowed to cast a hasty
glance at the logical hierarchy through which, as through
regularly constituted official functionaries, the world
of action is governed.
LAW, in the widest sense strictly applying to perception
as well as action, has plainly something subjective and
arbitrary in its literal meaning, and expresses just
that on which we and those things external to us are
dependent. As a subject of cognition, LAW is the relation
of things and their effects to one another; as a subject
of the will, it is a motive of action, and is then equivalent
to COMMAND or PROHIBITION.
PRINCIPLE is likewise such a law for action, except that
it has not the formal definite meaning, but is only the
spirit and sense of law in order to leave the judgment
more freedom of application when the diversity of the
real world cannot be laid hold of under the definite form
of a law. As the judgment must of itself suggest the
cases in which the principle is not applicable, the latter
therefore becomes in that way a real aid or guiding star
for the person acting.
Principle is OBJECTIVE when it is the result of objective
truth, and consequently of equal value for all men;
it is SUBJECTIVE, and then generally called MAXIM if there
are subjective relations in it, and if it therefore has a
certain value only for the person himself who makes it.
RULE is frequently taken in the sense of LAW, and then
means the same as Principle, for we say "no rule without
exceptions," but we do not say "no law without exceptions,"
a sign that with RULE we retain to ourselves
more freedom of application.
In another meaning RULE is the means used of discerning
a recondite truth in a particular sign lying close at hand,
in order to attach to this particular sign the law of action
directed upon the whole truth. Of this kind are all the
rules of games of play, all abridged processes in mathematics,
&c.
DIRECTIONS and INSTRUCTIONS are determinations of action
which have an influence upon a number of minor circumstances
too numerous and unimportant for general
laws.
Lastly, METHOD, MODE OF ACTING, is an always recurring
proceeding selected out of several possible ones; and
METHODICISM (METHODISMUS) is that which is determined
by methods instead of by general principles or particular
prescriptions. By this the cases which are placed under
such methods must necessarily be supposed alike in their
essential parts. As they cannot all be this, then the
point is that at least as many as possible should be; in
other words, that Method should be calculated on the most
probable cases. Methodicism is therefore not founded
on determined particular premises, but on the average
probability of cases one with another; and its ultimate
tendency is to set up an average truth, the constant and
uniform, application of which soon acquires something
of the nature of a mechanical appliance, which in the end
does that which is right almost unwittingly.
The conception of law in relation to perception is
not necessary for the conduct of War, because the complex
phenomena of War are not so regular, and the regular are
not so complex, that we should gain anything more by
this conception than by the simple truth. And where
a simple conception and language is sufficient, to resort
to the complex becomes affected and pedantic. The
conception of law in relation to action cannot be used in
the theory of the conduct of War, because owing to the
variableness and diversity of the phenomena there is
in it no determination of such a general nature as to
deserve the name of law.
But principles, rules, prescriptions, and methods are
conceptions indispensable to a theory of the conduct of
War, in so far as that theory leads to positive doctrines,
because in doctrines the truth can only crystallise itself
in such forms.
As tactics is the branch of the conduct of War in which
theory can attain the nearest to positive doctrine, therefore
these conceptions will appear in it most frequently.
Not to use cavalry against unbroken infantry except
in some case of special emergency, only to use firearms
within effective range in the combat, to spare the forces
as much as possible for the final struggle--these are
tactical principles. None of them can be applied absolutely in
every case,
but they must always be present to
the mind of the Chief, in order that the benefit of the truth
contained in them may not be lost in cases where that
truth can be of advantage.
If from the unusual cooking by an enemy's camp his
movement is inferred, if the intentional exposure of troops
in a combat indicates a false attack, then this way of
discerning the truth is called rule, because from a single
visible circumstance that conclusion is drawn which
corresponds with the same.
If it is a rule to attack the enemy with renewed vigour,
as soon as he begins to limber up his artillery in the combat,
then on this particular fact depends a course of action
which is aimed at the general situation of the enemy as
inferred from the above fact, namely, that he is about
to give up the fight, that he is commencing to draw off
his troops, and is neither capable of making a serious
stand while thus drawing off nor of making his retreat
gradually in good order.
REGULATIONS and METHODS bring preparatory theories
into the conduct of War, in so far as disciplined troops
are inoculated with them as active principles. The whole
body of instructions for formations, drill, and field
service are regulations and methods: in the drill
instructions the first predominate, in the field service
instructions the latter. To these things the real conduct
of War attaches itself; it takes them over, therefore, as
given modes of proceeding, and as such they must appear
in the theory of the conduct of War.
But for those activities retaining freedom in the employment
of these forces there cannot be regulations, that is,
definite instructions, because they would do away with
freedom of action. Methods, on the other hand, as a
general way of executing duties as they arise, calculated,
as we have said, on an average of probability, or as a
dominating influence of principles and rules carried through
to application, may certainly appear in the theory of
the conduct of War, provided only they are not represented
as something different from what they are,
not as the absolute and necessary modes of action
(systems), but as the best of general forms which may
be used as shorter ways in place of a particular disposition
for the occasion, at discretion.
But the frequent application of methods will be seen
to be most essential and unavoidable in the conduct of
War, if we reflect how much action proceeds on mere
conjecture, or in complete uncertainty, because one side
is prevented from learning all the circumstances which
influence the dispositions of the other, or because, even
if these circumstances which influence the decisions of
the one were really known, there is not, owing to their
extent and the dispositions they would entail, sufficient
time for the other to carry out all necessary counteracting
measures--that therefore measures in War must always
be calculated on a certain number of possibilities; if we
reflect how numberless are the trifling things belonging
to any single event, and which therefore should be taken
into account along with it, and that therefore there is no
other means to suppose the one counteracted by the other,
and to base our arrangements only upon what is of a
general nature and probable; if we reflect lastly that,
owing to the increasing number of officers as we descend
the scale of rank, less must be left to the true discernment
and ripe judgment of individuals the lower the sphere of
action, and that when we reach those ranks where we
can look for no other notions but those which the regulations
of the service and experience afford, we must help
them with the methodic forms bordering on those regulations.
This will serve both as a support to their judgment
and a barrier against those extravagant and erroneous
views which are so especially to be dreaded in a sphere
where experience is so costly.
Besides this absolute need of method in action, we must
also acknowledge that it has a positive advantage, which
is that, through the constant repetition of a formal exercise,
a readiness, precision, and firmness is attained in
the movement of troops which diminishes the natural
friction, and makes the machine move easier.
Method will therefore be the more generally used,
become the more indispensable, the farther down the scale
of rank the position of the active agent; and on the other
hand, its use will diminish upwards, until in the highest
position it quite disappears. For this reason it is more
in its place in tactics than in strategy.
War in its highest aspects consists not of an infinite
number of little events, the diversities in which compensate
each other, and which therefore by a better or worse
method are better or worse governed, but of separate
great decisive events which must be dealt with separately.
It is not like a field of stalks, which, without any regard to
the particular form of each stalk, will be mowed better or
worse, according as the mowing instrument is good or
bad, but rather as a group of large trees, to which the axe
must be laid with judgment, according to the particular
form and inclination of each separate trunk.
How high up in military activity the admissibility of
method in action reaches naturally determines itself, not
according to actual rank, but according to things; and
it affects the highest positions in a less degree, only
because these positions have the most comprehensive
subjects of activity. A constant order of battle, a
constant formation of advance guards and outposts,
are methods by which a General ties not only his
subordinates' hands, but also his own in certain cases.
Certainly they may have been devised by himself, and
may be applied by him according to circumstances, but
they may also be a subject of theory, in so far as they
are based on the general properties of troops and weapons.
On the other hand, any method by which definite plans
for wars or campaigns are to be given out all ready made
as if from a machine are absolutely worthless.
As long as there exists no theory which can be sustained,
that is, no enlightened treatise on the conduct of War,
method in action cannot but encroach beyond its proper
limits in high places, for men employed in these spheres
of activity have not always had the opportunity of
educating themselves, through study and through contact
with the higher interests. In the impracticable and
inconsistent disquisitions of theorists and critics they
cannot find their way, their sound common sense rejects
them, and as they bring with them no knowledge but
that derived from experience, therefore in those cases
which admit of, and require, a free individual treatment
they readily make use of the means which experience
gives them--that is, an imitation of the particular methods
practised by great Generals, by which a method of
action then arises of itself. If we see Frederick the
Great's Generals always making their appearance in the
so-called oblique order of battle, the Generals of the French
Revolution always using turning movements with a long,
extended line of battle, and Buonaparte's lieutenants
rushing to the attack with the bloody energy of concentrated
masses, then we recognise in the recurrence of the
mode of proceeding evidently an adopted method, and
see therefore that method of action can reach up to regions
bordering on the highest. Should an improved theory
facilitate the study of the conduct of War, form the mind
and judgment of men who are rising to the highest commands,
then also method in action will no longer reach
so far, and so much of it as is to be considered indispensable
will then at
least be formed from theory itself,
and not take place out of mere imitation. However
pre-eminently a great Commander does things, there is
always something subjective in the way he does them;
and if he has a certain manner, a large share of his
individuality is contained in it which does not always accord
with the individuality of the person who copies his manner.
At the same time, it would neither be possible nor right
to banish subjective methodicism or manner completely
from the conduct of War: it is rather to be regarded as a
manifestation of that influence which the general character
of a War has upon its separate events, and to which
satisfaction can only be done in that way if theory is not
able to foresee this general character and include it in
its considerations. What is more natural than that the
War of the French Revolution had its own way of doing
things? and what theory could ever have included that
peculiar method? The evil is only that such a manner
originating in a special case easily outlives itself,
becausecontinues
whilst circumstances imperceptibly change.
This is what theory should prevent by lucid and rational
criticism. When in the year 1806 the Prussian Generals,
Prince Louis at Saalfeld, Tauentzien on the Dornberg near
Jena, Grawert before and Ruechel behind Kappellendorf,
all threw themselves into the open jaws of destruction
in the oblique order of Frederick the Great, and
managed to ruin Hohenlohe's Army in a way that no
Army was ever ruined, even on the field of battle, all
this was done through a manner which had outlived its
day, together with the most downright stupidity to which
methodicism ever led.
CHAPTER V. CRITICISM
THE influence of theoretical principles upon real life is
produced more through criticism than through doctrine,
for as criticism is an application of abstract truth to real
events, therefore it not only brings truth of this description
nearer to life, but also accustoms the understanding
more to such truths by the constant repetition of their
application. We therefore think it necessary to fix the
point of view for criticism next to that for theory.
From the simple narration of an historical occurrence
which places events in chronological order, or at most
only touches on their more immediate causes, we separate
the CRITICAL.
In this CRITICAL three different operations of the mind
may be observed.
First, the historical investigation and determining of
doubtful facts. This is properly historical research, and
has nothing in common with theory.
Secondly, the tracing of effects to causes. This is the
REAL CRITICAL INQUIRY; it is indispensable to theory, for
everything which in theory is to be established, supported,
or even merely explained, by experience can only be settled
in this way.
Thirdly, the testing of the means employed. This is
criticism, properly speaking, in which praise and censure
is contained. This is where theory helps history, or
rather, the teaching to be derived from it.
In these two last strictly critical parts of historical
study, all depends on tracing things to their primary
elements, that is to say, up to undoubted truths, and not,
as is so often done, resting half-way, that is, on some
arbitrary assumption or supposition.
As respects the tracing of effect to cause, that is often
attended with the insuperable difficulty that the real
causes are not known. In none of the relations of life
does this so frequently happen as in War, where events
are seldom fully known, and still less motives, as the latter
have been, perhaps purposely, concealed by the chief
actor, or have been of such a transient and accidental
character that they have been lost for history. For this
reason critical narration must generally proceed hand in
hand with historical investigation, and still such a want
of connection between cause and effect will often present
itself, that it does not seem justifiable to consider effects
as the necessary results of known causes. Here, therefore,must
occur, that
is, historical results which cannot be made use of for teaching.
All that
theory can demand is that the investigation should be rigidly
conducted
up to that point, and there leave off without
drawing conclusions. A real evil springs up only if the
known is made perforce to suffice as an explanation of
effects, and thus a false importance is ascribed to it.
Besides this difficulty, critical inquiry also meets with
another great and intrinsic one, which is that the progress
of events in War seldom proceeds from one simple cause,
but from several in common, and that it therefore is not
sufficient to follow up a series of events to their origin
in a candid and impartial spirit, but that it is then also
necessary to apportion to each contributing cause its
due weight. This leads, therefore, to a closer investigation
of their nature, and thus a critical investigation
may lead into what is the proper field of theory.
The critical CONSIDERATION, that is, the testing of the
means, leads to the question, Which are the effects
peculiar to the means applied, and whether these effects
were comprehended in the plans of the person directing?
The effects peculiar to the means lead to the investigation of
their nature,
and thus again into the field of theory.
We have already seen that in criticism all depends
upon attaining to positive truth; therefore, that we must
not stop at arbitrary propositions which are not allowed
by others, and to which other perhaps equally arbitrary
assertions may again be opposed, so that there is no end
to pros and cons; the whole is without result, and
therefore without instruction.
We have seen that both the search for causes and the
examination of means lead into the field of theory;
that is, into the field of universal truth, which does not
proceed solely from the case immediately under examination.
If there is a theory which can be used, then the
critical consideration will appeal to the proofs there
afforded, and the examination may there stop. But
where no such theoretical truth is to be found, the inquiry
must be pushed up to the original elements. If this
necessity occurs often, it must lead the historian (according
to a common expression) into a labyrinth of details.
He then has his hands full, and it is impossible for him to
stop to give the requisite attention everywhere; the consequence
is, that in order to set bounds to his investigation,
he adopts some arbitrary assumptions which, if
they do not appear so to him, do so to others, as they are
not evident in themselves or capable of proof.
A sound theory is therefore an essential foundation
for criticism, and it is impossible for it, without the
assistance of a sensible theory, to attain to that point at
which it commences chiefly to be instructive, that is,
where it becomes demonstration, both convincing and
sans re'plique.
But it would be a visionary hope to believe in the possibility
of a theory applicable to every abstract truth,
leaving nothing for criticism to do but to place the case
under its appropriate law: it would be ridiculous pedantry
to lay down as a rule for criticism that it must always
halt and turn round on reaching the boundaries of sacred
theory. The same spirit of analytical inquiry which
is the origin of theory must also guide the critic in his
work; and it can and must therefore happen that he
strays beyond the boundaries of the province of theory
and elucidates those points with which he is more particularly
concerned. It is more likely, on the contrary,
that criticism would completely fail in its object if it
degenerated into a mechanical application of theory.
All positive results of theoretical inquiry, all principles,
rules, and methods, are the more wanting in generality
and positive truth the more they become positive doctrine.
They exist to offer themselves for use as required, and
it must always be left for judgment to decide whether
they are suitable or not. Such results of theory must
never be used in criticism as rules or norms for a standard,
but in the same way as the person acting should use them,
that is, merely as aids to judgment. If it is an acknowledged
principle in tactics that in the usual order of battle
cavalry should be placed behind infantry, not in line with
it, still it would be folly on this account to condemn
every deviation from this principle. Criticism must
investigate the grounds of the deviation, and it is only in
case these are insufficient that it has a right to appeal to
principles laid down in theory. If it is further established
in theory that a divided attack diminishes the probability
of success, still it would be just as unreasonable, whenever
there is a divided attack and an unsuccessful issue,
to regard the latter as the result of the former, without
further investigation into the connection between the
two, as where a divided attack is successful to infer from
it the fallacy of that theoretical principle. The spirit
of investigation which belongs to criticism cannot allow
either. Criticism therefore supports itself chiefly on
the results of the analytical investigation of theory;
what has been made out and determined by theory does
not require to be demonstrated over again by criticism,
and it is so determined by theory that criticism may find
it ready demonstrated.
This office of criticism, of examining the effect produced
by certain causes, and whether a means applied has
answered its object, will be easy enough if cause and
effect, means and end, are all near together.
If an Army is surprised, and therefore cannot make a
regular and intelligent use of its powers and resources, then
the effect of the surprise is not doubtful.--If theory
has determined that in a battle the convergent form of
attack is calculated to produce greater but less certain
results, then the question is whether he who employs
that convergent form had in view chiefly that greatness
of result as his object; if so, the proper means were chosen.
But if by this form he intended to make the result more
certain, and that expectation was founded not on some
exceptional circumstances (in this case), but on the general
nature of the convergent form, as has happened a hundred
times, then he mistook the nature of the means and
committed an error.
Here the work of military investigation and criticism
is easy, and it will always be so when confined to the
immediate effects and objects. This can be done quite
at option, if we abstract the connection of the parts
with the whole, and only look at things in that relation.
But in War, as generally in the world, there is a connection
between everything which belongs to a whole; and
therefore, however small a cause may be in itself, its
effects reach to the end of the act of warfare, and modify
or influence the final result in some degree, let that degree
be ever so small. In the same manner every means
must be felt up to the ultimate object.
We can therefore trace the effects of a cause as long
as events are worth noticing, and in the same way we
must not stop at the testing of a means for the immediate
object, but test also this object as a means to a higher
one, and thus ascend the series of facts in succession,
until we come to one so absolutely necessary in its nature
as to require no examination or proof. In many cases,
particularly in what concerns great and decisive measures,
the investigation must be carried to the final aim, to that
which leads immediately to peace.
It is evident that in thus ascending, at every new station
which we reach a new point of view for the judgment
is attained, so that the same means which appeared
advisable at one station, when looked at from the next
above it may have to be rejected.
The search for the causes of events and the comparison
of means with ends must always go hand in hand in the
critical review of an act, for the investigation of causes
leads us first to the discovery of those things which are
worth examining.
This following of the clue up and down is attended
with considerable difficulty, for the farther from an event
the cause lies which we are looking for, the greater must
be the number of other causes which must at the same
time be kept in view and allowed for in reference to the
share which they have in the course of events, and then
eliminated, because the higher the importance of a fact
the greater will be the number of separate forces and
circumstances by which it is conditioned. If we have
unravelled the causes of a battle being lost, we have
certainly also ascertained a part of the causes of the
consequences which this defeat has upon the whole War,
but only a part, because the effects of other causes, more
or less according to circumstances, will flow into the final
result.
The same multiplicity of circumstances is presented
also in the examination of the means the higher our point
of view, for the higher the object is situated, the greater
must be the number of means employed to reach it.
The ultimate object of the War is the object aimed at
by all the Armies simultaneously, and it is therefore
necessary that the consideration should embrace all that
each has done or could have done.
It is obvious that this may sometimes lead to a wide
field of inquiry, in which it is easy to wander and lose
the way, and in which this difficulty prevails--that a
number of assumptions or suppositions must be made
about a variety of things which do not actually appear,
but which in all probability did take place, and therefore
cannot possibly be left out of consideration.
When Buonaparte, in 1797,[*] at the head of the Army
of Italy, advanced from the Tagliamento against the
Archduke Charles, he did so with a view to force that
General to a decisive action before the reinforcements
expected from the Rhine had reached him. If we look,
only at the immediate object, the means were well chosen
and justified by the result, for the Archduke was so inferior
in numbers that he only made a show of resistance on the
Tagliamento, and when he saw his adversary so strong
and resolute, yielded ground, and left open the passages,
of the Norican Alps. Now to what use could Buonaparte
turn this fortunate event? To penetrate into the heart
of the Austrian empire itself, to facilitate the advance of
the Rhine Armies under Moreau and Hoche, and open
communication with them? This was the view taken
by Buonaparte, and from this point of view he was right.
But now, if criticism places itself at a higher point of
view--namely, that of the French Directory, which body
could see and know that the Armies on the Rhine could
not commence the campaign for six weeks, then the
advance of Buonaparte over the Norican Alps can only
be regarded as an extremely hazardous measure; for if
the Austrians had drawn largely on their Rhine Armies
to reinforce their Army in Styria, so as to enable the
Archduke to fall upon the Army of Italy, not only would
that Army have been routed, but the whole campaign
lost. This consideration, which attracted the serious
attention of Buonaparte at Villach, no doubt induced him
to sign the armistice of Leoben with so much readiness.
[*] Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edition, vol. iv. p. 276 et
seq.
If criticism takes a still higher position, and if it knows
that the Austrians had no reserves between the Army
of the Archduke Charles and Vienna, then we see that
Vienna became threatened by the advance of the Army
of Italy.
Supposing that Buonaparte knew that the capital was
thus uncovered, and knew that he still retained the same
superiority in numbers over the Archduke as he had in
Styria, then his advance against the heart of the Austrian
States was no longer without purpose, and its value
depended on the value which the Austrians might place
on preserving their capital. If that was so great that,
rather than lose it, they would accept the conditions of
peace which Buonaparte was ready to offer them, it
became an object of the first importance to threaten
Vienna. If Buonaparte had any reason to know this,
then criticism may stop there, but if this point was only
problematical, then criticism must take a still higher
position, and ask what would have followed if the Austrians
had resolved to abandon Vienna and retire farther
into the vast dominions still left to them. But it is easy
to see that this question cannot be answered without
bringing into the consideration the probable movements
of the Rhine Armies on both sides. Through the decided
superiority of numbers on the side of the French--
130,000 to 80,000--there could be little doubt of the
result; but then next arises the question, What use would
the Directory make of a victory; whether they would
follow up their success to the opposite frontiers of the
Austrian monarchy, therefore to the complete breaking
up or overthrow of that power, or whether they would be
satisfied with the conquest of a considerable portion to
serve as a security for peace? The probable result in
each case must be estimated, in order to come to a conclusion
as to the probable determination of the Directory.
Supposing the result of these considerations to be that the
French forces were much too weak for the complete
subjugation of the Austrian monarchy, so that the
attempt might completely reverse the respective positions
of the contending Armies, and that even the conquest
and occupation of a considerable district of country
would place the French Army in strategic relations to which
they were not equal, then that result must naturally
influence the estimate of the position of the Army of
Italy, and compel it to lower its expectations. And this,
it was no doubt which influenced Buonaparte, although
fully aware of the helpless condition of the Archduke,
still to sign the peace of Campo Formio, which imposed
no greater sacrifices on the Austrians than the loss of
provinces which, even if the campaign took the most
favourable turn for them, they could not have reconquered.
But the French could not have reckoned on
even the moderate treaty of Campo Formio, and therefore
it could not have been their object in making their bold
advance if two considerations had not presented themselves
to their view, the first of which consisted in the question,
what degree of value the Austrians would attach to
each of the above-mentioned results; whether, notwithstanding the
probability of a satisfactory result in either
of these cases, would it be worth while to make the
sacrifices inseparable from a continuance of the War,
when they could be spared those sacrifices by a peace
on terms not too humiliating? The second consideration
is the question whether the Austrian Government, instead
of seriously weighing the possible results of a resistance
pushed to extremities, would not prove completely disheartened
by the impression of their present reverses.
The consideration which forms the subject of the first
is no idle piece of subtle argument, but a consideration of
such decidedly practical importance that it comes up
whenever the plan of pushing War to the utmost extremity
is mooted, and by its weight in most cases restrains the
execution of such plans.
The second consideration is of equal importance, for
we do not make War with an abstraction but with a
reality, which we must always keep in view, and we may
be sure that it was not overlooked by the bold Buonaparte
--that is, that he was keenly alive to the terror
which the appearance of his sword inspired. It was
reliance on that which led him to Moscow. There it
led him into a scrape. The terror of him had been
weakened by the gigantic struggles in which he had been
engaged; in the year 1797 it was still fresh, and the
secret of a resistance pushed to extremities had not been
discovered; nevertheless even in 1797 his boldness
might have led to a negative result if, as already said,
he had not with a sort of presentiment avoided it by
signing the moderate peace of Campo Formio.
We must now bring these considerations to a close--
they will suffice to show the wide sphere, the diversity
and embarrassing nature of the subjects embraced in a
critical examination carried to the fullest extent, that is,
to those measures of a great and decisive class which
must necessarily be included. It follows from them that
besides a theoretical acquaintance with the subject,
natural talent must also have a great influence on the
value of critical examinations, for it rests chiefly with the
latter to throw the requisite light on the interrelations
of things, and to distinguish from amongst the endless
connections of events those which are really essential.
But talent is also called into requisition in another
way. Critical examination is not merely the appreciation
of those means which have been actually employed,
but also of all possible means, which therefore must be
suggested in the first place--that is, must be discovered;
and the use of any particular means is not fairly open to
censure until a better is pointed out. Now, however
small the number of possible combinations may be in
most cases, still it must be admitted that to point out
those which have not been used is not a mere analysis
of actual things, but a spontaneous creation which
cannot be prescribed, and depends on the fertility of
genius.
We are far from seeing a field for great genius in a case
which admits only of the application of a few simple
combinations, and we think it exceedingly ridiculous
to hold up, as is often done, the turning of a position as
an invention showing the highest genius; still nevertheless
this creative self-activity on the part of the critic is
necessary, and it is one of the points which essentially
determine the value of critical examination.
When Buonaparte on 30th July, 1796,[*] determined
to raise the siege of Mantua, in order to march with his
whole force against the enemy, advancing in separate
columns to the relief of the place, and to beat them in
detail, this appeared the surest way to the attainment
of brilliant victories. These victories actually followed,
and were afterwards again repeated on a still more brilliant
scale on the attempt to relieve the fortress being again
renewed. We hear only one opinion on these achievements,
that of unmixed admiration.
[*] Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edition, vol. iv. p. 107 et
seq.
At the same time, Buonaparte could not have adopted
this course on the 30th July without quite giving up
the idea of the siege of Mantua, because it was impossible
to save the siege train, and it could not be replaced by
another in this campaign. In fact, the siege was converted
into a blockade, and the town, which if the siege
had continued must have very shortly fallen, held out
for six months in spite of Buonaparte's victories in the
open field.
Criticism has generally regarded this as an evil that
was unavoidable, because critics have not been able to
suggest any better course. Resistance to a relieving
Army within lines of circumvallation had fallen into
such disrepute and contempt that it appears to have
entirely escaped consideration as a means. And yet in
the reign of Louis XIV. that measure was so often used
with success that we can only attribute to the force of
fashion the fact that a hundred years later it never
occurred to any one even to propose such a measure.
If the practicability of such a plan had ever been entertained
for a moment, a closer consideration of circumstances
would have shown that 40,000 of the best infantry
in the world under Buonaparte, behind strong lines of
circumvallation round Mantua, had so little to fear from
the 50,000 men coming to the relief under Wurmser, that
it was very unlikely that any attempt even would be
made upon their lines. We shall not seek here to establish
this point, but we believe enough has been said to show
that this means was one which had a right to a share of
consideration. Whether Buonaparte himself ever thought
of such a plan we leave undecided; neither in his memoirs
nor in other sources is there any trace to be found of his
having done so; in no critical works has it been touched
upon, the measure being one which the mind had lost
sight of. The merit of resuscitating the idea of this
means is not great, for it suggests itself at once to any
one who breaks loose from the trammels of fashion.
Still it is necessary that it should suggest itself for us to
bring it into consideration and compare it with the means
which Buonaparte employed. Whatever may be the
result of the comparison, it is one which should not be
omitted by criticism.
When Buonaparte, in February, 1814,[*] after gaining
the battles at Etoges, Champ-Aubert, and Montmirail,
left Bluecher's Army, and turning upon Schwartzenberg,
beat his troops at Montereau and Mormant, every one
was filled with admiration, because Buonaparte, by thus
throwing his concentrated force first upon one opponent,
then upon another, made a brilliant use of the mistakes
which his adversaries had committed in dividing their
forces. If these brilliant strokes in different directions
failed to save him, it was generally considered to be no
fault of his, at least. No one has yet asked the question,
What would have been the result if, instead of turning
from Bluecher upon Schwartzenberg, he had tried another
blow at Bluecher, and pursued him to the Rhine? We
are convinced that it would have completely changed the
course of the campaign, and that the Army of the Allies,
instead of marching to Paris, would have retired behind
the Rhine. We do not ask others to share our conviction,
but no one who understands the thing will doubt, at the
mere mention of this alternative course, that it is one
which should not be overlooked in criticism.
[*] Compare Hinterlassene Werks, 2nd edition. vol. vii. p. 193 et
seq.
In this case the means of comparison lie much more
on the surface than in the foregoing, but they have
been equally overlooked, because one-sided views have
prevailed, and there has been no freedom of judgment.
From the necessity of pointing out a better means which
might have been used in place of those which are condemned
has arisen the form of criticism almost exclusively
in use, which contents itself with pointing out the
better means without demonstrating in what the superiority
consists. The consequence is that some are not
convinced, that others start up and do the same thing,
and that thus discussion arises which is without any fixed
basis for the argument. Military literature abounds
with matter of this sort.
The demonstration we require is always necessary
when the superiority of the means propounded is not so
evident as to leave no room for doubt, and it consists
in the examination of each of the means on its own
merits, and then of its comparison with the object desired.
When once the thing is traced back to a simple truth,
controversy must cease, or at all events a new result
is obtained, whilst by the other plan the pros and cons
go on for ever consuming each other.
Should we, for example, not rest content with assertion
in the case before mentioned, and wish to prove that the
persistent pursuit of Bluecher would have been more
advantageous than the turning on Schwartzenberg, we
should support the arguments on the following simple
truths:
1. In general it is more advantageous to continue our
blows in one and the same direction, because there is a
loss of time in striking in different directions; and at a
point where the moral power is already shaken by considerable
losses there is the more reason to expect fresh
successes, therefore in that way no part of the preponderance
already gained is left idle.
2. Because Bluecher, although weaker than Schwartzenberg,
was, on account of his enterprising spirit, the more
important adversary; in him, therefore, lay the centre
of attraction which drew the others along in the same
direction.
3. Because the losses which Bluecher had sustained
almost amounted to a defeat, which gave Buonaparte
such a preponderance over him as to make his retreat
to the Rhine almost certain, and at the same time no
reserves of any consequence awaited him there.
4. Because there was no other result which would be
so terrific in its aspects, would appear to the imagination
in such gigantic proportions, an immense advantage in
dealing with a Staff so weak and irresolute as that of
Schwartzenberg notoriously was at this time. What
had happened to the Crown Prince of Wartemberg at
Montereau, and to Count Wittgenstein at Mormant,
Prince Schwartzenberg must have known well enough;
but all the untoward events on Bluecher's distant and
separate line from the Marne to the Rhine would only
reach him by the avalanche of rumour. The desperate
movements which Buonaparte made upon Vitry at the
end of March, to see what the Allies would do if he
threatened to turn them strategically, were evidently
done on the principle of working on their fears; but it
was done under far different circumstances, in consequence
of his defeat at Laon and Arcis, and because
Bluecher, with 100,000 men, was then in communication
with Schwartzenberg.
There are people, no doubt, who will not be convinced
on these arguments, but at all events they cannot
retort by saying, that "whilst Buonaparte threatened
Schwartzenberg's base by advancing to the Rhine,
Schwartzenberg at the same time threatened Buonaparte's
communications with Paris," because we have shown
by the reasons above given that Schwartzenberg would
never have thought of marching on Paris.
With respect to the example quoted by us from the
campaign of 1796, we should say: Buonaparte looked
upon the plan he adopted as the surest means of beating
the Austrians; but admitting that it was so, still the
object to be attained was only an empty victory, which
could have hardly any sensible influence on the fall of
Mantua. The way which we should have chosen would,
in our opinion, have been much more certain to prevent
the relief of Mantua; but even if we place ourselves in
the position of the French General and assume that it
was not so, and look upon the certainty of success to
have been less, the question then amounts to a choice
between a more certain but less useful, and therefore less
important, victory on the one hand, and a somewhat less
probable but far more decisive and important victory,
on the other hand. Presented in this form, boldness
must have declared for the second solution, which is the
reverse of what took place, when the thing was only superficially
viewed. Buonaparte certainly was anything but
deficient in boldness, and we may be sure that he did
not see the whole case and its consequences as fully and
clearly as we can at the present time.
Naturally the critic, in treating of the means, must
often appeal to military history, as experience is of more
value in the Art of War than all philosophical truth. But
this exemplification from history is subject to certain
conditions, of which we shall treat in a special chapter and
unfortunately these conditions are so seldom regarded
that reference to history generally only serves to increase
the confusion of ideas.
We have still a most important subject to consider,
which is, How far criticism in passing judgments on
particular events is permitted, or in duty bound, to make
use of its wider view of things, and therefore also of that
which is shown by results; or when and where it should
leave out of sight these things in order to place itself,
as far as possible, in the exact position of the chief actor?
If criticism dispenses praise or censure, it should seek
to place itself as nearly as possible at the same point of
view as the person acting, that is to say, to collect all he
knew and all the motives on which he acted, and, on the
other hand, to leave out of the consideration all that the
person acting could not or did not know, and above all,
the result. But this is only an object to aim at, which
can never be reached because the state of circumstances
from which an event proceeded can never be placed before
the eye of the critic exactly as it lay before the eye of the
person acting. A number of inferior circumstances,
which must have influenced the result, are completely
lost to sight, and many a subjective motive has never
come to light.
The latter can only be learnt from the memoirs of the
chief actor, or from his intimate friends; and in such things of
this kind
are often treated of in a very
desultory manner, or purpusely misrepresented. Criticism
must, therefore, always forego much which was
present in the minds of those whose acts are criticised.
On the other hand, it is much more difficult to leave out
of sight that which criticism knows in excess. This is
only easy as regards accidental circumstances, that is,
circumstances which have been mixed up, but are in no
way necessarily related. But it is very difficult, and, in
fact, can never be completely done with regard to things
really essential.
Let us take first, the result. If it has not proceeded
from accidental circumstances, it is almost impossible
that the knowledge of it should not have an effect on the
judgment passed on events which have preceded it, for
we see these things in the light of this result, and it is to
a certain extent by it that we first become acquainted
with them and appreciate them. Military history, with
all its events, is a source of instruction for criticism
itself, and it is only natural that criticism should throw
that light on things which it has itself obtained from the
consideration of the whole. If therefore it might wish
in some cases to leave the result out of the consideration,
it would be impossible to do so completely.
But it is not only in relation to the result, that is, with
what takes place at the last, that this embarrassment
arises; the same occurs in relation to preceding events,
therefore with the data which furnished the motives to
action. Criticism has before it, in most cases, more
information on this point than the principal in the transaction.
Now it may seem easy to dismiss from the consideration
everything of this nature, but it is not so easy
as we may think. The knowledge of preceding and
concurrent events is founded not only on certain information,
but on a number of conjectures and suppositions;
indeed, there is hardly any of the information respecting
things not purely accidental which has not been preceded
by suppositions or conjectures destined to take the place
of certain information in case such should never be
supplied. Now is it conceivable that criticism in after
times, which has before it as facts all the preceding and
concurrent circumstances, should not allow itself to be
thereby influenced when it asks itself the question,
What portion of the circumstances, which at the moment
of action were unknown, would it have held to be probable?
We maintain that in this case, as in the case of
the results, and for the same reason, it is impossible to
disregard all these things completely.
If therefore the critic wishes to bestow praise or blame
upon any single act, he can only succeed to a certain
degree in placing himself in the position of the person
whose act he has under review. In many cases he can
do so sufficiently near for any practical purpose, but in
many instances it is the very reverse, and this fact should
never be overlooked.
But it is neither necessary nor desirable that criticism
should completely identify itself with the person acting.
In War, as in all matters of skill, there is a certain natural
aptitude required which is called talent. This may be
great or small. In the first case it may easily be superior
to that of the critic, for what critic can pretend to the
skill of a Frederick or a Buonaparte? Therefore, if
criticism is not to abstain altogether from offering an
opinion where eminent talent is concerned, it must be
allowed to make use of the advantage which its enlarged
horizon affords. Criticism must not, therefore, treat
the solution of a problem by a great General like a sum
in arithmetic; it is only through the results and through
the exact coincidences of events that it can recognise
with admiration how much is due to the exercise of genius,
and that it first learns the essential combination which
the glance of that genius devised.
But for every, even the smallest, act of genius it is
necessary that criticism should take a higher point of
view, so that, having at command many objective grounds
of decision, it may be as little subjective as possible,
and that the critic may not take the limited scope of his
own mind as a standard.
This elevated position of criticism, its praise and blame
pronounced with a full knowledge of all the circumstances,
has in itself nothing which hurts our feelings; it only
does so if the critic pushes himself forward, and speaks
in a tone as if all the wisdom which he has obtained by
an exhaustive examination of the event under consideration
were really his own talent. Palpable as is this
deception, it is one which people may easily fall into
through vanity, and one which is naturally distasteful to
others. It very often happens that although the critic
has no such arrogant pretensions, they are imputed to
him by the reader because he has not expressly disclaimed
them, and then follows immediately a charge of a want of
the power of critical judgment.
If therefore a critic points out an error made by a
Frederick or a Buonaparte, that does not mean that he
who makes the criticism would not have committed the
same error; he may even be ready to grant that had
he been in the place of these great Generals he might
have made much greater mistakes; he merely sees this
error from the chain of events, and he thinks that it
should not have escaped the sagacity of the General.
This is, therefore, an opinion formed through the connection
of events, and therefore through the RESULT. But
there is another quite different effect of the result itself
upon the judgment, that is if it is used quite alone as an
example for or against the soundness of a measure. This
may be called JUDGMENT ACCORDING TO THE RESULT. Such a
judgment appears at first sight inadmissible, and yet it
is not.
When Buonaparte marched to Moscow in 1812, all
depended upon whether the taking of the capital, and the
events which preceded the capture, would force the
Emperor Alexander to make peace, as he had been compelled
to do after the battle of Friedland in 1807, and
the Emperor Francis in 1805 and 1809 after Austerlitz
and Wagram; for if Buonaparte did not obtain a peace
at Moscow, there was no alternative but to return--that
is, there was nothing for him but a strategic defeat.
We shall leave out of the question what he did to get to
Moscow, and whether in his advance he did not miss many
opportunities of bringing the Emperor Alexander to peace;
we shall also exclude all consideration of the disastrous
circumstances which attended his retreat, and which
perhaps had their origin in the general conduct of the
campaign. Still the question remains the same, for
however much more brilliant the course of the campaign
up to Moscow might have been, still there was always
an uncertainty whether the Emperor Alexander would be
intimidated into making peace; and then, even if a retreat
did not contain in itself the seeds of such disasters as did
in fact occur, still it could never be anything else than a
great strategic defeat. If the Emperor Alexander agreed
to a peace which was disadvantageous to him, the campaign
of 1812 would have ranked with those of Austerlitz,
Friedland, and Wagram. But these campaigns also, if
they had not led to peace, would in all probability have
ended in similar catastrophes. Whatever, therefore, of
genius, skill, and energy the Conqueror of the World
applied to the task, this last question addressed to fate[*]
remained always the same. Shall we then discard the
campaigns of 1805, 1807, 1809, and say on account of the
campaign of 1812 that they were acts of imprudence;
that the results were against the nature of things, and that
in 1812 strategic justice at last found vent for itself
in opposition to blind chance? That would be an
unwarrantable conclusion, a most arbitrary judgment,
a case only half proved, because no human, eye can trace
the thread of the necessary connection of events up to
the determination of the conquered Princes.
[*] "Frage an der Schicksal,"a familiar quotation from
Schiller.--TR.
Still less can we say the campaign of 1812 merited the
same success as the others, and that the reason why it
turned out otherwise lies in something unnatural, for
we cannot regard the firmness of Alexander as something
unpredictable.
What can be more natural than to say that in the
years 1805, 1807, 1809, Buonaparte judged his opponents
correctly, and that in 1812 he erred in that point? On
the former occasions, therefore, he was right, in the
latter wrong, and in both cases we judge by the RESULT.
All action in War, as we have already said, is directed
on probable, not on certain, results. Whatever is wanting
in certainty must always be left to fate, or chance, call
it which you will. We may demand that what is so left
should be as little as possible, but only in relation to
the particular case--that is, as little as is possible in this
one case, but not that the case in which the least is left
to chance is always to be preferred. That would be an
enormous error, as follows from all our theoretical views.
There are cases in which the greatest daring is the greatest
wisdom.
Now in everything which is left to chance by the chief
actor, his personal merit, and therefore his responsibility
as well, seems to be completely set aside; nevertheless
we cannot suppress an inward feeling of satisfaction
whenever expectation realises itself, and if it disappoints
us our mind is dissatisfied; and more than this of right
and wrong should not be meant by the judgment which
we form from the mere result, or rather that we find there.
Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the satisfaction
which our mind experiences at success, the pain caused
by failure, proceed from a sort of mysterious feeling;
we suppose between that success ascribed to good fortune
and the genius of the chief a fine connecting thread,
invisible to the mind's eye, and the supposition gives
pleasure. What tends to confirm this idea is that our
sympathy increases, becomes more decided, if the successes
and defeats of the principal actor are often repeated.
Thus it becomes intelligible how good luck in War assumes
a much nobler nature than good luck at play. In general,
when a fortunate warrior does not otherwise lessen our
interest in his behalf, we have a pleasure in accompanying
him in his career.
Criticism, therefore, after having weighed all that comes
within the sphere of human reason and conviction, will
let the result speak for that part where the deep mysterious
relations are not disclosed in any visible form,
and will protect this silent sentence of a higher authority
from the noise of crude opinions on the one hand, while
on the other it prevents the gross abuse which might
be made of this last tribunal.
This verdict of the result must therefore always bring
forth that which human sagacity cannot discover; and
it will be chiefly as regards the intellectual powers and
operations that it will be called into requisition, partly
because they can be estimated with the least certainty,
partly because their close connection with the will is
favourable to their exercising over it an important
influence. When fear or bravery precipitates the decision,
there is nothing objective intervening between them
for our consideration, and consequently nothing by which
sagacity and calculation might have met the probable
result.
We must now be allowed to make a few observations
on the instrument of criticism, that is, the language
which it uses, because that is to a certain extent connected
with the action in War; for the critical examination is
nothing more than the deliberation which should precede
action in War. We therefore think it very essential
that the language used in criticism should have the same
character as that which deliberation in War must have,
for otherwise it would cease to be practical, and criticism
could gain no admittance in actual life.
We have said in our observations on the theory of the
conduct of War that it should educate the mind of the
Commander for War, or that its teaching should guide his
education; also that it is not intended to furnish him
with positive doctrines and systems which he can use
like mental appliances. But if the construction of
scientific formulae is never required, or even allowable,
in War to aid the decision on the case presented, if truth
does not appear there in a systematic shape, if it is not
found in an indirect way, but directly by the natural
perception of the mind, then it must be the same also in
a critical review.
It is true as we have seen that, wherever complete
demonstration of the nature of things would be too tedious,
criticism must support itself on those truths which theory
has established on the point. But, just as in War the
actor obeys these theoretical truths rather because his
mind is imbued with them than because he regards them
as objective inflexible laws, so criticism must also make
use of them, not as an external law or an algebraic formula,
of which fresh proof is not required each time they are
applied, but it must always throw a light on this proof
itself, leaving only to theory the more minute and circumstantial
proof. Thus it avoids a mysterious, unintelligible
phraseology, and makes its progress in plain language,
that is, with a clear and always visible chain of ideas.
Certainly this cannot always be completely attained,
but it must always be the aim in critical expositions.
Such expositions must use complicated forms of science
as sparingly as possible, and never resort to the construction
of scientific aids as of a truth apparatus of its own,
but always be guided by the natural and unbiassed
impressions of the mind.
But this pious endeavour, if we may use the expression,
has unfortunately seldom hitherto presided over critical
examinations: the most of them have rather been
emanations of a species of vanity--a wish to make a
display of ideas.
The first evil which we constantly stumble upon is a
lame, totally inadmissible application of certain one-
sided systems as of a formal code of laws. But it is
never difficult to show the one-sidedness of such systems,
and this only requires to be done once to throw discredit
for ever on critical judgments which are based on them.
We have here to deal with a definite subject, and as the
number of possible systems after all can be but small,
therefore also they are themselves the lesser evil.
Much greater is the evil which lies in the pompous
retinue of technical terms--scientific expressions and
metaphors, which these systems carry in their train, and
which like a rabble-like the baggage of an Army broken
away from its Chief--hang about in all directions. Any
critic who has not adopted a system, either because he has
not found one to please him, or because he has not yet
been able to make himself master of one, will at least
occasionally make use of a piece of one, as one would
use a ruler, to show the blunders committed by a General.
The most of them are incapable of reasoning without
using as a help here and there some shreds of scientific
military theory. The smallest of these fragments,
consisting in mere scientific words and metaphors, are
often nothing more than ornamental flourishes of critical
narration. Now it is in the nature of things that all
technical and scientific expressions which belong to a
system lose their propriety, if they ever had any, as soon
as they are distorted, and used as general axioms, or as
small crystalline talismans, which have more power of
demonstration than simple speech.
Thus it has come to pass that our theoretical and
critical books, instead of being straightforward, intelligible
dissertations, in which the author always knows at least
what he says and the reader what he reads, are brimful
of these technical terms, which form dark points of interference
where
author and reader part company. But
frequently they are something worse, being nothing but
hollow shells without any kernel. The author himself
has no clear perception of what he means, contents himself
with vague ideas, which if expressed in plain language
would be unsatisfactory even to himself.
A third fault in criticism is the MISUSE of HISTORICAL
EXAMPLES, and a display of great reading or learning.
What the history of the Art of War is we have already
said, and we shall further explain our views on examples
and on military history in general in special chapters.
One fact merely touched upon in a very cursory manner
may be used to support the most opposite views, and
three or four such facts of the most heterogeneous description,
brought together out of the most distant lands and
remote times and heaped up, generally distract and
bewilder the judgment and understanding without
demonstrating anything; for when exposed to the light
they turn out to be only trumpery rubbish, made use
of to show off the author's learning.
But what can be gained for practical life by such
obscure, partly false, confused arbitrary conceptions?
So little is gained that theory on account of them has
always been a true antithesis of practice, and frequently
a subject of ridicule to those whose soldierly qualities
in the field are above question.
But it is impossible that this could have been the case,
if theory in simple language, and by natural treatment
of those things which constitute the Art of making War,
had merely sought to establish just so much as admits of
being established; if, avoiding all false pretensions and
irrelevant display of scientific forms and historical
parallels, it had kept close to the subject, and gone hand
in hand with those who must conduct affairs in the field
by their own natural genius.
CHAPTER VI. ON EXAMPLES
EXAMPLES from history make everything clear, and
furnish the best description of proof in the empirical
sciences. This applies with more force to the Art of War
than to any other. General Scharnhorst, whose handbook
is the best ever written on actual War, pronounces
historical examples to be of the first importance, and
makes an admirable use of them himself. Had he survived
the War in which he fell,[*] the fourth part of his
revised treatise on artillery would have given a still
greater proof of the observing and enlightened spirit
in which he sifted matters of experience.
But such use of historical examples is rarely made by
theoretical writers; the way in which they more commonly
make use of them is rather calculated to leave
the mind unsatisfied, as well as to offend the understanding.
We therefore think it important to bring specially
into view the use and abuse of historical examples.
[*] General Scharnhorst died in 1813, of a wound received in the
battle of Bautzen or Grosz Gorchen--EDITOR.
Unquestionably the branches of knowledge which lie
at the foundation of the Art of War come under the
denomination of empirical sciences; for although they
are derived in a great measure from the nature of things,
still we can only learn this very nature itself for the most
part from experience; and besides that, the practical
application is modified by so many circumstances that
the effects can never be completely learnt from the mere
nature of the means.
The effects of gunpowder, that great agent in our
military activity, were only learnt by experience, and up
to this hour experiments are continually in progress in
order to investigate them more fully. That an iron ball
to which powder has given a velocity of 1000 feet in a
second, smashes every living thing which it touches in
its course is intelligible in itself; experience is not
required to tell us that; but in producing this effect how
many hundred circumstances are concerned, some of
which can only be learnt by experience! And the
physical is not the only effect which we have to study,
it is the moral which we are in search of, and that can only
be ascertained by experience; and there is no other way
of learning and appreciating it but by experience. In
the middle ages, when firearms were first invented,
their effect, owing to their rude make, was materially
but trifling compared to what it now is, but their effect
morally was much greater. One must have witnessed
the firmness of one of those masses taught and led by
Buonaparte, under the heaviest and most unintermittent
cannonade, in order to understand what troops, hardened
by long practice in the field of danger, can do, when by
a career of victory they have reached the noble principle
of demanding from themselves their utmost efforts. In
pure conception no one would believe it. On the other
hand, it is well known that there are troops in the service
of European Powers at the present moment who would
easily be dispersed by a few cannon shots.
But no empirical science, consequently also no theory
of the Art of War, can always corroborate its truths by
historical proof; it would also be, in some measure,
difficult to support experience by single facts. If any
means is once found efficacious in War, it is repeated;
one nation copies another, the thing becomes the fashion,
and in this manner it comes into use, supported by experience,
and takes its place in theory, which contents itself
with appealing to experience in general in order to
show its origin, but not as a verification of its truth.
But it is quite otherwise if experience is to be used
in order to overthrow some means in use, to confirm
what is doubtful, or introduce something new; then
particular examples from history must be quoted as
proofs.
Now, if we consider closely the use of historical proofs,
four points of view readily present themselves for the
purpose.
First, they may be used merely as an EXPLANATION of an
idea. In every abstract consideration it is very easy to
be misunderstood, or not to be intelligible at all: when
an author is afraid of this, an exemplification from history
serves to throw the light which is wanted on his idea, and
to ensure his being intelligible to his reader.
Secondly, it may serve as an APPLICATION of an idea,
because by means of an example there is an opportunity
of showing the action of those minor circumstances
which cannot all be comprehended and explained in any
general expression of an idea; for in that consists, indeed,
the difference between theory and experience. Both
these cases belong to examples properly speaking, the
two following belong to historical proofs.
Thirdly, a historical fact may be referred to particularly,
in order to support what one has advanced. This is in
all cases sufficient, if we have ONLY to prove the POSSIBILITY
of a fact or effect.
Lastly, in the fourth place, from the circumstantial
detail of a historical event, and by collecting together
several of them, we may deduce some theory, which
therefore has its true PROOF in this testimony itself.
For the first of these purposes all that is generally
required is a cursory notice of the case, as it is only used
partially. Historical correctness is a secondary consideration;
a case invented might also serve the purpose as
well, only historical ones are always to be preferred,
because they bring the idea which they illustrate nearer
to practical life.
The second use supposes a more circumstantial relation
of events, but historical authenticity is again of secondary
importance, and in respect to this point the same is to be
said as in the first case.
For the third purpose the mere quotation of an undoubted
fact is generally sufficient. If it is asserted
that fortified positions may fulfil their object under
certain conditions, it is only necessary to mention the
position of Bunzelwitz[*] in support of the assertion.
[*] Frederick the Great's celebrated entrenched camp in 1761.
But if, through the narrative of a case in history, an
abstract truth is to be demonstrated, then everything
in the case bearing on the demonstration must be analysed
in the most searching and complete manner; it must,
to a certain extent, develop itself carefully before the
eyes of the reader. The less effectually this is done the
weaker will be the proof, and the more necessary it will
be to supply the demonstrative proof which is wanting
in the single case by a number of cases, because we have
a right to suppose that the more minute details which
we are unable to give neutralise each other in their
effects in a certain number of cases.
If we want to show by example derived from experience
that cavalry are better placed behind than in a line with
infantry; that it is very hazardous without a decided
preponderance of numbers to attempt an enveloping
movement, with widely separated columns, either on a
field of battle or in the theatre of war--that is, either
tactically or strategically--then in the first of these cases
it would not be sufficient to specify some lost battles in
which the cavalry was on the flanks and some gained in
which the cavalry was in rear of the infantry; and in the
tatter of these cases it is not sufficient to refer to the
battles of Rivoli and Wagram, to the attack of the
Austrians on the theatre of war in Italy, in 1796, or of
the French upon the German theatre of war in the same
year. The way in which these orders of battle or plans
of attack essentially contributed to disastrous issues
in those particular cases must be shown by closely tracing
out circumstances and occurrences. Then it will appear
how far such forms or measures are to be condemned,
a point which it is very necessary to show, for a total
condemnation would be inconsistent with truth.
It has been already said that when a circumstantial
detail of facts is impossible, the demonstrative power
which is deficient may to a certain extent be supplied by
the number of cases quoted; but this is a very dangerous
method of getting out of the difficulty, and one which
has been much abused. Instead of one well-explained
example, three or four are just touched upon, and thus
a show is made of strong evidence. But there are matters
where a whole dozen of cases brought forward would
prove nothing, if, for instance, they are facts of frequent
occurrence, and therefore a dozen other cases with an
opposite result might just as easily be brought forward.
If any one will instance a dozen lost battles in which
the side beaten attacked in separate converging columns,
we can instance a dozen that have been gained in which
the same order was adopted. It is evident that in this
way no result is to be obtained.
Upon carefully considering these different points, it will
be seen how easily examples may be misapplied.
An occurrence which, instead of being carefully analysed
in all its parts, is superficially noticed, is like an object
seen at a great distance, presenting the same appearance
on each side, and in which the details of its parts cannot
be distinguished. Such examples have, in reality, served
to support the most contradictory opinions. To some
Daun's campaigns are models of prudence and skill. To
others, they are nothing but examples of timidity and
want of resolution. Buonaparte's passage across the
Noric Alps in 1797 may be made to appear the noblest
resolution, but also as an act of sheer temerity. His
strategic defeat in 1812 may be represented as the consequence
either of an excess, or of a deficiency, of energy.
All these opinions have been broached, and it is easy to
see that they might very well arise, because each person
takes a different view of the connection of events. At the
same time these antagonistic opinions cannot be reconciled
with each other, and therefore one of the two must
be wrong.
Much as we are obliged to the worthy Feuquieres for the
numerous examples introduced in his memoirs--partly
because a number of historical incidents have thus been
preserved which might otherwise have been lost, and
partly because he was one of the first to bring theoretical,
that is, abstract, ideas into connection with the practical
in war, in so far that the cases brought forward may be
regarded as intended to exemplify and confirm what is
theoretically asserted--yet, in the opinion of an impartial
reader, he will hardly be allowed to have attained the
object he proposed to himself, that of proving theoretical
principles by historical examples. For although he sometimes
relates occurrences with great minuteness, still he
falls short very often of showing that the deductions
drawn necessarily proceed from the inner relations of
these events.
Another evil which comes from the superficial notice of
historical events, is that some readers are either wholly
ignorant
of the events, or cannot call them to remembrance
sufficiently to be able to grasp the author's meaning,
so that there is no alternative between either accepting
blindly what is said, or remaining unconvinced.
It is extremely difficult to put together or unfold historical
events before the eyes of a reader in such a way
as is necessary, in order to be able to use them as proofs;
for the writer very often wants the means, and can neither
afford the time nor the requisite space; but we maintain
that, when the object is to establish a new or doubtful
opinion, one single example, thoroughly analysed, is far
more instructive than ten which are superficially treated.
The great mischief of these superficial representations is
not that the writer puts his story forward as a proof
when it has only a false title, but that he has not made
himself properly acquainted with the subject, and that
from this sort of slovenly, shallow treatment of history,
a hundred false views and attempts at the construction of
theories arise, which would never have made their appearance
if the writer had looked upon it as his duty to
deduce from the strict connection of events everything
new which he brought to market, and sought to prove
from history.
When we are convinced of these difficulties in the use of
historical examples, and at the same time of the necessity
(of making use of such examples), then we shall also come
to the conclusion that the latest military history is
naturally the best field from which to draw them, inasmuch
as it alone is sufficiently authentic and detailed.
In ancient times, circumstances connected with War,
as well as the method of carrying it on, were different;
therefore its events are of less use to us either theoretically
or practically; in addition to which, military history, like
every other, naturally loses in the course of time a number
of small traits and lineaments originally to be seen, loses in
colour and life, like a worn-out or darkened picture; so
that perhaps at last only the large masses and leading
features remain, which thus acquire undue proportions.
If we look at the present state of warfare, we should
say that the Wars since that of the Austrian succession are
almost the only ones which, at least as far as armament,
have still a considerable similarity to the present, and
which, notwithstanding the many important changes which
have taken place both great and small, are still capable
of affording much instruction. It is quite otherwise with
the War of the Spanish succession, as the use of fire-arms
had not then so far advanced towards perfection, and
cavalry still continued the most important arm. The
farther we go back, the less useful becomes military history,
as it gets so much the more meagre and barren of detail.
The most useless of all is that of the old world.
But this uselessness is not altogether absolute, it relates
only to those subjects which depend on a knowledge
of minute details, or on those things in which the method
of conducting war has changed. Although we know very
little about the tactics in the battles between the Swiss
and the Austrians, the Burgundians and French, still we
find in them unmistakable evidence that they were the
first in which the superiority of a good infantry over the
best cavalry was, displayed. A general glance at the time
of the Condottieri teaches us how the whole method of
conducting War is dependent on the instrument used;
for at no period have the forces used in War had so much
the characteristics of a special instrument, and been a
class so totally distinct from the rest of the national
community. The memorable way in which the Romans in the
second Punic War attacked the Carthaginan possessions
in Spain and Africa, while Hannibal still maintained himself
in Italy, is a most instructive subject to study, as the
general relations of the States and Armies concerned in
this indirect act of defence are sufficiently well known.
But the more things descend into particulars and deviate
in character from the most general relations, the less
we can look for examples and lessons of experience from
very remote periods, for we have neither the means of
judging properly of corresponding events, nor can we
apply them to our completely different method of War.
Unfortunately, however, it has always been the
fashion with historical writers to talk about ancient times.
We shall not say how far vanity and charlatanism may
have had a share in this, but in general we fail to discover
any honest intention and earnest endeavour to instruct
and convince, and we can therefore only look upon such
quotations and references as embellishments to fill up
gaps and hide defects.
It would be an immense service to teach the Art of War
entirely by historical examples, as Feuquieres proposed
to do; but it would be full work for the whole life of a
man, if we reflect that he who undertakes it must first
qualify himself for the task by a long personal experience
in actual War.
Whoever, stirred by ambition, undertakes such a task,
let him prepare himself for his pious undertaking as for a
long pilgrimage; let him give up his time, spare no
sacrifice, fear no temporal rank or power, and rise above
all feelings of personal vanity, of false shame, in order,
according to the French code, to speak THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE
TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.
BOOK III. OF STRATEGY IN GENERAL
CHAPTER I. STRATEGY
IN the second chapter of the second book, Strategy has
been defined as "the employment of the battle as the means
towards the attainment of the object of the War." Properly
speaking it has to do with nothing but the battle, but
its theory must include in this consideration the instrument
of this real activity--the armed force--in itself and
in its principal relations, for the battle is fought by it,
and shows its effects upon it in turn. It must be well
acquainted with the battle itself as far as relates to its
possible results, and those mental and moral powers
which are the most important in the use of the same.
Strategy is the employment of the battle to gain the
end of the War; it must therefore give an aim to the whole
military action, which must be in accordance with the
object of the War; in other words, Strategy forms the
plan of the War, and to this end it links together the
series of acts which are to lead to the final decision, that,
is to say, it makes the plans for the separate campaigns
and regulates the combats to be fought in each. As these
are all things which to a great extent can only be determined
on conjectures some of which turn out incorrect,
while a number of other arrangements pertaining to details
cannot be made at all beforehand, it follows, as a matter
of course, that Strategy must go with the Army to the field
in order to arrange particulars on the spot, and to make
the modifications in the general plan, which incessantly
become necessary in War. Strategy can therefore never
take its hand from the work for a moment.
That this, however, has not always been the view taken
is evident from the former custom of keeping Strategy
in the cabinet and not with the Army, a thing only allowable
if the cabinet is so near to the Army that it can be
taken for the chief head-quarters of the Army.
Theory will therefore attend on Strategy in the determination
of its plans, or, as we may more properly say,
it will throw a light on things in themselves, and on their
relations to each other, and bring out prominently the
little that there is of principle or rule.
If we recall to mind from the first chapter how many
things of the highest importance War touches upon, we
may conceive that a consideration of all requires a rare
grasp of mind.
A Prince or General who knows exactly how to organise
his War according to his object and means, who does neither
too little nor too much, gives by that the greatest proof
of his genius. But the effects of this talent are exhibited
not so much by the invention of new modes of action,
which might strike the eye immediately, as in the successful
final result of the whole. It is the exact fulfilment
of silent suppositions, it is the noiseless harmony of the
whole action which we should admire, and which only
makes itself known in the total result.
inquirer who, tracing back from the final result,
does not perceive the signs of that harmony is one who
is apt to seek for genius where it is not, and where it
cannot be found.
The means and forms which Strategy uses are in fact
so extremely simple, so well known by their constant
repetition, that it only appears ridiculous to sound
common sense when it hears critics so frequently speaking
of them with high-flown emphasis. Turning a flank,
which has been done a thousand times, is regarded here
as a proof of the most brilliant genius, there as a
proof of the most profound penetration, indeed even of
the most comprehensive knowledge. Can there be in the
book--world more absurd productions?[*]
[*] This paragraph refers to the works of Lloyd, Buelow, indeed
to all
the eighteenth-century writers, from whose influence we in
England are
not even yet free.--ED.
It is still more ridiculous if, in addition to this, we
reflect that the same critic, in accordance with prevalent
opinion, excludes all moral forces from theory, and will
not allow it to be concerned with anything but the material
forces, so that all must be confined to a few mathematical
relations of equilibrium and preponderance, of time and
space, and a few lines and angles. If it were nothing
more than this, then out of such a miserable business there
would not be a scientific problem for even a schoolboy.
But let us admit: there is no question here about
scientific formulas and problems; the relations of material
things are all very simple; the right comprehension of
the moral forces which come into play is more difficult.
Still, even in respect to them, it is only in the highest
branches of Strategy that moral complications and a great
diversity of quantities and relations are to be looked for,
only at that point where Strategy borders on political
science, or rather where the two become one, and there,
as we have before observed, they have more influence on
the "how much" and "how little" is to be done than on
the form of execution. Where the latter is the principal
question, as in the single acts both great and small in War,
the moral quantities are already reduced to a very small
number.
Thus, then, in Strategy everything is very simple, but
not on that account very easy. Once it is determined
from the relations of the State what should and may be
done by War, then the way to it is easy to find; but to
follow that way straightforward, to carry out the plan
without being obliged to deviate from it a thousand times
by a thousand varying influences, requires, besides great
strength of character, great clearness and steadiness of
mind, and out of a thousand men who are remarkable,
some for mind, others for penetration, others again for
boldness or strength of will, perhaps not one will combine
in himself all those qualities which are required to raise a
man above mediocrity in the career of a general.
It may sound strange, but for all who know War in this
respect it is a fact beyond doubt, that much more strength
of will is required to make an important decision in
Strategy than in tactics. In the latter we are hurried on
with the moment; a Commander feels himself borne along
in a strong current, against which he durst not contend
without the most destructive consequences, he suppresses
the rising fears, and boldly ventures further. In Strategy,
where all goes on at a slower rate, there is more room
allowed for our own apprehensions and those of others,
for objections and remonstrances, consequently also for
unseasonable regrets; and as we do not see things in
Strategy as we do at least half of them in tactics, with
the living eye, but everything must be conjectured and
assumed, the convictions produced are less powerful.
The consequence is that most Generals, when they should
act, remain stuck fast in bewildering doubts.
Now let us cast a glance at history--upon Frederick
the Great's campaign of 1760, celebrated for its fine
marches and manoeuvres: a perfect masterpiece of
Strategic skill as critics tell us. Is there really anything
to drive us out of our wits with admiration in the King's
first trying to turn Daun's right flank, then his left, then
again his right, &c. ? Are we to see profound wisdom in
this? No, that we cannot, if we are to decide naturally
and without affectation. What we rather admire above
all is the sagacity of the King in this respect, that while
pursuing a great object with very limited means, he undertook
nothing beyond his powers, and JUST ENOUGH to gain
his object. This sagacity of the General is visible not
only in this campaign, but throughout all the three Wars
of the Great King!
To bring Silesia into the safe harbour of a well-
guaranteed peace was his object.
At the head of a small State, which was like other
States in most things, and only ahead of them in some
branches of administration; he could not be an Alexander,
and, as Charles XII, he would only, like him, have broken
his head. We find, therefore, in the whole of his conduct
of War, a controlled power, always well balanced, and
never wanting in energy, which in the most critical
moments rises to astonishing deeds, and the next moment
oscillates quietly on again in subordination to the play
of the most subtil political influences. Neither vanity,
thirst for glory, nor vengeance could make him deviate
from his course, and this course alone it is which brought
him to a fortunate termination of the contest.
These few words do but scant justice to this phase of
the genius of the great General; the eyes must be fixed
carefully on the extraordinary issue of the struggle, and
the causes which brought about that issue must be traced
out, in order thoroughly to understand that nothing but
the King's penetrating eye brought him safely out of all
his dangers.
This is one feature in this great Commander which we
admire in the campaign of 1760--and in all others, but
in this especially--because in none did he keep the
balance even against such a superior hostile force, with
such a small sacrifice.
Another feature relates to the difficulty of execution.
Marches to turn a flank, right or left, are easily combined;
the idea of keeping a small force always well concentrated
to be able to meet the enemy on equal terms at any point,
to multiply a force by rapid movement, is as easily conceived
as expressed; the mere contrivance in these points,
therefore, cannot excite our admiration, and with respect
to such simple things, there is nothing further than to
admit that they are simple.
But let a General try to do these things like Frederick
the Great. Long afterwards authors, who were eyewitnesses,
have spoken of the danger, indeed of the
imprudence, of the King's camps, and doubtless, at the
time he pitched them, the danger appeared three times
as great as afterwards.
It was the same with his marches, under the eyes, nay,
often under the cannon of the enemy's Army; these camps
were taken up, these marches made, not from want of
prudence, but because in Daun's system, in his mode of
drawing up his Army, in the responsibility which pressed
upon him, and in his character, Frederick found that
security which justified his camps and marches. But
it required the King's boldness, determination, and
strength of will to see things in this light, and not to be
led astray and intimidated by the danger of which thirty
years after people still wrote and spoke. Few Generals in
this situation would have believed these simple strategic
means to be practicable.
Again, another difficulty in execution lay in this, that
the King's Army in this campaign was constantly in
motion. Twice it marched by wretched cross-roads,
from the Elbe into Silesia, in rear of Daun and pursued
by Lascy (beginning of July, beginning of August). It
required to be always ready for battle, and its marches
had to be organised with a degree of skill which necessarily
called forth a proportionate amount of exertion.
Although attended and delayed by thousands of waggons,
still its subsistence was extremely difficult. In Silesia,
for eight days before the battle of Leignitz, it had constantly
to march, defiling alternately right and left in
front of the enemy:--this costs great fatigue, and entails
great privations.
Is it to be supposed that all this could have been done
without producing great friction in the machine? Can
the mind of a Commander elaborate such movements with
the same ease as the hand of a land surveyor uses the
astrolabe? Does not the sight of the sufferings of their
hungry, thirsty comrades pierce the hearts of the Commander
and his Generals a thousand times? Must not
the murmurs and doubts which these cause reach his ear?
Has an ordinary man the courage to demand such sacrifices,
and would not such efforts most certainly demoralise
the Army, break up the bands of discipline, and, in short,
undermine its military virtue, if firm reliance on the greatness
and infallibility of the Commander did not compensate
for all? Here, therefore, it is that we should pay respect;
it is these miracles of execution which we should admire.
But it is impossible to realise all this in its full force
without
a foretaste of it by experience. He who only knows
War from books or the drill-ground cannot realise the
whole effect of this counterpoise in action; WE BEG HIM,
THEREFORE, TO ACCEPT FROM US ON FAITH AND TRUST ALL THAT HE IS
UNABLE TO SUPPLY FROM ANY PERSONAL EXPERIENCES OF HIS OWN.
This illustration is intended to give more clearness to
the course of our ideas, and in closing this chapter we will
only briefly observe that in our exposition of Strategy
we shall describe those separate subjects which appear to
us the most important, whether of a moral or material
nature; then proceed from the simple to the complex,
and conclude with the inner connection of the whole
act of War, in other words, with the plan for a War or
campaign.
OBSERVATION.
In an earlier manuscript of the second book are the
following passages endorsed by the author himself
to be used for the first Chapter of the second Book: the
projected revision of that chapter not having been made,
the passages referred to are introduced here in full.
By the mere assemblage of armed forces at a particular
point, a battle there becomes possible, but does not always
take place. Is that possibility now to be regarded as a
reality and therefore an effective thing? Certainly, it is
so by its results, and these effects, whatever they may
be, can never fail.
1. POSSIBLE COMBATS ARE ON ACCOUNT OF THEIR
RESULTS TO BE LOOKED UPON AS REAL ONES.
If a detachment is sent away to cut off the retreat of a
flying enemy, and the enemy surrenders in consequence
without further resistance, still it is through the combat
which is offered to him by this detachment sent after him
that he is brought to his decision.
If a part of our Army occupies an enemy's province
which was undefended, and thus deprives the enemy of
very considerable means of keeping up the strength of
his Army, it is entirely through the battle which our
detached body gives the enemy to expect, in case he seeks
to recover the lost province, that we remain in possession
of the same.
In both cases, therefore, the mere possibility of a battle
has produced results, and is therefore to be classed
amongst actual events. Suppose that in these cases the
enemy has opposed our troops with others superior in
force, and thus forced ours to give up their object without
a combat, then certainly our plan has failed, but the
battle which we offered at (either of) those points has
not on that account been without effect, for it attracted
the enemy's forces to that point. And in case our whole
undertaking has done us harm, it cannot be said that these
positions, these possible battles, have been attended
with no results; their effects, then, are similar to those
of a lost battle.
In this manner we see that the destruction of the
enemy's military forces, the overthrow of the enemy's
power, is only to be done through the effect of a battle,
whether it be that it actually takes place, or that it is
merely offered, and not accepted.
2. TWOFOLD OBJECT OF THE COMBAT.
But these effects are of two kinds, direct and indirect
they are of the latter, if other things intrude themselves
and become the object of the combat--things which cannot
be regarded as the destruction of enemy's force, but
only leading up to it, certainly by a circuitous road, but
with so much the greater effect. The possession of provinces,
towns, fortresses, roads, bridges, magazines, &c.,
may be the IMMEDIATE object of a battle, but never the
ultimate one. Things of this description can never be,
looked upon otherwise than as means of gaining greater
superiority, so as at last to offer battle to the enemy in
such a way that it will be impossible for him to accept it.
Therefore all these things must only be regarded as intermediate
links, steps, as it were, leading up to the effectual
principle, but never as that principle itself.
3. EXAMPLE.
In 1814, by the capture of Buonaparte's capital the object
of the War was attained. The political divisions which
had their roots in Paris came into active operation, and
an enormous split left the power of the Emperor to collapse
of itself. Nevertheless the point of view from which we
must look at all this is, that through these causes the
forces and defensive means of Buonaparte were suddenly
very much diminished, the superiority of the Allies,
therefore, just in the same measure increased, and any
further resistance then became IMPOSSIBLE. It was this
impossibility which produced the peace with France.
If we suppose the forces of the Allies at that moment
diminished to a like extent through external causes;--
if the superiority vanishes, then at the same time vanishes
also all the effect and importance of the taking of Paris.
We have gone through this chain of argument in order
to show that this is the natural and only true view of
the thing from which it derives its importance. It leads
always back to the question, What at any given moment
of the War or campaign will be the probable result of the
great or small combats which the two sides might offer to
each other? In the consideration of a plan for a campaign,
this question only is decisive as to the measures which are
to be taken all through from the very commencement.
4. WHEN THIS VIEW IS NOT TAKEN, THEN A FALSE
VALUE IS GIVEN TO OTHER THINGS.
If we do not accustom ourselves to look upon War, and
the single campaigns in a War, as a chain which is all
composed of battles strung together, one of which always
brings on another; if we adopt the idea that the taking
of a certain geographical point, the occupation of an
undefended province, is in itself anything; then we are
very likely to regard it as an acquisition which we may
retain; and if we look at it so, and not as a term in the
whole series of events, we do not ask ourselves whether
this possession may not lead to greater disadvantages
hereafter. How often we find this mistake recurring in
military history.
We might say that, just as in commerce the merchant
cannot set apart and place in security gains from one
single transaction by itself, so in War a single advantage
cannot be separated from the result of the whole. Just
as the former must always operate with the whole bulk
of his means, just so in War, only the sum total will decide
on the advantage or disadvantage of each item.
If the mind's eye is always directed upon the series of
combats, so far as they can be seen beforehand, then it is
always looking in the right direction, and thereby the
motion of the force acquires that rapidity, that is to say,
willing and doing acquire that energy which is suitable
to the matter, and which is not to be thwarted or turned
aside by extraneous influences.[*]
[*] The whole of this chapter is directed against the theories of
the Austrian Staff in 1814. It may be taken as the foundation of
the
modern teaching of the Prussian General Staff. See especially von
Kammer.--ED.
CHAPTER II. ELEMENTS OF STRATEGY
THE causes which condition the use of the combat in
Strategy may be easily divided into elements of different
kinds, such as the moral, physical, mathematical,
geographical and statistical elements.
The first class includes all that can be called forth by
moral qualities and effects; to the second belong the
whole mass of the military force, its organisation, the
proportion of the three arms, &c. &c.; to the third,
the angle of the lines of operation, the concentric and
eccentric movements in as far as their geometrical nature
has any value in the calculation; to the fourth, the
influences of country, such as commanding points, hills,
rivers, woods, roads, &c. &c.; lastly, to the fifth, all the
means of supply. The separation of these things once
for all in the mind does good in giving clearness and
helping us to estimate at once, at a higher or lower value,
the different classes as we pass onwards. For, in considering
them separately, many lose of themselves their
borrowed importance; one feels, for instance, quite
plainly that the value of a base of operations, even if
we look at nothing in it but its relative position to the
line of operations, depends much less in that simple form
on the geometrical element of the angle which they form
with one another, than on the nature of the roads and the
country through which they pass.
But to treat upon Strategy according to these elements
would be the most unfortunate idea that could be conceived,
for these elements are generally manifold, and
intimately connected with each other in every single
operation of War. We should lose ourselves in the most
soulless analysis, and as if in a horrid dream, we should
be for ever trying in vain to build up an arch to connect
this base of abstractions with facts belonging to the real
world. Heaven preserve every theorist from such an
undertaking! We shall keep to the world of things in
their totality, and not pursue our analysis further than
is necessary from time to time to give distinctness to
the idea which we wish to impart, and which has come
to us, not by a speculative investigation, but through
the impression made by the realities of War in their
entirety.
CHAPTER III. MORAL FORCES
WE must return again to this subject, which is touched
upon in the third chapter of the second book,
because the moral forces are amongst the most important
subjects in War. They form the spirit which permeates
the whole being of War. These forces fasten themselves
soonest and with the greatest affinity on to the Will which
puts in motion and guides the whole mass of powers,
uniting with it as it were in one stream, because this is a
moral force itself. Unfortunately they will escape from all
book-analysis, for they will neither be brought into numbers
nor into classes, and require to be both seen and felt.
The spirit and other moral qualities which animate
an Army, a General, or Governments, public opinion in
provinces in which a War is raging, the moral effect of
a victory or of a defeat, are things which in themselves
vary very much in their nature, and which also, according
as they stand with regard to our object and our relations,
may have an influence in different ways.
Although little or nothing can be said about these things
in books, still they belong to the theory of the Art of War,
as much as everything else which constitutes War. For
I must here once more repeat that it is a miserable philosophy
if, according to the old plan, we establish rules and
principles wholly regardless of all moral forces, and then,
as soon as these forces make their appearance, we begin
to count exceptions which we thereby establish as it were
theoretically, that is, make into rules; or if we resort
to an appeal to genius, which is above all rules, thus
giving out by implication, not only that rules were only
made for fools, but also that they themselves are no
better than folly.
Even if the theory of the Art of War does no more in
reality than recall these things to remembrance, showing
the necessity of allowing to the moral forces their full
value, and of always taking them into consideration,
by so doing it extends its borders over the region of
immaterial forces, and by establishing that point of view,
condemns beforehand every one who would endeavour
to justify himself before its judgment seat by the mere
physical relations of forces.
Further out of regard to all other so-called rules, theory
cannot banish the moral forces beyond its frontier, because
the effects of the physical forces and the moral are completely
fused, and are not to be decomposed like a metal
alloy by a chemical process. In every rule relating
to the physical forces, theory must present to the mind
at the same time the share which the moral powers will
have in it, if it would not be led to categorical propositions,
at one time too timid and contracted, at another
too dogmatical and wide. Even the most matter-of-fact
theories have, without knowing it, strayed over into this
moral kingdom; for, as an example, the effects of a
victory cannot in any way be explained without taking
into consideration the moral impressions. And therefore
the most of the subjects which we shall go through in
this book are composed half of physical, half of moral
causes and effects, and we might say the physical are
almost no more than the wooden handle, whilst the moral
are the noble metal, the real bright-polished weapon.
The value of the moral powers, and their frequently
incredible influence, are best exemplified by history, and
this is the most generous and the purest nourishment
which the mind of the General can extract from it.--At
the same time it is to be observed, that it is less
demonstrations,
critical examinations, and learned treatises, than
sentiments, general impressions, and single flashing
sparks of truth, which yield the seeds of knowledge that
are to fertilise the mind.
We might go through the most important moral phenomena
in War, and with all the care of a diligent professor
try what we could impart about each, either good or bad.
But as in such a method one slides too much into the
commonplace and trite, whilst real mind quickly makes its
escape in analysis, the end is that one gets imperceptibly
to the relation of things which everybody knows. We
prefer, therefore, to remain here more than usually incomplete
and rhapsodical, content to have drawn attention
to the importance of the subject in a general way, and to
have pointed out the spirit in which the views given in
this book have been conceived.
CHAPTER IV. THE CHIEF MORAL POWERS
THESE are The Talents of the Commander; The Military
Virtue of the Army; Its National feeling. Which of
these is the most important no one can tell in a general
way, for it is very difficult to say anything in general
of their strength, and still more difficult to compare the
strength of one with that of another. The best plan is
not to undervalue any of them, a fault which human
judgment is prone to, sometimes on one side, sometimes
on another, in its whimsical oscillations. It is better
to satisfy ourselves of the undeniable efficacy of these
three things by sufficient evidence from history.
It is true, however, that in modern times the Armies of
European states have arrived very much at a par as
regards discipline and fitness for service, and that the
conduct of War has--as philosophers would say--naturally
developed itself, thereby become a method, common as
it were to all Armies, so that even from Commanders there
is nothing further to be expected in the way of application
of special means of Art, in the limited sense (such as
Frederick the Second's oblique order). Hence it cannot be
denied that, as matters now stand, greater scope is afforded
for the influence of National spirit and habituation of an
army to War. A long peace may again alter all this.[*]
[*] Written shortly after the Great Napoleonic campaigns.
The national spirit of an Army (enthusiasm, fanatical
zeal, faith, opinion) displays itself most in mountain
warfare, where every one down to the common soldier is
left to himself. On this account, a mountainous country
is the best campaigning ground for popular levies.
Expertness of an Army through training, and that
well-tempered courage which holds the ranks together
as if they had been cast in a mould, show their superiority
in an open country.
The talent of a General has most room to display itself
in a closely intersected, undulating country. In mountains
he has too little command over the separate parts,
and the direction of all is beyond his powers; in open
plains it is simple and does not exceed those powers.
According to these undeniable elective affinities, plans
should be regulated.
CHAPTER V. MILITARY VIRTUE OF AN ARMY
THIS is distinguished from mere bravery, and still more
from enthusiasm for the business of War. The first is
certainly a necessary constituent part of it, but in the
same way as bravery, which is a natural gift in some men,
may arise in a soldier as a part of an Army from habit
and custom, so with him it must also have a different
direction from that which it has with others. It must
lose that impulse to unbridled activity and exercise of
force which is its characteristic in the individual, and
submit itself to demands of a higher kind, to obedience,
order, rule, and method. Enthusiasm for the profession
gives life and greater fire to the military virtue of an Army,
but does not necessarily constitute a part of it.
War is a special business, and however general its relations
may be, and even if all the male population of a
country, capable of bearing arms, exercise this calling,
still it always continues to be different and separate from
the other pursuits which occupy the life of man.--To be
imbued with a sense of the spirit and nature of this
business, to make use of, to rouse, to assimilate into the
system the powers which should be active in it, to penetrate
completely into the nature of the business with the
understanding, through exercise to gain confidence and
expertness in it, to be completely given up to it, to pass
out of the man into the part which it is assigned to us to
play in War, that is the military virtue of an Army in
the individual.
However much pains may be taken to combine the
soldier and the citizen in one and the same individual,
whatever may be done to nationalise Wars, and however
much we may imagine times have changed since the days
of the old Condottieri, never will it be possible to do away
with the individuality of the business; and if that cannot
be done, then those who belong to it, as long as they
belong to it, will always look upon themselves as a kind
of guild, in the regulations, laws and customs in which
the "Spirit of War" by preference finds its expression.
And so it is in fact. Even with the most decided inclination
to look at War from the highest point of view, it
would be very wrong to look down upon this corporate
spirit (e'sprit de corps) which may and should exist more
or less in every Army. This corporate spirit forms the
bond of union between the natural forces which are active
in that which we have called military virtue. The
crystals of military virtue have a greater affinity for the
spirit of a corporate body than for anything else.
An Army which preserves its usual formations under the
heaviest fire, which is never shaken by imaginary fears, and
in the face of real danger disputes the ground inch by inch,
which, proud in the feeling of its victories, never loses its
sense of obedience, its respect for and confidence in its
leaders, even under the depressing effects of defeat; an
Army with all its physical powers, inured to privations and
fatigue by exercise, like the muscles of an athlete; an Army
which looks upon all its toils as the means to victory, not
as a curse which hovers over its standards, and which is
always reminded of its duties and virtues by the short
catechism of one idea, namely the HONOUR OF ITS ARMS;--
Such an Army is imbued with the true military spirit.
Soldiers may fight bravely like the Vende'ans, and do
great things like the Swiss, the Americans, or Spaniards,
without displaying this military virtue. A Commander
may also be successful at the head of standing Armies,
like Eugene and Marlborough, without enjoying the
benefit of its assistance; we must not, therefore, say that
a successful War without it cannot be imagined; and we
draw especial attention to that point, in order the more
to individualise the conception which is here brought
forward, that the idea may not dissolve into a generalisation
and that it may not be thought that military virtue
is in the end everything. It is not so. Military virtue
in an Army is a definite moral power which may be supposed
wanting, and the influence of which may therefore
be estimated--like any instrument the power of which
may be calculated.
Having thus characterised it, we proceed to consider
what can be predicated of its influence, and what are the
means of gaining its assistance.
Military virtue is for the parts, what the genius of the
Commander is for the whole. The General can only guide
the whole, not each separate part, and where he cannot
guide the part, there military virtue must be its leader.
A General is chosen by the reputation of his superior
talents, the chief leaders of large masses after careful
probation; but this probation diminishes as we descend
the scale of rank, and in just the same measure we may
reckon less and less upon individual talents; but what is
wanting in this respect military virtue should supply.
The natural qualities of a warlike people play just this
part: BRAVERY, APTITUDE, POWERS OF ENDURANCE and ENTHUSIASM.
These properties may therefore supply the place of
military virtue, and vice versa, from which the following
may be deduced:
1. Military virtue is a quality of standing Armies only,
but they require it the most. In national risings its
place is supplied by natural qualities, which develop
themselves there more rapidly.
2. Standing Armies opposed to standing Armies, can
more easily dispense with it, than a standing Army
opposed to a national insurrection, for in that case, the
troops are more scattered, and the divisions left more to
themselves. But where an Army can be kept concentrated,
the genius of the General takes a greater place,
and supplies what is wanting in the spirit of the Army.
Therefore generally military virtue becomes more necessary
the more the theatre of operations and other circumstances
make the War complicated, and cause the forces
to be scattered.
From these truths the only lesson to be derived is this,
that if an Army is deficient in this quality, every endeavour
should be made to simplify the operations of the War
as much as possible, or to introduce double efficiency
in the organisation of the Army in some other respect,
and not to expect from the mere name of a standing
Army, that which only the veritable thing itself can give.
The military virtue of an Army is, therefore, one of the
most important moral powers in War, and where it is
wanting, we either see its place supplied by one of the
others, such as the great superiority of generalship or
popular enthusiasm, or we find the results not commensurate
with the exertions made.--How much that is great,
this spirit, this sterling worth of an army, this refining
of ore into the polished metal, has already done, we see
in the history of the Macedonians under Alexander,
the Roman legions under Cesar, the Spanish infantry
under Alexander Farnese, the Swedes under Gustavus
Adolphus and Charles XII, the Prussians under Frederick
the Great, and the French under Buonaparte. We must
purposely shut our eyes against all historical proof, if
we do not admit, that the astonishing successes of these
Generals and their greatness in situations of extreme
difficulty, were only possible with Armies possessing this
virtue.
This spirit can only be generated from two sources, and
only by these two conjointly; the first is a succession of
campaigns and great victories; the other is, an activity of
the Army carried sometimes to the highest pitch. Only
by these, does the soldier learn to know his powers.
The more a General is in the habit of demanding from his
troops, the surer he will be that his demands will be
answered. The soldier is as proud of overcoming toil,
as he is of surmounting danger. Therefore it is only in
the soil of incessant activity and exertion that the germ
will thrive, but also only in the sunshine of victory.
Once it becomes a STRONG TREE, it will stand against the
fiercest storms of misfortune and defeat, and even against
the indolent inactivity of peace, at least for a time.
It can therefore only be created in War, and under great
Generals, but no doubt it may last at least for several
generations, even under Generals of moderate capacity,
and through considerable periods of peace.
With this generous and noble spirit of union in a line
of veteran troops, covered with scars and thoroughly
inured to War, we must not compare the self-esteem and
vanity of a standing Army,[*] held together merely by the
glue of service-regulations and a drill book; a certain
plodding earnestness and strict discipline may keep up
military virtue for a long time, but can never create
it; these things therefore have a certain value, but must
not be over-rated. Order, smartness, good will, also a
certain degree of pride and high feeling, are qualities of
an Army formed in time of peace which are to be prized,
but cannot stand alone. The whole retains the whole,
and as with glass too quickly cooled, a single crack
breaks the whole mass. Above all, the highest spirit in
the world changes only too easily at the first check into
depression, and one might say into a kind of rhodomontade
of alarm, the French sauve que peut.--Such an Army can
only achieve something through its leader, never by
itself. It must be led with double caution, until by
degrees, in victory and hardships, the strength grows
into the full armour. Beware then of confusing the
SPIRIT of an Army with its temper.
[*] Clausewitz is, of course, thinking of the long-service
standing armies
of his own youth. Not of the short-service standing armies of
to-day
(EDITOR).
CHAPTER VI. BOLDNESS
THE place and part which boldness takes in the dynamic
system of powers, where it stands opposed to Foresight
and prudence, has been stated in the chapter on the certainty
of the result in order thereby to show, that theory
has no right to restrict it by virtue of its legislative
power.
But this noble impulse, with which the human soul
raises itself above the most formidable dangers, is to be
regarded as an active principle peculiarly belonging to
War. In fact, in what branch of human activity should
boldness have a right of citizenship if not in War?
From the transport-driver and the drummer up to the
General, it is the noblest of virtues, the true steel which
gives the weapon its edge and brilliancy.
Let us admit in fact it has in War even its own prerogatives.
Over and above the result of the calculation of
space, time, and quantity, we must allow a certain percentage
which boldness derives from the weakness of
others, whenever it gains the mastery. It is therefore,
virtually, a creative power. This is not difficult to
demonstrate philosophically. As often as boldness
encounters hesitation, the probability of the result is
of necessity in its favour, because the very state of hesitation
implies a loss of equilibrium already. It is only
when it encounters cautious foresight--which we may say
is just as bold, at all events just as strong and powerful
as itself--that it is at a disadvantage; such cases,
however, rarely occur. Out of the whole multitude of
prudent men in the world, the great majority are so
from timidity.
Amongst large masses, boldness is a force, the special
cultivation of which can never be to the detriment of
other forces, because the great mass is bound to a higher
will by the frame-work and joints of the order of battle
and of the service, and therefore is guided by an intelligent
power which is extraneous. Boldness is therefore here
only like a spring held down until its action is required.
The higher the rank the more necessary it is that boldness
should be accompanied by a reflective mind, that it
may not be a mere blind outburst of passion to no purpose;
for with increase of rank it becomes always less a matter
of self-sacrifice and more a matter of the preservation
of others, and the good of the whole. Where regulations
of the service, as a kind of second nature, prescribe for
the masses, reflection must be the guide of the General,
and in his case individual boldness in action may easily
become a fault. Still, at the same time, it is a fine failing,
and must not be looked at in the same light as any other.
Happy the Army in which an untimely boldness frequently
manifests itself; it is an exuberant growth which shows
a rich soil. Even foolhardiness, that is boldness without
an object, is not to be despised; in point of fact it is the
same energy of feeling, only exercised as a kind of passion
without any co-operation of the intelligent faculties. It
is only when it strikes at the root of obedience, when it
treats with contempt the orders of superior authority,
that it must be repressed as a dangerous evil, not on its
own account but on account of the act of disobedience,
for there is nothing in War which is of GREATER IMPORTANCE
THAN OBEDIENCE.
The reader will readily agree with us that, supposing
an equal degree of discernment to be forthcoming in a
certain number of cases, a thousand times as many of
them will end in disaster through over-anxiety as through
boldness.
One would suppose it natural that the interposition
of a reasonable object should stimulate boldness, and
therefore lessen its intrinsic merit, and yet the reverse is
the case in reality.
The intervention of lucid thought or the general supremacy
of mind deprives the emotional forces of a great
part of their power. On that account BOLDNESS BECOMES
OF RARER OCCURRENCE THE HIGHER WE ASCEND THE SCALE OF RANK,
for whether the discernment and the understanding do
or do not increase with these ranks still the Commanders,
in their several stations as they rise, are pressed upon
more and more severely by objective things, by relations
and claims from without, so that they become the more
perplexed the lower the degree of their individual intelligence.
This so far as regards War is the chief foundation
of the truth of the French proverb:--
"Tel brille au second qui s' e'clipse an premier."
Almost all the Generals who are represented in history
as merely having attained to mediocrity, and as wanting
in decision when in supreme command, are men celebrated
in their antecedent career for their boldness and decision.[*]
[*] Beaulieu, Benedek, Bazaine, Buller, Melas, Mack. &c. &c.
In those motives to bold action which arise from the
pressure of necessity we must make a distinction. Necessity
has its degrees of intensity. If it lies near at hand,
if the person acting is in the pursuit of his object driven
into great dangers in order to escape others equally great,
then we can only admire his resolution, which still has
also its value. If a young man to show his skill in horsemanship
leaps across a deep cleft, then he is bold; if he
makes the same leap pursued by a troop of head-chopping
Janissaries he is only resolute. But the farther off the
necessity from the point of action, the greater the number
of relations intervening which the mind has to traverse;
in order to realise them, by so much the less does necessity
take from boldness in action. If Frederick the Great,
in the year 1756, saw that War was inevitable, and that
he could only escape destruction by being beforehand
with his enemies, it became necessary for him to commence
the War himself, but at the same time it was certainly
very bold: for few men in his position would have made
up their minds to do so.
Although Strategy is only the province of Generals-in-
Chief or Commanders in the higher positions, still boldness
in all the other branches of an Army is as little a matter of
indifference to it as their other military virtues. With an
Army belonging to a bold race, and in which the spirit
of boldness has been always nourished, very different
things may be undertaken than with one in which this
virtue, is unknown; for that reason we have considered
it in connection with an Army. But our subject is specially
the boldness of the General, and yet we have not much
to say about it after having described this military
virtue in a general way to the best of our ability.
The higher we rise in a position of command, the more
of the mind, understanding, and penetration predominate
in activity, the more therefore is boldness, which is a property
of the feelings, kept in subjection, and for that
reason we find it so rarely in the highest positions, but
then, so much the more should it be admired. Boldness,
directed by an overruling intelligence, is the stamp of
the hero: this boldness does not consist in venturing
directly against the nature of things, in a downright
contempt of the laws of probability, but, if a choice is
once made, in the rigorous adherence to that higher
calculation which genius, the tact of judgment, has gone
over with the speed of lightning. The more boldness
lends wings to the mind and the discernment, so much the
farther they will reach in their flight, so much the more
comprehensive will be the view, the more exact the result,
but certainly always only in the sense that with greater
objects greater dangers are connected. The ordinary man,
not to speak of the weak and irresolute, arrives at an exact
result so far as such is possible without ocular demonstration,
at most after diligent reflection in his chamber,
at a distance from danger and responsibility. Let danger
and responsibility draw close round him in every direction,
then he loses the power of comprehensive vision, and if
he retains this in any measure by the influence of others,
still he will lose his power of DECISION, because in that point
no one can help him.
We think then that it is impossible to imagine a distinguished
General without boldness, that is to say, that
no man can become one who is not born with this power
of the soul, and we therefore look upon it as the first
requisite for such a career. How much of this inborn
power, developed and moderated through education and
the circumstances of life, is left when the man has attained
a high position, is the second question. The greater
this power still is, the stronger will genius be on the wing,
the higher will be its flight. The risks become always
greater, but the purpose grows with them. Whether
its lines proceed out of and get their direction from a
distant necessity, or whether they converge to the keystone
of a building which ambition has planned, whether
Frederick or Alexander acts, is much the same as regards
the critical view. If the one excites the imagination more
because it is bolder, the other pleases the understanding
most, because it has in it more absolute necessity.
We have still to advert to one very important circumstance.
The spirit of boldness can exist in an Army, either
because it is in the people, or because it has been generated
in a successful War conducted by able Generals.
In the latter case it must of course be dispensed with at
the commencement.
Now in our days there is hardly any other means of
educating the spirit of a people in this respect, except by
War, and that too under bold Generals. By it alone can
that effeminacy of feeling be counteracted, that propensity
to seek for the enjoyment of comfort, which cause
degeneracy in a people rising in prosperity and immersed
in an extremely busy commerce.
A Nation can hope to have a strong position in the
political world only if its character and practice in actual
War mutually support each other in constant reciprocal
action.
CHAPTER VII. PERSEVERANCE
THE reader expects to hear of angles and lines, and finds,
instead of these citizens of the scientific world, only
people out of common life, such as he meets with every
day in the street. And yet the author cannot make up
his mind to become a hair's breadth more mathematical
than the subject seems to him to require, and he is not
alarmed at the surprise which the reader may show.
In War more than anywhere else in the world things
happen differently to what we had expected, and look
differently when near, to what they did at a distance.
With what serenity the architect can watch his work
gradually rising and growing into his plan. The doctor
although much more at the mercy of mysterious agencies
and chances than the architect, still knows enough of
the forms and effects of his means. In War, on the other
hand, the Commander of an immense whole finds himself
in a constant whirlpool of false and true information, of
mistakes committed through fear, through negligence,
through precipitation, of contraventions of his authority,
either from mistaken or correct motives, from ill will,
true or false sense of duty, indolence or exhaustion, of
accidents which no mortal could have foreseen. In short,
he is the victim of a hundred thousand impressions, of
which the most have an intimidating, the fewest an
encouraging tendency. By long experience in War, the
tact is acquired of readily appreciating the value of these
incidents; high courage and stability of character stand
proof against them, as the rock resists the beating of the
waves. He who would yield to these impressions would
never carry out an undertaking, and on that account
PERSEVERANCE in the proposed object, as long as there is no
decided reason against it, is a most necessary counterpoise.
Further, there is hardly any celebrated enterprise
in War which was not achieved by endless exertion, pains,
and privations; and as here the weakness of the physical
and moral man is ever disposed to yield, only an immense
force of will, which manifests itself in perseverance
admired by present and future generations, can conduct to our
goal.
CHAPTER VIII. SUPERIORITY OF NUMBERS
THIS is in tactics, as well as in Strategy, the most general
principle of victory, and shall be examined by us first
in its generality, for which we may be permitted the
following exposition:
Strategy fixes the point where, the time when, and the
numerical force with which the battle is to be fought.
By this triple determination it has therefore a very essential
influence on the issue of the combat. If tactics has
fought the battle, if the result is over, let it be victory or
defeat, Strategy makes such use of it as can be made in
accordance with the great object of the War. This object
is naturally often a very distant one, seldom does it lie
quite close at hand. A series of other objects subordinate
themselves to it as means. These objects, which are at
the same time means to a higher purpose, may be practically
of various kinds; even the ultimate aim of the
whole War may be a different one in every case. We shall
make ourselves acquainted with these things according as
we come to know the separate objects which they come,
in contact with; and it is not our intention here to
embrace the whole subject by a complete enumeration
of them, even if that were possible. We therefore let
the employment of the battle stand over for the present.
Even those things through which Strategy has an influence
on the issue of the combat, inasmuch as it establishes
the same, to a certain extent decrees them, are not
so simple that they can be embraced in one single view.
For as Strategy appoints time, place and force, it can do
so in practice in many ways, each of which influences in
a different manner the result of the combat as well as its
consequences. Therefore we shall only get acquainted
with this also by degrees, that is, through the subjects
which more closely determine the application.
If we strip the combat of all modifications which it
may undergo according to its immediate purpose and the
circumstances from which it proceeds, lastly if we set
aside the valour of the troops, because that is a given
quantity, then there remains only the bare conception
of the combat, that is a combat without form, in which
we distinguish nothing but the number of the combatants.
This number will therefore determine victory. Now
from the number of things above deducted to get to this
point, it is shown that the superiority in numbers in a
battle is only one of the factors employed to produce
victory that therefore so far from having with the
superiority in number obtained all, or even only the
principal thing, we have perhaps got very little by it,
according as the other circumstances which co-operate
happen to vary.
But this superiority has degrees, it may be imagined
as twofold, threefold or fourfold, and every one sees,
that by increasing in this way, it must (at last) overpower
everything else.
In such an aspect we grant, that the superiority in
numbers is the most important factor in the result of a
combat, only it must be sufficiently great to be a counterpoise
to all the other co-operating circumstances. The
direct result of this is, that the greatest possible number
of troops should be brought into action at the decisive
point.
Whether the troops thus brought are sufficient or not,
we have then done in this respect all that our means
allowed. This is the first principle in Strategy, therefore
in general as now stated, it is just as well suited for Greeks
and Persians, or for Englishmen and Mahrattas, as for
French and Germans. But we shall take a glance at our
relations in Europe, as respects War, in order to arrive
at some more definite idea on this subject.
Here we find Armies much more alike in equipment,
organisation, and practical skill of every kind. There
only remains a difference in the military virtue of Armies,
and in the talent of Generals which may fluctuate with
time from side to side. If we go through the military
history of modern Europe, we find no example of a
Marathon.
Frederick the Great beat 80,000 Austrians at Leuthen
with about 30,000 men, and at Rosbach with 25,000 some
50,000 allies; these are however the only instances of
victories gained against an enemy double, or more than
double in numbers. Charles XII, in the battle of Narva,
we cannot well quote, for the Russians were at that time
hardly to be regarded as Europeans, also the principal
circumstances, even of the battle, are too little known.
Buonaparte had at Dresden 120,000 against 220,000,
therefore not the double. At Kollin, Frederick the Great
did not succeed, with 30,000 against 50,000 Austrians,
neither did Buonaparte in the desperate battle of Leipsic,
where he was 160,000 strong, against 280,000.
From this we may infer, that it is very difficult in the
present state of Europe, for the most talented General
to gain a victory over an enemy double his strength.
Now if we see double numbers prove such a weight in the
scale against the greatest Generals, we may be sure, that
in ordinary cases, in small as well as great combats, an
important superiority of numbers, but which need not
be over two to one, will be sufficient to ensure the victory,
however disadvantageous other circumstances may be.
Certainly, we may imagine a defile which even tenfold
would not suffice to force, but in such a case it can be
no question of a battle at all.
We think, therefore, that under our conditions, as well
as in all similar ones, the superiority at the decisive point
is a matter of capital importance, and that this subject, in
the generality of cases, is decidedly the most important
of all. The strength at the decisive point depends on
the absolute strength of the Army, and on skill in making
use of it.
The first rule is therefore to enter the field with an Army
as strong as possible. This sounds very like a commonplace,
but still it is really not so.
In order to show that for a long time the strength of
forces was by no means regarded as a chief point, we need
only observe, that in most, and even in the most detailed
histories of the Wars in the eighteenth century, the
strength of the Armies is either not given at all, or only
incidentally, and in no case is any special value laid upon
it. Tempelhof in his history of the Seven Years' War is
the earliest writer who gives it regularly, but at the same
time he does it only very superficially.
Even Massenbach, in his manifold critical observations
on the Prussian campaigns of 1793-94 in the Vosges,
talks a great deal about hills and valleys, roads and footpaths,
but does not say a syllable about mutual strength.
Another proof lies in a wonderful notion which haunted
the heads of many critical historians, according to which
there was a certain size of an Army which was the best,
a normal strength, beyond which the forces in excess were
burdensome rather than serviceable.[*]
[*] Tempelhof and Montalembert are the first we recollect as
examples
--the first in a passage of his first part, page 148; the other
in his
correspondence relative to the plan of operations of the Russians
in 1759.
Lastly, there are a number of instances to be found,
in which all the available forces were not really brought
into the battle,[*] or into the War, because the superiority
of numbers was not considered to have that importance
which in the nature of things belongs to it.
[*] The Prussians at Jena, 1806. Wellington at Waterloo.
If we are thoroughly penetrated with the conviction
that with a considerable superiority of numbers everything
possible is to be effected, then it cannot fail that
this clear conviction reacts on the preparations for the
War, so as to make us appear in the field with as many
troops as possible, and either to give us ourselves the
superiority, or at least to guard against the enemy
obtaining it. So much for what concerns the absolute
force with which the War is to be conducted.
The measure of this absolute force is determined by
the Government; and although with this determination
the real action of War commences, and it forms an essential
part of the Strategy of the War, still in most cases
the General who is to command these forces in the War
must regard their absolute strength as a given quantity,
whether it be that he has had no voice in fixing it, or that
circumstances prevented a sufficient expansion being
given to it.
There remains nothing, therefore, where an absolute
superiority is not attainable, but to produce a relative
one at the decisive point, by making skilful use of what
we have.
The calculation of space and time appears as the most
essential thing to this end--and this has caused that
subject to be regarded as one which embraces nearly the
whole art of using military forces. Indeed, some have
gone so far as to ascribe to great strategists and tacticians
a mental organ peculiarly adapted to this point.
But the calculation of time and space, although it lies
universally at the foundation of Strategy, and is to a
certain extent its daily bread, is still neither the most
difficult, nor the most decisive one.
If we take an unprejudiced glance at military history,
we shall find that the instances in which mistakes in such
a calculation have proved the cause of serious losses are
very rare, at least in Strategy. But if the conception of
a skilful combination of time and space is fully to account
for every instance of a resolute and active Commander
beating several separate opponents with one and the same
army (Frederick the Great, Buonaparte), then we perplex
ourselves unnecessarily with conventional language.
For the sake of clearness and the profitable use of conceptions,
it is necessary that things should always be called
by their right names.
The right appreciation of their opponents (Daun,
Schwartzenberg), the audacity to leave for a short space
of time a small force only before them, energy in forced
marches, boldness in sudden attacks, the intensified
activity which great souls acquire in the moment of
danger, these are the grounds of such victories; and what
have these to do with the ability to make an exact calculation
of two such simple things as time and space?
But even this ricochetting play of forces, "when the
victories at Rosbach and Montmirail give the impulse
to victories at Leuthen and Montereau," to which great
Generals on the defensive have often trusted, is still, if we
would be clear and exact, only a rare occurrence in history.
Much more frequently the relative superiority--that
is, the skilful assemblage of superior forces at the decisive
point--has its foundation in the right appreciation of
those points, in the judicious direction which by that means
has been given to the forces from the very first, and in
the resolution required to sacrifice the unimportant to
the advantage of the important--that is, to keep the
forces concentrated in an overpowering mass. In this,
Frederick the Great and Buonaparte are particularly
characteristic.
We think we have now allotted to the superiority
in numbers the importance which belongs to it; it is to
be regarded as the fundamental idea, always to be aimed
at before all and as far as possible.
But to regard it on this account as a necessary condition
of victory would be a complete misconception of our
exposition; in the conclusion to be drawn from it there
lies nothing more than the value which should attach
to numerical strength in the combat. If that strength
is made as great as possible, then the maxim is
satisfied; a review of the total relations must then decide
whether or not the combat is to be avoided for want of
sufficient force.[*]
[*] Owing to our freedom from invasion, and to the condition
which
arise in our Colonial Wars, we have not yet, in England, arrived
at a
correct appreciation of the value of superior numbers in War, and
still
adhere to the idea of an Army just "big enough," which Clausewitz
has so unsparingly ridiculed. (EDITOR.)
CHAPTER IX. THE SURPRISE
FROM the subject of the foregoing chapter, the general
endeavour to attain a relative superiority, there follows
another endeavour which must consequently be just as
general in its nature: this is the SURPRISE of the enemy.
It lies more or less at the foundation of all undertakings,
for without it the preponderance at the decisive point
is not properly conceivable.
The surprise is, therefore, not only the means to
the attainment of numerical superiority; but it is also
to be regarded as a substantive principle in itself, on
account of its moral effect. When it is successful in a
high degree, confusion and broken courage in the enemy's
ranks are the consequences; and of the degree to which
these multiply a success, there are examples enough,
great and small. We are not now speaking of the
particular surprise which belongs to the attack, but of
the endeavour by measures generally, and especially
by the distribution of forces, to surprise the enemy, which
can be imagined just as well in the defensive, and which
in the tactical defence particularly is a chief point.
We say, surprise lies at the foundation of all undertakings
without exception, only in very different degrees
according to the nature of the undertaking and other
circumstances.
This difference, indeed, originates in the properties or
peculiarities of the Army and its Commander, in those
even of the Government.
Secrecy and rapidity are the two factors in this product
and these suppose in the Government and the Commander-
in-Chief great energy, and on the part of the Army a high
sense of military duty. With effeminacy and loose
principles it is in vain to calculate upon a surprise. But
so general, indeed so indispensable, as is this endeavour,
and true as it is that it is never wholly unproductive of
effect, still it is not the less true that it seldom succeeds
to a REMARKABLE degree, and this follows from the nature of
the idea itself. We should form an erroneous conception
if we believed that by this means chiefly there is much to
be attained in War. In idea it promises a great deal;
in the execution it generally sticks fast by the friction of
the whole machine.
In tactics the surprise is much more at home, for the
very natural reason that all times and spaces are on a
smaller scale. It will, therefore, in Strategy be the more
feasible in proportion as the measures lie nearer to the
province of tactics, and more difficult the higher up they
lie towards the province of policy.
The preparations for a War usually occupy several
months; the assembly of an Army at its principal positions
requires generally the formation of depo^ts and
magazines, and long marches, the object of which can be
guessed soon enough.
It therefore rarely happens that one State surprises
another by a War, or by the direction which it gives the
mass of its forces. In the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, when War turned very much upon sieges,
it was a frequent aim, and quite a peculiar and important
chapter in the Art of War, to invest a strong place unexpectedly,
but even that only rarely succeeded.[*]
[*] Railways, steamships, and telegraphs have, however,
enormously
modified the relative importance and practicability of surprise.
(EDITOR.)
On the other hand, with things which can be done in a
day or two, a surprise is much more conceivable, and,
therefore, also it is often not difficult thus to gain a march
upon the enemy, and thereby a position, a point of country,
a road, &c. But it is evident that what surprise gains
in this way in easy execution, it loses in the efficacy, as
the greater the efficacy the greater always the difficulty
of execution. Whoever thinks that with such surprises
on a small scale, he may connect great results--as, for
example, the gain of a battle, the capture of an important
magazine--believes in something which it is certainly
very possible to imagine, but for which there is no warrant
in history; for there are upon the whole very few instances
where anything great has resulted from such surprises;
from which we may justly conclude that inherent difficulties
lie in the way of their success.
Certainly, whoever would consult history on such points
must not depend on sundry battle steeds of historical
critics, on their wise dicta and self-complacent terminology,
but look at facts with his own eyes. There is, for instance,
a certain day in the campaign in Silesia, 1761, which, in
this respect, has attained a kind of notoriety. It is the
22nd July, on which Frederick the Great gained on
Laudon the march to Nossen, near Neisse, by which, as
is said, the junction of the Austrian and Russian armies
in Upper Silesia became impossible, and, therefore, a
period of four weeks was gained by the King. Whoever
reads over this occurrence carefully in the principal
histories,[*] and considers it impartially, will, in the march
of the 22nd July, never find this importance; and
generally in the whole of the fashionable logic on this
subject, he will see nothing but contradictions; but in
the proceedings of Laudon, in this renowned period of
manoeuvres, much that is unaccountable. How could
one, with a thirst for truth, and clear conviction, accept
such historical evidence?
[*] Tempelhof, The Veteran, Frederick the Great. Compare also
(Clausewitz) "Hinterlassene Werke," vol. x., p. 158.
When we promise ourselves great effects in a campaign
from the principle of surprising, we think upon great
activity, rapid resolutions, and forced marches, as the
means of producing them; but that these things, even
when forthcoming in a very high degree, will not always
produce the desired effect, we see in examples given byGenerals,
who may be
allowed to have had the greatest
talent in the use of these means, Frederick the Great and
Buonaparte. The first when he left Dresden so suddenly
in July 1760, and falling upon Lascy, then turned against
Dresden, gained nothing by the whole of that intermezzo,
but rather placed his affairs in a condition notably worse,
as the fortress Glatz fell in the meantime.
In 1813, Buonaparte turned suddenly from Dresden
twice against Bluecher, to say nothing of his incursion into
Bohemia from Upper Lusatia, and both times without
in the least attaining his object. They were blows in the
air which only cost him time and force, and might have
placed him in a dangerous position in Dresden.
Therefore, even in this field, a surprise does not necessarily
meet with great success through the mere activity,
energy, and resolution of the Commander; it must be
favoured by other circumstances. But we by no means
deny that there can be success; we only connect with it
a necessity of favourable circumstances, which, certainly
do not occur very frequently, and which the Commander
can seldom bring about himself.
Just those two Generals afford each a striking illustration
of this. We take first Buonaparte in his famous
enterprise against Bluecher's Army in February 1814,
when it was separated from the Grand Army, and descending
the Marne. It would not be easy to find a two days'
march to surprise the enemy productive of greater results
than this; Bluecher's Army, extended over a distance of
three days' march, was beaten in detail, and suffered a
loss nearly equal to that of defeat in a great battle. This
was completely the effect of a surprise, for if Bluecher
had thought of such a near possibility of an attack from
Buonaparte[*] he would have organised his march quite
differently. To this mistake of Bluecher's the result is
to be attributed. Buonaparte did not know all these
circumstances, and so there was a piece of good fortune
that mixed itself up in his favour.
[*] Bluecher believed his march to be covered by Pahlen's
Cossacks,
but these had been withdrawn without warning to him by the Grand
Army Headquarters under Schwartzenberg.
It is the same with the battle of Liegnitz, 1760. Frederick
the Great gained this fine victory through altering
during the night a position which he had just before taken
up. Laudon was through this completely surprised, and
lost 70 pieces of artillery and 10,000 men. Although
Frederick the Great had at this time adopted the principle
of moving backwards and forwards in order to make a
battle impossible, or at least to disconcert the enemy's
plans, still the alteration of position on the night of the
14-15 was not made exactly with that intention, but as
the King himself says, because the position of the 14th did
not please him. Here, therefore, also chance was hard at
work; without this happy conjunction of the attack and
the change of position in the night, and the difficult
nature of the country, the result would not have been
the same.
Also in the higher and highest province of Strategy
there are some instances of surprises fruitful in results.
We shall only cite the brilliant marches of the Great
Elector against the Swedes from Franconia to Pomerania
and from the Mark (Brandenburg) to the Pregel in 1757,
and the celebrated passage of the Alps by Buonaparte,
1800. In the latter case an Army gave up its whole
theatre of war by a capitulation, and in 1757 another
Army was very near giving up its theatre of war and itself
as well. Lastly, as an instance of a War wholly unexpected,
we may bring forward the invasion of Silesia
by Frederick the Great. Great and powerful are here the
results everywhere, but such events are not common in
history if we do not confuse with them cases in which
a State, for want of activity and energy (Saxony 1756,
and Russia, 1812), has not completed its preparations
in time.
Now there still remains an observation which concerns
the essence of the thing. A surprise can only be effected
by that party which gives the law to the other; and he
who is in the right gives the law. If we surprise the
adversary by a wrong measure, then instead of reaping
good results, we may have to bear a sound blow in return;
in any case the adversary need not trouble himself much
about our surprise, he has in our mistake the means of
turning off the evil. As the offensive includes in itself
much more positive action than the defensive, so the
surprise is certainly more in its place with the assailant,
but by no means invariably, as we shall hereafter see.
Mutual surprises by the offensive and defensive may
therefore meet, and then that one will have the advantage
who has hit the nail on the head the best.
So should it be, but practical life does not keep to this
line so exactly, and that for a very simple reason. The
moral effects which attend a surprise often convert the
worst case into a good one for the side they favour, and
do not allow the other to make any regular determination.
We have here in view more than anywhere else not only
the chief Commander, but each single one, because a surprise
has the effect in particular of greatly loosening
unity, so that the individuality of each separate leader
easily comes to light.
Much depends here on the general relation in which
the two parties stand to each other. If the one side
through a general moral superiority can intimidate and
outdo the other, then he can make use of the surprise
with more success, and even reap good fruit where
properly he should come to ruin.
CHAPTER X. STRATAGEM
STRATAGEM implies a concealed intention, and therefore
is opposed to straightforward dealing, in the same way
as wit is the opposite of direct proof. It has therefore
nothing in common with means of persuasion, of self-
interest, of force, but a great deal to do with deceit,
because that likewise conceals its object. It is itself
a deceit as well when it is done, but still it differs from
what is commonly called deceit, in this respect that there
is no direct breach of word. The deceiver by stratagem
leaves it to the person himself whom he is deceiving to
commit the errors of understanding which at last, flowing
into ONE result, suddenly change the nature of things in
his eyes. We may therefore say, as nit is a sleight of
hand with ideas and conceptions, so stratagem is a sleight
of hand with actions.
At first sight it appears as if Strategy had not improperly
derived its name from stratagem; and that, with all the
real and apparent changes which the whole character of
War has undergone since the time of the Greeks, this
term still points to its real nature.
If we leave to tactics the actual delivery of the blow,
the battle itself, and look upon Strategy as the art of
using this means with skill, then besides the forces of
the character, such as burning ambition which always
presses like a spring, a strong will which hardly bends
&c. &c., there seems no subjective quality so suited to
guide and inspire strategic activity as stratagem. The
general tendency to surprise, treated of in the foregoing
chapter, points to this conclusion, for there is a degree of
stratagem, be it ever so small, which lies at the foundation
of every attempt to surprise.
But however much we feel a desire to see the actors
in War outdo each other in hidden activity, readiness,
and stratagem, still we must admit that these qualities
show themselves but little in history, and have rarely
been able to work their way to the surface from amongst
the mass of relations and circumstances.
The explanation of this is obvious, and it is almost
identical with the subject matter of the preceding
chapter.
Strategy knows no other activity than the regulating
of combat with the measures which relate to it. It has
no concern, like ordinary life, with transactions which
consist merely of words--that is, in expressions, declarations,
&c. But these, which are very inexpensive, are
chiefly the means with which the wily one takes in those
he practises upon.
That which there is like it in War, plans and orders
given merely as make-believers, false reports sent on
purpose to the enemy--is usually of so little effect in the
strategic field that it is only resorted to in particular
cases which offer of themselves, therefore cannot be
regarded as spontaneous action which emanates from the
leader.
But such measures as carrying out the arrangements
for a battle, so far as to impose upon the enemy, require
a considerable expenditure of time and power; of course,
the greater the impression to be made, the greater the
expenditure in these respects. And as this is usually
not given for the purpose, very few demonstrations,
so-called, in Strategy, effect the object for which they are
designed. In fact, it is dangerous to detach large forces
for any length of time merely for a trick, because there is
always the risk of its being done in vain, and then these
forces are wanted at the decisive point.
The chief actor in War is always thoroughly sensible
of this sober truth, and therefore he has no desire to play
at tricks of agility. The bitter earnestness of necessity
presses so fully into direct action that there is no room
for that game. In a word, the pieces on the strategical
chess-board want that mobility which is the element of
stratagem and subtility.
The conclusion which we draw, is that a correct and
penetrating eye is a more necessary and more useful
quality for a General than craftiness, although that also
does no harm if it does not exist at the expense of necessary
qualities of the heart, which is only too often the case.
But the weaker the forces become which are under
the command of Strategy, so much the more they become
adapted for stratagem, so that to the quite feeble and
little, for whom no prudence, no sagacity is any longer
sufficient at the point where all art seems to forsake him,
stratagem offers itself as a last resource. The more
helpless his situation, the more everything presses towards
one single, desperate blow, the more readily stratagem
comes to the aid of his boldness. Let loose from all
further calculations, freed from all concern for the future,
boldness and stratagem intensify each other, and thus
collect at one point an infinitesimal glimmering of hope
into a single ray, which may likewise serve to kindle
a flame.
CHAPTER XI. ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN SPACE
THE best Strategy is ALWAYS TO BE VERY STRONG, first generally
then at the decisive point. Therefore, apart from the
energy which creates the Army, a work which is not
always done by the General, there is no more imperative
and no simpler law for Strategy than to KEEP THE FORCES
CONCENTRATED.--No portion is to be separated from the main
body unless called away by some urgent necessity. On
this maxim we stand firm, and look upon it as a guide
to be depended upon. What are the reasonable grounds
on which a detachment of forces may be made we shall
learn by degrees. Then we shall also see that this principle
cannot have the same general effects in every War,
but that these are different according to the means and
end.
It seems incredible, and yet it has happened a hundred
times, that troops have been divided and separated
merely through a mysterious feeling of conventional
manner, without any clear perception of the reason.
If the concentration of the whole force is acknowledged
as the norm, and every division and separation as an
exception which must be justified, then not only will
that folly be completely avoided, but also many an
erroneous ground for separating troops will be barred
admission.
CHAPTER XII. ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN TIME
WE have here to deal with a conception which in real
life diffuses many kinds of illusory light. A clear definition
and development of the idea is therefore necessary,
and we hope to be allowed a short analysis.
War is the shock of two opposing forces in collision
with each other, from which it follows as a matter of
course that the stronger not only destroys the other,
but carries it forward with it in its movement. This
fundamentally admits of no successive action of powers,
but makes the simultaneous application of all forces
intended for the shock appear as a primordial law of War.
So it is in reality, but only so far as the struggle resembles
also in practice a mechanical shock, but when
it consists in a lasting, mutual action of destructive
forces, then we can certainly imagine a successive action
of forces. This is the case in tactics, principally because
firearms form the basis of all tactics, but also for other
reasons as well. If in a fire combat 1000 men are opposed
to 500, then the gross loss is calculated from the amount
of the enemy's force and our own; 1000 men fire twice as
many shots as 500, but more shots will take effect on the
1000 than on the 500 because it is assumed that they stand
in closer order than the other. If we were to suppose the
number of hits to be double, then the losses on each side
would be equal. From the 500 there would be for example
200 disabled, and out of the body of 1000 likewise the
same; now if the 500 had kept another body of equal
number quite out of fire, then both sides would have 800
effective men; but of these, on the one side there would
be 500 men quite fresh, fully supplied with ammunition,
and in their full vigour; on the other side only 800 all
alike shaken in their order, in want of sufficient ammunition
and weakened in physical force. The assumption
that the 1000 men merely on account of their greater
number would lose twice as many as 500 would have lost
in their place, is certainly not correct; therefore the
greater loss which the side suffers that has placed the
half of its force in reserve, must be regarded as a disadvantage
in that original formation; further it must be
admitted, that in the generality of cases the 1000 men
would have the advantage at the first commencement of
being able to drive their opponent out of his position and
force him to a retrograde movement; now, whether these
two advantages are a counterpoise to the disadvantage
of finding ourselves with 800 men to a certain extent
disorganised by the combat, opposed to an enemy who is
not materially weaker in numbers and who has 500 quite
fresh troops, is one that cannot be decided by pursuing
an analysis further, we must here rely upon experience,
and there will scarcely be an officer experienced in War
who will not in the generality of cases assign the advantage
to that side which has the fresh troops.
In this way it becomes evident how the employment
of too many forces in combat may be disadvantageous;
for whatever advantages the superiority may give in the
first moment, we may have to pay dearly for in the next.
But this danger only endures as long as the disorder,
the state of confusion and weakness lasts, in a word, up
to the crisis which every combat brings with it even for
the conqueror. Within the duration of this relaxed state
of exhaustion, the appearance of a proportionate number
of fresh troops is decisive.
But when this disordering effect of victory stops, and
therefore only the moral superiority remains which every
victory gives, then it is no longer possible for fresh troops
to restore the combat, they would only be carried along
in the general movement; a beaten Army cannot be
brought back to victory a day after by means of a strong
reserve. Here we find ourselves at the source of a highly
material difference between tactics and strategy.
The tactical results, the results within the four corners
of the battle, and before its close, lie for the most part
within the limits of that period of disorder and weakness.
But the strategic result, that is to say, the result of the
total combat, of the victories realised, let them be small
or great, lies completely (beyond) outside of that period.
It is only when the results of partial combats have bound
themselves together into an independent whole, that the
strategic result appears, but then, the state of crisis is
over, the forces have resumed their original form, and
are now only weakened to the extent of those actually
destroyed (placed hors de combat).
The consequence of this difference is, that tactics can
make a continued use of forces, Strategy only a simultaneous
one.[*]
[*] See chaps. xiii., and xiv., Book III and chap. xxix. Book
V.--TR.
If I cannot, in tactics, decide all by the first success, if
I have to fear the next moment, it follows of itself that I
employ only so much of my force for the success of the
first moment as appears sufficient for that object, and keep
the rest beyond the reach of fire or conflict of any kind,
in order to be able to oppose fresh troops to fresh, or
with such to overcome those that are exhausted. But
it is not so in Strategy. Partly, as we have just shown,
it has not so much reason to fear a reaction after a success
realised, because with that success the crisis stops; partly
all the forces strategically employed are not necessarily
weakened. Only so much of them as have been tactically
in conflict with the enemy's force, that is, engaged in
partial combat, are weakened by it; consequently, only so
much as was unavoidably necessary, but by no means
all which was strategically in conflict with the enemy,
unless tactics has expended them unnecessarily. Corps
which, on account of the general superiority in numbers,
have either been little or not at all engaged, whose presence
alone has assisted in the result, are after the decision
the same as they were before, and for new enterprises as
efficient as if they had been entirely inactive. How
greatly such corps which thus constitute our excess may
contribute to the total success is evident in itself; indeed,
it is not difficult to see how they may even diminish
considerably the loss of the forces engaged in tactical,
conflict on our side.
If, therefore, in Strategy the loss does not increase with
the number of the troops employed, but is often diminished
by it, and if, as a natural consequence, the decision in our
favor is, by that
means, the more certain, then it follows naturally that in
Strategy we can
never employ too many forces, and consequently also that they
must
be applied simultaneously to the immediate purpose.
But we must vindicate this proposition upon another
ground. We have hitherto only spoken of the combat
itself; it is the real activity in War, but men, time, and
space, which appear as the elements of this activity,
must, at the same time, be kept in view, and the results
of their influence brought into consideration also.
Fatigue, exertion, and privation constitute in War a
special principle of destruction, not essentially belonging
to contest, but more or less inseparably bound up with it,
and certainly one which especially belongs to Strategy.
They no doubt exist in tactics as well, and perhaps there
in the highest degree; but as the duration of the tactical
acts is shorter, therefore the small effects of exertion and
privation on them can come but little into consideration.
But in Strategy on the other hand, where time and space,
are on a larger scale, their influence is not only always
very considerable, but often quite decisive. It is not at
all uncommon for a victorious Army to lose many more
by sickness than on the field of battle.
If, therefore, we look at this sphere of destruction in
Strategy in the same manner as we have considered that
of fire and close combat in tactics, then we may well
imagine that everything which comes within its vortex
will, at the end of the campaign or of any other strategic
period, be reduced to a state of weakness, which makes
the arrival of a fresh force decisive. We might therefore
conclude that there is a motive in the one case as well
as the other to strive for the first success with as few forces
as possible, in order to keep up this fresh force for the
last.
In order to estimate exactly this conclusion, which,
in many cases in practice, will have a great appearancetruth, we
must direct
our attention to the separate
ideas which it contains. In the first place, we must not
confuse the notion of reinforcement with that of fresh
unused troops. There are few campaigns at the end of
which an increase of force is not earnestly desired by
the conqueror as well as the conquered, and indeed
should appear decisive; but that is not the point here,
for that increase of force could not be necessary if the force
had been so much larger at the first. But it would be
contrary to all experience to suppose that an Army coming
fresh into the field is to be esteemed higher in point of
moral value than an Army already in the field, just as a
tactical reserve is more to be esteemed than a body of
troops which has been already severely handled in the
fight. Just as much as an unfortunate campaign lowers
the courage and moral powers of an Army, a successful
one raises these elements in their value. In the generality
of cases, therefore, these influences are compensated,
and then there remains over and above as clear gain the
habituation to War. We should besides look more here
to successful than to unsuccessful campaigns, because
when the greater probability of the latter may be seen
beforehand, without doubt forces are wanted, and,
therefore, the reserving a portion for future use is out of
the question.
This point being settled, then the question is, Do the
losses which a force sustains through fatigues and privations
increase in proportion to the size of the force, as
is the case in a combat? And to that we answer "No."
The fatigues of War result in a great measure from the
dangers with which every moment of the act of War is
more or less impregnated. To encounter these dangers
at all points, to proceed onwards with security in the
execution of one's plans, gives employment to a multitude
of agencies which make up the tactical and
strategic service of the Army. This service is more difficult
the weaker an Army is, and easier as its numerical
superiority over that of the enemy increases. Who can
doubt this? A campaign against a much weaker enemy
will therefore cost smaller efforts than against one just
as strong or stronger.
So much for the fatigues. It is somewhat different
with the privations; they consist chiefly of two things,
the want of food, and the want of shelter for the troops,
either in quarters or in suitable camps. Both these
wants will no doubt be greater in proportion as the number
of men on one spot is greater. But does not the superiority
in force afford also the best means of spreading
out and finding more room, and therefore more means of
subsistence and shelter?
If Buonaparte, in his invasion of Russia in 1812,
concentrated his Army in great masses upon one single road
in a manner never heard of before, and thus caused
privations equally unparalleled, we must ascribe it to his
maxim THAT IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO BE TOO STRONG AT THE DECISIVE
POINT. Whether in this instance he did not strain the
principle too far is a question which would be out of place
here; but it is certain that, if he had made a point of
avoiding the distress which was by that means brought
about, he had only to advance on a greater breadth of
front. Room was not wanted for the purpose in Russia,
and in very few cases can it be wanted. Therefore, from
this no ground can be deduced to prove that the simultaneous
employment of very superior forces must produce
greater weakening. But now, supposing that in spite
of the general relief afforded by setting apart a portion
of the Army, wind and weather and the toils of War had
produced a diminution even on the part which as a spare
force had been reserved for later use, still we must take
a comprehensive general view of the whole, and therefore
ask, Will this diminution of force suffice to counterbalance
the gain in forces, which we, through our superiority
in numbers, may be able to make in more ways
than one?
But there still remains a most important point to be
noticed. In a partial combat, the force required to obtain
a great result can be approximately estimated without
much difficulty, and, consequently, we can form an idea
of what is superfluous. In Strategy this may be said to
be impossible, because the strategic result has no such
well-defined object and no such circumscribed limits as
the tactical. Thus what can be looked upon in tactics
as an excess of power, must be regarded in Strategy as a
means to give expansion to success, if opportunity offers
for it; with the magnitude of the success the gain in force
increases at the same time, and in this way the superiority
of numbers may soon reach a point which the most
careful economy of forces could never have attained.
By means of his enormous numerical superiority,
Buonaparte was enabled to reach Moscow in 1812, and
to take that central capital. Had he by means of this
superiority succeeded in completely defeating the Russian
Army, he would, in all probability, have concluded a
peace in Moscow which in any other way was much less
attainable. This example is used to explain the idea,
not to prove it, which would require a circumstantial
demonstration, for which this is not the place.[*]
[*] Compare Book VII., second edition, p. 56.
All these reflections bear merely upon the idea of a
successive employment of forces, and not upon the conception
of a reserve properly so called, which they, no doubt,
come in contact with throughout, but which, as we shall
see in the following chapter, is connected with some other
considerations.
What we desire to establish here is, that if in tactics
the military force through the mere duration of actual
employment suffers a diminution of power, if time,
therefore, appears as a factor in the result, this is not the
case in Strategy in a material degree. The destructive
effects which are also produced upon the forces in Strategy
by time, are partly diminished through their mass,
partly made good in other ways, and, therefore, in
Strategy it cannot be an object to make time an ally on
its own account by bringing troops successively into
action.
We say on "its own account," for the influence which
time, on account of other circumstances which it brings
about but which are different from itself can have, indeed
must necessarily have, for one of the two parties, is quite
another thing, is anything but indifferent or unimportant,
and will be the subject of consideration hereafter.
The rule which we have been seeking to set forth is,
therefore, that all forces which are available and destined
for a strategic object should be SIMULTANEOUSLY applied to
it; and this application will be so much the more complete
the more everything is compressed into one act and into
one movement.
But still there is in Strategy a renewal of effort and a
persistent action which, as a chief means towards the
ultimate success, is more particularly not to be overlooked,
it is the CONTINUAL DEVELOPMENT OF NEW FORCES. This
is also the subject of another chapter, and we only refer
to it here in order to prevent the reader from having
something in view of which we have not been speaking.
We now turn to a subject very closely connected with
our present considerations, which must be settled before
full light can be thrown on the whole, we mean the
STRATEGIC RESERVE.
CHAPTER XIII. STRATEGIC RESERVE
A RESERVE has two objects which are very distinct from
each other, namely, first, the prolongation and renewal
of the combat, and secondly, for use in case of unforeseen
events. The first object implies the utility of a successive
application of forces, and on that account cannot
occur in Strategy. Cases in which a corps is sent to
succour a point which is supposed to be about to fall are
plainly to be placed in the category of the second object,
as the resistance which has to be offered here could not
have been sufficiently foreseen. But a corps which is
destined expressly to prolong the combat, and with that
object in view is placed in rear, would be only a corps
placed out of reach of fire, but under the command and
at the disposition of the General Commanding in the
action, and accordingly would be a tactical and not a
strategic reserve.
But the necessity for a force ready for unforeseen
events may also take place in Strategy, and consequently
there may also be a strategic reserve, but only where
unforeseen events are imaginable. In tactics, where the
enemy's measures are generally first ascertained by direct
sight, and where they may be concealed by every wood,
every fold of undulating ground, we must naturally
always be alive, more or less, to the possibility of unforeseen
events, in order to strengthen, subsequently, those
points which appear too weak, and, in fact, to modify
generally the disposition of our troops, so as to make it
correspond better to that of the enemy.
Such cases must also happen in Strategy, because the
strategic act is directly linked to the tactical. In Strategy
also many a measure is first adopted in consequence of
what is actually seen, or in consequence of uncertain
reports arriving from day to day, or even from hour to
hour, and lastly, from the actual results of the combats
it is, therefore, an essential condition of strategic command
that, according to the degree of uncertainty,
forces must be kept in reserve against future contingencies.
In the defensive generally, but particularly in the
defence of certain obstacles of ground, like rivers, hills,
&c., such contingencies, as is well known, happen constantly.
But this uncertainty diminishes in proportion as the
strategic activity has less of the tactical character, and
ceases almost altogether in those regions where it borders
on politics.
The direction in which the enemy leads his columns to
the combat can be perceived by actual sight only; where
he intends to pass a river is learnt from a few preparations
which are made shortly before; the line by which he
proposes to invade our country is usually announced by
all the newspapers before a pistol shot has been fired.
The greater the nature of the measure the less it will
take the enemy by surprise. Time and space are so
considerable, the circumstances out of which the action
proceeds so public and little susceptible of alteration,
that the coming event is either made known in good time,
or can be discovered with reasonable certainty.
On the other hand the use of a reserve in this province
of Strategy, even if one were available, will always be
less efficacious the more the measure has a tendency
towards being one of a general nature.
We have seen that the decision of a partial combat is
nothing in itself, but that all partial combats only find
their complete solution in the decision of the total
combat.
But even this decision of the total combat has only a
relative meaning of many different gradations, according
as the force over which the victory has been gained
forms a more or less great and important part of the whole.
The lost battle of a corps may be repaired by the victory
of the Army. Even the lost battle of an Army may not
only be counterbalanced by the gain of a more important
one, but converted into a fortunate event (the two days
of Kulm, August 29 and 30, 1813[*]). No one can doubt
this; but it is just as clear that the weight of each victory
(the successful issue of each total combat) is so much the
more substantial the more important the part conquered,
and that therefore the possibility of repairing the loss
by subsequent events diminishes in the same proportion.
In another place we shall have to examine this more in
detail; it suffices for the present to have drawn attention
to the indubitable existence of this progression.
[*] Refers to the destruction of Vandamme's column, which had
been
sent unsupported to intercept the retreat of the Austrians and
Prussians
from Dresden--but was forgotten by Napoleon.--EDITOR.
If we now add lastly to these two considerations the
third, which is, that if the persistent use of forces in tactics
always shifts the great result to the end of the whole act,law of
the
simultaneous use of the forces in Strategy,
on the contrary, lets the principal result (which need not
be the final one) take place almost always at the commencement
of the great (or whole) act, then in these three
results we have grounds sufficient to find strategic reserves
always more superfluous, always more useless, always
more dangerous, the more general their destination.
The point where the idea of a strategic reserve begins
to become inconsistent is not difficult to determine: it
lies in the SUPREME DECISION. Employment must be given
to all the forces within the space of the supreme decision,
and every reserve (active force available) which is only
intended for use after that decision is opposed to common
sense.
If, therefore, tactics has in its reserves the means of
not only meeting unforeseen dispositions on the part of
the enemy, but also of repairing that which never can be
foreseen, the result of the combat, should that be unfortunate;
Strategy on the other hand must, at least as far
as relates to the capital result, renounce the use of these
means. As A rule, it can only repair the losses sustained at
one point by advantages gained at another, in a few cases
by moving troops from one point to another; the idea
of preparing for such reverses by placing forces in reserve
beforehand, can never be entertained in Strategy.
We have pointed out as an absurdity the idea of a
strategic reserve which is not to co-operate in the capital
result, and as it is so beyond a doubt, we should not have
been led into such an analysis as we have made in these
two chapters, were it not that, in the disguise of other
ideas, it looks like something better, and frequently makes
its appearance. One person sees in it the acme of strategic
sagacity and foresight; another rejects it, and with it
the idea of any reserve, consequently even of a tactical
one. This confusion of ideas is transferred to real life,
and if we would see a memorable instance of it we have
only to call to mind that Prussia in 1806 left a reserve of
20,000 men cantoned in the Mark, under Prince Eugene
of Wurtemberg, which could not possibly reach the Saale
in time to be of any use, and that another force Of 25,000
men belonging to this power remained in East and South
Prussia, destined only to be put on a war-footing afterwards
as a reserve.
After these examples we cannot be accused of having
been fighting with windmills.
CHAPTER XIV. ECONOMY OF FORCES
THE road of reason, as we have said, seldom allows itself
to be reduced to a mathematical line by principles and
opinions. There remains always a certain margin.
But it is the same in all the practical arts of life. For the
lines of beauty there are no abscissae and ordinates;
circles and ellipses are not described by means of their
algebraical formulae. The actor in War therefore soon
finds he must trust himself to the delicate tact of judgment
which, founded on natural quickness of perception, and
educated by reflection, almost unconsciously seizes upon
the right; he soon finds that at one time he must
simplify the law (by reducing it) to some prominent
characteristic points which form his rules; that at another
the adopted method must become the staff on which he
leans.
As one of these simplified characteristic points as a
mental appliance, we look upon the principle of watching
continually over the co-operation of all forces, or in other
words, of keeping constantly in view that no part of them
should ever be idle. Whoever has forces where the enemy
does not give them sufficient employment, whoever has
part of his forces on the march--that is, allows them to
lie dead--while the enemy's are fighting, he is a bad
manager of his forces. In this sense there is a waste of
forces, which is even worse than their employment to no
purpose. If there must be action, then the first point is
that all parts act, because the most purposeless activity
still keeps employed and destroys a portion of the enemy's
force, whilst troops completely inactive are for the
moment quite neutralised. Unmistakably this idea is
bound up with the principles contained in the last three
chapters, it is the same truth, but seen from a somewhat
more comprehensive point of view and condensed into a
single conception.
CHAPTER XV. GEOMETRICAL ELEMENT
THE length to which the geometrical element or form in
the disposition of military force in War can become a
predominant principle, we see in the art of fortification,
where geometry looks after the great and the little. Also
in tactics it plays a great part. It is the basis of elementary
tactics, or of the theory of moving troops; but in
field fortification, as well as in the theory of positions,
and of their attack, its angles and lines rule like law
givers who have to decide the contest. Many things
here were at one time misapplied, and others were mere
fribbles; still, however, in the tactics of the present day,
in which in every combat the aim is to surround the
enemy, the geometrical element has attained anew a
great importance in a very simple, but constantly recurring
application. Nevertheless, in tactics, where all is
more movable, where the moral forces, individual traits,
and chance are more influential than in a war of sieges,
the geometrical element can never attain to the same
degree of supremacy as in the latter. But less still is its
influence in Strategy; certainly here, also, form in the
disposition of troops, the shape of countries and states
is of great importance; but the geometrical element is
not decisive, as in fortification, and not nearly so important
as in tactics.--The manner in which this influence
exhibits itself, can only be shown by degrees at those
places where it makes its appearance, and deserves notice.
Here we wish more to direct attention to the difference
which there is between tactics and Strategy in relation
to it.
In tactics time and space quickly dwindle to their
absolute minimum. If a body of troops is attacked in
flank and rear by the enemy, it soon gets to a point where
retreat no longer remains; such a position is very close
to an absolute impossibility of continuing the fight; it
must therefore extricate itself from it, or avoid getting
into it. This gives to all combinations aiming at this
from the first commencement a great efficiency, which
chiefly consists in the disquietude which it causes the
enemy as to consequences. This is why the geometrical
disposition of the forces is such an important factor in
the tactical product.
In Strategy this is only faintly reflected, on account of
the greater space and time. We do not fire from one
theatre of war upon another; and often weeks and months
must pass before a strategic movement designed to
surround the enemy can be executed. Further, the
distances are so great that the probability of hitting
the right point at last, even with the best arrangements,
is but small.
In Strategy therefore the scope for such combinations,
that is for those resting on the geometrical element, is
much smaller, and for the same reason the effect of an
advantage once actually gained at any point is much
greater. Such advantage has time to bring all its effects
to maturity before it is disturbed, or quite neutralised
therein, by any counteracting apprehensions. We therefore
do not hesitate to regard as an established truth,
that in Strategy more depends on the number and the magnitude of
the victorious
combats, than on the form of the great lines by which they are
connected.
A view just the reverse has been a favourite theme
of modern theory, because a greater importance was supposed
to be thus given to Strategy, and, as the higher
functions of the mind were seen in Strategy, it was
thought by that means to ennoble War, and, as it was
said--through a new substitution of ideas--to make it
more scientific. We hold it to be one of the principal
uses of a complete theory openly to expose such vagaries,
and as the geometrical element is the fundamental idea
from which theory usually proceeds, therefore we have
expressly brought out this point in strong relief.
CHAPTER XVI. ON THE SUSPENSION OF THE ACT IN WARFARE
IF one considers War as an act of mutual destruction, we
must of necessity imagine both parties as making some
progress; but at the same time, as regards the existing
moment, we must almost as necessarily suppose the one
party in a state of expectation, and only the other actually
advancing, for circumstances can never be actually the
same on both sides, or continue so. In time a change must
ensue, from which it follows that the present moment is
more favourable to one side than the other. Now if we
suppose that both commanders have a full knowledge of
this circumstance, then the one has a motive for action,
which at the same time is a motive for the other to wait;
therefore, according to this it cannot be for the interest
of both at the same time to advance, nor can waiting be
for the interest of both at the same time. This opposition
of interest as regards the object is not deduced here
from the principle of general polarity, and therefore is not
in opposition to the argument in the fifth chapter of the
second book; it depends on the fact that here in reality
the same thing is at once an incentive or motive to both
commanders, namely the probability of improving or
impairing their position by future action.
But even if we suppose the possibility of a perfect
equality of circumstances in this respect, or if we take
into account that through imperfect knowledge of their
mutual position such an equality may appear to the two
Commanders to subsist, still the difference of political
objects does away with this possibility of suspension.
One of the parties must of necessity be assumed politically
to be the aggressor, because no War could take place from
defensive intentions on both sides. But the aggressor
has the positive object, the defender merely a negative
one. To the first then belongs the positive action, for
it is only by that means that he can attain the positive
object; therefore, in cases where both parties are in
precisely similar circumstances, the aggressor is called
upon to act by virtue of his positive object.
Therefore, from this point of view, a suspension in the
act of Warfare, strictly speaking, is in contradiction with
the nature of the thing; because two Armies, being two
incompatible elements, should destroy one another
unremittingly, just as fire and water can never put themselves
in equilibrium, but act and react upon one another,
until one quite disappears. What would be said of two
wrestlers who remained clasped round each other for
hours without making a movement. Action in War,
therefore, like that of a clock which is wound up, should
go on running down in regular motion.--But wild as is
the nature of War it still wears the chains of human
weakness, and the contradiction we see here, viz., that
man seeks and creates dangers which he fears at the
same time will astonish no one.
If we cast a glance at military history in general, we
find so much the opposite of an incessant advance towards
the aim, that STANDING STILL and DOING NOTHING is quite
plainly the NORMAL CONDITION of an Army in the midst of
War, ACTING, the EXCEPTION. This must almost raise a
doubt as to the correctness of our conception. But if
military history leads to this conclusion when viewed
in the mass the latest series of campaigns redeems our
position. The War of the French Revolution shows too
plainly its reality, and only proves too clearly its necessity.
In these operations, and especially in the campaigns of
Buonaparte, the conduct of War attained to that unlimited
degree of energy which we have represented as the
natural law of the element. This degree is therefore
possible, and if it is possible then it is necessary.
How could any one in fact justify in the eyes of reason
the expenditure of forces in War, if acting was not the
object? The baker only heats his oven if he has bread
to put into it; the horse is only yoked to the carriage if
we mean to drive; why then make the enormous effort
of a War if we look for nothing else by it but like efforts
on the part of the enemy?
So much in justification of the general principle; now
as to its modifications, as far as they lie in the nature of
the thing and are independent of special cases.
There are three causes to be noticed here, which appear
as innate counterpoises and prevent the over-rapid or
uncontrollable movement of the wheel-work.
The first, which produces a constant tendency to delay,
and is thereby a retarding principle, is the natural timidity
and want of resolution in the human mind, a kind of
inertia in the moral world, but which is produced not by
attractive, but by repellent forces, that is to say, by dread
of danger and responsibility.
In the burning element of War, ordinary natures appear
to become heavier; the impulsion given must therefore
be stronger and more frequently repeated if the motion is
to be a continuous one. The mere idea of the object for
which arms have been taken up is seldom sufficient to
overcome this resistant force, and if a warlike enterprising
spirit is not at the head, who feels himself in War in his
natural element, as much as a fish in the ocean, or if
there is not the pressure from above of some great
responsibility, then standing still will be the order of
the day, and progress will be the exception.
The second cause is the imperfection of human perception
and judgment, which is greater in War than anywhere,
because a person hardly knows exactly his own position
from one moment to another, and can only conjecture on
slight grounds that of the enemy, which is purposely
concealed; this often gives rise to the case of both parties
looking upon one and the same object as advantageous
for them, while in reality the interest of one must
preponderate; thus then each may think he acts wisely
by waiting another moment, as we have already said in
the fifth chapter of the second book.
The third cause which catches hold, like a ratchet wheel
in machinery, from time to time producing a complete
standstill, is the greater strength of the defensive form.
A may feel too weak to attack B, from which it does not
follow that B is strong enough for an attack on A. The
addition of strength, which the defensive gives is not
merely lost by assuming the offensive, but also passes to
the enemy just as, figuratively expressed, the difference
of a + b and a - b is equal to 2b. Therefore it may so
happen that both parties, at one and the same time, not
only feel themselves too weak to attack, but also are so
in reality.
Thus even in the midst of the act of War itself, anxious
sagacity and the apprehension of too great danger find
vantage ground, by means of which they can exert their
power, and tame the elementary impetuosity of War.
However, at the same time these causes without an
exaggeration of their effect, would hardly explain the long
states of inactivity which took place in military operations,
in former times, in Wars undertaken about interests of
no great importance, and in which inactivity consumed
nine-tenths of the time that the troops remained under
arms. This feature in these Wars, is to be traced
principally to the influence which the demands of the
one party, and the condition, and feeling of the other,
exercised over the conduct of the operations, as has
been already observed in the chapter on the essence
and object of War.
These things may obtain such a preponderating influence
as to make of War a half-and-half affair. A War
is often nothing more than an armed neutrality, or a
menacing attitude to support negotiations or an attempt
to gain some small advantage by small exertions, and
then to wait the tide of circumstances, or a disagreeable
treaty obligation, which is fulfilled in the most niggardly
way possible.
In all these cases in which the impulse given by interest
is slight, and the principle of hostility feeble, in which
there is no desire to do much, and also not much to dread
from the enemy; in short, where no powerful motives
press and drive, cabinets will not risk much in the game;
hence this tame mode of carrying on War, in which the
hostile spirit of real War is laid in irons.
The more War becomes in this manner devitalised
so much the more its theory becomes destitute of the
necessary firm pivots and buttresses for its reasoning;
the necessary is constantly diminishing, the accidental
constantly increasing.
Nevertheless in this kind of Warfare, there is also a
certain shrewdness, indeed, its action is perhaps more
diversified, and more extensive than in the other. Hazard
played with realeaux of gold seems changed into a game
of commerce with groschen. And on this field, where the
conduct of War spins out the time with a number of small
flourishes, with skirmishes at outposts, half in earnest
half in jest, with long dispositions which end in nothing
with positions and marches, which afterwards are designated
as skilful only because their infinitesimally small
causes are lost, and common sense can make nothing of
them, here on this very field many theorists find the real
Art of War at home: in these feints, parades, half and
quarter thrusts of former Wars, they find the aim of all
theory, the supremacy of mind over matter, and modern
Wars appear to them mere savage fisticuffs, from which
nothing is to be learnt, and which must be regarded as mere
retrograde steps towards barbarism. This opinion is as
frivolous as the objects to which it relates. Where great
forces and great passions are wanting, it is certainly easier
for a practised dexterity to show its game; but is then
the command of great forces, not in itself a higher exercise
of the intelligent faculties? Is then that kind of conventional
sword-exercise not comprised in and belonging to
the other mode of conducting War? Does it not bear the
same relation to it as the motions upon a ship to the motion
of the ship itself? Truly it can take place only under the
tacit condition that the adversary does no better. And
can we tell, how long he may choose to respect those
conditions? Has not then the French Revolution fallen
upon us in the midst of the fancied security of our old
system of War, and driven us from Chalons to Moscow?
And did not Frederick the Great in like manner surprise
the Austrians reposing in their ancient habits of War,
and make their monarchy tremble? Woe to the cabinet
which, with a shilly-shally policy, and a routine-ridden
military system, meets with an adversary who, like the
rude element, knows no other law than that of his intrinsic
force. Every deficiency in energy and exertion is then a
weight in the scales in favour of the enemy; it is not so
easy then to change from the fencing posture into that
of an athlete, and a slight blow is often sufficient to
knock down the whole.
The result of all the causes now adduced is, that the
hostile action of a campaign does not progress by a
continuous, but by an intermittent movement, and that,
therefore, between the separate bloody acts, there is a
period of watching, during which both parties fall into
the defensive, and also that usually a higher object causes
the principle of aggression to predominate on one side,
and thus leaves it in general in an advancing position,
by which then its proceedings become modified in some
degree.
CHAPTER XVII. ON THE CHARACTER OF MODERN WAR
THE attention which must be paid to the character of War
as it is now made, has a great influence upon all plans,
especially on strategic ones.
Since all methods formerly usual were upset by Buonaparte's
luck and boldness, and first-rate Powers almost
wiped out at a blow; since the Spaniards by their stubborn
resistance have shown what the general arming of a nation
and insurgent measures on a great scale can effect, in
spite of weakness and porousness of individual parts;
since Russia, by the campaign of 1812 has taught us, first,
that an Empire of great dimensions is not to be conquered
(which might have been easily known before), secondly,
that the probability of final success does not in all cases
diminish in the same measure as battles, capitals, and
provinces are lost (which was formerly an incontrovertible
principle with all diplomatists, and therefore made them
always ready to enter at once into some bad temporary
peace), but that a nation is often strongest in the heart of
its country, if the enemy's offensive power has exhausted
itself, and with what enormous force the defensive then
springs over to the offensive; further, since Prussia
(1813) has shown that sudden efforts may add to an Army
sixfold by means of the militia, and that this militia is
just as fit for service abroad as in its own country;--
since all these events have shown what an enormous
factor the heart and sentiments of a Nation may be in the
product of its political and military strength, in fine,
since governments have found out all these additional
aids, it is not to be expected that they will let them lie
idle in future Wars, whether it be that danger threatens
their own existence, or that restless ambition drives
them on.
That a War which is waged with the whole weight
of the national power on each side must be organised
differently in principle to those where everything is
calculated according to the relations of standing Armies
to each other, it is easy to perceive. Standing Armies
once resembled fleets, the land force the sea force in their
relations to the remainder of the State, and from that the
Art of War on shore had in it something of naval tactics,
which it has now quite lost.
CHAPTER XVIII. TENSION AND REST
The Dynamic Law of War
WE have seen in the sixteenth chapter of this book, how, in most
campaigns,
much more time used to be spent in standing still and inaction
than in
activity.
Now, although, as observed in the preceding chapter
we see quite a different character in the present form of
War, still it is certain that real action will always be
interrupted more or less by long pauses; and this leads
to the necessity of our examining more closely the nature
of these two phases of War.
If there is a suspension of action in War, that is, if
neither party wills something positive, there is rest, and
consequently equilibrium, but certainly an equilibrium
in the largest signification, in which not only the moral
and physical war-forces, but all relations and interests,
come into calculation. As soon as ever one of the two
parties proposes to himself a new positive object, and
commences active steps towards it, even if it is only by
preparations, and as soon as the adversary opposes this,
there is a tension of powers; this lasts until the decision
takes place--that is, until one party either gives up his
object or the other has conceded it to him.
This decision--the foundation of which lies always in
the combat--combinations which are made on each side--
is followed by a movement in one or other direction.
When this movement has exhausted itself, either in
the difficulties which had to be mastered, in overcoming
its own internal friction, or through new resistant forces
prepared by the acts of the enemy, then either a state
of rest takes place or a new tension with a decision, and
then a new movement, in most cases in the opposite
direction.
This speculative distinction between equilibrium, tension,
and motion is more essential for practical action
than may at first sight appear.
In a state of rest and of equilibrium a varied kind
of activity may prevail on one side that results from
opportunity, and does not aim at a great alteration. Such
an activity may contain important combats--even pitched
battles--but yet it is still of quite a different nature, and
on that account generally different in its effects.
If a state of tension exists, the effects of the decision
are always greater partly because a greater force of will
and a greater pressure of circumstances manifest themselves
therein; partly because everything has been
prepared and arranged for a great movement. The decision
in such cases resembles the effect of a mine well
closed and tamped, whilst an event in itself perhaps just
as great, in a state of rest, is more or less like a mass of
powder puffed away in the open air.
At the same time, as a matter of course, the state of
tension must be imagined in different degrees of intensity,
and it may therefore approach gradually by many steps
towards the state of rest, so that at the last there is a
very slight difference between them.
Now the real use which we derive from these reflections
is the conclusion that every measure which is taken during
a state of tension is more important and more prolific
in results than the same measure could be in a state of
equilibrium, and that this importance increases immensely
in the highest degrees of tension.
The cannonade of Valmy, September 20, 1792, decided
more than the battle of Hochkirch, October 14, 1758.
In a tract of country which the enemy abandons to us
because he cannot defend it, we can settle ourselves
differently from what we should do if the retreat of the
enemy was only made with the view to a decision under
more favourable circumstances. Again, a strategic attack
in course of execution, a faulty position, a single false
march, may be decisive in its consequence; whilst in a
state of equilibrium such errors must be of a very glaring
kind, even to excite the activity of the enemy in a general
way.
Most bygone Wars, as we have already said, consisted,
so far as regards the greater part of the time, in this state
of equilibrium, or at least in such short tensions with
long intervals between them, and weak in their effects,
that the events to which they gave rise were seldom
great successes, often they were theatrical exhibitions,
got up in honour of a royal birthday (Hochkirch), often
a mere satisfying of the honour of the arms (Kunersdorf),
or the personal vanity of the commander (Freiberg).
That a Commander should thoroughly understand these
states, that he should have the tact to act in the spirit of
them, we hold to be a great requisite, and we have had
experience in the campaign of 1806 how far it is sometimes
wanting. In that tremendous tension, when everything
pressed on towards a supreme decision, and that alone
with all its consequences should have occupied the whole
soul of the Commander, measures were proposed and even
partly carried out (such as the reconnaissance towards
Franconia), which at the most might have given a kind
of gentle play of oscillation within a state of equilibrium.
Over these blundering schemes and views, absorbing
the activity of the Army, the really necessary means,
which could alone save, were lost sight of.
But this speculative distinction which we have made
is also necessary for our further progress in the construction
of our theory, because all that we have to say on the
relation of attack and defence, and on the completion of
this double-sided act, concerns the state of the crisis in
which the forces are placed during the tension and motion,
and because all the activity which can take place during
the condition of equilibrium can only be regarded and
treated as a corollary; for that crisis is the real War
and this state of equilibrium only its reflection.
BOOK IV THE COMBAT
CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY
HAVING in the foregoing book examined the subjects
which may be regarded as the efficient elements of War,
we shall now turn our attention to the combat as the
real activity in Warfare, which, by its physical and moral
effects, embraces sometimes more simply, sometimes in a
more complex manner, the object of the whole campaign.
In this activity and in its effects these elements must
therefore, reappear.
The formation of the combat is tactical in its nature;
we only glance at it here in a general way in order to get
acquainted with it in its aspect as a whole. In practice
the minor or more immediate objects give every combat
a characteristic form; these minor objects we shall not
discuss until hereafter. But these peculiarities are in
comparison to the general characteristics of a combat
mostly only insignificant, so that most combats are very
like one another, and, therefore, in order to avoid repeating
that which is general at every stage, we are compelled
to look into it here, before taking up the subject of its
more special application.
In the first place, therefore, we shall give in the next
chapter, in a few words, the characteristics of the modern
battle in its tactical course, because that lies at the
foundation
of our conceptions of what the battle really is.
CHAPTER II. CHARACTER OF THE MODERN BATTLE
ACCORDING to the notion we have formed of tactics and
strategy, it follows, as a matter of course, that if the nature
of the former is changed, that change must have an influence
on the latter. If tactical facts in one case are
entirely different from those in another, then the strategic,
must be so also, if they are to continue consistent and
reasonable. It is therefore important to characterise
a general action in its modern form before we advance
with the study of its employment in strategy.
What do we do now usually in a great battle? We
place ourselves quietly in great masses arranged
contiguous to and behind one another. We deploy relatively
only a small portion of the whole, and let it wring itself
out in a fire-combat which lasts for several hours, only
interrupted now and again, and removed hither and thither
by separate small shocks from charges with the bayonet
and cavalry attacks. When this line has gradually
exhausted part of its warlike ardour in this manner
and there remains nothing more than the cinders, it is
withdrawn[*] and replaced by another.
[*] The relief of the fighting line played a great part in the
battles of
the Smooth-Bore era; it was necessitated by the fouling of the
muskets,
physical fatigue of the men and consumption of ammunition, and
was
recognised as both necessary and advisable by Napoleon
himself.--EDITOR.
In this manner the battle on a modified principle burns
slowly away like wet powder, and if the veil of night commands
it to stop, because neither party can any longer
see, and neither chooses to run the risk of blind chance,
then an account is taken by each side respectively of the
masses remaining, which can be called still effective, that
is, which have not yet quite collapsed like extinct volcanoes;
account is taken of the ground gained or lost,
and of how stands the security of the rear; these results
with the special impressions as to bravery and cowardice,
ability and stupidity, which are thought to have been
observed in ourselves and in the enemy are collected into
one single total impression, out of which there springs the
resolution to quit the field or to renew the combat on the
morrow.
This description, which is not intended as a finished
picture of a modern battle, but only to give its general
tone, suits for the offensive and defensive, and the special
traits which are given, by the object proposed, the country,
&c. &c., may be introduced into it, without materially
altering the conception.
But modern battles are not so by accident; they are
so because the parties find themselves nearly on a level
as regards military organisation and the knowledge of
the Art of War, and because the warlike element inflamed
by great national interests has broken through artificial
limits and now flows in its natural channel. Under these
two conditions, battles will always preserve this character.
This general idea of the modern battle will be useful
to us in the sequel in more places than one, if we want
to estimate the value of the particular co-efficients of
strength, country, &c. &c. It is only for general, great,
and decisive combats, and such as come near to them that
this description stands good; inferior ones have changed
their character also in the same direction but less than
great ones. The proof of this belongs to tactics; we shall,
however, have an opportunity hereafter of making this
subject plainer by giving a few particulars.
CHAPTER III. THE COMBAT IN GENERAL
THE Combat is the real warlike activity, everything else
is only its auxiliary; let us therefore take an attentive
look at its nature.
Combat means fighting, and in this the destruction or
conquest of the enemy is the object, and the enemy, in
the particular combat, is the armed force which stands
opposed to us.
This is the simple idea; we shall return to it, but
before we can do that we must insert a series of others.
If we suppose the State and its military force as a unit,
then the most natural idea is to imagine the War also as
one great combat, and in the simple relations of savage
nations it is also not much otherwise. But our Wars
are made up of a number of great and small simultaneous
or consecutive combats, and this severance of the activity
into so many separate actions is owing to the great
multiplicity of the relations out of which War arises
with us.
In point of fact, the ultimate object of our Wars the,
political one, is not always quite a simple one; and even
were it so, still the action is bound up with such a number
of conditions and considerations to be taken into account,
that the object can no longer be attained by one single
great act but only through a number of greater or smaller
acts which are bound up into a whole; each of these
separate acts is therefore a part of a whole, and has
consequently a special object by which it is bound to this
whole.
We have already said that every strategic act can be
referred to the idea of a combat, because it is an employment
of the military force, and at the root of that there
always lies the idea of fighting. We may therefore
reduce every military activity in the province of Strategy
to the unit of single combats, and occupy ourselves with
the object of these only; we shall get acquainted with
these special objects by degrees as we come to speak of
the causes which produce them; here we content ourselves
with saying that every combat, great or small, has its
own peculiar object in subordination to the main object.
If this is the case then, the destruction and conquest of
the enemy is only to be regarded as the means of gaining
this object; as it unquestionably is.
But this result is true only in its form, and important
only on account of the connection which the ideas have
between themselves, and we have only sought it out to
get rid of it at once.
What is overcoming the enemy? Invariably the
destruction of his military force, whether it be by death,
or wounds, or any means; whether it be completely
or only to such a degree that he can no longer continue
the contest; therefore as long as we set aside all special
objects of combats, we may look upon the complete or
partial destruction of the enemy as the only object of
all combats.
Now we maintain that in the majority of cases, and
especially in great battles, the special object by which
the battle is individualised and bound up with the great
whole is only a weak modification of that general object,
or an ancillary object bound up with it, important enough
to individualise the battle, but always insignificant in
comparison with that general object; so that if that
ancillary object alone should be obtained, only an unimportant
part of the purpose of the combat is fulfilled.
If this assertion is correct, then we see that the idea,
according to which the destruction of the enemy's force
is only the means, and something else always the object,
can only be true in form, but, that it would lead to false
conclusions if we did not recollect that this destruction
of the enemy's force is comprised in that object, and that
this object is only a weak modification of it.
Forgetfulness of this led to completely false views before
the Wars of the last period, and created tendencies as well
as fragments of systems, in which theory thought it raised
itself so much the more above handicraft, the less it
supposed itself to stand in need of the use of the real
instrument, that is the destruction of the enemy's force.
Certainly such a system could not have arisen unless
supported by other false suppositions, and unless in place
of the destruction of the enemy, other things had been
substituted to which an efficacy was ascribed which did
not rightly belong to them. We shall attack these falsehoods
whenever occasion requires, but we could not treat
of the combat without claiming for it the real importance
and value which belong to it, and giving warning against
the errors to which merely formal truth might lead.
But now how shall we manage to show that in most
cases, and in those of most importance, the destruction
of the enemy's Army is the chief thing? How shall we
manage to combat that extremely subtle idea, which
supposes it possible, through the use of a special artificial
form, to effect by a small direct destruction of the enemy's
forces a much greater destruction indirectly, or by means
of small but extremely well-directed blows to produce
such paralysation of the enemy's forces, such a command
over the enemy's will, that this mode of proceeding is to
be viewed as a great shortening of the road? Undoubtedly
a victory at one point may be of more value than at
another. Undoubtedly there is a scientific arrangement
of battles amongst themselves, even in Strategy, which is
in fact nothing but the Art of thus arranging them.
To deny that is not our intention, but we assert that
the direct destruction of the enemy's forces is everywhere
predominant; we contend here for the overruling
importance of this destructive principle and
nothing else.
We must, however, call to mind that we are now engaged
with Strategy, not with tactics, therefore we do not speak
of the means which the former may have of destroying
at a small expense a large body of the enemy's forces, but under
direct
destruction we understand the tactical
results, and that, therefore, our assertion is that only
great tactical results can lead to great strategical ones, or,
as we have already once before more distinctly expressed
it, THE TACTICAL SUCCESSES are of paramount importance
in the conduct of War.
The proof of this assertion seems to us simple enough,
it lies in the time which every complicated (artificial)
combination requires. The question whether a simple
attack, or one more carefully prepared, i.e., more artificial,
will produce greater effects, may undoubtedly be decided
in favour of the latter as long as the enemy is assumed
to remain quite passive. But every carefully combined
attack requires time for its preparation, and if a counter-
stroke by the enemy intervenes, our whole design may be
upset. Now if the enemy should decide upon some simple
attack, which can be executed in a shorter time, then he
gains the initiative, and destroys the effect of the great
plan. Therefore, together with the expediency of a complicated
attack we must consider all the dangers which we
run during its preparation, and should only adopt it if
there is no reason to fear that the enemy will disconcert
our scheme. Whenever this is the case we must ourselves
choose the simpler, i.e., quicker way, and lower our views
in this sense as far as the character, the relations of the
enemy, and other circumstances may render necessary.
If we quit the weak impressions of abstract ideas and
descend to the region of practical life, then it is evident
that a bold, courageous, resolute enemy will not let us
have time for wide-reaching skilful combinations, and it
is just against such a one we should require skill the most.
By this it appears to us that the advantage of simple and
direct results over those that are complicated is conclusively
shown.
Our opinion is not on that account that the simple blow
is the best, but that we must not lift the arm too far for
the time given to strike, and that this condition will always
lead more to direct conflict the more warlike our opponent
is. Therefore, far from making it our aim to gain upon
the enemy by complicated plans, we must rather seek to
be beforehand with him by greater simplicity in our
designs.
If we seek for the lowest foundation-stones of these
converse propositions we find that in the one it is ability,
in the other, courage. Now, there is something very
attractive in the notion that a moderate degree of courage
joined to great ability will produce greater effects than
moderate ability with great courage. But unless we
suppose these elements in a disproportionate relation,
not logical, we have no right to assign to ability this
advantage over courage in a field which is called danger,
and which must be regarded as the true domain of
courage.
After this abstract view we shall only add that experience,
very far from leading to a different conclusion, is
rather the sole cause which has impelled us in this
direction, and given rise to such reflections.
Whoever reads history with a mind free from prejudice
cannot fail to arrive at a conviction that of all military
virtues, energy in the conduct of operations has always
contributed the most to the glory and success of arms.
How we make good our principle of regarding the
destruction of the enemy's force as the principal object,
not only in the War as a whole but also in each separate
combat, and how that principle suits all the forms and
conditions necessarily demanded by the relations out of
which War springs, the sequel will show. For the present
all that we desire is to uphold its general importance,
and with this result we return again to the combat.
CHAPTER IV. THE COMBAT IN GENERAL (CONTINUATION)
IN the last chapter we showed the destruction of the enemy
as the true object of the combat, and we have sought
to prove by a special consideration of the point, that this
is true in the majority of cases, and in respect to the most
important battles, because the destruction of the enemy's
Army is always the preponderating object in War. The
other objects which may be mixed up with this destruction
of the enemy's force, and may have more or less influence,
we shall describe generally in the next chapter, and
become better acquainted with by degrees afterwards;
here we divest the combat of them entirely, and look
upon the destruction of the enemy as the complete and
sufficient object of any combat.
What are we now to understand by destruction of the
enemy's Army? A diminution of it relatively greater
than that on our own side. If we have a great superiority
in numbers over the enemy, then naturally the same absolute
amount of loss on both sides is for us a smaller one
than for him, and consequently may be regarded in itself
as an advantage. As we are here considering the combat
as divested of all (other) objects, we must also exclude
from our consideration the case in which the combat is
used only indirectly for a greater destruction of the
enemy's force; consequently also, only that direct gain
which has been made in the mutual process of destruction,
is to be regarded as the object, for this is an absolute gain,
which runs through the whole campaign, and at the end
of it will always appear as pure profit. But every other
kind of victory over our opponent will either have its
motive in other objects, which we have completely
excluded here, or it will only yield a temporary relative
advantage. An example will make this plain.
If by a skilful disposition we have reduced our opponent
to such a dilemma, that he cannot continue the combat
without danger, and after some resistance he retires, then
we may say, that we have conquered him at that point;
but if in this victory we have expended just as many
forces as the enemy, then in closing the account of the
campaign, there is no gain remaining from this victory,
if such a result can be called a victory. Therefore the
overcoming the enemy, that is, placing him in such a
position that he must give up the fight, counts for nothing
in itself, and for that reason cannot come under the
definition of object. There remains, therefore, as we have
said, nothing over except the direct gain which we have
made in the process of destruction; but to this belong
not only the losses which have taken place in the course
of the combat, but also those which, after the withdrawal
of the conquered part, take place as direct consequences
of the same.
Now it is known by experience, that the losses in physical
forces in the course of a battle seldom present a great
difference between victor and vanquished respectively,
often none at all, sometimes even one bearing an inverse
relation to the result, and that the most decisive losses
on the side of the vanquished only commence with the
retreat, that is, those which the conqueror does not share
with him. The weak remains of battalions already
in disorder are cut down by cavalry, exhausted men
strew the ground, disabled guns and broken caissons are
abandoned, others in the bad state of the roads cannot be
removed quickly enough, and are captured by the enemy's
troops, during the night numbers lose their way, and fall
defenceless into the enemy's hands, and thus the victory
mostly gains bodily substance after it is already decided.
Here would be a paradox, if it did not solve itself in the
following manner.
The loss in physical force is not the only one which the
two sides suffer in the course of the combat; the moral
forces also are shaken, broken, and go to ruin. It is not
only the loss in men, horses and guns, but in order, courage,
confidence, cohesion and plan, which come into consideration
when it is a question whether the fight can be still
continued or not. It is principally the moral forces which
decide here, and in all cases in which the conqueror has
lost as heavily as the conquered, it is these alone.
The comparative relation of the physical losses is difficult
to estimate in a battle, but not so the relation of the
moral ones. Two things principally make it known.
The one is the loss of the ground on which the fight has
taken place, the other the superiority of the enemy's. The more
our reserves
have diminished as compared
with those of the enemy, the more force we have
used to maintain the equilibrium; in this at once, an
evident proof of the moral superiority of the enemy is
given which seldom fails to stir up in the soul of the
Commander a certain bitterness of feeling, and a sort of
contempt for his own troops. But the principal thing is,
that men who have been engaged for a long continuance
of time are more or less like burnt-out cinders; their
ammunition is consumed; they have melted away to a
certain extent; physical and moral energies are exhausted,
perhaps their courage is broken as well. Such a force,
irrespective of the diminution in its number, if viewed as
an organic whole, is very different from what it was
before the combat; and thus it is that the loss of moral
force may be measured by the reserves that have been
used as if it were on a foot-rule.
Lost ground and want of fresh reserves, are, therefore,
usually the principal causes which determine a retreat;
but at the same time we by no means exclude or desire
to throw in the shade other reasons, which may lie in the
interdependence of parts of the Army, in the general
plan, &c.
Every combat is therefore the bloody and destructive
measuring of the strength of forces, physical and moral;
whoever at the close has the greatest amount of both left
is the conqueror.
In the combat the loss of moral force is the chief cause
of the decision; after that is given, this loss continues
to increase until it reaches its culminating-point at the
close of the whole act. This then is the opportunity the
victor should seize to reap his harvest by the utmost
possible restrictions of his enemy's forces, the real object
of engaging in the combat. On the beaten side, the loss
of all order and control often makes the prolongation
of resistance by individual units, by the further punishment
they are certain to suffer, more injurious than useful
to the whole. The spirit of the mass is broken; the
original excitement about losing or winning, through
which danger was forgotten, is spent, and to the majority
danger now appears no longer an appeal to their courage,
but rather the endurance of a cruel punishment. Thus
the instrument in the first moment of the enemy's victory
is weakened and blunted, and therefore no longer fit to
repay danger by danger.
This period, however, passes; the moral forces of the
conquered will recover by degrees, order will be restored,
courage will revive, and in the majority of cases there
remains only a small part of the superiority obtained,
often none at all. In some cases, even, although rarely,
the spirit of revenge and intensified hostility may bring
about an opposite result. On the other hand, whatever
is gained in killed, wounded, prisoners, and guns captured
can never disappear from the account.
The losses in a battle consist more in killed and
wounded; those after the battle, more in artillery taken
and prisoners. The first the conqueror shares with the
conquered, more or less, but the second not; and for that
reason they usually only take place on one side of the
conflict, at least, they are considerably in excess on one side.
Artillery and prisoners are therefore at all times regarded
as the true trophies of victory, as well as its measure,
because through these things its extent is declared beyond
a doubt. Even the degree of moral superiority may be
better judged of by them than by any other relation,
especially if the number of killed and wounded is compared
therewith; and here arises a new power increasing
the moral effects.
We have said that the moral forces, beaten to the
ground in the battle and in the immediately succeeding
movements, recover themselves gradually, and often bear
no traces of injury; this is the case with small divisions
of the whole, less frequently with large divisions; it
may, however, also be the case with the main Army, but
seldom or never in the State or Government to which the
Army belongs. These estimate the situation more impartially,
and from a more elevated point of view, and
recognise in the number of trophies taken by the enemy,
and their relation to the number of killed and wounded,
only too easily and well, the measure of their own weakness
and inefficiency.
In point of fact, the lost balance of moral power must
not be treated lightly because it has no absolute value,
and because it does not of necessity appear in all cases in
the amount of the results at the final close; it may
become of such excessive weight as to bring down everything
with an irresistible force. On that account it may
often become a great aim of the operations of which we
shall speak elsewhere. Here we have still to examine
some of its fundamental relations.
The moral effect of a victory increases, not merely
in proportion to the extent of the forces engaged, but in a
progressive ratio--that is to say, not only in extent, but
also in its intensity. In a beaten detachment order is easily
restored. As a single frozen limb is easily revived by the
rest of the body, so the courage of a defeated detachment
is easily raised again by the courage of the rest of the Army
as soon as it rejoins it. If, therefore, the effects of a small
victory are not completely done away with, still they are
partly lost to the enemy. This is not the case if the Army
itself sustains a great defeat; then one with the other
fall together. A great fire attains quite a different heat
from several small ones.
Another relation which determines the moral value of
a victory is the numerical relation of the forces which
have been in conflict with each other. To beat many
with few is not only a double success, but shows also a
greater, especially a more general superiority, which the
conquered must always be fearful of encountering again.
At the same time this influence is in reality hardly observable
in such a case. In the moment of real action, the
notions of the actual strength of the enemy are generally
so uncertain, the estimate of our own commonly so
incorrect, that the party superior in numbers either does
not admit the disproportion, or is very far from admitting
the full truth, owing to which, he evades almost entirely
the moral disadvantages which would spring from it.
It is only hereafter in history that the truth, long suppressed
through ignorance, vanity, or a wise discretion,
makes its appearance, and then it certainly casts a
lustre on the Army and its Leader, but it can then do
nothing more by its moral influence for events long
past.
If prisoners and captured guns are those things by
which the victory principally gains substance, its true
crystallisations, then the plan of the battle should have
those things specially in view; the destruction of the
enemy by death and wounds appears here merely as a
means to an end.
How far this may influence the dispositions in the battle
is not an affair of Strategy, but the decision to fight the
battle is in intimate connection with it, as is shown by
the direction given to our forces, and their general grouping,
whether we threaten the enemy's flank or rear, or he
threatens ours. On this point, the number of prisoners
and captured guns depends very much, and it is a point
which, in many cases, tactics alone cannot satisfy, particularly
if the strategic relations are too much in opposition
to it.
The risk of having to fight on two sides, and the still
more dangerous position of having no line of retreat left
open, paralyse the movements and the power of resistance;
further, in case of defeat, they increase the loss,
often raising it to its extreme point, that is, to destruction.
Therefore, the rear being endangered makes
defeat more probable, and, at the same time, more
decisive.
From this arises, in the whole conduct of the War,especially in
great and
small combats, a perfect instinct to secure our own line of
retreat and to
seize that of the enemy; this follows from the conception of
victory, which, as we have seen, is something beyond mere
slaughter.
In this effort we see, therefore, the first immediate
purpose in the combat, and one which is quite universal.
No combat is imaginable in which this effort, either in
its double or single form, does not go hand in hand with
the plain and simple stroke of force. Even the smallest
troop will not throw itself upon its enemy without thinking
of its line of retreat, and, in most cases, it will have
an eye upon that of the enemy also.
We should have to digress to show how often this
instinct is prevented from going the direct road, how
often it must yield to the difficulties arising from more
important considerations: we shall, therefore, rest contented
with affirming it to be a general natural law of
the combat.
It is, therefore, active; presses everywhere with its
natural weight, and so becomes the pivot on which
almost all tactical and strategic manoeuvres turn.
If we now take a look at the conception of victory as
a whole, we find in it three elements:--
1. The greater loss of the enemy in physical power.
2. In moral power.
3. His open avowal of this by the relinquishment of
his intentions.
The returns made up on each side of losses in killed
and wounded, are never exact, seldom truthful, and in
most cases, full of intentional misrepresentations. Even
the statement of the number of trophies is seldom to be
quite depended on; consequently, when it is not considerable
it may also cast a doubt even on the reality of
the victory. Of the loss in moral forces there is no
reliable measure, except in the trophies: therefore, in
many cases, the giving up the contest is the only real
evidence of the victory. It is, therefore, to be regarded
as a confession of inferiority--as the lowering of the flag,
by which, in this particular instance, right and superiority
are conceded to the enemy, and this degree of humiliation
and disgrace, which, however, must be distinguished
from all the other moral consequences of the loss of equilibrium,
is an essential part of the victory. It is this part
alone which acts upon the public opinion outside the
Army, upon the people and the Government in both
belligerent States, and upon all others in any way concerned.
But renouncement of the general object is not quite
identical with quitting the field of battle, even when the
battle has been very obstinate and long kept up; no one
says of advanced posts, when they retire after an obstinate
combat, that they have given up their object; even in
combats aimed at the destruction of the enemy's Army,
the retreat from the battlefield is not always to be
regarded as a relinquishment of this aim, as for instance,
in retreats planned beforehand, in which the ground is
disputed foot by foot; all this belongs to that part of our
subject where we shall speak of the separate object of the
combat; here we only wish to draw attention to the fact
that in most cases the giving up of the object is very
difficult to distinguish from the retirement from the
battlefield,
and that the impression produced by the latter,
both in and out of the Army, is not to be treated lightly.
For Generals and Armies whose reputation is not made,
this is in itself one of the difficulties in many operations,
justified by circumstances when a succession of combats,
each ending in retreat, may appear as a succession of
defeats, without being so in reality, and when that appearance
may exercise a very depressing influence. It is
impossible for the retreating General by making known his
real intentions to prevent the moral effect spreading to
the public and his troops, for to do that with effect he
must disclose his plans completely, which of course would
run counter to his principal interests to too great a degree.
In order to draw attention to the special importance of
this conception of victory we shall only refer to the battle
of Soor,[*] the trophies from which were not important (a
few thousand prisoners and twenty guns), and where
Frederick proclaimed his victory by remaining for five
days after on the field of battle, although his retreat into
Silesia had been previously determined on, and was a
measure natural to his whole situation. According to
his own account, he thought he would hasten a peace by
the moral effect of his victory. Now although a couple of
other successes were likewise required, namely, the battle
at Katholisch Hennersdorf, in Lusatia, and the battle of
Kesseldorf, before this peace took place, still we cannot
say that the moral effect of the battle of Soor was nil.
[*] Soor, or Sohr, Sept. 30, 1745; Hennersdorf, Nov. 23, 1745;
Kealteldorf, Dec. 15, 1745, all in the Second Silesian War.
If it is chiefly the moral force which is shaken by defeat,
and if the number of trophies reaped by the enemy mounts
up to an unusual height, then the lost combat becomes a
rout, but this is not the necessary consequence of every
victory. A rout only sets in when the moral force of the
defeated is very severely shaken then there often ensues
a complete incapability of further resistance, and the
whole action consists of giving way, that is of flight.
Jena and Belle Alliance were routs, but not so Borodino.
Although without pedantry we can here give no single
line of separation, because the difference between the
things is one of degrees, yet still the retention of the
conception
is essential as a central point to give clearness to
our theoretical ideas and it is a want in our terminology
that for a victory over the enemy tantamount to a rout,
and a conquest of the enemy only tantamount to a simple
victory, there is only one and the same word to use.
CHAPTER V. ON THE SIGNIFICATION OF THE COMBAT
HAVING in the preceding chapter examined the combat
in its absolute form, as the miniature picture of the whole
War, we now turn to the relations which it bears to the
other parts of the great whole. First we inquire what is
more precisely the signification of a combat.
As War is nothing else but a mutual process of destruction,
then the most natural answer in conception, and
perhaps also in reality, appears to be that all the powers
of each party unite in one great volume and all results
in one great shock of these masses. There is certainly
much truth in this idea, and it seems to be very advisable
that we should adhere to it and should on that account
look upon small combats at first only as necessary loss,
like the shavings from a carpenter's plane. Still, however,
the thing cannot be settled so easily.
That a multiplication of combats should arise from a
fractioning of forces is a matter of course, and the more
immediate objects of separate combats will therefore
come before us in the subject of a fractioning of forces;
but these objects, and together with them, the whole mass
of combats may in a general way be brought under certain
classes, and the knowledge of these classes will contribute
to make our observations more intelligible.
Destruction of the enemy's military forces is in reality
the object of all combats; but other objects may be joined
thereto, and these other objects may be at the same time
predominant; we must therefore draw a distinction
between those in which the destruction of the enemy's
forces is the principal object, and those in which it is more
the means. The destruction of the enemy's force, the
possession of a place or the possession of some object may
be the general motive for a combat, and it may be either
one of these alone or several together, in which case
however usually one is the principal motive. Now the
two principal forms of War, the offensive and defensive,
of which we shall shortly speak, do not modify the first
of these motives, but they certainly do modify the other
two, and therefore if we arrange them in a scheme they
would appear thus:--
OFFENSIVE. DEFENSIVE.
1. Destruction of enemy's 1. Destruction of enemy's
force. force.
2. Conquest of a place. 2. Defence of a place.
3. Conquest of some object. 3. Defence of some object.
These motives, however, do not seem to embrace completely
the whole of the subject, if we recollect that there
are reconnaissances and demonstrations, in which plainly
none of these three points is the object of the combat.
In reality we must, therefore, on this account be allowed
a fourth class. Strictly speaking, in reconnaissances in
which we wish the enemy to show himself, in alarms by
which we wish to wear him out, in demonstrations by
which we wish to prevent his leaving some point or to
draw him off to another, the objects are all such as can
only be attained indirectly and UNDER THE PRETEXT OF ONE
OF THE THREE OBJECTS SPECIFIED IN THE TABLE, usually of the
second;
for the enemy whose aim is to reconnoitre must draw up
his force as if he really intended to attack and defeat us,
or drive us off, &c. &c. But this pretended object is not
the real one, and our present question is only as to the
latter; therefore, we must to the above three objects of
the offensive further add a fourth, which is to lead the
enemy to make a false conclusion. That offensive means are
conceivable in
connection with this object, lies in the nature of the thing.
On the other hand we must observe that the defence of
a place may be of two kinds, either absolute, if as a general
question the point is not to be given up, or relative if it
is only required for a certain time. The latter happens
perpetually in the combats of advanced posts and rear
guards.
That the nature of these different intentions of a combat
must have an essential influence on the dispositions which
are its preliminaries, is a thing clear in itself. We act
differently if our object is merely to drive an enemy's post
out of its place from what we should if our object was to
beat him completely; differently, if we mean to defend
a place to the last extremity from what we should do if
our design is only to detain the enemy for a certain time.
In the first case we trouble ourselves little about the line
of retreat, in the latter it is the principal point, &c.
But these reflections belong properly to tactics, and are
only introduced here by way of example for the sake
of greater clearness. What Strategy has to say on the
different objects of the combat will appear in the chapters
which touch upon these objects. Here we have only a
few general observations to make, first, that the importance
of the object decreases nearly in the order as they
stand above, therefore, that the first of these objects must
always predominate in the great battle; lastly, that the
two last in a defensive battle are in reality such as yield
no fruit, they are, that is to say, purely negative, and can,
therefore, only be serviceable, indirectly, by facilitating
something else which is positive. IT IS, THEREFORE, A BAD
SIGN OF THE STRATEGIC SITUATION IF BATTLES OF THIS KIND BECOME
TOO
FREQUENT.
CHAPTER VI. DURATION OF THE COMBAT
IF we consider the combat no longer in itself but in relation
to the other forces of War, then its duration acquires
a special importance.
This duration is to be regarded to a certain extent as a
second subordinate success. For the conqueror the combat
can never be finished too quickly, for the vanquished
it can never last too long. A speedy victory indicates a
higher power of victory, a tardy decision is, on the side of
the defeated, some compensation for the loss.
This is in general true, but it acquires a practical
importance in its application to those combats, the object
of which is a relative defence.
Here the whole success often lies in the mere duration.
This is the reason why we have included it amongst the
strategic elements.
The duration of a combat is necessarily bound up with
its essential relations. These relations are, absolute
magnitude of force, relation of force and of the different
arms mutually, and nature of the country. Twenty
thousand men do not wear themselves out upon one
another as quickly as two thousand: we cannot resist an
enemy double or three times our strength as long as one of
the same strength; a cavalry combat is decided sooner than
an infantry combat; and a combat between infantry
only, quicker than if there is artillery[*] as well; in hills
and forests we cannot advance as quickly as on a level
country; all this is clear enough.
[*] The increase in the relative range of artillery and the
introduction of shrapnel has altogether modified this conclusion.
From this it follows, therefore, that strength, relation
of the three arms, and position, must be considered if the
combat is to fulfil an object by its duration; but to set
up this rule was of less importance to us in our present
considerations than to connect with it at once the chief
results which experience gives us on the subject.
Even the resistance of an ordinary Division of 8000 to
10,000 men of all arms even opposed to an enemy considerably
superior in numbers, will last several hours, if
the advantages of country are not too preponderating, and
if the enemy is only a little, or not at all, superior in
numbers, the combat will last half a day. A Corps of
three or four Divisions will prolong it to double the time;
an Army of 80,000 or 100,000 to three or four times.
Therefore the masses may be left to themselves for that
length of time, and no separate combat takes place if
within that time other forces can be brought up, whose
co-operation mingles then at once into one stream with
the results of the combat which has taken place.
These calculations are the result of experience; but
it is important to us at the same time to characterise more
particularly the moment of the decision, and consequently
the termination.
CHAPTER VII. DECISION OF THE COMBAT
No battle is decided in a single moment, although in every
battle there arise moments of crisis, on which the result
depends. The loss of a battle is, therefore, a gradual falling
of the scale. But there is in every combat a point of time
[*] Under the then existing conditions of armament understood.
This point is of supreme importance, as practically the whole
conduct
of a great battle depends on a correct solution of this
question--viz.,
How long can a given command prolong its resistance? If this is
incorrectly answered in practice--the whole manoeuvre depending
on
it may collapse--e.g., Kouroupatkin at Liao-Yang, September 1904.
when it may be regarded as decided, in such a way that
the renewal of the fight would be a new battle, not a
continuation of the old one. To have a clear notion on this
point of time, is very important, in order to be able to
decide whether, with the prompt assistance of reinforcements,
the combat can again be resumed with advantage.
Often in combats which are beyond restoration new
forces are sacrificed in vain; often through neglect the
decision has not been seized when it might easily have
been secured. Here are two examples, which could not
be more to the point:
When the Prince of Hohenlohe, in 1806, at Jena,[*] with
35,000 men opposed to from 60,000 to 70,000, under
Buonaparte, had accepted battle, and lost it--but lost
it in such a way that the 35,000 might be regarded as
dissolved--General Ruchel undertook to renew the
fight with about 12,000; the consequence was that in a
moment his force was scattered in like manner.
[*] October 14, 1806.
On the other hand, on the same day at Auerstadt,
the Prussians maintained a combat with 25,000, against
Davoust, who had 28,000, until mid-day, without success,
it is true, but still without the force being reduced to a
state of dissolution without even greater loss than the
enemy, who was very deficient in cavalry;--but they
neglected to use the reserve of 18,000, under General
Kalkreuth, to restore the battle which, under these
circumstances,
it would have been impossible to lose.
Each combat is a whole in which the partial combats
combine themselves into one total result. In this total
result lies the decision of the combat. This success need
not be exactly a victory such as we have denoted in the
sixth chapter, for often the preparations for that have not
been made, often there is no opportunity if the enemy
gives way too soon, and in most cases the decision, even
when the resistance has been obstinate, takes place before
such a degree of success is attained as would completely
satisfy the idea of a victory.
We therefore ask, Which is commonly the moment of
the decision, that is to say, that moment when a fresh,
effective, of course not disproportionate, force, can no
longer turn a disadvantageous battle?
If we pass over false attacks, which in accordance with
their nature are properly without decision, then
1. If the possession of a movable object was the object
of the combat, the loss of the same is always the decision.
2. If the possession of ground was the object of the combat,
then the decision generally lies in its loss. Still not
always, only if this ground is of peculiar strength, ground
which is easy to pass over, however important it may be
in other respects, can be re-taken without much danger.
3. But in all other cases, when these two circumstances
have not already decided the combat, therefore, particularly
in case the destruction of the enemy's force is the
principal object, the decision is reached at that moment
when the conqueror ceases to feel himself in a state of
disintegration, that is, of unserviceableness to a certain
extent, when therefore, there is no further advantage
in using the successive efforts spoken of in the twelfth
chapter of the third book. On this ground we have given
the strategic unity of the battle its place here.
A battle, therefore, in which the assailant has not lost
his condition of order and perfect efficiency at all, or, at
least, only in a small part of his force, whilst the opposing
forces are, more or less, disorganised throughout, is also
not to be retrieved; and just as little if the enemy has
recovered his efficiency.
The smaller, therefore, that part of a force is which
has really been engaged, the greater that portion which as
reserve has contributed to the result only by its presence.
so much the less will any new force of the enemy wrest
again the victory from our hands, and that Commander
who carries out to the furthest with his Army the principle
of conducting the combat with the greatest economy of
forces, and making the most of the moral effect of strong
reserves, goes the surest way to victory. We must allow
that the French, in modern times, especially when led by
Buonaparte, have shown a thorough mastery in this.
Further, the moment when the crisis-stage of the combat
ceases with the conqueror, and his original state of
order is restored, takes place sooner the smaller the unit
he controls. A picket of cavalry pursuing an enemy at
full gallop will in a few minutes resume its proper order,
and the crisis ceases. A whole regiment of cavalry requires
a longer time. It lasts still longer with infantry,
if extended in single lines of skirmishers, and longer again
with Divisions of all arms, when it happens by chance that
one part has taken one direction and another part another
direction, and the combat has therefore caused a loss of
the order of formation, which usually becomes still worse
from no part knowing exactly where the other is. Thus,
therefore, the point of time when the conqueror has collected
the instruments he has been using, and which are
mixed up and partly out of order, the moment when he
has in some measure rearranged them and put them in
their proper places, and thus brought the battle-workshop
into a little order, this moment, we say, is always later,
the greater the total force.
Again, this moment comes later if night overtakes the
conqueror in the crisis, and, lastly, it comes later still if the
country is broken and thickly wooded. But with regard
to these two points, we must observe that night is also
a great means of protection, and it is only seldom that
circumstances favour the expectation of a successful
result from a night attack, as on March 10, 1814, at
Laon,[*] where York against Marmont gives us an example
completely in place here. In the same way a wooded
and broken country will afford protection against a reaction
to those who are engaged in the long crisis of victory.
Both, therefore, the night as well as the wooded and
broken country are obstacles which make the renewal
of the same battle more difficult instead of facilitating it.
[*] The celebrated charge at night upon Marmont's Corps.
Hitherto, we have considered assistance arriving for the
losing side as a mere increase of force, therefore, as a
reinforcement coming up directly from the rear, which is
the most usual case. But the case is quite different if
these fresh forces come upon the enemy in flank or rear.
On the effect of flank or rear attacks so far as they belong
to Strategy, we shall speak in another place: such a one
as we have here in view, intended for the restoration of the
combat, belongs chiefly to tactics, and is only mentioned
because we are here speaking of tactical results, our ideas,
therefore, must trench upon the province of tactics.
By directing a force against the enemy's flank and rear
its efficacy may be much intensified; but this is so far
from being a necessary result always that the efficacy
may, on the other hand, be just as much weakened. The
circumstances under which the combat has taken place
decide upon this part of the plan as well as upon every
other, without our being able to enter thereupon here.
But, at the same time, there are in it two things of importance
for our subject: first, FLANK AND REAR ATTACKS HAVE, AS
A RULE, A MORE FAVOURABLE EFFECT ON THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE
DECISION THAN UPON THE DECISION ITSELF. Now as concerns
the retrieving a battle, the first thing to be arrived at
above all is a favourable decision and not magnitude of
success. In this view one would therefore think that a
force which comes to re-establish our combat is of less
assistance if it falls upon the enemy in flank and rear,
therefore separated from us, than if it joins itself to us
directly; certainly, cases are not wanting where it is so,
but we must say that the majority are on the other side,
and they are so on account of the second point which is
here important to us.
This second point IS THE MORAL EFFECT OF THE SURPRISE, WHICH,
AS A RULE, A REINFORCEMENT COMING UP TO RE-ESTABLISH A COMBAT
HAS GENERALLY IN ITS FAVOUR. Now the effect of a surprise
is always heightened if it takes place in the flank or rear,
and an enemy completely engaged in the crisis of victory
in his extended and scattered order, is less in a state to
counteract it. Who does not feel that an attack in flank
or rear, which at the commencement of the battle, when
the forces are concentrated and prepared for such an event
would be of little importance, gains quite another weight
in the last moment of the combat.
We must, therefore, at once admit that in most cases a
reinforcement coming up on the flank or rear of the enemy
will be more efficacious, will be like the same weight at
the end of a longer lever, and therefore that under these
circumstances, we may undertake to restore the battle
with the same force which employed in a direct attack
would be quite insufficient. Here results almost defy
calculation, because the moral forces gain completely
the ascendency. This is therefore the right field for
boldness and daring.
The eye must, therefore, be directed on all these objects,
all these moments of co-operating forces must be taken
into consideration, when we have to decide in doubtful
cases whether or not it is still possible to restore a combat
which has taken an unfavourable turn.
If the combat is to be regarded as not yet ended, then
the new contest which is opened by the arrival of assistance
fuses into the former; therefore they flow together into
one common result, and the first disadvantage vanishes
completely out of the calculation. But this is not the
case if the combat was already decided; then there are
two results separate from each other. Now if the assistance
which arrives is only of a relative strength, that is,
if it is not in itself alone a match for the enemy, then
a favourable result is hardly to be expected from this
second combat: but if it is so strong that it can undertake
the second combat without regard to the first, then it may
be able by a favourable issue to compensate or even overbalance
the first combat, but never to make it disappear
altogether from the account.
At the battle of Kunersdorf,[*] Frederick the Great at the
first onset carried the left of the Russian position, and took
seventy pieces of artillery; at the end of the battle both
were lost again, and the whole result of the first combat
was wiped out of the account. Had it been possible to stop
at the first success, and to put off the second part of the
battle to the coming day, then, even if the King had lost
it, the advantages of the first would always have been a
set off to the second.
[*] August 12, 1759.
But when a battle proceeding disadvantageously is
arrested and turned before its conclusion, its minus result
on our side not only disappears from the account, but also
becomes the foundation of a greater victory. If, for
instance, we picture to ourselves exactly the tactical
course of the battle, we may easily see that until it is
finally concluded all successes in partial combats are only
decisions in suspense, which by the capital decision may
not only be destroyed, but changed into the opposite.
The more our forces have suffered, the more the enemy
will have expended on his side; the greater, therefore,
will be the crisis for the enemy, and the more the superiority
of our fresh troops will tell. If now the total
result turns in our favour, if we wrest from the enemy the
field of battle and recover all the trophies again, then
all the forces which he has sacrificed in obtaining them
become sheer gain for us, and our former defeat becomes
a stepping-stone to a greater triumph. The most brilliant
feats which with victory the enemy would have so highly
prized that the loss of forces which they cost would have
been disregarded, leave nothing now behind but regret
at the sacrifice entailed. Such is the alteration which the
magic of victory and the curse of defeat produces in the
specific weight of the same elements.
Therefore, even if we are decidedly superior in strength,
and are able to repay the enemy his victory by a greater
still, it is always better to forestall the conclusion of a
disadvantageous combat, if it is of proportionate importance,
so as to turn its course rather than to deliver
a second battle.
Field-Marshal Daun attempted in the year 1760 to
come to the assistance of General Laudon at Leignitz,
whilst the battle lasted; but when he failed, he did not
attack the King next day, although he did not want for
means to do so.
For these reasons serious combats of advance guards
which precede a battle are to be looked upon only as necessary
evils, and when not necessary they are to be avoided.[*]
[*] This, however, was not Napoleon's view. A vigorous attack of
his
advance guard he held to be necessary always, to fix the enemy's
attention
and "paralyse his independent will-power." It was the failure to
make this point which, in August 1870, led von Moltke repeatedly
into the
very jaws of defeat, from which only the lethargy of Bazaine on
the one
hand and the initiative of his subordinates, notably of von
Alvensleben,
rescued him. This is the essence of the new Strategic Doctrine of
the
French General Staff. See the works of Bonnal, Foch, &C.--EDITOR
We have still another conclusion to examine.
If on a regular pitched battle, the decision has gone
against one, this does not constitute a motive for
determining on a new one. The determination for this new
one must proceed from other relations. This conclusion,
however, is opposed by a moral force, which we must take
into account: it is the feeling of rage and revenge. From
the oldest Field-Marshal to the youngest drummer-boy
this feeling is general, and, therefore, troops are never
in better spirits for fighting than when they have to wipe
out a stain. This is, however, only on the supposition
that the beaten portion is not too great in proportion to
the whole, because otherwise the above feeling is lost in
that of powerlessness.
There is therefore a very natural tendency to use this
moral force to repair the disaster on the spot, and on that
account chiefly to seek another battle if other circumstances
permit. It then lies in the nature of the case that
this second battle must be an offensive one.
In the catalogue of battles of second-rate importance
there are many examples to be found of such retaliatory
battles; but great battles have generally too many other
determining causes to be brought on by this weaker motive.
Such a feeling must undoubtedly have led the noble
Bluecher with his third Corps to the field of battle on
February 14, 1814, when the other two had been beaten
three days before at Montmirail. Had he known that he
would have come upon Buonaparte in person, then,
naturally, preponderating reasons would have determined
him to put off his revenge to another day: but he
hoped to revenge himself on Marmont, and instead of
gaining the reward of his desire for honourable satisfaction,
he suffered the penalty of his erroneous calculation.
On the duration of the combat and the moment of its
decision depend the distances from each other at which
those masses should be placed which are intended to fight
IN CONJUNCTION WITH each other. This disposition would be
a tactical arrangement in so far as it relates to one and the
same battle; it can, however, only be regarded as such,
provided the position of the troops is so compact that
two separate combats cannot be imagined, and consequently
that the space which the whole occupies can be
regarded strategically as a mere point. But in War,
cases frequently occur where even those forces intended
to fight IN UNISON must be so far separated from each
other that while their union for one common combat
certainly remains the principal object, still the occurrence
of separate combats remains possible. Such a disposition
is therefore strategic.
Dispositions of this kind are: marches in separate
masses and columns, the formation of advance guards,
and flanking columns, also the grouping of reserves
intended to serve as supports for more than one strategic
point; the concentration of several Corps from widely
extended cantonments, &c. &c. We can see that the
necessity for these arrangements may constantly arise,
and may consider them something like the small change
in the strategic economy, whilst the capital battles, and
all that rank with them are the gold and silver pieces.
CHAPTER VIII. MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING AS TO A BATTLE
NO battle can take place unless by mutual consent; and
in this idea, which constitutes the whole basis of a duel, is
the root of a certain phraseology used by historical writers,
which leads to many indefinite and false conceptions.
According to the view of the writers to whom we
refer, it has frequently happened that one Commander
has offered battle to the other, and the latter has not
accepted it.
But the battle is a very modified duel, and its foundation
is not merely in the mutual wish to fight, that is in
consent, but in the objects which are bound up with the
battle: these belong always to a greater whole, and that
so much the more, as even the whole war considered as
a "combat-unit" has political objects and conditions
which belong to a higher standpoint. The mere desire
to conquer each other therefore falls into quite a subordinate
relation, or rather it ceases completely to be anything
of itself, and only becomes the nerve which conveys the
impulse of action from the higher will.
Amongst the ancients, and then again during the early
period of standing Armies, the expression that we had
offered battle to the enemy in vain, had more sense in it
than it has now. By the ancients everything was constituted
with a view to measuring each other's strength
in the open field free from anything in the nature of a
hindrance,[*] and the whole Art of War consisted in the
organisation, and formation of the Army, that is in the
order of battle.
[*] Note the custom of sending formal challenges, fix time and
place
for action, and "enhazelug" the battlefield in Anglo-Saxon
times.--ED,
Now as their Armies regularly entrenched themselves in
their camps, therefore the position in a camp was regarded
as something unassailable, and a battle did not become
possible until the enemy left his camp, and placed himself
in a practicable country, as it were entered the lists.
If therefore we hear about Hannibal having offered
battle to Fabius in vain, that tells us nothing more as
regards the latter than that a battle was not part of his
plan, and in itself neither proves the physical nor moral
superiority of Hannibal; but with respect to him the
expression is still correct enough in the sense that Hannibal
really wished a battle.
In the early period of modern Armies, the relations were
similar in great combats and battles. That is to say,
great masses were brought into action, and managed
throughout it by means of an order of battle, which like
a great helpless whole required a more or less level plain
and was neither suited to attack, nor yet to defence in a
broken, close or even mountainous country. The defender
therefore had here also to some extent the means of
avoiding battle. These relations although gradually becoming
modified, continued until the first Silesian War,
and it was not until the Seven Years' War that attacksan enemy
posted in a
difficult country gradually
became feasible, and of ordinary occurrence: ground did
not certainly cease to be a principle of strength to those
making use of its aid, but it was no longer a charmed
circle, which shut out the natural forces of War.
During the past thirty years War has perfected itself
much more in this respect, and there is no longer anything
which stands in the way of a General who is in earnest
about a decision by means of battle; he can seek out his
enemy, and attack him: if he does not do so he cannot
take credit for having wished to fight, and the expression
he offered a battle which his opponent did not accept,
therefore now means nothing more than that he did not
find circumstances advantageous enough for a battle, an
admission which the above expression does not suit, but
which it only strives to throw a veil over.
It is true the defensive side can no longer refuse a
battle, yet he may still avoid it by giving up his position,
and the role with which that position was connected:
this is however half a victory for the offensive side, and
an acknowledgment of his superiority for the present.
This idea in connection with the cartel of defiance can
therefore no longer be made use of in order by such
rhodomontade to qualify the inaction of him whose part
it is to advance, that is, the offensive. The defender who
as long as he does not give way, must have the credit of
willing the battle, may certainly say, he has offered
it if he is not attacked, if that is not understood of
itself.
But on the other hand, he who now wishes to, and can
retreat cannot easily be forced to give battle. Now as the
advantages to the aggressor from this retreat are often
not sufficient, and a substantial victory is a matter of
urgent necessity for him, in that way the few means which
there are to compel such an opponent also to give battle are
often sought for and applied with particular skill.
The principal means for this are--first SURROUNDING the
enemy so as to make his retreat impossible, or at least so
difficult that it is better for him to accept battle; and,
secondly, SURPRISING him. This last way, for which there
was a motive formerly in the extreme difficulty of all
movements, has become in modern times very inefficacious.
From the pliability and manoeuvring capabilities
of troops in the present day, one does not hesitate to
commence a retreat even in sight of the enemy, and only
some special obstacles in the nature of the country can
cause serious difficulties in the operation.
As an example of this kind the battle of Neresheim
may be given, fought by the Archduke Charles with
Moreau in the Rauhe Alp, August 11, 1796, merely with a
view to facilitate his retreat, although we freely confess
we have never been able quite to understand the argument
of the renowned general and author himself in this case.
The battle of Rosbach[*] is another example, if we suppose
the commander of the allied army had not really the
intention of attacking Frederick the Great.
[*] November 5, 1757.
Of the battle of Soor,[*] the King himself says that it was
only fought because a retreat in the presence of the enemy
appeared to him a critical operation; at the same time
the King has also given other reasons for the battle.
[*] Or Sohr, September 30, 1745.
On the whole, regular night surprises excepted, such
cases will always be of rare occurrence, and those in which
an enemy is compelled to fight by being practically surrounded,
will happen mostly to single corps only, like
Mortier's at Durrenstein 1809, and Vandamme at Kulm,
1813.
CHAPTER IX. THE BATTLE[*]
[*] Clausewitz still uses the word "die Hauptschlacht" but modern
usage employs only the word "die Schlacht" to designate the
decisive
act of a whole campaign--encounters arising from the collision or
troops marching towards the strategic culmination of each portion
or
the campaign are spoken of either as "Treffen," i.e.,
"engagements"
or "Gefecht," i.e., "combat" or "action." Thus technically,
Gravelotte
was a "Schlacht," i.e., "battle," but Spicheren, Woerth, Borny,
even Vionville were only "Treffen."
ITS DECISION
WHAT is a battle? A conflict of the main body, but not
an unimportant one about a secondary object, not a mere
attempt which is given up when we see betimes that
our object is hardly within our reach: it is a conflict waged
with all our forces for the attainment of a decisive victory.
Minor objects may also be mixed up with the principal
object, and it will take many different tones of colour from
the circumstances out of which it originates, for a battle
belongs also to a greater whole of which it is only a part,
but because the essence of War is conflict, and the battle
is the conflict of the main Armies, it is always to be
regarded as the real centre of gravity of the War, and
therefore its distinguishing character is, that unlike all
other encounters, it is arranged for, and undertaken
with the sole purpose of obtaining a decisive victory.
This has an influence on the MANNER OF ITS DECISION, on
the EFFECT OF THE VICTORY CONTAINED IN IT, and determines THE
VALUE WHICH THEORY IS TO ASSIGN TO IT AS A MEANS TO AN END.
On that account we make it the subject of our special
consideration, and at this stage before we enter upon the
special ends which may be bound up with it, but which
do not essentially alter its character if it really deserves
to be termed a battle.
If a battle takes place principally on its own account,
the elements of its decision must be contained in itself;
in other words, victory must be striven for as long as a
possibility or hope remains. It must not, therefore, be
given up on account of secondary circumstances, but only
and alone in the event of the forces appearing completely
insufficient.
Now how is that precise moment to be described?
If a certain artificial formation and cohesion of an Army
is the principal condition under which the bravery of the
troops can gain a victory, as was the case during a great
part of the period of the modern Art of War, THEN THE
BREAKING UP OF THIS FORMATION is the decision. A beaten
wing which is put out of joint decides the fate of all that
was connected with it. If as was the case at another time
the essence of the defence consists in an intimate alliance
of the Army with the ground on which it fights and its
obstacles, so that Army and position are only one, then
the CONQUEST of AN ESSENTIAL POINT in this position is
the decision. It is said the key of the position is lost,
it cannot therefore be defended any further; the battle
cannot be continued. In both cases the beaten Armies
are very much like the broken strings of an instrument
which cannot do their work.
That geometrical as well as this geographical principle
which had a tendency to place an Army in a state of
crystallising tension which did not allow of the available
powers being made use of up to the last man, have at least
so far lost their influence that they no longer predominate.
Armies are still led into battle in a certain order, but that
order is no longer of decisive importance; obstacles of
ground are also still turned to account to strengthen a
position, but they are no longer the only support.
We attempted in the second chapter of this book to take
a general view of the nature of the modern battle. According
to our conception of it, the order of battle is only
a disposition of the forces suitable to the convenient use
of them, and the course of the battle a mutual slow
wearing away of these forces upon one another, to see
which will have soonest exhausted his adversary.
The resolution therefore to give up the fight arises, in
a battle more than in any other combat, from the relation
of the fresh reserves remaining available; for only these
still retain all their moral vigour, and the cinders of the
battered, knocked-about battalions, already burnt out in
the destroying element, must not be placed on a level
with them; also lost ground as we have elsewhere said,
is a standard of lost moral force; it therefore comes also
into account, but more as a sign of loss suffered than for
the loss itself, and the number of fresh reserves is always
the chief point to be looked at by both Commanders.
In general, an action inclines in one direction from the
very commencement, but in a manner little observable.
This direction is also frequently given in a very decided
manner by the arrangements which have been made
previously, and then it shows a want of discernment in
that General who commences battle under these unfavourable
circumstances without being aware of them. Even
when this does not occur it lies in the nature of things that
the course of a battle resembles rather a slow disturbance
of equilibrium which commences soon, but as we have said
almost imperceptibly at first, and then with each moment
of time becomes stronger and more visible, than an
oscillating to and fro, as those who are misled by mendacious
descriptions usually suppose.
But whether it happens that the balance is for a long
time little disturbed, or that even after it has been lost on
one side it rights itself again, and is then lost on the other
side, it is certain at all events that in most instances the
defeated General foresees his fate long before he retreats,
and that cases in which some critical event acts with unexpected
force upon the course of the whole have their
existence mostly in the colouring with which every one
depicts his lost battle.
We can only here appeal to the decision of unprejudiced
men of experience, who will, we are sure, assent to what
we have said, and answer for us to such of our readers as
do not know War from their own experience. To develop
the necessity of this course from the nature of the thing
would lead us too far into the province of tactics, to which
this branch of the subject belongs; we are here only
concerned with its results.
If we say that the defeated General foresees the unfavourable
result usually some time before he makes up his mind
to give up the battle, we admit that there are also instances
to the contrary, because otherwise we should maintain a
proposition contradictory in itself. If at the moment of
each decisive tendency of a battle it should be considered
as lost, then also no further forces should be used to give
it a turn, and consequently this decisive tendency could
not precede the retreat by any length of time. Certainly
there are instances of battles which after having taken a
decided turn to one side have still ended in favour of the
other; but they are rare, not usual; these exceptional
cases, however, are reckoned upon by every General against
whom fortune declares itself, and he must reckon upon
them as long as there remains a possibility of a turn of
fortune. He hopes by stronger efforts, by raising the
remaining moral forces, by surpassing himself, or also by
some fortunate chance that the next moment will bring a
change, and pursues this as far as his courage and his judgment
can agree. We shall have something more to say
on this subject, but before that we must show what are
the signs of the scales turning.
The result of the whole combat consists in the sum total
of the results of all partial combats; but these results of
separate combats are settled by different considerations.
First by the pure moral power in the mind of the leading
officers. If a General of Division has seen his battalions
forced to succumb, it will have an influence on his demeanour
and his reports, and these again will have an influence
on the measures of the Commander-in-Chief; therefore
even those unsuccessful partial combats which to all
appearance are retrieved, are not lost in their results,
and the impressions from them sum themselves up in the
mind of the Commander without much trouble, and even
against his will.
Secondly, by the quicker melting away of our troops,
which can be easily estimated in the slow and relatively[*]
little tumultuary course of our battles.
[*] Relatively, that is say to the shock of former days.
Thirdly, by lost ground.
All these things serve for the eye of the General as a
compass to tell the course of the battle in which he is
embarked. If whole batteries have been lost and none of
the enemy's taken; if battalions have been overthrown by
the enemy's cavalry, whilst those of the enemy everywhere
present impenetrable masses; if the line of fire
from his order of battle wavers involuntarily from one
point to another; if fruitless efforts have been made to
gain certain points, and the assaulting battalions each,
time been scattered by well-directed volleys of grape and
case;--if our artillery begins to reply feebly to that of the
enemy--if the battalions under fire diminish unusually,
fast, because with the wounded crowds of unwounded men
go to the rear;--if single Divisions have been cut off and
made prisoners through the disruption of the plan of the
battle;--if the line of retreat begins to be endangered:
the Commander may tell very well in which direction he
is going with his battle. The longer this direction
continues, the more decided it becomes, so much the more
difficult will be the turning, so much the nearer the moment
when he must give up the battle. We shall now make
some observations on this moment.
We have already said more than once that the final
decision is ruled mostly by the relative number of the
fresh reserves remaining at the last; that Commander
who sees his adversary is decidedly superior to him in
this respect makes up his mind to retreat. It is the
characteristic
of modern battles that all mischances and losses
which take place in the course of the same can be retrieved
by fresh forces, because the arrangement of the modern
order of battle, and the way in which troops are brought
into action, allow of their use almost generally, and in
each position. So long, therefore, as that Commander
against whom the issue seems to declare itself still retains
a superiority in reserve force, he will not give up the day.
But from the moment that his reserves begin to become
weaker than his enemy's, the decision may be regarded as
settled, and what he now does depends partly on special
circumstances, partly on the degree of courage and perseverance
which he personally possesses, and which may
degenerate into foolish obstinacy. How a Commander
can attain to the power of estimating correctly the still
remaining reserves on both sides is an affair of skilful
practical genius, which does not in any way belong to this
place; we keep ourselves to the result as it forms itself
in his mind. But this conclusion is still not the moment
of decision properly, for a motive which only arises gradually
does not answer to that, but is only a general motive
towards resolution, and the resolution itself requires still
some special immediate causes. Of these there are two
chief ones which constantly recur, that is, the danger of
retreat, and the arrival of night.
If the retreat with every new step which the battle
takes in its course becomes constantly in greater danger,
and if the reserves are so much diminished that they are
no longer adequate to get breathing room, then there is
nothing left but to submit to fate, and by a well-conducted
retreat to save what, by a longer delay ending in flight
and disaster, would be lost.
But night as a rule puts an end to all battles, because a
night combat holds out no hope of advantage except under
particular circumstances; and as night is better suited for
a retreat than the day, so, therefore, the Commander
who must look at the retreat as a thing inevitable, or as
most probable, will prefer to make use of the night for his
purpose.
That there are, besides the above two usual and chief
causes, yet many others also, which are less or more
individual and not to be overlooked, is a matter of course;
for the more a battle tends towards a complete upset of
equilibrium the more sensible is the influence of each
partial result in hastening the turn. Thus the loss of a
battery, a successful charge of a couple of regiments of
cavalry, may call into life the resolution to retreat already
ripening.
As a conclusion to this subject, we must dwell for a
moment on the point at which the courage of the Commander
engages in a sort of conflict with his reason.
If, on the one hand the overbearing pride of a victorious
conqueror, if the inflexible will of a naturally obstinate
spirit, if the strenuous resistance of noble feelings will
not yield the battlefield, where they must leave their
honour, yet on the other hand, reason counsels not to
give up everything, not to risk the last upon the game,
but to retain as much over as is necessary for an orderly
retreat. However highly we must esteem courage and
firmness in War, and however little prospect there is of
victory to him who cannot resolve to seek it by the exertion
of all his power, still there is a point beyond which
perseverance
can only be termed desperate folly, and therefore
can meet with no approbation from any critic. In
the most celebrated of all battles, that of Belle-Alliance,
Buonaparte used his last reserve in an effort to retrieve a
battle which was past being retrieved. He spent his last
farthing, and then, as a beggar, abandoned both the
battle-field and his crown.
CHAPTER X. EFFECTS OF VICTORY (continuation)
ACCORDING to the point from which our view is taken, we
may feel as much astonished at the extraordinary results
of some great battles as at the want of results in others.
We shall dwell for a moment on the nature of the effect
of a great victory.
Three things may easily be distinguished here: the
effect upon the instrument itself, that is, upon the
Generals and their Armies; the effect upon the States
interested in the War; and the particular result of these
effects as manifested in the subsequent course of the
campaign.
If we only think of the trifling difference which there
usually is between victor and vanquished in killed,
wounded, prisoners, and artillery lost on the field of battle
itself, the consequences which are developed out of this
insignificant point seem often quite incomprehensible, and
yet, usually, everything only happens quite naturally.
We have already said in the seventh chapter that the
magnitude of a victory increases not merely in the same
measure as the vanquished forces increase in number,
but in a higher ratio. The moral effects resulting from the
issue of a great battle are greater on the side of the conquered
than on that of the conqueror: they lead to greater
losses in physical force, which then in turn react on the
moral element, and so they go on mutually supporting
and intensifying each other. On this moral effect we
must therefore lay special weight. It takes an opposite
direction on the one side from that on the other; as it
undermines the energies of the conquered so it elevates
the powers and energy of the conqueror. But its chief
effect is upon the vanquished, because here it is the direct
cause of fresh losses, and besides it is homogeneous in
nature with danger, with the fatigues, the hardships, and
generally with all those embarrassing circumstances by
which War is surrounded, therefore enters into league with
them and increases by their help, whilst with the conqueror
all these things are like weights which give a higher swing
to his courage. It is therefore found, that the vanquished
sinks much further below the original line of equilibrium
than the conqueror raises himself above it; on this
account, if we speak of the effects of victory we allude more
particularly to those which manifest themselves in the
army. If this effect is more powerful in an
important combat than in a smaller one, so again it is
much more powerful in a great battle than in a minor one.
The great battle takes place for the sake of itself, for the
sake of the victory which it is to give, and which is sought
for with the utmost effort. Here on this spot, in this very
hour, to conquer the enemy is the purpose in which the
plan of the War with all its threads converges, in which
all distant hopes, all dim glimmerings of the future meet,
fate steps in before us to give an answer to the bold
question.--This is the
state of mental tension not only of the
Commander but of his whole Army down to the lowest
waggon-driver, no doubt in decreasing strength but also
in decreasing importance.
According to the nature of the thing, a great battle has
never at any time been an unprepared, unexpected, blind
routine service, but a grand act, which, partly of itself
and partly from the aim of the Commander, stands out
from amongst the mass of ordinary efforts, sufficiently to
raise the tension of all minds to a higher degree. But the
higher this tension with respect to the issue, the more
powerful must be the effect of that issue.
Again, the moral effect of victory in our battles is
greater than it was in the earlier ones of modern military
history. If the former are as we have depicted them, a
real struggle of forces to the utmost, then the sum total
of all these forces, of the physical as well as the moral,
must decide more than certain special dispositions or
mere chance.
A single fault committed may be repaired next time;
from good fortune and chance we can hope for more favour
on another occasion; but the sum total of moral and
physical powers cannot be so quickly altered, and, therefore,
what the award of a victory has decided appears
of much greater importance for all futurity. Very probably,
of all concerned in battles, whether in or out of
the Army, very few have given a thought to this difference,
but the course of the battle itself impresses on the
minds of all present in it such a conviction, and the
relation of this course in public documents, however
much it may be coloured by twisting particular circumstances,
shows also, more or less, to the world at large
that the causes were more of a general than of a particular
nature.
He who has not been present at the loss of a great
battle will have difficulty in forming for himself a living
or quite true idea of it, and the abstract notions of this or
that small untoward affair will never come up to the perfect
conception of a lost battle. Let us stop a moment
at the picture.
The first thing which overpowers the imagination--and
we may indeed say, also the understanding--is the
diminution of the masses; then the loss of ground, which
takes place always, more or less, and, therefore, on the
side of the assailant also, if he is not fortunate; then the
rupture of the original formation, the jumbling together
of troops, the risks of retreat, which, with few exceptions
may always be seen sometimes in a less sometimes in a
greater degree; next the retreat, the most part of which
commences at night, or, at least, goes on throughout the
night. On this first march we must at once leave behind,
a number of men completely worn out and scattered about,
often just the bravest, who have been foremost in the fight
who held out the longest: the feeling of being conquered,
which only seized the superior officers on the battlefield,
now spreads through all ranks, even down to the common
soldiers, aggravated by the horrible idea of being obliged
to leave in the enemy's hands so many brave comrades,
who but a moment since were of such value to us in the
battle, and aggravated by a rising distrust of the chief, to
whom, more or
less, every subordinate attributes as a fault the fruitless
efforts he has
made; and this feeling of being conquered is no ideal picture
over
which one might become master; it is an evident truth
that the enemy is superior to us; a truth of which the
causes might have been so latent before that they were
not to be discovered, but which, in the issue, comes out
clear and palpable, or which was also, perhaps, before
suspected, but which in the want of any certainty, we
had to oppose by the hope of chance, reliance on good
fortune, Providence or a bold attitude. Now, all this has
proved insufficient, and the bitter truth meets us harsh
and imperious.
All these feelings are widely different from a panic,
which in an army fortified by military virtue never, and
in any other, only exceptionally, follows the loss of a
battle. They must arise even in the best of Armies, and
although long habituation to War and victory together
with great confidence in a Commander may modify them
a little here and there, they are never entirely wanting
in the first moment. They are not the pure consequences
of lost trophies; these are usually lost at a later period,
and the loss of them does not become generally known so
quickly; they will therefore not fail to appear even when
the scale turns in the slowest and most gradual manner,
and they constitute that effect of a victory upon which
we can always count in every case.
We have already said that the number of trophies
intensifies this effect.
It is evident that an Army in this condition, looked at as
an instrument, is weakened! How can we expect that
when reduced to such a degree that, as we said before, it
finds new enemies in all the ordinary difficulties of making
War, it will be able to recover by fresh efforts what has
been lost! Before the battle there was a real or assumed
equilibrium between the two sides; this is lost, and,
therefore, some external assistance is requisite to restore
it; every new effort without such external support can
only lead to fresh losses.
Thus, therefore, the most moderate victory of the chief
Army must tend to cause a constant sinking of the scale
on the opponent's side, until new external circumstances
bring about a change. If these are not near, if the conqueror
is an eager opponent, who, thirsting for glory,
pursues great aims, then a first-rate Commander, and in
the beaten Army a true military spirit, hardened by many
campaigns are required, in order to stop the swollen
stream of prosperity from bursting all bounds, and to
moderate its course by small but reiterated acts of
resistance, until the force of victory has spent itself at
the goal of its career.
And now as to the effect of defeat beyond the Army,
upon the Nation and Government! It is the sudden
collapse of hopes stretched to the utmost, the downfall
of all self-reliance. In place of these extinct forces, fear,
with its destructive properties of expansion, rushes into
the vacuum left, and completes the prostration. It is
a real shock upon the nerves, which one of the two athletes
receives from the electric spark of victory. And that
effect, however different in its degrees, is never completely
wanting. Instead of every one hastening with a spirit
of determination to aid in repairing the disaster, every one
fears that his efforts will only be in vain, and stops,
hesitating with himself, when he should rush forward;
or in despondency he lets his arm drop, leaving everything
to fate.
The consequence which this effect of victory brings forth
in the course of the War itself depend in part on the
character and talent of the victorious General, but more
on the circumstances from which the victory proceeds,
and to which it leads. Without boldness and an enterprising
spirit on the part of the leader, the most brilliant
victory will lead to no great success, and its force exhausts
itself all the sooner on circumstances, if these offer a
strong and stubborn opposition to it. How very differently
from Daun, Frederick the Great would have used the victory
at Kollin; and what different consequences France,
in place of Prussia, might have given a battle of Leuthen!
The conditions which allow us to expect great results
from a great victory we shall learn when we come to the
subjects with which they are connected; then it will
be possible to explain the disproportion which appears at
first sight between the magnitude of a victory and its
results, and which is only too readily attributed to a want
of energy on the part of the conqueror. Here, where we
have to do with the great battle in itself, we shall merely
say that the effects now depicted never fail to attend a
victory, that they mount up with the intensive strength
of the victory--mount up more the more the whole
strength of the Army has been concentrated in it, the
more the whole military power of the Nation is contained
in that Army, and the State in that military power.
But then the question may be asked, Can theory accept
this effect of victory as absolutely necessary?--must it
not rather endeavour to find out counteracting means
capable of neutralising these effects? It seems quite
natural to answer this question in the affirmative; but
heaven defend us from taking that wrong course of most
theories, out of which is begotten a mutually devouring
Pro et Contra.
Certainly that effect is perfectly necessary, for it has
its foundation in the nature of things, and it exists, even
if we find means to struggle against it; just as the motion
of a cannon ball is always in the direction of the terrestrial,
although when fired from east to west part of the general
velocity is destroyed by this opposite motion.
All War supposes human weakness, and against that
it is directed.
Therefore, if hereafter in another place we examine
what is to be done after the loss of a great battle, if we
bring under review the resources which still remain, even
in the most desperate cases, if we should express a belief
in the possibility of retrieving all, even in such a case;
it must not be supposed we mean thereby that the effects
of such a defeat can by degrees be completely wiped out,
for the forces and means used to repair the disaster might
have been applied to the realisation of some positive
object; and this applies both to the moral and physical
forces.
Another question is, whether, through the loss of a great
battle, forces are not perhaps roused into existence, which
otherwise would never have come to life. This case is
certainly conceivable, and it is what has actually occurred
with many Nations. But to produce this intensified
reaction is beyond the province of military art, which
can only take account of it where it might be assumed as
a possibility.
If there are cases in which the fruits of a victory appear
rather of a destructive nature in consequence of the reaction
of the forces which it had the effect of rousing into
activity--cases which certainly are very exceptional--
then it must the more surely be granted, that there is a
difference in the effects which one and the same victory
may produce according to the character of the people or
state, which has been conquered.
CHAPTER XI. THE USE OF THE BATTLE (continued)
WHATEVER form the conduct of War may take in particular
cases, and whatever we may have to admit in the
sequel as necessary respecting it: we have only to refer
to the conception of War to be convinced of what follows:
1. The destruction of the enemy's military force, is
the leading principle of War, and for the whole chapter of
positive action the direct way to the object.
2. This destruction of the enemy's force, must be principally
effected by means of battle.
3. Only great and general battles can produce great
results.
4. The results will be greatest when combats unite themselves
in one great battle.
5. It is only in a great battle that the General-in-Chief
commands in person, and it is in the nature of things,
that he should place more confidence in himself than in
his subordinates.
From these truths a double law follows, the parts of
which mutually support each other; namely, that the
destruction of the enemy's military force is to be sought
for principally by great battles, and their results; and
that the chief object of great battles must be the destruction
of the enemy's military force.
No doubt the annihilation-principle is to be found more
or less in other means--granted there are instances in which
through favourable circumstances in a minor combat, the
destruction of the enemy's forces has been disproportionately
great (Maxen), and on the other hand in a battle,
the taking or holding a single post may be predominant
in importance as an object--but as a general rule it remains
a paramount truth, that battles are only fought
with a view to the destruction of the enemy's Army, and
that this destruction can only be effected by their
means.
The battle may therefore be regarded as War concentrated,
as the centre of effort of the whole War or
campaign. As the sun's rays unite in the focus of the
concave mirror in a perfect image, and in the fulness
of their heat; to the forces and circumstances of War,
unite in a focus in the great battle for one concentrated
utmost effort.
The very assemblage of forces in one great whole, which
takes place more or less in all Wars, indicates an intention
to strike a decisive blow with this whole, either voluntarily
as assailant, or constrained by the opposite party as
defender. When this great blow does not follow, then
some modifying, and retarding motives have attached
themselves to the original motive of hostility, and have
weakened, altered or completely checked the movement.
But also, even in this condition of mutual inaction which
has been the key-note in so many Wars, the idea of a
possible battle serves always for both parties as a point
of direction, a distant focus in the construction of their
plans. The more War is War in earnest, the more it is a
venting of animosity and hostility, a mutual struggle to
overpower, so much the more will all activities join
deadly contest, and also the more prominent in importance
becomes the battle.
In general, when the object aimed at is of a great and positive
nature, one therefore in which the interests of the enemy
are deeply concerned, the battle offers itself as the most
natural means; it is, therefore, also the best as we shall show
more plainly hereafter: and, as a rule, when it is evaded
from aversion to the great decision, punishment follows.
The positive object belong to the offensive, and therefore
the battle is also more particularly his means. But
without examining the conception of offensive and defensive
more minutely here, we must still observe that, even
for the defender in most cases, there is no other effectual
means with which to meet the exigencies of his situation,
to solve the problem presented to him.
The battle is the bloodiest way of solution. True, it is
not merely reciprocal slaughter, and its effect is more a
killing of the enemy's courage than of the enemy's soldiers,
as we shall see more plainly in the next chapter--but
still blood is always its price, and slaughter its character
as well as name;[*] from this the humanity in the General's
mind recoils with horror.
[*] "Schlacht", from schlachten = to slaughter.
But the soul of the man trembles still more at the
thought of the decision to be given with one single blow.
IN ONE POINT of space and time all action is here pressed
together, and at such a moment there is stirred up within
us a dim feeling as if in this narrow space all our forces
could not develop themselves and come into activity, as if
we had already gained much by mere time, although this
time owes us nothing at all. This is all mere illusion, but
even as illusion it is something, and the same weakness
which seizes upon the man in every, other momentous
decision may well be felt more powerfully by the General,
when he must stake interests of such enormous weight
upon one venture.
Thus, then, Statesmen and Generals have at all times
endeavoured to avoid the decisive battle, seeking either
to attain their aim without it, or dropping that aim
unperceived. Writers on history and theory have then
busied themselves to discover in some other feature in
these campaigns not only an equivalent for the decision
by battle which has been avoided, but even a higher
art. In this way, in the present age, it came very near to
this, that a battle in the economy of War was looked upon
as an evil, rendered necessary through some error committed,a
morbid
paroxysm to which a regular prudent
system of War would never lead: only those Generals
were to deserve laurels who knew how to carry on War
without spilling blood, and the theory of War--a real
business for Brahmins--was to be specially directed to
teaching this.
Contemporary history has destroyed this illusion,[*] but
no one can guarantee that it will not sooner or later
reproduce itself, and lead those at the head of affairs to
perversities which please man's weakness, and therefore
have the greater affinity for his nature. Perhaps, by-and-
by, Buonaparte's campaigns and battles will be looked
upon as mere acts of barbarism and stupidity, and we shall
once more turn with satisfaction and confidence to the
dress-sword of obsolete and musty institutions and forms.
If theory gives a caution against this, then it renders a
real service to those who listen to its warning voice. MAY
WE SUCCEED IN LENDING A HAND TO THOSE WHO IN OUR DEAR NATIVE
LAND ARE CALLED UPON TO SPEAK WITH AUTHORITY ON THESE MATTERS,
THAT WE MAY BE THEIR GUIDE INTO THIS FIELD OF INQUIRY,
AND EXCITE THEM TO MAKE A CANDID EXAMINATION OF THE
SUBJECT.[**]
[*] On the Continent only, it still preserves full vitality in
the minds
of British politicians and pressmen.--EDITOR.
[**] This prayer was abundantly granted--vide the German
victories
of 1870.--EDITOR.
Not only the conception of War but experience also
leads us to look for a great decision only in a great battle.
From time immemorial, only great victories have led to
great successes on the offensive side in the absolute form,
on the defensive side in a manner more or less satisfactory.
Even Buonaparte would not have seen the day of Ulm,
unique in its kind, if he had shrunk from shedding blood;
it is rather to be regarded as only a second crop from the
victorious events in his preceding campaigns. It is not
only bold, rash, and presumptuous Generals who have
sought to complete their work by the great venture of a
decisive battle, but also fortunate ones as well; and we
may rest satisfied with the answer which they have thus
given to this vast question.
Let us not hear of Generals who conquer without bloodshed.
If a bloody slaughter is a horrible sight, then that
is a ground for paying more respect to War, but not
for making the sword we wear blunter and blunter by
degrees from feelings of humanity, until some one steps
in with one that is sharp and lops off the arm from our
body.
We look upon a great battle as a principal decision, but
certainly not as the only one necessary for a War or a
campaign. Instances of a great battle deciding a whole
campaign, have been frequent only in modern times,
those which have decided a whole War, belong to the class
of rare exceptions.
A decision which is brought about by a great battle
depends naturally not on the battle itself, that is on the
mass of combatants engaged in it, and on the intensity of
the victory, but also on a number of other relations
between the military forces opposed to each other, and
between the States to which these forces belong. But
at the same time that the principal mass of the force available
is brought to the great duel, a great decision is also
brought on, the extent of which may perhaps be foreseen
in many respects, though not in all, and which although
not the only one, still is the FIRST decision, and as such,
has an influence on those which succeed. Therefore a
deliberately planned great battle, according to its relations,
is more or less, but always in some degree, to be regarded
as the leading means and central point of the whole
system. The more a General takes the field in the true
spirit of War as well as of every contest, with the feeling
and the idea, that is the conviction, that he must and
will conquer, the more he will strive to throw every
weight into the scale in the first battle, hope and strive
to win everything by it. Buonaparte hardly ever entered
upon a War without thinking of conquering his enemy
at once in the first battle,[*] and Frederick the Great,
although in a more limited sphere, and with interests
of less magnitude at stake, thought the same when,
at the head of a small Army, he sought to disengage
his rear from the Russians or the Federal Imperial
Army.
[*] This was Moltke's essential idea in his preparations for the
War
of 1870. See his secret memorandum issued to G.O.C.s on May 7.
1870, pointing to a battle on the Upper Saar as his primary
purpose.--
EDITOR.
The decision which is given by the great battle, depends,
we have said, partly on the battle itself, that is on the
number of troops engaged, and partly on the magnitude
of the success.
How the General may increase its importance in respect
to the first point is evident in itself and we shall merely
observe that according to the importance of the great
battle, the number of cases which are decided along with
it increases, and that therefore Generals who, confident
in themselves have been lovers of great decisions, have
always managed to make use of the greater part of their
troops in it without neglecting on that account essential
points elsewhere.
As regards the consequences or speaking more correctly
the effectiveness of a victory, that depends chiefly on
four points:
1. On the tactical form adopted as the order of battle.
2. On the nature of the country.
3. On the relative proportions of the three arms.
4. On the relative strength of the two Armies.
A battle with parallel fronts and without any action
against a flank will seldom yield as great success as one in
which the defeated Army has been turned, or compelled
to change front more or less. In a broken or hilly country
the successes are likewise smaller, because the power
of the blow is everywhere less.
If the cavalry of the vanquished is equal or superior to
that of the victor, then the effects of the pursuit are
diminished, and by that great part of the results of victory
are lost.
Finally it is easy to understand that if superior numbers
are on the side of the conqueror, and he uses his advantage
in that respect to turn the flank of his adversary, or compel
him to change front, greater results will follow than if the
conqueror had been weaker in numbers than the vanquished.
The battle of Leuthen may certainly be quoted
as a practical refutation of this principle, but we beg
permission for once to say what we otherwise do not like,
NO RULE WITHOUT AN EXCEPTION.
In all these ways, therefore, the Commander has the
means of giving his battle a decisive character; certainly
he thus exposes himself to an increased amount of danger,
but his whole line of action is subject to that dynamic
law of the moral world.
There is then nothing in War which can be put in comparison
with the great battle in point of importance, AND THE ACME OF
STRATEGIC
ABILITY IS DISPLAYED IN THE PROVISION OF MEANS FOR THIS GREAT
EVENT, IN THE
SKILFUL DETERMINATION OF PLACE AND TIME, AND DIRECTION OF TROOPS,
AND ITS
THE GOOD USE MADE OF SUCCESS.
But it does not follow from the importance of these
things that they must be of a very complicated and
recondite nature; all is here rather simple, the art of
combination by no means great; but there is great need of
quickness in judging of circumstances, need of energy,
steady resolution, a youthful spirit of enterprise--heroic
qualities, to which we shall often have to refer. There is,
therefore, but little wanted here of that which can be
taught by books and there is much that, if it can be taught
at all, must come to the General through some other
medium than printer's type.
The impulse towards a great battle, the voluntary,
sure progress to it, must proceed from a feeling of innate
power and a clear sense of the necessity; in other words,
it must proceed from inborn courage and from perceptions
sharpened by contact with the higher interests of
life.
Great examples are the best teachers, but it is certainly
a misfortune if a cloud of theoretical prejudices comes
between, for even the sunbeam is refracted and tinted by
the clouds. To destroy such prejudices, which many a
time rise and spread themselves like a miasma, is an
imperative duty of theory, for the misbegotten offspring
of human reason can also be in turn destroyed by pure
reason.
CHAPTER XII. STRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISING VICTORY
THE more difficult part, viz., that of perfectly preparing
the victory, is a silent service of which the merit belongs
to Strategy and yet for which it is hardly sufficiently
commended. It appears brilliant and full of renown by
turning to good account a victory gained.
What may be the special object of a battle, how it is
connected with the whole system of a War, whither the
career of victory may lead according to the nature of
circumstances, where its culminating-point lies--all these
are things which we shall not enter upon until hereafter.
But under any conceivable circumstances the fact holds
good, that without a pursuit no victory can have a great
effect, and that, however short the career of victory may
be, it must always lead beyond the first steps in pursuit;
and in order to avoid the frequent repetition of this, we
shall now dwell for a moment on this necessary supplement
of victory in general.
The pursuit of a beaten Army commences at the moment
that Army, giving up the combat, leaves its position;
all previous movements in one direction and another
belong not to that but to the progress of the battle itself.
Usually victory at the moment here described, even if it
is certain, is still as yet small and weak in its proportions,
and would not rank as an event of any great positive
advantage if not completed by a pursuit on the first
day. Then it is mostly, as we have before said, that the
trophies which give substance to the victory begin to
be gathered up. Of this pursuit we shall speak in the
next place.
Usually both sides come into action with their physical
powers considerably deteriorated, for the movements
immediately preceding have generally the character of
very urgent circumstances. The efforts which the forging
out of a great combat costs, complete the exhaustion;
from this it follows that the victorious party is very little
less disorganised and out of his original formation than
the vanquished, and therefore requires time to reform,
to collect stragglers, and issue fresh ammunition to those
who are without. All these things place the conqueror
himself in the state of crisis of which we have already
spoken. If now the defeated force is only a detached
portion of the enemy's Army, or if it has otherwise to
expect a considerable reinforcement, then the conqueror
may easily run into the obvious danger of having to pay
dear for his victory, and this consideration, in such a case,
very soon puts an end to pursuit, or at least restricts it
materially. Even when a strong accession of force by
the enemy is not to be feared, the conqueror finds in the
above circumstances a powerful check to the vivacity of
his pursuit. There is no reason to fear that the victory
will be snatched away, but adverse combats are still
possible, and may diminish the advantages which up to
the present have been gained. Moreover, at this moment
the whole weight of all that is sensuous in an Army, its
wants and weaknesses, are dependent on the will of the
Commander. All the thousands under his command
require rest and refreshment, and long to see a stop put
to toil and danger for the present; only a few, forming
an exception, can see and feel beyond the present moment,
it is only amongst this little number that there is sufficient
mental vigour to think, after what is absolutely necessary
at the moment has been done, upon those results which at
such a moment only appear to the rest as mere embellishments
of victory--as a luxury of triumph. But all these
thousands have a voice in the council of the General,
for through the various steps of the military hierarchy
these interests of the sensuous creature have their sure
conductor into the heart of the Commander. He himself,
through mental and bodily fatigue, is more or less
weakened in his natural activity, and thus it happens
then that, mostly from these causes, purely incidental to
human nature, less is done than might have been done,
and that generally what is done is to be ascribed entirely
to the THIRST FOR GLORY, the energy, indeed also the HARD-
HEARTEDNESS of the General-in-Chief. It is only thus we
can explain the hesitating manner in which many Generals
follow up a victory which superior numbers have given
them. The first pursuit of the enemy we limit in general
to the extent of the first day, including the night following
the victory. At the end of that period the necessity of
rest ourselves prescribes a halt in any case.
This first pursuit has different natural degrees.
The first is, if cavalry alone are employed; in that case
it amounts usually more to alarming and watching than
to pressing the enemy in reality, because the smallest
obstacle of ground is generally sufficient to check the
pursuit. Useful as cavalry may be against single bodies
of broken demoralised troops, still when opposed to the
bulk of the beaten Army it becomes again only the auxiliary
arm, because the troops in retreat can employ fresh
reserves to cover the movement, and, therefore, at the next
trifling obstacle of ground, by combining all arms they can
make a stand with success. The only exception to this
is in the case of an army in actual flight in a complete
state of dissolution.
The second degree is, if the pursuit is made by a strong
advance-guard composed of all arms, the greater part
consisting naturally of cavalry. Such a pursuit generally
drives the enemy as far as the nearest strong position for
his rear-guard, or the next position affording space for his
Army. Neither can usually be found at once, and, therefore,
the pursuit can be carried further; generally, however,
it does not extend beyond the distance of one or at
most a couple of leagues, because otherwise the advance-
guard would not feel itself sufficiently supported.
The third and most vigorous degree is when the
victorious Army itself continues to advance as far as its
physical powers can endure. In this case the beaten Army
will generally quit such ordinary positions as a country
usually offers on the mere show of an attack, or of an
intention to turn its flank; and the rear-guard will be
still less likely to engage in an obstinate resistance.
In all three cases the night, if it sets in before the conclusion
of the whole act, usually puts an end to it, and the
few instances in which this has not taken place, and the
pursuit has been continued throughout the night, must be
regarded as pursuits in an exceptionally vigorous form.
If we reflect that in fighting by night everything must be, more
or less,
abandoned to chance, and that at the
conclusion of a battle the regular cohesion and order of
things in an army must inevitably be disturbed, we may
easily conceive the reluctance of both Generals to carrying
on their business under such disadvantageous conditions.
If a complete dissolution of the vanquished Army, or a
rare superiority of the victorious Army in military virtue
does not ensure success, everything would in a manner be
given up to fate, which can never be for the interest of
any one, even of the most fool-hardy General. As a rule,
therefore, night puts an end to pursuit, even when the
battle has only been decided shortly before darkness sets
in. This allows the conquered either time for rest and to
rally immediately, or, if he retreats during the night it gives
him a march in advance. After this break the conquered
is decidedly in a better condition; much of that which
had been thrown into confusion has been brought again
into order, ammunition has been renewed, the whole has
been put into a fresh formation. Whatever further encounter
now takes place with the enemy is a new battle
not a continuation of the old, and although it may be far
from promising absolute success, still it is a fresh combat,
and not merely a gathering up of the debris by the victor.
When, therefore, the conqueror can continue the pursuit
itself throughout the night, if only with a strong advance-
guard composed of all arms of the service, the effect of
the victory is immensely increased, of this the battles of
Leuthen and La Belle Alliance[*] are examples.
[*] Waterloo.
The whole action of this pursuit is mainly tactical,
and we only dwell upon it here in order to make plain the
difference which through it may be produced in the
effect of a victory.
This first pursuit, as far as the nearest stopping-point,
belongs as a right to every conqueror, and is hardly in any
way connected with his further plans and combinations.
These may considerably diminish the positive results of a
victory gained with the main body of the Army, but they
cannot make this first use of it impossible; at least cases
of that kind, if conceivable at all, must be so uncommon
that they should have no appreciable influence on theory.
And here certainly we must say that the example afforded
by modern Wars opens up quite a new field for energy.
In preceding Wars, resting on a narrower basis, and altogether
more circumscribed in their scope, there were many
unnecessary conventional restrictions in various ways,
but particularly in this point. THE CONCEPTION, HONOUR OF
VICTORY seemed to Generals so much by far the chief thing
that they thought the less of the complete destruction of
the enemy's military force, as in point of fact that destruction
of force appeared to them only as one of the many
means in War, not by any means as the principal, much
less as the only means; so that they the more readily put
the sword in its sheath the moment the enemy had
lowered his. Nothing seemed more natural to them than
to stop the combat as soon as the decision was obtained,
and to regard all further carnage as unnecessary cruelty.
Even if this false philosophy did not determine their
resolutions entirely, still it was a point of view by which
representations of the exhaustion of all powers, and physical
impossibility of continuing the struggle, obtained
readier evidence and greater weight. Certainly the
sparing one's own instrument of victory is a vital question
if we only possess this one, and foresee that soon the time
may arrive when it will not be sufficient for all that remains
to be done, for every continuation of the offensive must
lead ultimately to complete exhaustion. But this calculation
was still so far false, as the further loss of forces by a
continuance of the pursuit could bear no proportion to
that which the enemy must suffer. That view, therefore,
again could only exist because the military forces were not
considered the vital factor. And so we find that in former
Wars real heroes only--such as Charles XII., Marlborough,
Eugene, Frederick the Great--added a vigorous pursuit
to their victories when they were decisive enough, and
that other Generals usually contented themselves with the
possession of the field of battle. In modern times the
greater energy infused into the conduct of Wars through
the greater importance of the circumstances from which
they have proceeded has thrown down these conventional
barriers; the pursuit has become an all-important business
for the conqueror; trophies have on that account
multiplied in extent, and if there are cases also in modern
Warfare in which this has not been the case, still they
belong to the list of exceptions, and are to be accounted
for by peculiar circumstances.
At Gorschen[*] and Bautzen nothing but the superiority
of the allied cavalry prevented a complete rout, at Gross
Beeren and Dennewitz the ill-will of Bernadotte, the
Crown Prince of Sweden; at Laon the enfeebled personal
condition of Bluecher, who was then seventy years old and at the
moment
confined to a dark room owing to an injury to his eyes.
[*] Gorschen or Lutzen, May 2, 1813; Gross Beeren and Dennewitz,
August 22, 1813; Bautzen. May 22, 1913; Laon, March 10 1813.
But Borodino is also an illustration to the point here,
and we cannot resist saying a few more words about it,
partly because we do not consider the circumstances are
explained simply by attaching blame to Buonaparte,
partly because it might appear as if this, and with it a
great number of similar cases, belonged to that class which
we have designated as so extremely rare, cases in which the
general relations seize and fetter the General at the very
beginning of the battle. French authors in particular,
and great admirers of Buonaparte (Vaudancourt, Chambray,
Se'gur), have blamed him decidedly because he did
not drive the Russian Army completely off the field,
and use his last reserves to scatter it, because then what
was only a lost battle would have been a complete rout.
We should be obliged to diverge too far to describe
circumstantially
the mutual situation of the two Armies; but
this much is evident, that when Buonaparte passed the
Niemen with his Army the same corps which afterwards
fought at Borodino numbered 300,000 men, of whom now
only 120,000 remained, he might therefore well be apprehensive
that he would
not have enough left to march
upon Moscow, the point on which everything seemed to
depend. The victory which he had just gained gave him
nearly a certainty of taking that capital, for that the
Russians would be in a condition to fight a second battle
within eight days seemed in the highest degree improbable;
and in Moscow he hoped to find peace. No doubt
the complete dispersion of the Russian Army would have
made this peace much more certain; but still the first
consideration was to get to Moscow, that is, to get there
with a force with which he should appear dictator over
the capital, and through that over the Empire and the
Government. The force which he brought with him to
Moscow was no longer sufficient for that, as shown in the
sequel, but it would have been still less so if, in scattering
the Russian Army, he had scattered his own at the same
time. Buonaparte was thoroughly alive to all this, and
in our eyes he stands completely justified. But on that
account this case is still not to be reckoned amongst those
in which, through the general relations, the General is
interdicted from following up his victory, for there never
was in his case any question of mere pursuit. The victory
was decided at four o'clock in the afternoon, but the
Russians still occupied the greater part of the field of
battle; they were not yet disposed to give up the ground,
and if the attack had been renewed, they would still have
offered a most determined resistance, which would have
undoubtedly ended in their complete defeat, but would
have cost the conqueror much further bloodshed. We
must therefore reckon the Battle of Borodino as amongst
battles, like Bautzen, left unfinished. At Bautzen the
vanquished preferred to quit the field sooner; at Borodino
the conqueror preferred to content himself with a
half victory, not because the decision appeared doubtful,
but because he was not rich enough to pay for the whole.
Returning now to our subject, the deduction from our
reflections in relation to the first stage of pursuit is, that
the energy thrown into it chiefly determines the value of
the victory; that this pursuit is a second act of the
victory, in many cases more important also than the first,
and that strategy, whilst here approaching tactics to receive
from it the harvest of success, exercises the first act of
her authority by demanding this completion of the victory.
But further, the effects of victory are very seldom
found to stop with this first pursuit; now first begins the
real career to which victory lent velocity. This course is
conditioned as we have already said, by other relations of
which it is not yet time to speak. But we must here mention,
what there is of a general character in the pursuit in
order to avoid repetition when the subject occurs again.
In the further stages of pursuit, again, we can distinguish
three degrees: the simple pursuit, a hard pursuit,
and a parallel march to intercept.
The simple FOLLOWING or PURSUING causes the enemy to
continue his retreat, until he thinks he can risk another
battle. It will therefore in its effect suffice to exhaust
the advantages gained, and besides that, all that the enemy
cannot carry with him, sick, wounded, and disabled from
fatigue, quantities of baggage, and carriages of all kinds,
will fall into our hands, but this mere following does not
tend to heighten the disorder in the enemy's Army, an
effect which is produced by the two following causes.
If, for instance, instead of contenting ourselves with
taking up every day the camp the enemy has just vacated,
occupying just as much of the country as he chooses to
abandon, we make our arrangements so as every day to
encroach further, and accordingly with our advance-
guard organised for the purpose, attack his rear-guard
every time it attempts to halt, then such a course will
hasten his retreat, and consequently tend to increase his
disorganisation.--This it will principally effect by the
character of continuous flight, which his retreat will thus
assume. Nothing has such a depressing influence on the
soldier, as the sound of the enemy's cannon afresh at the
moment when, after a forced march he seeks some rest;
if this excitement is continued from day to day for some
time, it may lead to a complete rout. There lies in it a
constant admission of being obliged to obey the law of
the enemy, and of being unfit for any resistance, and the
consciousness of this cannot do otherwise than weaken the
moral of an Army in a high degree. The effect of pressing
the enemy in this way attains a maximum when it drives
the enemy to make night marches. If the conqueror
scares away the discomfited opponent at sunset from a
camp which has just been taken up either for the main
body of the Army, or for the rear-guard, the conquered
must either make a night march, or alter his position in
the night, retiring further away, which is much the same
thing; the victorious party can on the other hand pass
the night in quiet.
The arrangement of marches, and the choice of positions
depend in this case also upon so many other things,
especially on the supply of the Army, on strong natural
obstacles in the country, on large towns, &c. &c., that it
would be ridiculous pedantry to attempt to show by a
geometrical analysis how the pursuer, being able to
impose his laws on the retreating enemy, can compel him
to march at night while he takes his rest. But nevertheless
it is true and practicable that marches in pursuit may
be so planned as to have this tendency, and that the efficacy
of the pursuit is very much enchanced thereby. If
this is seldom attended to in the execution, it is because
such a procedure is more difficult for the pursuing Army,
than a regular adherence to ordinary marches in the daytime.
To start in good time in the morning, to encamp
at mid-day, to occupy the rest of the day in providing
for the ordinary wants of the Army, and to use the night
for repose, is a much more convenient method than to
regulate one's movements exactly according to those of
the enemy, therefore to determine nothing till the last
moment, to start on the march, sometimes in the morning,
sometimes in the evening, to be always for several hours
in the presence of the enemy, and exchanging cannon shots
with him, and keeping up skirmishing fire, to plan manoeuvres
to turn him, in short, to make the whole outlay of
tactical means which such a course renders necessary.
All that naturally bears with a heavy weight on the pursuing
Army, and in War, where there are so many burdens
to be borne, men are always inclined to strip off those
which do not seem absolutely necessary. These observations
are true, whether applied to a whole Army or as in
the more usual case, to a strong advance-guard. For the
reasons just mentioned, this second method of pursuit,
this continued pressing of the enemy pursued is rather a
rare occurrence; even Buonaparte in his Russian campaign,
1812, practised it but little, for the reasons here
apparent, that the difficulties and hardships of this campaign,
already threatened his Army with destruction before
it could reach its object; on the other hand, the French
in their other campaigns have distinguished themselves
by their energy in this point also.
Lastly, the third and most effectual form of pursuit is,
the parallel march to the immediate object of the retreat.
Every defeated Army will naturally have behind it, at
a greater or less distance, some point, the attainment of
which is the first purpose in view, whether it be that
failing in this its further retreat might be compromised,
as in the case of a defile, or that it is important for the
point itself to reach it before the enemy, as in the case of
a great city, magazines, &c., or, lastly, that the Army
at this point will gain new powers of defence, such as
a strong position, or junction with other corps.
Now if the conqueror directs his march on this point by
a lateral road, it is evident how that may quicken the
retreat of the beaten Army in a destructive manner,
convert it into hurry, perhaps into flight.[*] The
conquered has only three ways to counteract this: the first
is to throw himself in front of the enemy, in order by an
unexpected attack to gain that probability of success which
is lost to him in general from his position; this plainly
supposes an enterprising bold General, and an excellent
Army, beaten but not utterly defeated; therefore, it can
only be employed by a beaten Army in very few cases.
[*] This point is exceptionally well treated by von Bernhardi in
his "Cavalry in Future Wars." London: Murray, 1906.
The second way is hastening the retreat; but this is
just what the conqueror wants, and it easily leads to
immoderate efforts on the part of the troops, by which
enormous losses are sustained, in stragglers, broken guns,
and carriages of all kinds.
The third way is to make a detour, and get round the
nearest point of interception, to march with more ease at
a greater distance from the enemy, and thus to render the
haste required less damaging. This last way is the worst
of all, it generally turns out like a new debt contracted
by an insolvent debtor, and leads to greater embarrassment.
There are cases in which this course is advisable;
others where there is nothing else left; also instances in
which it has been successful; but upon the whole it is
certainly true that its adoption is usually influenced
less by a clear persuasion of its being the surest way of
attaining the aim than by another inadmissible motive--
this motive is the dread of encountering the enemy.
Woe to the Commander who gives in to this! However
much the moral of his Army may have deteriorated, and
however well founded may be his apprehensions of being
at a disadvantage in any conflict with the enemy, the evil
will only be made worse by too anxiously avoiding every
possible risk of collision. Buonaparte in 1813 would never
have brought over the Rhine with him the 30,000 or 40,000
men who remained after the battle of Hanau,[*] if he had
avoided that battle and tried to pass the Rhine at Mannheim
or Coblenz. It is just by means of small combats
carefully prepared and executed, and in which the defeated
army being on the defensive, has always the assistance of
the ground--it is just by these that the moral strength of
the Army can first be resuscitated.
[*] At Hanau (October 30, 1813), the Bavarians some 50,000 strong
threw themselves across the line of Napoleon's retreat from
Leipsic.
By a masterly use of its artillery the French tore the Bavarians
asunder
and marched on over their bodies.--EDITOR.
The beneficial effect of the smallest successes is
incredible; but with most Generals the adoption of this
plan implies great self-command. The other way, that
of evading all encounter, appears at first so much easier,
that there is a natural preference for its adoption. It is
therefore usually just this system of evasion which best,
promotes the view of the pursuer, and often ends with
the complete downfall of the pursued; we must, however,
recollect here that we are speaking of a whole Army, not
of a single Division, which, having been cut off, is seeking
to join the main Army by making a de'tour; in such a
case circumstances are different, and success is not uncommon.
But there is one condition requisite to the
success of this race of two Corps for an object, which is that
a Division of the pursuing army should follow by the same
road which the pursued has taken, in order to pick up
stragglers, and keep up the impression which the presence
of the enemy never fails to make. Bluecher neglected this
in his, in other respects unexceptionable, pursuit after
La Belle Alliance.
Such marches tell upon the pursuer as well as the pursued,
and they are not advisable if the enemy's Army
rallies itself upon another considerable one; if it has a
distinguished General at its head, and if its destruction is
not already well prepared. But when this means can be
adopted, it acts also like a great mechanical power.
The losses of the beaten Army from sickness and fatigue
are on such a disproportionate scale, the spirit of the Army
is so weakened and lowered by the constant solicitude
about impending ruin, that at last anything like a well
organised stand is out of the question; every day thousands
of prisoners fall into the enemy's hands without
striking a blow. In such a season of complete good
fortune, the conqueror need not hesitate about dividing
his forces in order to draw into the vortex of destruction
everything within reach of his Army, to cut off detachments,
to take fortresses unprepared for defence, to occupy
large towns, &c. &c. He may do anything until a new
state of things arises, and the more he ventures in this
way the longer will it be before that change will take
place.
is no want of examples of brilliant results from
grand decisive victories, and of great and vigorous
pursuits in the wars of Buonaparte. We need only quote
Jena 1806, Ratisbonne 1809, Leipsic 1813, and Belle-
Alliance 1815.
CHAPTER XIII. RETREAT AFTER A LOST BATTLE
IN a lost battle the power of an Army is broken, the moral
to a greater degree than the physical. A second battle
unless fresh favourable circumstances come into play,
would lead to a complete defeat, perhaps, to destruction.
This is a military axiom. According to the usual course
the retreat is continued up to that point where the
equilibrium of forces is restored, either by reinforcements,
or by the protection of strong fortresses, or by great defensive
positions afforded by the country, or by a separation
of the enemy's force. The magnitude of the losses
sustained, the extent of the defeat, but still more the
character of the enemy, will bring nearer or put off the instant
of this equilibrium. How many instances may be found
of a beaten Army rallied again at a short distance, without
its circumstances having altered in any way since the
battle. The cause of this may be traced to the moral
weakness of the adversary, or to the preponderance
gained in the battle not having been sufficient to make
lasting impression.
To profit by this weakness or mistake of the enemy, not
to yield one inch breadth more than the pressure of circumstances
demands, but above all things, in order to keep up
the moral forces to as advantageous a point as possible,
a slow retreat, offering incessant resistance, and bold
courageous counterstrokes, whenever the enemy seeks to
gain any excessive advantages, are absolutely necessary.
Retreats of great Generals and of Armies inured to War
have always resembled the retreat of a wounded lion,
such is, undoubtedly, also the best theory.
It is true that at the moment of quitting a dangerous
position we have often seen trifling formalities observed
which caused a waste of time, and were, therefore, attended
with danger, whilst in such cases everything depends on
getting out of the place speedily. Practised Generals
reckon this maxim a very important one. But such cases
must not be confounded with a general retreat after a
lost battle. Whoever then thinks by a few rapid marches
to gain a start, and more easily to recover a firm standing,
commits a great error. The first movements should be
as small as possible, and it is a maxim in general not to
suffer ourselves to be dictated to by the enemy. This
maxim cannot be followed without bloody fighting with
the enemy at our heels, but the gain is worth the sacrifice;
without it we get into an accelerated pace which soon
turns into a headlong rush, and costs merely in stragglers
more men than rear-guard combats, and besides that
extinguishes the last remnants of the spirit of resistance.
A strong rear-guard composed of picked troops, commanded
by the bravest General, and supported by the whole
Army at critical moments, a careful utilisation of ground,
strong ambuscades wherever the boldness of the enemy's
advance-guard, and the ground, afford opportunity; in
short, the preparation and the system of regular small
battles,--these are the means of following this principle.
The difficulties of a retreat are naturally greater or
less according as the battle has been fought under more
or less favourable circumstances, and according as it has
been more or less obstinately contested. The battle of
Jena and La Belle-Alliance show how impossible anything
like a regular retreat may become, if the last man is used
up against a powerful enemy.
Now and again it has been suggested[*] to divide
for the purpose of retreating, therefore to retreat in
separate divisions or even eccentrically. Such a separation
as is made merely for convenience, and along with
which concentrated action continues possible and is kept
in view, is not what we now refer to; any other kind is
extremely dangerous, contrary to the nature of the thing,
and therefore a great error. Every lost battle is a principle
of weakness and disorganisation; and the first and
immediate desideratum is to concentrate, and in concentration
to recover order, courage, and confidence. The
idea of harassing the enemy by separate corps on both
flanks at the moment when he is following up his victory,
is a perfect anomaly; a faint-hearted pedant might be
overawed by his enemy in that manner, and for such a
case it may answer; but where we are not sure of this
failing in our opponent it is better let alone. If the
strategic relations after a battle require that we should
cover ourselves right and left by detachments, so much
must be done, as from circumstances is unavoidable, but
this fractioning must always be regarded as an evil, and
we are seldom in a state to commence it the day after
the battle itself.
[*] Allusion is here made to the works of Lloyd Bullow and
others.
If Frederick the Great after the battle of Kollin,[*] and
the raising of the siege of Prague retreated in three columns
that was done not out of choice, but because the position
of his forces, and the necessity of covering Saxony, left
him no alternative, Buonaparte after the battle of
Brienne,[**] sent Marmont back to the Aube, whilst he
himself passed the Seine, and turned towards Troyes;
but that this did not end in disaster, was solely owing to
the circumstance that the Allies, instead of pursuing
divided their forces in like manner, turning with the one
part (Bluecher) towards the Marne, while with the other
(Schwartzenberg), from fear of being too weak, they
advanced with exaggerated caution.
[*] June 19, 1757.
[**] January 30, 1814.
CHAPTER XIV. NIGHT FIGHTING
THE manner of conducting a combat at night, and what
concerns the details of its course, is a tactical subject;
we only examine it here so far as in its totality it appears
as a special strategic means.
Fundamentally every night attack is only a more vehement
form of surprise. Now at the first look of the thing
such an attack appears quite pre-eminently advantageous,
for we suppose the enemy to be taken by surprise, the
assailant naturally to be prepared for everything which
can happen. What an inequality! Imagination paints
to itself a picture of the most complete confusion on the
one side, and on the other side the assailant only occupied
in reaping the fruits of his advantage. Hence the constant
creation of schemes for night attacks by those who
have not to lead them, and have no responsibility, whilst
these attacks seldom take place in reality.
These ideal schemes are all based on the hypothesis that
the assailant knows the arrangements of the defender
because they have been made and announced beforehand,
and could not escape notice in his reconnaissances, and
inquiries; that on the other hand, the measures of the
assailant, being only taken at the moment of execution,
cannot be known to the enemy. But the last of these is
not always quite the case, and still less is the first. If we
are not so near the enemy as to have him completely under
our eye, as the Austrians had Frederick the Great before
the battle of Hochkirch (1758), then all that we know of
his position must always be imperfect, as it is obtained by
reconnaissances, patrols, information from prisoners, and
spies, sources on which no firm reliance can be placed
because intelligence thus obtained is always more or
less of an old date, and the position of the enemy may
have been altered in the meantime. Moreover, with the
tactics and mode of encampment of former times it was
much easier than it is now to examine the position of the
enemy. A line of tents is much easier to distinguish than
a line of huts or a bivouac; and an encampment on a line
of front, fully and regularly drawn out, also easier than
one of Divisions formed in columns, the mode often used
at present. We may have the ground on which a Division
bivouacs in that manner completely under our eye, and
yet not be able to arrive at any accurate idea.
But the position again is not all that we want to know
the measures which the defender may take in the course
of the combat are just as important, and do not by any
means consist in mere random shots. These measures
also make night attacks more difficult in modern Wars
than formerly, because they have in these campaigns an
advantage over those already taken. In our combats
the position of the defender is more temporary than definitive,
and on that account the defender is better able to
surprise his adversary with unexpected blows, than he
could formerly.[*]
[*] All these difficulties obviously become increased as the
power of
the weapons in use tends to keep the combatants further
apart.--EDITOR.
Therefore what the assailant knows of the defensive
previous to a night attack, is seldom or never sufficient
to supply the want of direct observation.
But the defender has on his side another small advantage
as well, which is that he is more at home than the
assailant, on the ground which forms his position, and
therefore, like the inhabitant of a room, will find his way
about it in the dark with more ease than a stranger. He
knows better where to find each part of his force, and
therefore can more readily get at it than is the case with
his adversary.
From this it follows, that the assailant in a combat at
night feels the want of his eyes just as much as the
defender, and that therefore, only particular reasons can
make a night attack advisable.
Now these reasons arise mostly in connection with
subordinate parts of an Army, rarely with the Army itself;
it follows that a night attack also as a rule can only take
place with secondary combats, and seldom with great battles.
We may attack a portion of the enemy's Army with a
very superior force, consequently enveloping it with a
view either to take the whole, or to inflict very severe loss
on it by an unequal combat, provided that other circumstances
are in our favour. But such a scheme can never
succeed except by a great surprise, because no fractional
part of the enemy's Army would engage in such an unequal
combat, but would retire instead. But a surprise on an
important scale except in rare instances in a very close
country, can only be effected at night. If therefore we
wish to gain such an advantage as this from the faulty
disposition of a portion of the enemy's Army, then we must
make use of the night, at all events, to finish the preliminary
part even if the combat itself should not open till
towards daybreak. This is therefore what takes place
in all the little enterprises by night against outposts, and
other small bodies, the main point being invariably through
superior numbers, and getting round his position, to entangle
him unexpectedly in such a disadvantageous combat,
that he cannot disengage himself without great loss.
The larger the body attacked the more difficult the
undertaking, because a strong force has greater resources
within itself to maintain the fight long enough for help
to arrive.
On that account the whole of the enemy's Army can
never in ordinary cases be the object of such an attack for
although it has no assistance to expect from any quarter
outside itself, still, it contains within itself sufficient
means of repelling attacks from several sides particularly
in our day, when every one from the commencement is
prepared for this very usual form of attack. Whether the enemy
can attack us
on several sides with success depends generally on conditions
quite different
from that of its being done unexpectedly; without entering here
into
the nature of these conditions, we confine ourselves to
observing, that with turning an enemy, great results,
as well as great dangers are connected; that therefore,
if we set aside special circumstances, nothing justifies it
but a great superiority, just such as we should use against
a fractional part of the enemy's Army.
But the turning and surrounding a small fraction of the
enemy, and particularly in the darkness of night, is also
more practicable for this reason, that whatever we stake
upon it, and however superior the force used may be, still
probably it constitutes only a limited portion of our Army,
and we can sooner stake that than the whole on the risk
of a great venture. Besides, the greater part or perhaps
the whole serves as a support and rallying-point for the
portion risked, which again very much diminishes the
danger of the enterprise.
Not only the risk, but the difficulty of execution as well
confines night enterprises to small bodies. As surprise
is the real essence of them so also stealthy approach is
the chief condition of execution: but this is more easily
done with small bodies than with large, and for the columns
of a whole Army is seldom practicable. For this reason
such enterprises are in general only directed against single
outposts, and can only be feasible against greater bodies
if they are without sufficient outposts, like Frederick the
Great at Hochkirch.[*] This will happen seldomer in future
to Armies themselves than to minor divisions.
[*] October 14, 1758.
In recent times, when War has been carried on with so
much more rapidity and vigour, it has in consequence
often happened that Armies have encamped very close to
each other, without having a very strong system of
outposts, because those circumstances have generally
occurred just at the crisis which precedes a great decision.
But then at such times the readiness for battle on both
sides is also more perfect; on the other hand, in former
Wars it was a frequent practice for armies to take up camps
in sight of each other, when they had no other object but
that of mutually holding each other in check, consequently
for a longer period. How often Frederick the Great stood
for weeks so near to the Austrians, that the two might
have exchanged cannon shots with each other.
But these practices, certainly more favourable to night
attacks, have been discontinued in later days; and armies
being now no longer in regard to subsistence and requirements
for encampment, such independent bodies complete
in themselves, find it necessary to keep usually a day's
march between themselves and the enemy. If we now
keep in view especially the night attack of an army, it
follows that sufficient motives for it can seldom occur,
and that they fall under one or other of the following
classes.
1. An unusual degree of carelessness or audacity which
very rarely occurs, and when it does is compensated for by
a great superiority in moral force.
2. A panic in the enemy's army, or generally such a
degree of superiority in moral force on our side, that this
is sufficient to supply the place of guidance in action.
3. Cutting through an enemy's army of superior force,
which keeps us enveloped, because in this all depends
on surprise. and the object of merely making a passage
by force, allows a much greater concentration of forces.
4. Finally, in desperate cases, when our forces have
such a disproportion to the enemy's, that we see no
possibility of success, except through extraordinary
daring.
But in all these cases there is still the condition that
the enemy's army is under our eyes, and protected by no
advance-guard.
As for the rest, most night combats are so conducted
as to end with daylight, so that only the approach and
the first attack are made under cover of darkness, because
the assailant in that manner can better profit by the
consequences of the state of confusion into which he
throws his adversary; and combats of this description
which do not commence until daybreak, in which the night
therefore is only made use of to approach, are not to be
counted as night combats,
End of the Project Gutenberg etext On War, Volume 1.