Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger
On War
by 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
Contents
INTRODUCTION
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
NOTICE
THE INTRODUCTION OF THE AUTHOR
BRIEF MEMOIR OF GENERAL CLAUSEWITZ
BOOK I. ON THE NATURE OF WAR
CHAPTER I. What is War?
CHAPTER II. Ends and Means in War
CHAPTER III. The Genius for War
CHAPTER IV. Of Danger in War
CHAPTER V. Of Bodily Exertion in War
CHAPTER VI. Information in War
CHAPTER VII. Friction in War
CHAPTER VIII. Concluding Remarks, Book I
BOOK II. ON THE THEORY OF WAR
CHAPTER I. Branches of the Art of War
CHAPTER II. On the Theory of War
CHAPTER III. Art or Science of War
CHAPTER IV. Methodicism
CHAPTER V. Criticism
CHAPTER VI. On Examples
BOOK III. OF STRATEGY IN GENERAL
CHAPTER I. Strategy
CHAPTER II. Elements of Strategy
CHAPTER III. Moral Forces
CHAPTER IV. The Chief Moral Powers
CHAPTER V. Military Virtue of an Army
CHAPTER VI. Boldness
CHAPTER VII. Perseverance
CHAPTER VIII. Superiority of Numbers
CHAPTER IX. The Surprise
CHAPTER X. Stratagem
CHAPTER XI. Assembly of Forces in Space
CHAPTER XII. Assembly of Forces in Time
CHAPTER XIII. Strategic Reserve
CHAPTER XIV. Economy of Forces
CHAPTER XV. Geometrical Element
CHAPTER XVI. On the Suspension of the Act in War
CHAPTER XVII. On the Character of Modern War
CHAPTER XVIII. Tension and Rest
BOOK IV. THE COMBAT
CHAPTER I. Introductory
CHAPTER II. Character of a Modern Battle
CHAPTER III. The Combat in General
CHAPTER IV. The Combat in General (_continuation_)
CHAPTER V. On the Signification of the Combat
CHAPTER VI. Duration of Combat
CHAPTER VII. Decision of the Combat
CHAPTER VIII. Mutual Understanding as to a Battle
CHAPTER IX. The Battle
CHAPTER X. Effects of Victory
CHAPTER XI. The Use of the Battle
CHAPTER XII. Strategic Means of Utilising Victory
CHAPTER XIII. Retreat After a Lost Battle
CHAPTER XIV. Night Fighting
BOOK V. MILITARY FORCES
CHAPTER I. General Scheme
CHAPTER II. Theatre of War, Army, Campaign
CHAPTER III. Relation of Power
CHAPTER IV. Relation of the Three Arms
CHAPTER V. Order of Battle of an Army
CHAPTER VI. General Disposition of an Army
CHAPTER VII. Advanced Guard and Out-Posts
CHAPTER VIII. Mode of Action of Advanced Corps
CHAPTER IX. Camps
CHAPTER X. Marches
CHAPTER XI. Marches (_continued_)
CHAPTER XII. Marches (_continued_)
CHAPTER XIII. Cantonments
CHAPTER XIV. Subsistence
CHAPTER XV. Base of Operations
CHAPTER XVI. Lines of Communication
CHAPTER XVII. On Country and Ground
CHAPTER XVIII. Command of Ground
BOOK VI. DEFENCE
CHAPTER I. Offence and Defence
CHAPTER II. The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to Each Other in Tactics
CHAPTER III. The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to Each Other in Strategy
CHAPTER IV. Convergence of Attack and Divergence of Defence
CHAPTER V. Character of Strategic Defensive
CHAPTER VI. Extent of the Means of Defence
CHAPTER VII. Mutual Action and Reaction of Attack and Defence
CHAPTER VIII. Methods of Resistance
CHAPTER IX. Defensive Battle
CHAPTER X. Fortresses
CHAPTER XI. Fortresses (_continued_)
CHAPTER XII. Defensive Position
CHAPTER XIII. Strong Positions and Entrenched Camps
CHAPTER XIV. Flank Positions
CHAPTER XV. Defence of Mountains
CHAPTER XVI. Defence of Mountains (_continued_)
CHAPTER XVII. Defence of Mountains (_continued_)
CHAPTER XVIII. Defence of Streams and Rivers
CHAPTER XIX. Defence of Streams and Rivers (_continued_)
CHAPTER XX. A. Defence of Swamps
CHAPTER XX. B. Inundations
CHAPTER XXI. Defence of Forests
CHAPTER XXII. The Cordon
CHAPTER XXIII. Key of the Country
CHAPTER XXIV. Operating Against a Flank
CHAPTER XXV. Retreat into the Interior of the Country
CHAPTER XXVI. Arming the Nation
CHAPTER XXVII. Defence of a Theatre of War
CHAPTER XXVIII. Defence of a Theatre of War (_continued_)
CHAPTER XXIX. Defence of a Theatre of War (_continued_)—Successive Resistance
CHAPTER XXX. Defence of a Theatre of War (_continued_)—When No Decision is Sought For
BOOK VII. THE ATTACK
CHAPTER I. The Attack in Relation to the Defence
CHAPTER II. Nature of the Strategical Attack
CHAPTER III. On the Objects of Strategical Attack
CHAPTER IV. Decreasing Force of the Attack
CHAPTER V. Culminating Point of the Attack
CHAPTER VI. Destruction of the Enemy’s Armies
CHAPTER VII. The Offensive Battle
CHAPTER VIII. Passage of Rivers
CHAPTER IX. Attack on Defensive Positions
CHAPTER X. Attack on an Entrenched Camp
CHAPTER XI. Attack on a Mountain Range
CHAPTER XII. Attack on Cordon Lines
CHAPTER XIII. Manœuvering
CHAPTER XIV. Attack on Morasses, Inundations, Woods
CHAPTER XV. Attack on a Theatre of War with the View to a Decision
CHAPTER XVI. Attack on a Theatre of War without the View to a Great Decision
CHAPTER XVII. Attack on Fortresses
CHAPTER XVIII. Attack on Convoys
CHAPTER XIX. Attack on the Enemy’s Army in its Cantonments
CHAPTER XX. Diversion
CHAPTER XXI. Invasion
CHAPTER XXII. On the Culminating Point of Victory
BOOK VIII. PLAN OF WAR
CHAPTER I. Introduction
CHAPTER II. Absolute and Real War
CHAPTER III. A. Interdependence of the Parts in a War
CHAPTER III. B. On the Magnitude of the Object of the War and the Efforts to be Made
CHAPTER IV. Ends in War More Precisely Defined—Overthrow of the Enemy
CHAPTER V. Ends in War More Precisely Defined (_continued_)—Limited Object
CHAPTER VI. A. Influence of the Political Object on the Military Object
CHAPTER VI. B. War as an Instrument of Policy
CHAPTER VII. Limited Object—Offensive War
CHAPTER VIII. Limited Object—Defence
CHAPTER IX. Plan of War When the Destruction of the Enemy is the Object
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 Königgrätz 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 be 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 medieval 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 notwithstanding the 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.
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 I devote 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 Brühl,
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_, 10_th 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 had 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 he 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
Blücher’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 homœopathic 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 without great 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 ours, 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. Ends 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 part, the 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
experience; 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’œil_. 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’œil_. 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’œil_.
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’œil_ 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
_Ortsinn_ 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” (_Ortsinn_). 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
_rôle_ 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
chance: the 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 manœuvre (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 manœuvres 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 depôts 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 in theory 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 subject; these 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 Condé 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, because it continues 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 réplique.
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 Blücher’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 Blücher upon
Schwartzenberg, he had tried another blow at Blücher, 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 Werke_, 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
Blücher 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 Blücher, 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 Blücher 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 Blücher’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 Blücher, 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 purposely 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, Bülow, 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 manœuvres: 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 subtle 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 Kämmer.—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 (_esprit 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 Vendéans, 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’éclipse au 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 depôts 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 manœuvres, 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 by
Generals, 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 Blücher,
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 Blücher’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; Blücher’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 Blücher
had thought of such a near possibility of an attack from Buonaparte(*)
he would have organised his march quite differently. To this mistake of
Blücher’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.
(*) Blücher 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 appearance of truth, 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 War
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 2_b_. 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 a 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
manœuvres 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 force 1. Destruction of enemy’s 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 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 manœuvre 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 Rüchel 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 Blücher 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 attacks on an 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 _rôle_ 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 Dürrenstein 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
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
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
in 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 _débris_ 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 Blücher, 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, Ségur), 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 manœuvres 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 _détour_, 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 _détour;_ 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. Blücher 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. There 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 Bülow 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 (Blücher) 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.
BOOK V MILITARY FORCES
CHAPTER I. General Scheme
We shall consider military forces:
1. As regards their numerical strength and organisation.
2. In their state independent of fighting.
3. In respect of their maintenance; and, lastly,
4. In their general relations to country and ground.
Thus we shall devote this book to the consideration of things
appertaining to an army, which only come under the head of _necessary
conditions of fighting_, but do not constitute the fight itself. They
stand in more or less close connection with and react upon the
fighting, and therefore, in considering the application of the combat
they must often appear; but we must first consider each by itself, as a
whole, in its essence and peculiarities.
CHAPTER II. Theatre of War, Army, Campaign
The nature of the things does not allow of a completely satisfactory
definition of these three factors, denoting respectively, space, mass,
and time in war; but that we may not sometimes be quite misunderstood,
we must try to make somewhat plainer the usual meaning of these terms,
to which we shall in most cases adhere.
1.—Theatre of War.
This term denotes properly such a portion of the space over which war
prevails as has its boundaries protected, and thus possesses a kind of
independence. This protection may consist in fortresses, or important
natural obstacles presented by the country, or even in its being
separated by a considerable distance from the rest of the space
embraced in the war.—Such a portion is not a mere piece of the whole,
but a small whole complete in itself; and consequently it is more or
less in such a condition that changes which take place at other points
in the seat of war have only an indirect and no direct influence upon
it. To give an adequate idea of this, we may suppose that on this
portion an advance is made, whilst in another quarter a retreat is
taking place, or that upon the one an army is acting defensively,
whilst an offensive is being carried on upon the other. Such a clearly
defined idea as this is not capable of universal application; it is
here used merely to indicate the line of distinction.
2.—Army.
With the assistance of the conception of a Theatre of War, it is very
easy to say what an Army is: it is, in point of fact, the mass of
troops in the same Theatre of War. But this plainly does not include
all that is meant by the term in its common usage. Blücher and
Wellington commanded each a separate army in 1815, although the two
were in the same Theatre of War. The chief command is, therefore,
another distinguishing sign for the conception of an Army. At the same
time this sign is very nearly allied to the preceding, for where things
are well organised, there should only exist one supreme command in a
Theatre of War, and the commander-in-chief in a particular Theatre of
War should always have a proportionate degree of independence.
The mere absolute numerical strength of a body of troops is less
decisive on the subject than might at first appear. For where several
Armies are acting under one command, and upon one and the same Theatre
of War, they are called Armies, not by reason of their strength, but
from the relations antecedent to the war (1813, the Silesian Army, the
Army of the North, etc), and although we should divide a great mass of
troops intended to remain in the same Theatre into corps, we should
never divide them into Armies, at least, such a division would be
contrary to what seems to be the meaning which is universally attached
to the term. On the other hand, it would certainly be pedantry to apply
the term Army to each band of irregular troops acting independently in
a remote province: still we must not leave unnoticed that it surprises
no one when the Army of the Vendeans in the Revolutionary War is spoken
of, and yet it was not much stronger.
The conceptions of Army and Theatre of War therefore, as a rule, go
together, and mutually include each other.
3.—Campaign.
Although the sum of all military events which happen in all the
Theatres of War in one year is often called a _Campaign_, still,
however, it is more usual and more exact to understand by the term the
events in _one single_ Theatre of War. But it is worse still to connect
the notion of a Campaign with the period of one year, for wars no
longer divide themselves naturally into Campaigns of a year’s duration
by fixed and long periods in winter quarters. As, however, the events
in a Theatre of War of themselves form certain great chapters—if, for
instance, the direct effects of some more or less great catastrophe
cease, and new combinations begin to develop themselves—therefore these
natural subdivisions must be taken into consideration in order to allot
to each year (Campaign) its complete share of events. No one would make
the Campaign of 1812 terminate at Memel, where the armies were on the
1st January, and transfer the further retreat of the French until they
recrossed the Elbe to the campaign of 1813, as that further retreat was
plainly only a part of the whole retreat from Moscow.
That we cannot give these conceptions any greater degree of
distinctness is of no consequence, because they cannot be used as
philosophical definitions for the basis of any kind of propositions.
They only serve to give a little more clearness and precision to the
language we use.
CHAPTER III. Relation of Power
In the eighth chapter of the third book we have spoken of the value of
superior numbers in battles, from which follows as a consequence the
superiority of numbers in general in strategy. So far the importance of
the relations of power is established: we shall now add a few more
detailed considerations on the subject.
An unbiassed examination of modern military history leads to the
conviction that the _superiority in numbers becomes every day more
decisive;_ the principle of assembling the greatest possible numbers
for a decisive battle may therefore be regarded as more important than
ever.
Courage and the spirit of an army have, in all ages, multiplied its
physical powers, and will continue to do so equally in future; but we
find also that at certain periods in history a superiority in the
organisation and equipment of an army has given a great moral
preponderance; we find that at other periods a great superiority in
mobility had a like effect; at one time we see a new system of tactics
brought to light; at another we see the art of war developing itself in
an effort to make a skilful use of ground on great general principles,
and by such means here and there we find one general gaining great
advantages over another; but even this tendency has disappeared, and
wars now go on in a simpler and more natural manner.—If, divesting
ourselves of any preconceived notions, we look at the experiences of
recent wars, we must admit that there are but little traces of any of
the above influences, either throughout any whole campaign, or in
engagements of a decisive character—that is, the great battle,
respecting which term we refer to the second chapter of the preceding
book.
Armies are in our days so much on a par in regard to arms, equipment,
and drill, that there is no very notable difference between the best
and the worst in these things. A difference may still be observed,
resulting from the superior instruction of the scientific corps, but in
general it only amounts to this, that one is the inventor and
introducer of improved appliances, which the other immediately
imitates. Even the subordinate generals, leaders of corps and
divisions, in all that comes within the scope of their sphere, have in
general everywhere the same ideas and methods, so that, except the
talent of the commander-in-chief—a thing entirely dependent on chance,
and not bearing a constant relation to the standard of education
amongst the people and the army—there is nothing now but habituation to
war which can give one army a decided superiority over another. The
nearer we approach to a state of equality in all these things, the more
decisive becomes the relation in point of numbers.
The character of modern battles is the result of this state of
equality. Take for instance the battle of Borodino, where the first
army in the world, the French, measured its strength with the Russian,
which, in many parts of its organisation, and in the education of its
special branches, might be considered the furthest behindhand. In the
whole battle there is not one single trace of superior art or
intelligence, it is a mere trial of strength between the respective
armies throughout; and as they were nearly equal in that respect, the
result could not be otherwise than a gradual turn of the scale in
favour of that side where there was the greatest energy on the part of
the commander, and the most experience in war on the part of the
troops. We have taken this battle as an illustration, because in it
there was an equality in the numbers on each side such as is rarely to
be found.
We do not maintain that all battles exactly resemble this, but it shows
the dominant tone of most of them.
In a battle in which the forces try their strength on each other so
leisurely and methodically, an excess of force on one side must make
the result in its favour much more certain. And it is a fact that we
may search modern military history in vain for a battle in which an
army has beaten another double its own strength, an occurrence by no
means uncommon in former times. Buonaparte, the greatest general of
modern times, in all his great victorious battles—with one exception,
that of Dresden, 1813—had managed to assemble an army superior in
numbers, or at least very little inferior, to that of his opponent, and
when it was impossible for him to do so, as at Leipsic, Brienne, Laon,
and Belle-Alliance, he was beaten.
The absolute strength is in strategy generally a given quantity, which
the commander cannot alter. But from this it by no means follows that
it is impossible to carry on a war with a decidedly inferior force. War
is not always a voluntary act of state policy, and least of all is it
so when the forces are very unequal: consequently, any relation of
forces is imaginable in war, and it would be a strange theory of war
which would wish to give up its office just where it is most wanted.
However desirable theory may consider a proportionate force, still it
cannot say that no use can be made of the most disproportionate. No
limits can be prescribed in this respect.
The weaker the force the more moderate must be the object it proposes
to itself, and the weaker the force the shorter time it will last. In
these two directions there is a field for weakness to give way, if we
may use this expression. Of the changes which the measure of the force
produces in the conduct of war, we can only speak by degrees, as these
things present themselves; at present it is sufficient to have
indicated the general point of view, but to complete that we shall add
one more observation.
The more that an army involved in an unequal combat falls short of the
number of its opponents, the greater must be the tension of its powers,
the greater its energy when danger presses. If the reverse takes place,
and instead of heroic desperation a spirit of despondency ensues, then
certainly there is an end to every art of war.
If with this energy of powers is combined a wise moderation in the
object proposed, then there is that play of brilliant actions and
prudent forbearance which we admire in the wars of Frederick the Great.
But the less that this moderation and caution can effect, the more must
the tension and energy of the forces become predominant. When the
disproportion of forces is so great that no modification of our own
object can ensure us safety from a catastrophe, or where the probable
continuance of the danger is so great that the greatest economy of our
powers can no longer suffice to bring us to our object, then the
tension of our powers should be concentrated for one desperate blow; he
who is pressed on all sides expecting little help from things which
promise none, will place his last and only reliance in the moral
ascendancy which despair gives to courage, and look upon the greatest
daring as the greatest wisdom,—at the same time employ the assistance
of subtle stratagem, and if he does not succeed, will find in an
honourable downfall the right to rise hereafter.
CHAPTER IV. Relation of the Three Arms
We shall only speak of the three principal arms: Infantry, Cavalry, and
Artillery.
We must be excused for making the following analysis which belongs more
to tactics, but is necessary to give distinctness to our ideas.
The combat is of two kinds, which are essentially different: the
destructive principle of fire, and the hand to hand or personal combat.
This latter, again, is either attack or defence. (As we here speak of
elements, attack and defence are to be understood in a perfectly
absolute sense.) Artillery, obviously, acts only with the destructive
principle of fire. Cavalry only with personal combat. Infantry with
both.
In close combat the essence of defence consists in standing firm, as if
rooted to the ground; the essence of the attack is movement. Cavalry is
entirely deficient in the first quality; on the other hand, it
possesses the latter in an especial manner. It is therefore only suited
for attack. Infantry has especially the property of standing firm, but
is not altogether without mobility.
From this division of the elementary forces of war into different arms,
we have as a result, the superiority and general utility of Infantry as
compared with the other two arms, from its being the only arm which
unites in itself all the three elementary forces. A further deduction
to be drawn is, that the combination of the three arms leads to a more
perfect use of the forces, by affording the means of strengthening at
pleasure either the one or the other of the principles which are united
in an unalterable manner in Infantry.
The destructive principle of fire is in the wars of the present time
plainly beyond measure the most effective; nevertheless, the close
combat, man to man, is just as plainly to be regarded as the real basis
of combat. For that reason, therefore, an army of artillery only would
be an absurdity in war, but an army of cavalry is conceivable, only it
would possess very little intensity of force An army of infantry alone
is not only conceivable but also much the strongest of the three. The
three arms, therefore, stand in this order in reference to independent
value—Infantry, Cavalry, Artillery.
But this order does not hold good if applied to the relative importance
of each arm when they are all three acting in conjunction. As the
destructive principle is much more effective than the principle of
motion, therefore the complete want of cavalry would weaken an army
less than the total want of artillery.
An army consisting of infantry and artillery alone, would certainly
find itself in a disagreeable position if opposed to an army composed
of all three arms; but if what it lacked in cavalry was compensated for
by a proportionate increase of infantry, it would still, by a somewhat
different mode of acting, be able to do very well with its tactical
economy. Its outpost service would cause some embarrassment; it would
never be able to pursue a beaten enemy with great vivacity, and it must
make a retreat with greater hardships and efforts; but these
inconveniences would still never be sufficient in themselves to drive
it completely out of the field.—On the other hand, such an army opposed
to one composed of infantry and cavalry only would be able to play a
very good part, while it is hardly conceivable that the latter could
keep the field at all against an army made up of all three arms.
Of course these reflections on the relative importance of each single
arm result only from a consideration of the generality of events in
war, where one case compensates another; and therefore it is not our
intention to apply the truth thus ascertained to each individual case
of a particular combat. A battalion on outpost service or on a retreat
may, perhaps, choose to have with it a squadron in preference to a
couple of guns. A body of cavalry with horse artillery, sent in rapid
pursuit of, or to cut off, a flying enemy wants no infantry, etc., etc.
If we summarise the results of these considerations they amount to
this.
1. That infantry is the most independent of the three arms.
2. Artillery is quite wanting in independence.
3. Infantry is the most important in the combination of the three arms.
4. Cavalry can the most easily be dispensed with.
5. A combination of the three arms gives the greatest strength.
Now, if the combination of the three gives the greatest strength, it is
natural to inquire what is the best absolute proportion of each, but
that is a question which it is almost impossible to answer.
If we could form a comparative estimate of the cost of organising in
the first instance, and then provisioning and maintaining each of the
three arms, and then again of the relative amount of service rendered
by each in war, we should obtain a definite result which would give the
best proportion in the abstract. But this is little more than a play of
the imagination. The very first term in the comparison is difficult to
determine, that is to say, one of the factors, the cost in money, is
not difficult to find; but another, the value of men’s lives, is a
computation which no one would readily try to solve by figures.
Also the circumstance that each of the three arms chiefly depends on a
different element of strength in the state—Infantry on the number of
the male population, cavalry on the number of horses, artillery on
available financial means—introduces into the calculation some
heterogeneous conditions, the overruling influence of which may be
plainly observed in the great outlines of the history of different
people at various periods.
As, however, for other reasons we cannot altogether dispense with some
standard of comparison, therefore, in place of the whole of the first
term of the comparison we must take only that one of its factors which
can be ascertained, namely, the cost in money. Now on this point it is
sufficient for our purpose to assume that, in general, a squadron of
150 horsemen, a battalion of infantry 800 strong, a battery of
artillery consisting of 8 six-pounders, cost nearly the same, both as
respects the expense of formation and of maintenance.
With regard to the other member of the comparison, that is, how much
service the one arm is capable of rendering as compared with the
others, it is much less easy to find any distinct quantity. The thing
might perhaps be possible if it depended merely on the destroying
principle; but each arm is destined to its own particular use,
therefore has its own particular sphere of action, which, again, is not
so distinctly defined that it might not be greater or less through
modifications only in the mode of conducting the war, without causing
any decided disadvantage.
We are often told of what experience teaches on this subject, and it is
supposed that military history affords the information necessary for a
settlement of the question, but every one must look upon all that as
nothing more than a way of talking, which, as it is not derived from
anything of a primary and necessary nature, does not deserve attention
in an analytical examination.
Now although a fixed ratio as representing the best proportion between
the three arms is conceivable, but is an x which it is impossible to
find, a mere imaginary quantity, still it is possible to appreciate the
effects of having a great superiority or a great inferiority in one
particular arm as compared with the same arm in the enemy’s army.
Artillery increases the destructive principle of fire; it is the most
redoubtable of arms, and its want, therefore, diminishes very
considerably the intensive force of an army. On the other hand, it is
the least moveable, consequently, makes an army more unwieldy; further,
it always requires a force for its support, because it is incapable of
close combat; if it is too numerous, so that the troops appointed for
its protection are not able to resist the attacks of the enemy at every
point, it is often lost, and from that follows a fresh disadvantage,
because of the three arms it is the only one which in its principal
parts, that is guns and carriages, the enemy can soon use against us.
Cavalry increases the principle of mobility in an army. If too few in
number the brisk flame of the elements of war is thereby weakened,
because everything must be done slower (on foot), everything must be
organised with more care; the rich harvest of victory, instead of being
cut with a scythe, can only be reaped with a sickle.
An excess of cavalry can certainly never be looked upon as a direct
diminution of the combatant force, as an organic disproportion, but it
may certainly be so indirectly, on account of the difficulty of feeding
that arm, and also if we reflect that instead of a surplus of 10,000
horsemen not required we might have 50,000 infantry.
These peculiarities arising from the preponderance of one arm are the
more important to the art of war in its limited sense, as that art
teaches the use of whatever forces are forthcoming; and when forces are
placed under the command of a general, the proportion of the three arms
is also commonly already settled without his having had much voice in
the matter.
If we would form an idea of the character of warfare modified by the
preponderance of one or other of the three arms it is to be done in the
following manner:—
An excess of artillery leads to a more defensive and passive character
in our measures; our interest will be to seek security in strong
positions, great natural obstacles of ground, even in mountain
positions, in order that the natural impediments we find in the ground
may undertake the defence and protection of our numerous artillery, and
that the enemy’s forces may come themselves and seek their own
destruction. The whole war will be carried on in a serious formal
minuet step.
On the other hand, a want of artillery will make us prefer the
offensive, the active, the mobile principle; marching, fatigue,
exertion, become our special weapons, thus the war will become more
diversified, more lively, rougher; small change is substituted for
great events.
With a very numerous cavalry we seek wide plains, and take to great
movements. At a greater distance from the enemy we enjoy more rest and
greater conveniences without conferring the same advantages on our
adversary. We may venture on bolder measures to outflank him, and on
more daring movements generally, as we have command over space. In as
far as diversions and invasions are true auxiliary means of war we
shall be able to make use of them with greater facility.
A decided want of cavalry diminishes the force of mobility in an army
without increasing its destructive power as an excess of artillery
does. Prudence and method become then the leading characteristics of
the war. Always to remain near the enemy in order to keep him
constantly in view—no rapid, still less hurried movements, everywhere a
slow pushing on of well concentrated masses—a preference for the
defensive and for broken country, and, when the offensive must be
resorted to, the shortest road direct to the centre of force in the
enemy’s army—these are the natural tendencies or principles in such
cases.
These different forms which warfare takes according as one or other of
the three arms preponderates, seldom have an influence so complete and
decided as alone, or chiefly to determine the direction of a whole
undertaking. Whether we shall act strategically on the offensive or
defensive, the choice of a theatre of war, the determination to fight a
great battle, or adopt some other means of destruction, are points
which must be determined by other and more essential considerations, at
least, if this is not the case, it is much to be feared that we have
mistaken minor details for the chief consideration. But although this
is so, although the great questions must be decided before on other
grounds, there still always remains a certain margin for the influence
of the preponderating arm, for in the offensive we can always be
prudent and methodical, in the defensive bold and enterprising, etc.,
etc., through all the different stages and gradations of the military
life.
On the other hand, the nature of a war may have a notable influence on
the proportions of the three arms.
First, a national war, kept up by militia and a general levy
(Landsturm), must naturally bring into the field a very numerous
infantry; for in such wars there is a greater want of the means of
equipment than of men, and as the equipment consequently is confined to
what is indisputably necessary, we may easily imagine, that for every
battery of eight pieces, not only one, but two or three battalions
might be raised.
Second, if a weak state opposed to a powerful one cannot take refuge in
a general call of the male population to regular military service, or
in a militia system resembling it, then the increase of its artillery
is certainly the shortest way of bringing up its weak army nearer to an
equality with that of the enemy, for it saves men, and intensifies the
essential principle of military force, that is, the destructive
principle. Any way, such a state will mostly be confined to a limited
theatre, and therefore this arm will be better suited to it. Frederick
the Great adopted this means in the later period of the Seven Years’
War.
Third, cavalry is the arm for movement and great decisions; its
increase beyond the ordinary proportions is therefore important if the
war extends over a great space, if expeditions are to be made in
various directions, and great and decisive blows are intended.
Buonaparte is an example of this.
That the offensive and defensive do not properly in themselves exercise
an influence on the proportion of cavalry will only appear plainly when
we come to speak of these two methods of acting in war; in the
meantime, we shall only remark that both assailant and defender as a
rule traverse the same spaces in war, and may have also, at least in
many cases, the same decisive intentions. We remind our readers of the
campaign of 1812.
It is commonly believed that, in the middle ages, cavalry was much more
numerous in proportion to infantry, and that the difference has been
gradually on the decrease ever since. Yet this is a mistake, at least
partly. The proportion of cavalry was, according to numbers, on the
average perhaps, not much greater; of this we may convince ourselves by
tracing, through the history of the middle ages, the detailed
statements of the armed forces then employed. Let us only think of the
masses of men on foot who composed the armies of the Crusaders, or the
masses who followed the Emperors of Germany on their Roman expeditions.
It was in reality the importance of the cavalry which was so much
greater in those days; it was the stronger arm, composed of the flower
of the people, so much so that, although always very much weaker
actually in numbers, it was still always looked upon as the chief
thing, infantry was little valued, hardly spoken of; hence has arisen
the belief that its numbers were few. No doubt it happened oftener than
it does now, that in incursions of small importance in France, Germany,
and Italy, a small army was composed entirely of cavalry; as it was the
chief arm, there is nothing inconsistent in that; but these cases
decide nothing if we take a general view, as they are greatly
outnumbered by cases of greater armies of the period constituted
differently. It was only when the obligations to military service
imposed by the feudal laws had ceased, and wars were carried on by
soldiers enlisted, hired, and paid—when, therefore, wars depended on
money and enlistment, that is, at the time of the Thirty Years’ War,
and the wars of Louis XIV.—that this employment of great masses of
almost useless infantry was checked, and perhaps in those days they
might have fallen into the exclusive use of cavalry, if infantry had
not just then risen in importance through the improvements in
fire-arms, by which means it maintained its numerical superiority in
proportion to cavalry; at this period, if infantry was weak, the
proportion was as one to one, if numerous as three to one.
Since then cavalry has always decreased in importance according as
improvements in the use of fire-arms have advanced. This is
intelligible enough in itself, but the improvement we speak of does not
relate solely to the weapon itself and the skill in handling it; we
advert also to greater ability in using troops armed with this weapon.
At the battle of Mollwitz the Prussian army had brought the fire of
their infantry to such a state of perfection, that there has been no
improvement since then in that sense. On the other hand, the use of
infantry in broken ground and as skirmishers has been introduced more
recently, and is to be looked upon as a very great advance in the art
of destruction.
Our opinion is, therefore, that the relation of cavalry has not much
changed as far as regards numbers, but as regards its importance, there
has been a great alteration. This seems to be a contradiction, but is
not so in reality. The infantry of the middle ages, although forming
the greater proportion of an army, did not attain to that proportion by
its value as compared to cavalry, but because all that could not be
appointed to the very costly cavalry were handed over to the infantry;
this infantry was, therefore, merely a last resource; and if the number
of cavalry had depended merely on the value set on that arm, it could
never have been too great. Thus we can understand how cavalry, in spite
of its constantly decreasing importance, may still, perhaps, have
importance enough to keep its numerical relation at that point which it
has hitherto so constantly maintained.
It is a remarkable fact that, at least since the wars of the Austrian
succession, the proportion of cavalry to infantry has changed very
little, the variation being constantly between a fourth, a fifth or a
sixth; this seems to indicate that those proportions meet the natural
requirements of an army, and that these numbers give the solution which
it is impossible to find in a direct manner. We doubt, however, if this
is the case, and we find the principal instances of the employment of a
numerous cavalry sufficiently accounted for by other causes.
Austria and Russia are states which have kept up a numerous cavalry,
because they retain in their political condition the fragments of a
Tartar organisation. Buonaparte for his purposes could never be strong
enough in cavalry; when he had made use of the conscription as far as
possible, he had no ways of strengthening his armies, but by increasing
the auxiliary arms, as they cost him more in money than in men. Besides
this, it stands to reason that in military enterprises of such enormous
extent as his, cavalry must have a greater value than in ordinary
cases.
Frederick the Great it is well known reckoned carefully every recruit
that could be saved to his country; it was his great business to keep
up the strength of his army, as far as possible at the expense of other
countries. His reasons for this are easy to conceive, if we remember
that his small dominions did not then include Prussia and the
Westphalian provinces. Cavalry was kept complete by recruitment more
easily than infantry, irrespective of fewer men being required; in
addition to which, his system of war was completely founded on the
mobility of his army, and thus it was, that while his infantry
diminished in number, his cavalry was always increasing itself till the
end of the Seven Years’ War. Still at the end of that war it was hardly
more than a fourth of the number of infantry that he had in the field.
At the period referred to there is no want of instances, also of armies
entering the field unusually weak in cavalry, and yet carrying off the
victory. The most remarkable is the battle of Gross-gorschen. If we
only count the French divisions which took part in the battle,
Buonaparte was 100,000 strong, of which 5,000 were cavalry, 90,000
infantry; the Allies had 70,000, of which 25,000 were cavalry and
40,000 infantry. Thus, in place of the 20,000 cavalry on the side of
the Allies in excess of the total of the French cavalry, Buonaparte had
only 50,000 additional infantry when he ought to have had 100,000. As
he gained the battle with that superiority in infantry, we may ask
whether it was at all likely that he would have lost it if the
proportions had been 140,000 to 40,000.
Certainly the great advantage of our superiority in cavalry was shown
immediately after the battle, for Buonaparte gained hardly any trophies
by his victory. The gain of a battle is therefore not everything,—but
is it not always the chief thing?
If we put together these considerations, we can hardly believe that the
numerical proportion between cavalry and infantry which has existed for
the last eighty years is the natural one, founded solely on their
absolute value; we are much rather inclined to think, that after many
fluctuations, the relative proportions of these arms will change
further in the same direction as hitherto, and that the fixed number of
cavalry at last will be considerably less.
With respect to artillery, the number of guns has naturally increased
since its first invention, and according as it has been made lighter
and otherwise improved; still since the time of Frederick the Great, it
has also kept very much to the same proportion of two or three guns per
1,000 men, we mean at the commencement of a campaign; for during its
course artillery does not melt away as fast as infantry, therefore at
the end of a campaign the proportion is generally notably greater,
perhaps three, four, or five guns per 1,000 men. Whether this is the
natural proportion, or that the increase of artillery may be carried
still further, without prejudice to the whole conduct of war, must be
left for experience to decide.
The principal results we obtain from the whole of these considerations,
are—
1. That infantry is the chief arm, to which the other two are
subordinate.
2. That by the exercise of great skill and energy in command, the want
of the two subordinate arms may in some measure be compensated for,
provided that we are much stronger in infantry; and the better the
infantry the easier this may be done.
3. That it is more difficult to dispense with artillery than with
cavalry, because it is the chief principle of destruction, and its mode
of fighting is more amalgamated with that of infantry.
4. That artillery being the strongest arm, as regards destructive
action, and cavalry the weakest in that respect, the question must in
general arise, how much artillery can we have without inconvenience,
and what is the least proportion of cavalry we require?
CHAPTER V. Order of Battle of an Army
The order of battle is that division and formation of the different
arms into separate parts or sections of the whole Army, and that form
of general position or disposition of those parts which is to be the
norm throughout the whole campaign or war.
It consists, therefore, in a certain measure, of an arithmetical and a
geometrical element, _the division_ and the _form of disposition_. The
first proceeds from the permanent peace organisation of the army;
adopts as units certain parts, such as battalions, squadrons, and
batteries, and with them forms units of a higher order up to the
highest of all, the whole army, according to the requirements of
predominating circumstances. In like manner, the form of disposition
comes from the elementary tactics, in which the army is instructed and
exercised in time of peace, which must be looked upon as a property in
the troops that cannot be essentially modified at the moment war breaks
out, the disposition connects these tactics with the conditions which
the use of the troops in war and in large masses demands, and thus it
settles in a general way the rule or norm in conformity with which the
troops are to be drawn up for battle.
This has been invariably the case when great armies have taken the
field, and there have been times when this form was considered as the
most essential part of the battle.
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when the improvements in
the firearms of infantry occasioned a great increase of that arm, and
allowed of its being deployed in such long thin lines, the order of
battle was thereby simplified, but, at the same time it became more
difficult and more artificial in the carrying out, and as no other way
of disposing of cavalry at the commencement of a battle was known but
that of posting them on the wings, where they were out of the fire and
had room to move, therefore in the order of battle the army always
became a closed inseparable whole. If such an army was divided in the
middle, it was like an earthworm cut in two: the wings had still life
and the power of motion, but they had lost their natural functions. The
army lay, therefore, in a manner under a spell of unity, and whenever
any parts of it had to be placed in a separate position, a small
organisation and disorganisation became necessary. The marches which
the whole army had to make were a condition in which, to a certain
extent, it found itself out of rule. If the enemy was at hand, the
march had to be arranged in the most artificial manner, and in order
that one line or one wing might be always at the prescribed distance
from the other, the troops had to scramble over everything: marches had
also constantly to be stolen from the enemy, and this perpetual theft
only escaped severe punishment through one circumstance, which was,
that the enemy lay under the same ban.
Hence, when, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, it was
discovered that cavalry would serve just as well to protect a wing if
it stood in rear of the army as if it were placed on the prolongation
of the line, and that, besides this, it might be applied to other
purposes than merely fighting a duel with the enemy’s cavalry, a great
step in advance was made, because now the army in its principal
extension or front, which is always the breadth of its order of battle
(position), consisted entirely of homogeneous members, so that it could
be formed of any number of parts at pleasure, each part like another
and like the whole. In this way it ceased to be one single piece and
became an articulated whole, consequently pliable and manageable: the
parts might be separated from the whole and then joined on again
without difficulty, the order of battle always remained the same.—Thus
arose the corps consisting of all arms, that is, thus such an
organisation became possible, for the want of it had been felt long
before.
That all this relates to the combat is very natural. The battle was
formerly the whole war, and will always continue to be the principal
part of it; but, the order of battle belongs generally more to tactics
than strategy, and it is only introduced here to show how tactics in
organising the whole into smaller wholes made preparations for
strategy.
The greater armies become, the more they are distributed over wide
spaces and the more diversified the action and reaction of the
different parts amongst themselves, the wider becomes the field of
strategy, and, therefore, then the order of battle, in the sense of our
definition, must also come into a kind of reciprocal action with
strategy, which manifests itself chiefly at the extreme points where
tactics and strategy meet, that is, at those moments when the general
distribution of the combatant forces passes into the special
dispositions for the combat.
We now turn to those three points, the _division, combination of arms_,
and _order of battle_ (_disposition_) in a strategic point of view.
1.—Division.
In strategy we must never ask what is to be the strength of a division
or a corps, but how many corps or division an army should have. There
is nothing more unmanageable than an army divided into three parts,
except it be one divided into only two, in which case the chief command
must be almost neutralised.
To fix the strength of great and small corps, either on the grounds of
elementary tactics or on higher grounds, leaves an incredibly wide
field for arbitrary judgment, and heaven knows what strange modes of
reasoning have sported in this wide field. On the other hand, the
necessity of forming an independent whole (army) into a certain number
of parts is a thing as obvious as it is positive, and this idea
furnishes real strategic motives for determining the number of the
greater divisions of an army, consequently their strength, whilst the
strength of the smaller divisions, such as companies, battalions, etc.,
is left to be determined by tactics.
We can hardly imagine the smallest independent body in which there are
not at least three parts to be distinguished, that one part may be
thrown out in advance, and another part be left in rear: that four is
still more convenient follows of itself, if we keep in view that the
middle part, being the principal division, ought to be stronger than
either of the others; in this way, we may proceed to make out eight,
which appears to us to be the most suitable number for an army if we
take one part for an advanced guard as a constant necessity, three for
the main body, that is a right wing, centre and left wing, two
divisions for reserve, and one to detach to the right, one to the left.
Without pedantically ascribing a great importance to these numbers and
figures, we certainly believe that they represent the most usual and
frequently recurring strategic disposition, and on that account one
that is convenient.
Certainly it seems that the supreme direction of an army (and the
direction of every whole) must be greatly facilitated if there are only
three or four subordinates to command, but the commander-in-chief must
pay dearly for this convenience in a twofold manner. In the first
place, an order loses in rapidity, force, and exactness if the
gradation ladder down which it has to descend is long, and this must be
the case if there are corps-commanders between the division leaders and
the chief; secondly, the chief loses generally in his own proper power
and efficiency the wider the spheres of action of his immediate
subordinates become. A general commanding 100,000 men in eight
divisions exercises a power which is greater in intensity than if the
100,000 men were divided into only three corps. There are many reasons
for this, but the most important is that each commander looks upon
himself as having a kind of proprietary right in his own corps, and
always opposes the withdrawal from him of any portion of it for a
longer or shorter time. A little experience of war will make this
evident to any one.
But on the other hand the number of divisions must not be too great,
otherwise disorder will ensue. It is difficult enough to manage eight
divisions from one head quarter, and the number should never be allowed
to exceed ten. But in a division in which the means of circulating
orders are much less, the smaller normal number four, or at most five,
may be regarded as the more suitable.
If these factors, five and ten, will not answer, that is, if the
brigades are too strong, then _corps d’armée_ must be introduced; but
we must remember that by so doing, a new power is created, which at
once very much lowers all other factors.
But now, what is too strong a brigade? The custom is to make them from
2,000 to 5,000 men strong, and there appear to be two reasons for
making the latter number the limit; the first is that a brigade is
supposed to be a subdivision which can be commanded by one man
directly, that is, through the compass of his voice: the second is that
any larger body of infantry should not be left without artillery, and
through this first combination of arms a special division of itself is
formed.
We do not wish to involve ourselves in these tactical subtilties,
neither shall we enter upon the disputed point, where and in what
proportions the combination of all three arms should take place,
whether with divisions of 8,000 to 12,000 men, or with corps which are
20,000 to 30,000 men strong. The most decided opponent of these
combinations will scarcely take exception at the mere assertion, that
nothing but this combination of the three arms can make a division
independent, and that therefore, for such as are intended to be
frequently detached separately, it is at least very desirable.
An army of 200,000 men in ten divisions, the divisions composed of five
brigades each, would give brigades 4,000 strong. We see here no
disproportion. Certainly this army might also be divided into five
corps, the corps into four divisions, and the division into four
brigades, which makes the brigade 2,500 men strong; but the first
distribution, looked at in the abstract, appears to us preferable, for
besides that, in the other, there is one more gradation of rank, five
parts are too few to make an army manageable; four divisions, in like
manner, are too few for a corps, and 2,500 men is a weak brigade, of
which, in this manner, there are eighty, whereas the first formation
has only fifty, and is therefore simpler. All these advantages are
given up merely for the sake of having only to send orders to half as
many generals. Of course the distribution into corps is still more
unsuitable for smaller armies.
This is the abstract view of the case. The particular case may present
good reasons for deciding otherwise. Likewise, we must admit that,
although eight or ten divisions may be directed when united in a level
country, in widely extended mountain positions the thing might perhaps
be impossible. A great river which divides an army into halves, makes a
commander for each half indispensable; in short, there are a hundred
local and particular objects of the most decisive character, before
which all rules must give way.
But still, experience teaches us, that these abstract grounds come most
frequently into use and are seldomer overruled by others than we should
perhaps suppose.
We wish further to explain clearly the scope of the foregoing
considerations by a simple outline, for which purpose we now place the
different points of most importance next to each other.
As we mean by the term numbers, or parts of a whole, only those which
are made by the primary, therefore the immediate division, we say.
1. If a whole has too few members it is unwieldy.
2. If the parts of a whole body are too large, the power of the
superior will is thereby weakened.
3. With every additional step through which an order has to pass, it is
weakened in two ways: in one way by the loss of force, which it suffers
in its passage through an additional step; in another way by the longer
time in its transmission.
The tendency of all this is to show that the number of co-ordinate
divisions should be as great, and the gradational steps as few as
possible; and the only limitation to this conclusion is, that in armies
no more than from eight to ten, and in subordinate corps no more than
from four or at most six, subdivisions can be conveniently directed.
2.—Combination of Arms.
For strategy the combination of the three arms in the order of battle
is only important in regard to those parts of the army which, according
to the usual order of things, are likely to be frequently employed in a
detached position, where they may be obliged to engage in an
independent combat. Now it is in the nature of things, that the members
of the first class, and for the most part only these, are destined for
detached positions, because, as we shall see elsewhere, detached
positions are most generally adopted upon the supposition and the
necessity of a body independent in itself.
In a strict sense strategy would therefore only require a permanent
combination of arms in army corps, or where these do not exist, in
divisions, leaving it to circumstances to determine when a provisional
combination of the three arms shall be made in subdivisions of an
inferior order.
But it is easy to see that, when corps are of considerable size, such
as 30,000 or 40,000 men, they can seldom find themselves in a situation
to take up a completely connected position in mass. With corps of such
strength, a combination of the arms in the divisions is therefore
necessary. No one who has had any experience in war, will treat lightly
the delay which occurs when pressing messages have to be sent to some
other perhaps distant point before cavalry can be brought to the
support of infantry—to say nothing of the confusion which takes place.
The details of the combination of the three arms, how far it should
extend, how low down it should be carried, what proportions should be
observed, the strength of the reserves of each to be set apart—these
are all purely tactical considerations.
3.—The Disposition.
The determination as to the relations in space, according to which the
parts of an army amongst themselves are to be drawn up in order of
battle, is likewise completely a tactical subject, referring solely to
the battle. No doubt there is also a strategic disposition of the
parts; but it depends almost entirely on determinations and
requirements of the moment, and what there is in it of the rational,
does not come within the meaning of the term “order of battle.” We
shall therefore treat of it in the following chapter under the head of
_Disposition of an Army_.
The order of battle of an army is therefore the organisation and
disposition of it in mass ready prepared for battle. Its parts are
united in such a manner that both the tactical and strategical
requirements of the moment can be easily satisfied by the employment of
single parts drawn from the general mass. When such momentary exigency
has passed over, these parts resume their original place, and thus the
order of battle becomes the first step to, and principal foundation of,
that wholesome methodicism which, like the beat of a pendulum,
regulates the work in war, and of which we have already spoken in the
fourth chapter of the Second Book.
CHAPTER VI. General Disposition of an Army
Between the moment of the first assembling of military forces, and that
of the solution arrived at maturity when strategy has brought the army
to the decisive point, and each particular part has had its position
and rôle pointed out by tactics, there is in most cases a long
interval; it is the same between one decisive catastrophe and another.
Formerly these intervals in a certain measure did not belong to war at
all. Take for example the manner in which Luxemburg encamped and
marched. We single out this general because he is celebrated for his
camps and marches, and therefore may be considered a representative
general of his period, and from the _Histoire de la Flandre militaire_,
we know more about him than about other generals of the time.
The camp was regularly pitched with its rear close to a river, or
morass, or a deep valley, which in the present day would be considered
madness. The direction in which the enemy lay had so little to do with
determining the front of the army, that cases are very common in which
the rear was towards the enemy and the front towards their own country.
This now unheard of mode of proceeding is perfectly unintelligible,
unless we suppose that in the choice of camps the convenience of the
troops was the chief, indeed almost the only consideration, and
therefore look upon the state of being in camp as a state outside of
the action of war, a kind of withdrawal behind the scenes, where one is
quite at ease. The practice of always resting the rear upon some
obstacle may be reckoned the only measure of security which was then
taken, of course, in the sense of the mode of conducting war in that
day, for such a measure was quite inconsistent with the possibility of
being compelled to fight in that position. But there was little reason
for apprehension on that score, because the battles generally depended
on a kind of mutual understanding, like a duel, in which the parties
repair to a convenient rendezvous. As armies, partly on account of
their numerous cavalry, which in the decline of its splendour was still
regarded, particularly by the French, as the principal arm, partly on
account of the unwieldy organisation of their order of battle, could
not fight in every description of country, an army in a close broken
country was as it were under the protection of a neutral territory, and
as it could itself make but little use of broken ground, therefore, it
was deemed preferable to go to meet an enemy seeking battle. We know,
indeed, that Luxemburg’s battles at Fleurus, Stienkirk, and Neerwinden,
were conceived in a different spirit; but this spirit had only just
then under this great general freed itself from the old method, and it
had not yet reacted on the method of encampment. Alterations in the art
of war originate always in matters of a decisive nature, and then lead
by degrees to modifications in other things. The expression _il va à la
guerre_, used in reference to a partizan setting out to watch the
enemy, shows how little the state of an army in camp was considered to
be a state of real warfare.
It was not much otherwise with the marches, for the artillery then
separated itself completely from the rest of the army, in order to take
advantage of better and more secure roads, and the cavalry on the wings
generally took the right alternately, that each might have in turn its
share of the honour of marching on the right.
At present (that is, chiefly since the Silesian wars) the situation out
of battle is so thoroughly influenced by its connection with battle
that the two states are in intimate correlation, and the one can no
longer be completely imagined without the other. Formerly in a campaign
the battle was the real weapon, the situation at other times only the
handle—the former the steel blade, the other the wooden haft glued to
it, the whole therefore composed of heterogeneous parts,—now the battle
is the edge, the situation out of the battle the back of the blade, the
whole to be looked upon as metal completely welded together, in which
it is impossible any longer to distinguish where the steel ends and the
iron begins.
This state in war outside of the battle is now partly regulated by the
organisation and regulations with which the army comes prepared from a
state of peace, partly by the tactical and strategic arrangements of
the moment. The three situations in which an army may be placed are in
quarters, on a march, or in camp. All three belong as much to tactics
as to strategy, and these two branches, bordering on each other here in
many ways, often seem to, or actually do, incorporate themselves with
each other, so that many dispositions may be looked upon at the same
time as both tactical and strategic.
We shall treat of these three situations of an army outside of the
combat in a general way, before any special objects come into
connection with them; but we must, first of all, consider the general
disposition of the forces, because that is a superior and more
comprehensive measure, determining as respects camps, cantonments, and
marches.
If we look at the disposition of the forces in a general way, that is,
leaving out of sight any special object, we can only imagine it as a
unit, that is, as a whole, intended to fight all together, for any
deviation from this simplest form would imply a special object. Thus
arises, therefore, the conception of an army, let it be small or large.
Further, when there is an absence of any special end, there only
remains as the sole object the preservation of the army itself, which
of course includes its security. That the army shall be able to exist
without inconvenience, and that it shall be able to concentrate without
difficulty for the purpose of fighting, are, therefore, the two
requisite conditions. From these result, as desirable, the following
points more immediately applying to subjects concerning the existence
and security of the army.
1. Facility of subsistence.
2. Facility of providing shelter for the troops.
3. Security of the rear.
4. An open country in front.
5. The position itself in a broken country.
6. Strategic points d’appui.
7. A suitable distribution of the troops.
Our elucidation of these several points is as follows:
The first two lead us to seek out cultivated districts, and great towns
and roads. They determine measures in general rather than in
particular.
In the chapter on lines of communication will be found what we mean by
security of the rear. The first and most important point in this
respect is that the centre of the position should be at a right angle
with the principal line of retreat adjoining the position.
Respecting the fourth point, an army certainly cannot look over an
expanse of country in its front as it overlooks the space directly
before it when in a tactical position for battle. But the strategic
eyes are the advanced guard, scouts and patrols sent forward, spies,
etc., etc., and the service will naturally be easier for these in an
open than in an intersected country. The fifth point is merely the
reverse of the fourth.
Strategical points d’appui differ from tactical in these two respects,
that the army need not be in immediate contact with them, and that, on
the other hand, they must be of greater extent. The cause of this is
that, according to the nature of the thing, the relations to time and
space in which strategy moves are generally on a greater scale than
those of tactics. If, therefore, an army posts itself at a distance of
a mile from the sea coast or the banks of a great river, it leans
strategically on these obstacles, for the enemy cannot make use of such
a space as this to effect a strategic turning movement. Within its
narrow limits he cannot adventure on marches miles in length, occupying
days and weeks. On the other hand, in strategy, a lake of several miles
in circumference is hardly to be looked upon as an obstacle; in its
proceedings, a few miles to the right or left are not of much
consequence. Fortresses will become strategic points d’appui, according
as they are large, and afford a wide sphere of action for offensive
combinations.
The disposition of the army in separate masses may be done with a view
either to special objects and requirements, or to those of a general
nature; here we can only speak of the latter.
The first general necessity is to push forward the advanced guard and
the other troops required to watch the enemy.
The second is that, with very large armies, the reserves are usually
placed several miles in rear, and consequently occupy a separate
position.
Lastly, the covering of both wings of an army usually requires a
separate disposition of particular corps.
By this covering it is not at all meant that a portion of the army is
to be detached to defend the space round its wings, in order to prevent
the enemy from approaching these weak points, as they are called: who
would then defend the wings of these flanking corps? This kind of idea,
which is so common, is complete nonsense. The wings of an army are in
themselves not weak points of an army for this reason, that the enemy
also has wings, and cannot menace ours without placing his own in
jeopardy. It is only if circumstances are unequal, if the enemy’s army
is larger than ours, if his lines of communication are more secure (see
Lines of Communication), it is only then that the wings become weak
parts; but of these special cases we are not now speaking, therefore,
neither of a case in which a flanking corps is appointed in connection
with other combinations to defend effectually the space on our wings,
for that no longer belongs to the category of general dispositions.
But although the wings are not particularly weak parts still they are
particularly important, because here, on account of flanking movements
the defence is not so simple as in front, measures are more complicated
and require more time and preparation. For this reason it is necessary
in the majority of cases to protect the wings specially against
unforeseen enterprises on the part of the enemy, and this is done by
placing stronger masses on the wings than would be required for mere
purposes of observation. To press heavily these masses, even if they
oppose no very serious resistance, more time is required, and the
stronger they are the more the enemy must develop his forces and his
intentions, and by that means the object of the measure is attained;
what is to be done further depends on the particular plans of the
moment. We may therefore regard corps placed on the wings as lateral
advanced guards, intended to retard the advance of the enemy through
the space beyond our wings and give us time to make dispositions to
counteract his movement.
If these corps are to fall back on the main body and the latter is not
to make a backward movement at the same time, then it follows of itself
that they must not be in the same line with the front of the main body,
but thrown out somewhat forwards, because when a retreat is to be made,
even without being preceded by a serious engagement, they should not
retreat directly on the side of the position.
From these reasons of a subjective nature, as they relate to the inner
organisation of an army, there arises a natural system of disposition,
composed of four or five parts according as the reserve remains with
the main body or not.
As the subsistence and shelter of the troops partly decide the choice
of a position in general, so also they contribute to a disposition in
separate divisions. The attention which they demand comes into
consideration along with the other considerations above mentioned; and
we seek to satisfy the one without prejudice to the other. In most
cases, by the division of an army into five separate corps, the
difficulties of subsistence and quartering will be overcome, and no
great alteration will afterwards be required on their account.
We have still to cast a glance at the distances at which these
separated corps may be allowed to be placed, if we are to retain in
view the advantage of mutual support, and, therefore, of concentrating
for battle. On this subject we remind our readers of what is said in
the chapters on the duration and decision of the combat, according to
which no absolute distance, but only the most general, as it were,
average rules can be given, because absolute and relative strength of
arms and country have a great influence.
The distance of the advanced guard is the easiest to fix, as in
retreating it falls back on the main body of the army, and, therefore,
may be at all events at a distance of a long day’s march without
incurring the risk of being obliged to fight an independent battle. But
it should not be sent further in advance than the security of the army
requires, because the further it has to fall back the more it suffers.
Respecting corps on the flanks, as we have already said, the combat of
an ordinary division of 8000 to 10,000 men usually lasts for several
hours, even for half a day before it is decided; on that account,
therefore, there need be no hesitation in placing such a division at a
distance of some leagues or one or two miles, and for the same reason,
corps of three or four divisions may be detached a day’s march or a
distance of three or four miles.
From this natural and general disposition of the main body, in four or
five divisions at particular distances, a certain method has arisen of
dividing an army in a mechanical manner whenever there are no strong
special reasons against this ordinary method.
But although we assume that each of these distinct parts of an army
shall be competent to undertake an independent combat, and it may be
obliged to engage in one, it does not therefore by any means follow
that the real object of fractioning an army is that the parts should
fight separately; the necessity for this distribution of the army is
mostly only a condition of existence imposed by time. If the enemy
approaches our position to try the fate of a general action, the
strategic period is over, everything concentrates itself into the one
moment of the battle, and therewith terminates and vanishes the object
of the distribution of the army. As soon as the battle commences,
considerations about quarters and subsistence are suspended; the
observation of the enemy before our front and on our flanks has
fulfilled the purpose of checking his advance by a partial resistance,
and now all resolves itself into the one great unit—the great battle.
The best criterion of skill in the disposition of an army lies in the
proof that the distribution has been considered merely as a condition,
as a necessary evil, but that united action in battle has been
considered the object of the disposition.
CHAPTER VII. Advanced Guard and Out-Posts
These two bodies belong to that class of subjects into which both the
tactical and strategic threads run simultaneously. On the one hand we
must reckon them amongst those provisions which give form to the battle
and ensure the execution of tactical plans; on the other hand, they
frequently lead to independent combats, and on account of their
position, more or less distant from the main body, they are to be
regarded as links in the strategic chain, and it is this very feature
which obliges us to supplement the preceding chapter by devoting a few
moments to their consideration.
Every body of troops, when not completely in readiness for battle,
requires an advanced guard to learn the approach of the enemy, and to
gain further particulars respecting his force before he comes in sight,
for the range of vision, as a rule, does not go much beyond the range
of firearms. But what sort of man would he be who could not see farther
than his arms can reach! The foreposts are the eyes of the army, as we
have already said. The want of them, however, is not always equally
great; it has its degrees. The strength of armies and the extent of
ground they cover, time, place, contingencies, the method of making
war, even chance, are all points which have an influence in the matter;
and, therefore, we cannot wonder that military history, instead of
furnishing any definite and simple outlines of the method of using
advanced guards and outposts, only presents the subject in a kind of
chaos of examples of the most diversified nature.
Sometimes we see the security of an army intrusted to a corps regularly
appointed to the duty of advanced guard; at another time a long line of
separate outposts; sometimes both these arrangements co-exist,
sometimes neither one nor the other; at one time there is only one
advanced guard in common for the whole of the advancing columns; at
another time, each column has its own advanced guard. We shall
endeavour to get a clear idea of what the subject really is, and then
see whether we can arrive at some principles capable of application.
If the troops are on the march, a detachment of more or less strength
forms its van or advanced guard, and in case of the movement of the
army being reversed, this same detachment will form the rearguard. If
the troops are in cantonments or camp, an extended line of weak posts,
forms the vanguard, _the outposts_. It is essentially in the nature of
things, that, when the army is halted, a greater extent of space can
and must be watched than when the army is in motion, and therefore in
the one case the conception of a chain of posts, in the other that of a
concentrated corps arises of itself.
The actual strength of an advanced guard, as well as of outposts,
ranges from a considerable corps, composed of an organisation of all
three arms, to a regiment of hussars, and from a strongly entrenched
defensive line, occupied by portions of troops from each arm of the
service, to mere outlying pickets, and their supports detached from the
camp. The services assigned to such vanguards range also from those of
mere observation to an offer of opposition or resistance to the enemy,
and this opposition may not only be to give the main body of the army
the time which it requires to prepare for battle, but also to make the
enemy develop his plans, and intentions, which consequently makes the
observation far more important.
According as more or less time is required to be gained, according as
the opposition to be offered is calculated upon and intended to meet
the special measures of the enemy, so accordingly must the strength of
the advanced guard and outposts be proportioned.
Frederick the Great, a general above all others ever ready for battle,
and who almost directed his army in battle by word of command, never
required strong outposts. We see him therefore constantly encamping
close under the eyes of the enemy, without any great apparatus of
outposts, relying for his security, at one place on a hussar regiment,
at another on a light battalion, or perhaps on the pickets, and
supports furnished from the camp. On the march, a few thousand horse,
generally furnished by the cavalry on the flanks of the first line,
formed his advanced guard, and at the end of the march rejoined the
main body. He very seldom had any corps permanently employed as
advanced guard.
When it is the intention of a small army, by using the whole weight of
its mass with great vigour and activity, to make the enemy feel the
effect of its superior discipline and the greater resolution of its
commander, then almost every thing must be done _sous la barbe de
l’ennemi_, in the same way as Frederick the Great did when opposed to
Daun. A system of holding back from the enemy, and a very formal, and
extensive system of outposts would neutralise all the advantages of the
above kind of superiority. The circumstance that an error of another
kind, and the carrying out Frederick’s system too far, may lead to a
battle of Hochkirch, is no argument against this method of acting; we
should rather say, that as there was only one battle of Hochkirch in
all the Silesian war, we ought to recognise in this system a proof of
the King’s consummate ability.
Napoleon, however, who commanded an army not deficient in discipline
and firmness, and who did not want for resolution himself, never moved
without a strong advanced guard. There are two reasons for this.
The first is to be found in the alteration in tactics. A whole army is
no longer led into battle as one body by mere word of command, to
settle the affair like a great duel by more or less skill and bravery;
the combatants on each side now range their forces more to suit the
peculiarities of the ground and circumstances, so that the order of
battle, and consequently the battle itself, is a whole made up of many
parts, from which there follows, that the simple determination to fight
becomes a regularly formed plan, and the word of command a more or less
long preparatory arrangement. For this time and data are required.
The second cause lies in the great size of modern armies. Frederick
brought thirty or forty thousand men into battle; Napoleon from one to
two hundred thousand.
We have selected these examples because every one will admit, that two
such generals would never have adopted any systematic mode of
proceeding without some good reason. Upon the whole, there has been a
general improvement in the use of advanced guards and outposts in
modern wars; not that every one acted as Frederick, even in the
Silesian wars, for at that time the Austrians had a system of strong
outposts, and frequently sent forward a corps as advanced guard, for
which they had sufficient reason from the situation in which they were
placed. Just in the same way we find differences enough in the mode of
carrying on war in more modern times. Even the French Marshals
Macdonald in Silesia, Oudinot and Ney in the Mark (Brandenburg),
advanced with armies of sixty or seventy thousand men, without our
reading of their having had any advanced guard.—We have hitherto been
discussing advanced guards and outposts in relation to their numerical
strength; but there is another difference which we must settle. It is
that, when an army advances or retires on a certain breadth of ground,
it may have a van and rear guard in common for all the columns which
are marching side by side, or each column may have one for itself. In
order to form a clear idea on this subject, we must look at it in this
way.
The fundamental conception of an advanced guard, when a corps is so
specially designated, is that its mission is the security of the main
body or centre of the army. If this main body is marching upon several
contiguous roads so close together that they can also easily serve for
the advanced guard, and therefore be covered by it, then the flank
columns naturally require no special covering.
But those corps which are moving at great distances, in reality as
detached corps, must provide their own van-guards. The same applies
also to any of those corps which belong to the central mass, and owing
to the direction that the roads may happen to take, are too far from
the centre column. Therefore there will be as many advanced guards, as
there are columns virtually separated from each other; if each of these
advanced guards is much weaker than one general one would be, then they
fall more into the class of other tactical dispositions, and there is
no advanced guard in the strategic tableau. But if the main body or
centre has a much larger corps for its advanced guard, then that corps
will appear as the advanced guard of the whole, and will be so in many
respects.
But what can be the reason for giving the centre a van-guard so much
stronger than the wings? The following three reasons.
1. Because the mass of troops composing the centre is usually much more
considerable.
2. Because plainly the central point of a strip of country along which
the front of an army is extended must always be the most important
point, as all the combinations of the campaign relate mostly to it, and
therefore the field of battle is also usually nearer to it than to the
wings.
3. Because, although a corps thrown forward in front of the centre does
not directly protect the wings as a real vanguard, it still contributes
greatly to their security indirectly. For instance, the enemy cannot in
ordinary cases pass by such a corps within a certain distance in order
to effect any enterprise of importance against one of the wings,
because he has to fear an attack in flank and rear. Even if this check
which a corps thrown forward in the centre imposes on the enemy is not
sufficient to constitute complete security for the wings, it is at all
events sufficient to relieve the flanks from all apprehension in a
great many cases.
The van-guard of the centre, if much stronger than that of a wing, that
is to say, if it consists of a special corps as advanced guard, has
then not merely the mission of a van-guard intended to protect the
troops in its rear from sudden surprise; it also operates in more
general strategic relations as an army corps thrown forward in advance.
The following are the purposes for which such a corps may be used, and
therefore those which determine its duties in practice.
1. To insure a stouter resistance, and make the enemy advance with more
caution; consequently to do the duties of a van-guard on a greater
scale, whenever our arrangements are such as to require time before
they can be carried into effect.
2. If the central mass of the army is very large, to be able to keep
this unwieldy body at some distance from the enemy, while we still
remain close to him with a more moveable body of troops.
3. That we may have a corps of observation close to the enemy, if there
are any other reasons which require us to keep the principal mass of
the army at a considerable distance.
The idea that weaker look-out posts, mere partisan corps, might answer
just as well for this observation is set aside at once if we reflect
how easily a weak corps might be dispersed, and how very limited also
are its means of observation as compared with those of a considerable
corps.
4. In the pursuit of the enemy. A single corps as advanced guard, with
the greater part of the cavalry attached to it, can move quicker,
arriving later at its bivouac, and moving earlier in the morning than
the whole mass.
5. Lastly, on a retreat, as rearguard, to be used in defending the
principal natural obstacles of ground. In this respect also the centre
is exceedingly important. At first sight it certainly appears as if
such a rearguard would be constantly in danger of having its flanks
turned. But we must remember that, even if the enemy succeeds in
overlapping the flanks to some extent, he has still to march the whole
way from there to the centre before he can seriously threaten the
central mass, which gives time to the rearguard of the centre to
prolong its resistance, and remain in rear somewhat longer. On the
other hand, the situation becomes at once critical if the centre falls
back quicker than the wings; there is immediately an appearance as if
the line had been broken through, and even the very idea or appearance
of that is to be dreaded. At no time is there a greater necessity for
concentration and holding together, and at no time is this more
sensibly felt by every one than on a retreat. The intention always is,
that the wings in case of extremity should close upon the centre; and
if, on account of subsistence and roads, the retreat has to be made on
a considerable width (of country), still the movement generally ends by
a concentration on the centre. If we add to these considerations also
this one, that the enemy usually advances with his principal force in
the centre and with the greatest energy against the centre, we must
perceive that the rear guard of the centre is of special importance.
Accordingly, therefore, a special corps should always be thrown forward
as an advanced guard in every case where one of the above relations
occurs. These relations almost fall to the ground if the centre is not
stronger than the wings, as, for example, Macdonald when he advanced
against Blücher, in Silesia, in 1813, and the latter, when he made his
movement towards the Elbe. Both of them had three corps, which usually
moved in three columns by different roads, the heads of the columns in
line. On this account no mention is made of their having had advanced
guards.
But this disposition in three columns of equal strength is one which is
by no means to be recommended, partly on that account, and also because
the division of a whole army into three parts makes it very
unmanageable, as stated in the fifth chapter of the third book.
When the whole is formed into a centre with two wings separate from it,
which we have represented in the preceding chapter as the most natural
formation as long as there is no particular object for any other, the
corps forming the advanced guard, according to the simplest notion of
the case, will have its place in front of the centre, and therefore
before the line which forms the front of the wings; but as the first
object of corps thrown out on the flanks is to perform the same office
for the sides as the advanced guard for the front, it will very often
happen that these corps will be in line with the advanced guard, or
even still further thrown forward, according to circumstances.
With respect to the strength of an advanced guard we have little to
say, as now very properly it is the general custom to detail for that
duty one or more component parts of the army of the first class,
reinforced by part of the cavalry: so that it consists of a corps, if
the army is formed in corps; of a division, if the organisation is in
divisions.
It is easy to perceive that in this respect also the great number of
higher members or divisions is an advantage.
How far the advanced guard should be pushed to the front must entirely
depend on circumstances; there are cases in which it may be more than a
day’s march in advance, and others in which it should be immediately
before the front of the army. If we find that in most cases between one
and three miles is the distance chosen, that shows certainly that
circumstances have usually pointed out this distance as the best; but
we cannot make of it a rule by which we are to be always guided.
In the foregoing observations we have lost sight altogether of
_outposts_, and therefore we must now return to them again.
In saying, at the commencement, that the relations between outposts and
stationary troops is similar to that between advanced guards and troops
in motion, our object was to refer the conceptions back to their
origin, and keep them distinct in future; but it is clear that if we
confine ourselves strictly to the words we should get little more than
a pedantic distinction.
If an army on the march halts at night to resume the march next
morning, the advanced guard must naturally do the same, and always
organise the outpost duty, required both for its own security and that
of the main body, without on that account being changed from an
advanced guard into a line of outposts. To satisfy the notion of that
transformation, the advanced guard would have to be completely broken
up into a chain of small posts, having either only a very small force,
or none at all in a form approaching to a mass. In other words, the
idea of a line of outposts must predominate over that of a concentrated
corps.
The shorter the time of rest of the army, the less complete does the
covering of the army require to be, for the enemy has hardly time to
learn from day to day what is covered and what is not. The longer the
halt is to be the more complete must be the observation and covering of
all points of approach. As a rule, therefore, when the halt is long,
the vanguard becomes always more and more extended into a line of
posts. Whether the change becomes complete, or whether the idea of a
concentrated corps shall continue uppermost, depends chiefly on two
circumstances. The first is the proximity of the contending armies, the
second is the nature of the country.
If the armies are very close in comparison to the width of their front,
then it will often be impossible to post a vanguard between them, and
the armies are obliged to place their dependence on a chain of
outposts.
A concentrated corps, as it covers the approaches to the army less
directly, generally requires more time and space to act efficiently;
and therefore, if the army covers a great extent of front, as in
cantonments, and a corps standing in mass is to cover all the avenues
of approach, it is necessary that we should be at a considerable
distance from the enemy; on this account winter quarters, for instance,
are generally covered by a cordon of posts.
The second circumstance is the nature of the country; where, for
example, any formidable obstacle of ground affords the means of forming
a strong line of posts with but few troops, we should not neglect to
take advantage of it.
Lastly, in winter quarters, the rigour of the season may also be a
reason for breaking up the advanced guard into a line of posts, because
it is easier to find shelter for it in that way.
The use of a reinforced line of outposts was brought to great
perfection by the Anglo-Dutch army, during the campaign of 1794 and
1795, in the Netherlands, when the line of defence was formed by
brigades composed of all arms, in single posts, and supported by a
reserve. Scharnhorst, who was with that army, introduced this system
into the Prussian army on the Passarge in 1807. Elsewhere in modern
times, it has been little adopted, chiefly because the wars have been
too rich in movement. But even when there has been occasion for its use
it has been neglected, as for instance, by Murat, at Tarutino. A wider
extension of his defensive line would have spared him the loss of
thirty pieces of artillery in a combat of out-posts.
It cannot be disputed that in certain circumstances, great advantages
may be derived from this system. We propose to return to the subject on
another occasion.
CHAPTER VIII. Mode of Action of Advanced Corps
We have just seen how the security of the army is expected, from the
effect which an advanced guard and flank corps produce on an advancing
enemy. Such corps are always to be considered as very weak whenever we
imagine them in conflict with the main body of the enemy, and therefore
a peculiar mode of using them is required, that they may fulfil the
purpose for which they are intended, without incurring the risk of the
serious loss which is to be feared from this disproportion in strength.
The object of a corps of this description, is to observe the enemy, and
to delay his progress.
For the first of these purposes a smaller body would never be
sufficient, partly because it would be more easily driven back, partly
because its means of observation that is its eyes could not reach as
far.
But the observation must be carried to a high point; the enemy must be
made to develop his whole strength before such a corps, and thereby
reveal to a certain extent, not only his force, but also his plans.
For this its mere presence would be sufficient, and it would only be
necessary to wait and see the measures by which the enemy seeks to
drive it back, and then commence its retreat at once.
But further, it must also delay the advance of the enemy, and that
implies actual resistance.
Now how can we conceive this waiting until the last moment, as well as
this resistance, without such a corps being in constant danger of
serious loss? Chiefly in this way, that the enemy himself is preceded
by an advanced guard, and therefore does not advance at once with all
the outflanking and overpowering weight of his whole force. Now, if
this advance guard is also from the commencement superior to our
advanced corps, as we may naturally suppose it is intended it should
be, and if the enemy’s main body is also nearer to his advanced guard
than we are to ours, and if that main body, being already on the march,
will soon be on the spot to support the attack of his advanced guard
with all his strength, still this first act, in which our advanced
corps has to contend with the enemy’s advanced guard, that is with a
force not much exceeding its own, ensures at once a certain gain of
time, and thus allows of our watching the adversary’s movements for
some time without endangering our own retreat.
But even a certain amount of resistance which such a corps can offer in
a suitable position is not attended with such disadvantage as we might
anticipate in other cases through the disproportion in the strength of
the forces engaged. The chief danger in a contest with a superior enemy
consists always in the possibility of being turned and placed in a
critical situation by the enemy enveloping our position; but in the
case to which our attention is now directed, a risk of this description
is very much less, owing to the advancing enemy never knowing exactly
how near there may be support from the main body of his opponent’s army
itself, which may place his advanced column between two fires. The
consequence is, that the enemy in advancing keeps the heads of his
single columns as nearly as possible in line, and only begins very
cautiously to attempt to turn one or other wing after he has
sufficiently reconnoitred our position. While the enemy is thus feeling
about and moving guardedly, the corps we have thrown forward has time
to fall back before it is in any serious danger.
As for the length of the resistance which such a corps should offer
against the attack in front, or against the commencement of any turning
movement, that depends chiefly on the nature of the ground and the
proximity of the enemy’s supports. If this resistance is continued
beyond its natural measure, either from want of judgment or from a
sacrifice being necessary in order to give the main body the time it
requires, the consequence must always be a very considerable loss.
It is only in rare instances, and more especially when some local
obstacle is favourable, that the resistance actually made in such a
combat can be of importance, and the duration of the little battle of
such a corps would in itself be hardly sufficient to gain the time
required; that time is really gained in a threefold manner, which lies
in the nature of the thing, viz.:
1. By the more cautious, and consequently slower advance of the enemy.
2. By the duration of the actual resistance offered.
3. By the retreat itself.
This retreat must be made as slowly as is consistent with safety. If
the country affords good positions they should be made use of, as that
obliges the enemy to organise fresh attacks and plans for turning
movements, and by that means more time is gained. Perhaps in a new
position a real combat even may again be fought.
We see that the opposition to the enemy’s progress by actual fighting
and the retreat are completely combined with one another, and that the
shortness of the duration of the fights must be made up for by their
frequent repetition.
This is the kind of resistance which an advanced corps should offer.
The degree of effect depends chiefly on the strength of the corps, and
the configuration of the country; next on the length of the road which
the corps has to march over, and the support which it receives.
A small body, even when the forces on both sides are equal can never
make as long a stand as a considerable corps; for the larger the masses
the more time they require to complete their action, of whatever kind
it may be. In a mountainous country the mere marching is of itself
slower, the resistance in the different positions longer, and attended
with less danger, and at every step favourable positions may be found.
As the distance to which a corps is pushed forward increases so will
the length of its retreat, and therefore also the absolute gain of time
by its resistance; but as such a corps by its position has less power
of resistance in itself, and is less easily reinforced, its retreat
must be made more rapidly in proportion than if it stood nearer the
main body, and had a shorter distance to traverse.
The support and means of rallying afforded to an advanced corps must
naturally have an influence on the duration of the resistance, as all
the time that prudence requires for the security of the retreat is so
much taken from the resistance, and therefore diminishes its amount.
There is a marked difference in the time gained by the resistance of an
advanced corps when the enemy makes his first appearance after midday;
in such a case the length of the night is so much additional time
gained, as the advance is seldom continued throughout the night. Thus
it was that, in 1815, on the short distance from Charleroi to Ligny,
not more than two miles,(*) the first Prussian corps under General
Ziethen, about 30,000 strong, against Buonaparte at the head of 120,000
men, was enabled to gain twenty-four hours for the Prussian army then
engaged in concentrating. The first attack was made on General Ziethen
about nine o’clock on the morning of 15th June, and the battle of Ligny
did not commence until about two on the afternoon of 16th. General
Ziethen suffered, it is true, very considerable loss, amounting to five
or six thousand men killed, wounded or prisoners.
(*) Here, as well as elsewhere, by the word mile, the German mile is
meant.—Tr.
If we refer to experience the following are the results, which may
serve as a basis in any calculations of this kind.
A division of ten or twelve thousand men, with a proportion of cavalry,
a day’s march of three or four miles in advance in an ordinary country,
not particularly strong, will be able to detain the enemy (including
time occupied in the retreat) about half as long again as he would
otherwise require to march over the same ground, but if the division is
only a mile in advance, then the enemy ought to be detained about twice
or three times as long as he otherwise would be on the march.
Therefore supposing the distance to be a march of four miles, for which
usually ten hours are required, then from the moment that the enemy
appears in force in front of the advanced corps, we may reckon upon
fifteen hours before he is in a condition to attack our main body. On
the other hand, if the advanced guard is posted only a mile in advance,
then the time which will elapse before our army can be attacked will be
more than three or four hours, and may very easily come up to double
that, for the enemy still requires just as much time to mature his
first measures against our advanced guard, and the resistance offered
by that guard in its original position will be greater than it would be
in a position further forward.
The consequence is, that in the first of these supposed cases the enemy
cannot easily make an attack on our main body on the same day that he
presses back the advanced corps, and this exactly coincides with the
results of experience. Even in the second case the enemy must succeed
in driving our advanced guard from its ground in the first half of the
day to have the requisite time for a general action.
As the night comes to our help in the first of these supposed cases, we
see how much time may be gained by an advanced guard thrown further
forward.
With reference to corps placed on the sides or flanks, the object of
which we have before explained, the mode of action is in most cases
more or less connected with circumstances which belong to the province
of immediate application. The simplest way is to look upon them as
advanced guards placed on the sides, which being at the same time
thrown out somewhat in advance, retreat in an oblique direction upon
the army.
As these corps are not immediately in the front of the army, and cannot
be so easily supported as a regular advanced guard, they would,
therefore, be exposed to greater danger if it was not that the enemy’s
offensive power in most cases is somewhat less at the outer extremities
of his line, and in the worst cases such corps have sufficient room to
give way without exposing the army so directly to danger as a flying
advanced guard would in its rapid retreat.
The most usual and best means of supporting an advanced corps is by a
considerable body of cavalry, for which reason, when necessary from the
distance at which the corps is advanced, the reserve cavalry is posted
between the main body and the advanced corps.
The conclusion to be drawn from the preceding reflections is, that an
advanced corps effects more by its presence than by its efforts, less
by the combats in which it engages than by the possibility of those in
which it might engage: that it should never attempt to stop the enemy’s
movements, but only serve like a pendulum to moderate and regulate
them, so that they may be made matter of calculation.
CHAPTER IX. Camps
We are now considering the three situations of an army outside of the
combat only strategically, that is, so far as they are conditioned by
place, time, and the number of the effective force. All those subjects
which relate to the internal arrangement of the combat and the
transition into the state of combat belong to tactics.
The disposition in camps, under which we mean every disposition of an
army except in quarters, whether it be in tents, huts, or bivouac, is
strategically completely identical with the combat which is contingent
upon such disposition. Tactically, it is not so always, for we can, for
many reasons, choose a site for encamping which is not precisely
identical with the proposed field of battle. Having already said all
that is necessary on the disposition of an army, that is, on the
position of the different parts, we have only to make some observations
on camps in connection with their history.
In former times, that is, before armies grew once more to considerable
dimensions, before wars became of greater duration, and their partial
acts brought into connection with a whole or general plan, and up to
the time of the war of the French Revolution, armies always used tents.
This was their normal state. With the commencement of the mild season
of the year they left their quarters, and did not again take them up
until winter set in. Winter quarters at that time must to a certain
extent be looked upon as a state of no war, for in them the forces were
neutralised, the whole clockwork stopped, quarters to refresh an army
which preceded the real winter quarters, and other temporary
cantonments, for a short time within contracted limits were
transitional and exceptional conditions.
This is not the place to enquire how such a periodical voluntary
neutralisation of power consisted with, or is now consistent with the
object and being of war; we shall come to that subject hereafter.
Enough that it was so.
Since the wars of the French Revolution, armies have completely done
away with the tents on account of the encumbrance they cause. Partly it
is found better for an army of 100,000 men to have, in place of 6,000
tent horses, 5,000 additional cavalry, or a couple of hundred extra
guns, partly it has been found that in great and rapid operations a
load of tents is a hindrance, and of little use.
But this change is attended with two drawbacks, viz., an increase of
casualties in the force, and greater wasting of the country.
However slight the protection afforded by a roof of common tent
cloth,—it cannot be denied that on a long continuance it is great
relief to the troops. For a single day the difference is small, because
a tent is little protection against wind and cold, and does not
completely exclude wet; but this small difference, if repeated two or
three hundred times in a year, becomes important. A greater loss
through sickness is just a natural result.
How the devastation of the country is increased through the want of
tents for the troops requires no explanation.
One would suppose that on account of these two reactionary influences
the doing away with tents must have diminished again the energy of war
in another way, that troops must remain longer in quarters, and from
want of the requisites for encampment must forego many positions which
would have been possible had tents been forthcoming.
This would indeed have been the case had there not been, in the same
epoch of time, an enormous revolution in war generally, which swallowed
up in itself all these smaller subordinate influences.
The elementary fire of war has become so overpowering, its energy so
extraordinary, that these regular periods of rest also have
disappeared, and every power presses forward with persistent force
towards the great decision, which will be treated of more fully in the
ninth book. Under these circumstances, therefore, any question about
effects on an army from the discontinuance of the use of tents in the
field is quite thrown into the shade. Troops now occupy huts, or
bivouac under the canopy of heaven, without regard to season of the
year, weather, or locality, just according as the general plan and
object of the campaign require.
Whether war will in the future continue to maintain, under all
circumstances and at all times, this energy, is a question we shall
consider hereafter; where this energy is wanting, the want of tents is
calculated to exercise some influence on the conduct of war; but that
this reaction will ever be strong enough to bring back the use of tents
is very doubtful, because now that much wider limits have been opened
for the elements of war it will never return within its old narrow
bounds, except occasionally for a certain time and under certain
circumstances, only to break out again with the all-powerful force of
its nature. Permanent arrangements for an army must, therefore, be
based only upon that nature.
CHAPTER X. Marches
Marches are a mere passage from one position to another under two
primary conditions.
The first is the due care of the troops, so that no forces shall be
squandered uselessly when they might be usefully employed; the second,
is precision in the movements, so that they may fit exactly. If we
marched 100,000 men in one single column, that is, upon one road
without intervals of time, the rear of the column would never arrive at
the proposed destination on the same day with the head of the column;
we must either advance at an unusually slow pace, or the mass would,
like a thread of water, disperse itself in drops; and this dispersion,
together with the excessive exertion laid upon those in rear owing to
the length of the column, would soon throw everything into confusion.
If from this extreme we take the opposite direction, we find that the
smaller the mass of troops in one column the greater the ease and
precision with which the march can be performed. The result of this is
the need of a _division_ quite irrespective of that division of an army
in separate parts which belongs to its position; therefore, although
the division into columns of march originates in the strategic
disposition in general, it does not do so in every particular case. A
great mass which is to be concentrated at any one point must
necessarily be divided for the march. But even if a disposition of the
army in separate parts causes a march in separate divisions, sometimes
the conditions of the primitive disposition, sometimes those of the
march, are paramount. For instance, if the disposition of the troops is
one made merely for rest, one in which a battle is not expected, then
the conditions of the march predominate, and these conditions are
chiefly the choice of good, well-frequented roads. Keeping in view this
difference, we choose a road in the one case on account of the quarters
and camping ground, in the other we take the quarters and camps such as
they are, on account of the road. When a battle is expected, and
everything depends on our reaching a particular point with a mass of
troops, then we should think nothing of getting to that point by even
the worst by-roads, if necessary; if, on the other hand, we are still
on the journey to the theatre of war, then the nearest great roads are
selected for the columns, and we look out for the best quarters and
camps that can be got near them.
Whether the march is of the one kind or the other, if there is a
possibility of a combat, that is within the whole region of actual war,
it is an invariable rule in the modern art of war to organise the
columns so that the mass of troops composing each column is fit of
itself to engage in an independent combat. This condition is satisfied
by the combination of the three arms, by an organised subdivision of
the whole, and by the appointment of a competent commander. Marches,
therefore, have been the chief cause of the new order of battle, and
they profit most by it.
When in the middle of the last century, especially in the theatre of
war in which Frederick II. was engaged, generals began to look upon
movement as a principle belonging to fighting, and to think of gaining
the victory by the effect of unexpected movements, the want of an
organised order of battle caused the most complicated and laborious
evolutions on a march. In carrying out a movement near the enemy, an
army ought to be always ready to fight; but at that time they were
never ready to fight unless the whole army was collectively present,
because nothing less than the army constituted a complete whole. In a
march to a flank, the second line, in order to be always at the
regulated distance, that is about a quarter of a mile from the first,
had to march up hill and down dale, which demanded immense exertion, as
well as a great stock of local knowledge; for where can one find two
good roads running parallel at a distance of a quarter of a mile from
each other? The cavalry on the wings had to encounter the same
difficulties when the march was direct to the front. There was other
difficulty with the artillery, which required a road for itself,
protected by infantry; for the lines of infantry required to be
continuous lines, and the artillery increased the length of their
already long trailing columns still more, and threw all their regulated
distances into disorder. It is only necessary to read the dispositions
for marches in Tempelhof’s History of the Seven Years’ War, to be
satisfied of all these incidents and of the restraints thus imposed on
the action of war.
But since then the modern art of war has subdivided armies on a regular
principle, so that each of the principal parts forms in itself a
complete whole, of small proportions, but capable of acting in battle
precisely like the great whole, except in one respect, which is, that
the duration of its action must be shorter. The consequence of this
change is, that even when it is intended that the whole force should
take part in a battle, it is no longer necessary to have the columns so
close to each other that they may unite before the commencement of the
combat; it is sufficient now if the concentration takes place in the
course of the action.
The smaller a body of troops the more easily it can be moved, and
therefore the less it requires that subdivision which is not a result
of the separate disposition, but of the unwieldiness of the mass. A
small body, therefore, can march upon one road, and if it is to advance
on several lines it easily finds roads near each other which are as
good as it requires. The greater the mass the greater becomes the
necessity for subdividing, the greater becomes the number of columns,
and the want of made roads, or even great high roads, consequently also
the distance of the columns from each other. Now the danger of this
subdivision is arithmetically expressed in an inverse ratio to the
necessity for it. The smaller the parts are, the more readily must they
be able to render assistance to each other; the larger they are, the
longer they can be left to depend on themselves. If we only call to
mind what has been said in the preceding book on this subject, and also
consider that in cultivated countries at a few miles distance from the
main road there are always other tolerably good roads running in a
parallel direction, it is easy to see that, in regulating a march,
there are no great difficulties which make rapidity and precision in
the advance incompatible with the proper concentration of force. In a
mountainous country parallel roads are both scarce, and the
difficulties of communication between them great; but the defensive
powers of a single column are very much greater.
In order to make this idea clearer let us look at it for a moment in a
concrete form.
A division of 8,000 men, with its artillery and other carriages, takes
up, as we know by experience in ordinary cases, a space of one league;
if, therefore, two divisions march one after the other on the same
road, the second arrives one hour after the first; but now, as said in
the sixth chapter of the fourth book, a division of this strength is
quite capable of maintaining a combat for several hours, even against a
superior force, and, therefore, supposing the worst, that is, supposing
the first had to commence a fight instantaneously, still the second
division would not arrive too late. Further, within a league right and
left of the road on which we march, in the cultivated countries of
central Europe there are, generally, lateral roads which can be used
for a march, so that there is no necessity to go across country, as was
so often done in the Seven Years’ War.
Again, it is known by experience that the head of a column composed of
four divisions and a reserve of cavalry, even on indifferent roads,
generally gets over a march of three miles in eight hours; now, if we
reckon for each division one league in depth, and the same for the
reserve cavalry and artillery, then the whole march will last thirteen
hours. This is no great length of time, and yet in this case forty
thousand men would have marched over the same road. But with such a
mass as this we can make use of lateral roads, which are to be found at
a greater distance, and therefore easily shorten the march. If the mass
of troops marching on the same road is still greater than above
supposed, then it is a case in which the arrival of the whole on the
same day is no longer indispensable, for such masses never give battle
now the moment they meet, usually not until the next day.
We have introduced these concrete cases, not as exhausting
considerations of this kind, but to make ourselves more intelligible,
and by means of this glance at the results of experience to show that
in the present mode of conducting war the organisation of marches no
longer offers such great difficulties; that the most rapid marches,
executed with the greatest precision, no longer require either that
peculiar skill or that exact knowledge of the country which was needed
for Frederick’s rapid and exact marches in the Seven Years’ War.
Through the existing organisation of armies, they rather go on now
almost of themselves, at least without any great preparatory plans. In
times past, battles were conducted by mere word of command, but marches
required a regular plan, now the order of battle requires the latter,
and for a march the word of command almost suffices.
As is well known, all marches are either perpendicular [to the front]
or parallel. The latter, also called flank marches, alter the
geometrical position of the divisions; those parts which, in position,
were in line, will follow one another, and _vice versa_. Now, although
the line of march may be at any angle with the front, still the order
of the march must decidedly be of one or other of these classes.
This geometrical alteration could only be completely carried out by
tactics, and by it only through the file-march as it is called, which,
with great masses, is impossible. Far less is it possible for strategy
to do it. The parts which changed their geometrical relation in the old
order of battle were only the centre and wings; in the new they are the
divisions of the first rank corps, divisions, or even brigades,
according to the organisation of the army. Now, the consequences above
deduced from the new order of battle have an influence here also, for
as it is no longer so necessary, as formerly, that the whole army
should be assembled before action commences, therefore the greater care
is taken that those troops which march together form one whole (a
unit). If two divisions were so placed that one formed the reserve to
the other, and that they were to advance against the enemy upon two
roads, no one would think of sending a portion of each division by each
of the roads, but a road would at once be assigned to each division;
they would therefore march side by side, and each general of division
would be left to provide a reserve for himself in case of a combat.
Unity of command is much more important than the original geometrical
relation; if the divisions reach their new position without a combat,
they can resume their previous relations. Much less if two divisions,
standing together, are to make a _parallel_ (flank) march upon two
roads should we think of placing the second line or reserve of each
division on the rear road; instead of that, we should allot to each of
the divisions one of the roads, and therefore during the march consider
one division as forming the reserve to the other. If an army in four
divisions, of which three form the front line and the fourth the
reserve, is to march against the enemy in that order, then it is
natural to assign a road to each of the divisions in front, and cause
the reserve to follow the centre. If there are not three roads at a
suitable distance apart, then we need not hesitate at once to march
upon two roads, as no serious inconvenience can arise from so doing.
It is the same in the opposite case, the flank march.
Another point is the march off of columns from the right flank or left.
In parallel marches (marches to a flank) the thing is plain in itself.
No one would march off from the right to make a movement to the left
flank. In a march to the front or rear, the order of march should
properly be chosen according to the direction of the lines of roads in
respect to the future line of deployment. This may also be done
frequently in tactics, as its spaces are smaller, and therefore a
survey of the geometrical relations can be more easily taken. In
strategy it is quite impossible, and therefore although we have seen
here and there a certain analogy brought over into strategy from
tactics, it was mere pedantry. Formerly the whole order of march was a
purely tactical affair, because the army on a march remained always an
indivisible whole, and looked to nothing but a combat of the whole; yet
nevertheless Schwerin, for example, when he marched off from his
position near Brandeis, on the 5th of May, could not tell whether his
future field of battle would be on his right or left, and on this
account he was obliged to make his famous countermarch.
If an army in the old order of battle advanced against the enemy in
four columns, the cavalry in the first and second lines on each wing
formed the two exterior columns, the two lines of infantry composing
the wings formed the two central columns. Now these columns could march
off all from the right or all from the left, or the right wing from the
right, the left wing from the left, or the left from the right, and the
right from the left. In the latter case it would have been called
“double column from the centre.” But all these forms, although they
ought to have had a relation directly to the future deployment, were
really all quite indifferent in that respect. When Frederick the Great
entered on the battle of Leuthen, his army had been marched off by
wings from the right in four columns, therefore the wonderful
transition to a march off in order of battle, as described by all
writers of history, was done with the greatest ease, because it
happened that the king chose to attack the left wing of the Austrians;
had he wanted to turn their right, he must have countermarched his
army, as he did at Prague.
If these forms did not meet that object in those days, they would be
mere trifling as regards it now. We know now just as little as formerly
the situation of the future battle-field in reference to the road we
take; and the little loss of time occasioned by marching off in
inverted order is now infinitely less important than formerly. The new
order of battle has further a beneficial influence in this respect,
that it is now immaterial which division arrives first or which brigade
is brought under fire first.
Under these circumstances the march off from the right or left is of no
consequence now, otherwise than that when it is done alternately it
tends to equalise the fatigue which the troops undergo. This, which is
the only object, is certainly an important one for retaining both modes
of marching off with large bodies.
The advance from the centre as a definite evolution naturally comes to
an end on account of what has just been stated, and can only take place
accidentally. An advance from the centre by one and the same column in
strategy is, in point of fact, nonsense, for it supposes a double road.
The order of march belongs, moreover, more to the province of tactics
than to that of strategy, for it is the division of a whole into parts,
which, after the march, are once more to resume the state of a whole.
As, however, in modern warfare the formal connection of the parts is
not required to be constantly kept up during a march, but on the
contrary, the parts during the march may become further separated, and
therefore be left more to their own resources, therefore it is much
easier now for independent combats to happen in which the parts have to
sustain themselves, and which, therefore must be reckoned as complete
combats in themselves, and on that account we have thought it necessary
to say so much on the subject.
Further, an order of battle in three parts in juxtaposition being, as
we have seen in the second 1 chapter of this book, the most natural
where no special object predominates, from that results also that the
order of march in three columns is the most natural.
It only remains to observe that the notion of a column in strategy does
not found itself mainly on the line of march of one body of troops. The
term is used in strategy to designate masses of troops marching on the
same road on different days as well. For the division into columns is
made chiefly to shorten and facilitate the march, as a small number
marches quicker and more conveniently than large bodies. But this end
may, be attained by marching troops on different days, as well as by
marching them on different roads.
CHAPTER XI. Marches (_Continued_)
Respecting the length of a march and the time it requires, it is
natural for us to depend on the general results of experience.
For our modern armies it has long been settled that a march of three
miles should be the usual day’s work which, on long distances, may be
set down as an average distance of two miles per day, allowing for the
necessary rest days, to make such repairs of all kinds as may be
required.
Such a march in a level country, and on tolerable roads will occupy a
division of 8,000 men from eight to ten hours; in a hilly country from
ten to twelve hours. If several divisions are united in one column, the
march will occupy a couple of hours longer, without taking into account
the intervals which must elapse between the departure of the first and
succeeding divisions.
We see, therefore, that the day is pretty well occupied with such a
march; that the fatigue endured by a soldier loaded with his pack for
ten or twelve hours is not to be judged of by that of an ordinary
journey of three miles on foot which a person, on tolerable roads,
might easily get over in five hours.
The longest marches to be found in exceptional instances are of five,
or at most six miles a day; for a continuance four.
A march of five miles requires a halt for several hours; and a division
of 8,000 men will not do it, even on a good road, in less than sixteen
hours. If the march is one of six miles, and that there are several
divisions in the column, we may reckon upon at least twenty hours.
We here mean the march of a number of whole divisions at once, from one
camp to another, for that is the usual form of marches made on a
theatre of war. When several divisions are to march in one column, the
first division to move is assembled and marched off earlier than the
rest, and therefore arrives at its camping ground so much the sooner.
At the same time this difference can still never amount to the whole
time, which corresponds to the depth of a division on the line of
march, and which is so well expressed in French, as the time it
requires for its _découlement_ (running down). The soldier is,
therefore, saved very little fatigue in this way, and every march is
very much lengthened in duration in proportion as the number of troops
to be moved increases. To assemble and march off the different brigades
of a division, in like manner at different times, is seldom
practicable, and for that reason we have taken the division itself as
the unit.
In long distances, when troops march from one cantonment into another,
and go over the road in small bodies, and without points of assembly,
the distance they go over daily may certainly be increased, and in
point of fact it is so, from the necessary detours in getting to
quarters.
But those marches, on which troops have to assemble daily in divisions,
or perhaps in corps, and have an additional move to get into quarters,
take up the most time, and are only advisable in rich countries, and
where the masses of troops are not too large, as in such cases the
greater facilility of subsistence and the advantage of the shelter
which the troops obtain compensate sufficiently for the fatigue of a
longer march. The Prussian army undoubtedly pursued a wrong system in
their retreat in 1806 in taking up quarters for the troops every night
on account of subsistence. They could have procured subsistence in
bivouacs, and the army would not have been obliged to spend fourteen
days in getting over fifty miles of ground, which, after all, they only
accomplished by extreme efforts.
If a bad road or a hilly country has to be marched over, all these
calculations as to time and distance undergo such modifications that it
is difficult to estimate, with any certainty, in any particular case,
the time required for a march; much less, then, can any general theory
be established. All that theory can do is to direct attention to the
liability to error with which we are here beset. To avoid it the most
careful calculation is necessary, and a large margin for unforeseen
delays. The influence of weather and condition of the troops also come
into consideration.
Since the doing away with tents and the introduction of the system of
subsisting troops by compulsory demands for provisions on the spot, the
baggage of an army has been very sensibly diminished, and as a natural
and most important consequence we look first for an acceleration in the
movements of an army, and, therefore, of course, an increase in the
length of the day’s march. This, however, is only realized under
certain circumstances.
Marches within the theatre of war have been very little accelerated by
this means, for it is well known that for many years whenever the
object required marches of unusual length it has always been the
practice to leave the baggage behind or send it on beforehand, and,
generally, to keep it separate from the troops during the continuance
of such movements, and it had in general no influence on the movement,
because as soon as it was out of the way, and ceased to be a direct
impediment, no further trouble was taken about it, whatever damage it
might suffer in that way. Marches, therefore, took place in the Seven
Years’ War, which even now cannot be surpassed; as an instance we cite
Lascy’s march in 1760, when he had to support the diversion of the
Russians on Berlin, on that occasion he got over the road from
Schweidnitz to Berlin through Lusatia, a distance of 225 miles, in ten days, averaging, therefore, twenty-two miles a day, which, for
a Corps of 15,000, would be an extraordinary march even in these days.
On the other hand, through the new method of supplying troops the
movements of armies have acquired a new _retarding_ principle. If
troops have partly to procure supplies for themselves, which often
happens, then they require more time for the service of supply than
would be necessary merely to receive rations from provision wagons.
Besides this, on marches of considerable duration troops cannot be
encamped in such large numbers at any one point; the divisions must be
separated from one another, in order the more easily to manage for
them. Lastly, it almost always happens that it is necessary to place
part of the army, particularly the cavalry, in quarters. All this
occasions on the whole a sensible delay. We find, therefore, that
Buonaparte in pursuit of the Prussians in 1806, with a view to cut off
their retreat, and Blücher in 1815, in pursuit of the French, with a
like object, only accomplished thirty miles in ten days, a rate which
Frederick the Great was able to attain in his marches from Saxony to
Silesia and back, notwithstanding all the train that he had to carry
with him.
At the same time the mobility and handiness, if we may use such an
expression, of the parts of an army, both great and small, on the
theatre of war have very perceptibly gained by the diminution of
baggage. Partly, inasmuch as while the number of cavalry and guns is
the same, there are fewer horses, and therefore, there is less forage
required; partly, inasmuch as we are no longer so much tied to any one
position, because we have not to be for ever looking after a long train
of baggage dragging after us.
Marches such as that, which, after raising the siege of Olmütz, 1758,
Frederick the Great made with 4,000 carriages, the escort of which
employed half his army broken up into single battalions and companies,
could not be effected now in presence of even the most timid adversary.
On long marches, as from the Tagus to the Niemen, that lightening of
the army is more sensibly felt, for although the usual measure of the
day’s march remains the same on account of the carriages still
remaining, yet, in cases of great urgency, we can exceed that usual
measure at a less sacrifice.
Generally the diminution of baggage tends more to a saving of power
than to the acceleration of movement.
CHAPTER XII. Marches (_continued_)
We have now to consider the destructive influence which marches have
upon an army. It is so great that it may be regarded as an active
principle of destruction, just as much as the combat.
One single moderate march does not wear down the instrument, but a
succession of even moderate marches is certain to tell upon it, and a
succession of severe ones will, of course, do so much sooner.
At the actual scene of war, want of food and shelter, bad broken-up
roads, and the necessity of being in a perpetual state of readiness for
battle, are causes of an excessive strain upon our means, by which men,
cattle, carriages of every description as well as clothing are ruined.
It is commonly said that a long rest does not suit the physical health
of an army; that at such a time there is more sickness than during
moderate activity. No doubt sickness will and does occur if soldiers
are packed too close in confined quarters; but the same thing would
occur if these were quarters taken up on the march, and the want of air
and exercise can never be the cause of such sicknesses, as it is so
easy to give the soldier both by means of his exercises.
Only think for a moment, when the organism of a human being is in a
disordered and fainting state, what a difference it must make to him
whether he falls sick in a house or is seized in the middle of a high
road, up to his knees in mud, under torrents of rain, and loaded with a
knapsack on his back; even if he is in a camp he can soon be sent to
the next village, and will not be entirely without medical assistance,
whilst on a march he must be for hours without any assistance, and then
be made to drag himself along for miles as a straggler. How many
trifling illnesses by that means become serious, how many serious ones
become mortal. Let us consider how an ordinary march in the dust, and
under the burning rays of a summer sun may produce the most excessive
heat, in which state, suffering from intolerable thirst, the soldier
then rushes to the fresh spring of water, to bring back for himself
sickness and death.
It is not our object by these reflections to recommend less activity in
war; the instrument is there for use, and if the use wears away the
instrument that is only in the natural order of things; we only wish to
see every thing put in its right place, and to oppose that theoretical
bombast according to which the most astonishing surprises the most
rapid movements, the most incessant activity cost nothing, and are
painted as rich mines which the indolence of the general leaves
unworked. It is very much the same with these mines as with those from
which gold and silver are obtained; nothing is seen but the produce,
and no one asks about the value of the work which has brought this
produce to light.
On long marches outside a theatre of war, the conditions under which
the march is made are no doubt usually easier, and the daily losses
smaller, but on that account men with the slightest sickness are
generally lost to the army for some time, as it is difficult for
convalescents to overtake an army constantly advancing.
Amongst the cavalry the number of lame horses and horses with sore
backs rises in an increasing ratio, and amongst the carriages many
break down or require repair. It never fails, therefore, that at the
end of a march of 100 miles or more, an army arrives much weakened,
particularly as regards its cavalry and train.
If such marches are necessary on the theatre of war, that is under the
eyes of the enemy, then that disadvantage is added to the other, and
from the two combined the losses with large masses of troops, and under
conditions otherwise unfavourable may amount to something incredible.
Only a couple of examples in order to illustrate our ideas.
When Buonaparte crossed the Niemen on 24th June, 1812, the enormous
centre of his army with which he subsequently marched against Moscow
numbered 301,000 men. At Smolensk, on the 15th August, he detached
13,500, leaving, it is to be supposed, 287,500. The actual state of his
army however at that date was only 182,000; he had therefore lost
105,000.(*) Bearing in mind that up to that time only two engagements
to speak of had taken place, one between Davoust and Bragathion, the
other between Murat and Tolstoy-Osterman, we may put down the losses of
the French army in action at 10,000 men at most, and therefore the
losses in sick and stragglers within fifty-two days on a march of about
seventy miles direct to his front, amounted to 95,000, that is a third
part of the whole army.
(*) All these figures are taken from Chambray. Vergl. Bd. vii. 2te
Auflage, § 80, ff.
Three weeks later, at the time of the battle of Borodino, the loss
amounted to 144,000 (including the casualties in the battle), and eight
days after that again, at Moscow, the number was 198,000. The losses of
this army in general were at the commencement of the campaign at the
rate of 1/150daily, subsequently they rose to 1/120, and in the last
period they increased to 1/19 of the original strength.
The movement of Napoleon from the passage of the Niemen up to Moscow
certainly may be called a persistent one; still, we must not forget
that it lasted eighty-two days, in which time he only accomplished 120
miles, and that the French army upon two occasions made regular halts,
once at Wilna for about fourteen days, and the other time at Witebsk
for about eleven days, during which periods many stragglers had time to
rejoin. This fourteen weeks’ advance was not made at the worst season
of the year, nor over the worst of roads, for it was summer, and the
roads along which they marched were mostly sand. It was the immense
mass of troops collected on one road, the want of sufficient
subsistence, and an enemy who was on the retreat, but by no means in
flight, which were the adverse conditions.
Of the retreat of the French army from Moscow to the Niemen, we shall
say nothing, but this we may mention, that the Russian army following
them left Kaluga 120,000 strong, and reached Wilna with 30,000. Every
one knows how few men were lost in actual combats during that period.
One more example from Blücher’s campaign of 1813 in Silesia and Saxony,
a campaign very remarkable not for any long march but for the amount of
marching to and fro. York’s corps of Blücher’s army began this campaign
16th August about 40,000 strong, and was reduced to 12,000 at the
battle of Leipsic, 19th October. The principal combats which this corps
fought at Goldberg, Lowenberg, on the Katsbach, at Wartenburg, and
Mockern (Leipsic) cost it, on the authority of the best writers, 12,000
men. According to that their losses from other causes in eight weeks
amounted to 16,000, or two-fifths of the whole.
We must, therefore, make up our minds to great wear and tear of our own
forces, if we are to carry on a war rich in movements, we must arrange
the rest of our plan accordingly, and above all things the
reinforcements which are to follow.
CHAPTER XIII. Cantonments
In the modern system of war cantonments have become again
indispensable, because neither tents nor a complete military train make
an army independent of them. Huts and open-air camps (bivouacs as they
are called), however far such arrangements may be carried, can still
never become the usual way of locating troops without sickness gaining
the upper hand, and prematurely exhausting their strength, sooner or
later, according to the state of the weather or climate. The campaign
in Russia in 1812 is one of the few in which, in a very severe climate,
the troops, during the six months that it lasted hardly ever lay in
cantonments. But what was the consequence of this extreme effort, which
should be called an extravagance, if that term was not much more
applicable to the political conception of the enterprise!
Two things interfere with the occupation of cantonments the proximity
of the enemy, and the rapidity of movement. For these reasons they are
quitted as soon as the decision approaches, and cannot be again taken
up until the decision is over.
In modern wars, that’s, in all campaigns during the last twenty-five
years which occur to us at this moment, the military element has acted
with full energy. Nearly all that was possible has generally been done
in them, as far as regards activity and the utmost effort of force; but
all these campaigns have been of short duration, they have seldom
exceeded half a year; in most of them a few months sufficed to bring
matters to a crisis, that is, to a point where the vanquished enemy saw
himself compelled to sue for an armistice or at once for peace, or to a
point where, on the conqueror’s part, the impetus of victory had
exhausted itself. During this period of extreme effort there could be
little question of cantonments, for even in the victorious march of the
pursuer, if there was no longer any danger, the rapidity of movement
made that kind of relief impossible.
But when from any cause the course of events is less impetuous, when a
more even oscillation and balancing of forces takes place, then the
housing of troops must again become a foremost subject for attention.
This want has some influence even on the conduct of war itself, partly
in this way, that we seek to gain more time and security by a stronger
system of outposts, by a more considerable advanced guard thrown
further forward; and partly in this way, that our measures are governed
more by the richness and fertility of the country than by the tactical
advantages which the ground affords in the geometrical relations of
lines and points. A commercial town of twenty or thirty thousand
inhabitants, a road thickly studded with large villages or flourishing
towns give such facilities for the assembling in one position large
bodies of troops, and this concentration gives such a freedom and such
a latitude for movement as fully compensate for the advantages which
the better situation of some point may otherwise present.
On the form to be followed in arranging cantonments we have only a few
observations to make, as this subject belongs for the most part to
tactics.
The housing of troops comes under two heads, inasmuch as it can either
be the main point or only a secondary consideration. If the disposition
of the troops in the course of a campaign is regulated by grounds
purely tactical and strategical, and if, as is done more especially
with cavalry, they are directed for their comfort to occupy the
quarters available in the vicinity of the point of concentration of the
army, then the quarters are subordinate considerations and substitutes
for camps; they must, therefore, be chosen within such a radius that
the troops can reach the point of assembly in good time. But if an army
takes up quarters to rest and refresh, then the housing of the troops
is the main point, and other measures, consequently also the selection
of the particular point of assembly, will be influenced by that object.
The first question for examination here is as to the general form of
the cantonments as a whole. The usual form is that of a very long oval,
a mere widening as it were of the tactical order of battle. The point
of assembly for the army is in front, the head-quarters in rear. Now
these three arrangements are, in point of fact, adverse, indeed almost
opposed, to the safe assembly of the army on the approach of the enemy.
The more the cantonments form a square, or rather a circle, the quicker
the troops can concentrate at one point, that is the centre. The
further the place of assembly is placed in rear, the longer the enemy
will be in reaching it, and, therefore, the more time is left us to
assemble. A point of assembly in rear of the cantonments can never be
in danger. And, on the other hand, the farther the head-quarters are in
advance, so much the sooner reports arrive, therefore so much the
better is the commander informed of everything. At the same time, the
first named arrangements are not devoid of points which deserve some
attention.
By the extension of cantonments in width, we have in view the
protection of the country which would otherwise be laid under
contributions by the enemy. But this motive is neither thoroughly
sound, nor is it very important. It is only sound as far as regards the
country on the extremity of the wings, but does not apply at all to
intermediate spaces existing between separate divisions of the army, if
the quarters of those divisions are drawn closer round their point of
assembly, for no enemy will then venture into those intervals of space.
And it is not very important, because there are simpler means of
shielding the districts in our vicinity from the enemy’s requisitions
than scattering the army itself.
The placing of the point of assembly in front is with a view to
covering the quarters, for the following reasons: In the first place, a
body of troops, suddenly called to arms, always leaves behind it in
cantonments a tail of stragglers sick, baggage, provisions, etc., etc.
which may easily fall into the enemy’s hands if the point of assembly
is placed in rear. In the second place, we have to apprehend that if
the enemy with some bodies of cavalry passes by the advanced guard, or
if it is defeated in any way, he may fall upon scattered regiments or
battalions. If he encounters a force drawn up in good order, although
it is weak, and in the end must be overpowered, still he is brought to
a stop, and in that way time is gained.
As respects the position of the head-quarters, it is generally supposed
that it cannot be made too secure.
According to these different considerations, we may conclude that the
best arrangement for districts of cantonments is where they take an
oblong form, approaching the square or circle, have the point of
assembly in the centre, and the head-quarters placed on the front line,
well protected by considerable masses of troops.
What we have said as to covering of the wings in treating of the
disposition of the army in general, applies here also; therefore corps
detached from the main body, right and left, although intended to fight
in conjunction with the rest, will have particular points of assembly
of their own in the same line with the main body.
Now, if we reflect that the nature of a country, on the one hand, by
favourable features in the ground determines the most natural point of
assembly, and on the other hand, by the positions of towns and villages
determines the most suitable situation for cantonments, then we must
perceive how very rarely any geometrical form can be decisive in our
present subject. But yet it was necessary to direct attention to it,
because, like all general laws, it affects the generality of cases in a
greater or less degree.
What now remains to be said as to an advantageous position for
cantonments is that they should be taken up behind some natural
obstacle of ground affording cover, whilst the sides next the enemy can
be watched by small but numerous detached parties; or they may be taken
up behind fortresses, which, when circumstances prevent any estimate
being formed of the strength of their garrisons, impose upon the enemy
a greater feeling of respect and and caution.
We reserve the subject of winter quarters, covered by defensive works
for a separate article.
The quarters taken up by troops on a march differ from those called
standing cantonments in this way, that, in order to save the troops
from unnecessary marching, cantonments on a march are taken up as much
as possible along the lines of march, and are not at any considerable
distance on either side of these roads; if their extension in this
sense does not exceed a short day’s march, the arrangement is not one
at all unfavourable to the quick concentration of the army.
In all cases in presence of the enemy, according to the technical
phrase in use, that is in all cases where there is no considerable
interval between the advance guards of the two armies respectively, the
extent of the cantonments and the time required to assemble the army
determine the strength and position of the advanced guard and outposts;
but when these must be suited to the enemy and circumstances, then, on
the contrary, the extent of the cantonments must depend on the time
which we can count upon by the resistance of the advance guard.
In the third(*) chapter of this book, we have stated how this
resistance, in the case of an advanced corps, may be estimated. From
the time of that resistance we must deduct the time required for
transmission of reports and getting the men under arms, and the
remainder only is the time available for assembling at the point of
concentration.
(*) 8th Chapter.—Tr.
We shall conclude here also by establishing our ideas in the form of a
result, such as is usual under ordinary circumstances. If the distance
at which the advanced guard is detached is the same as the radius of
the cantonments, and the point of assembly is fixed in the centre of
the cantonments, the time which is gained by checking the enemy’s
advance would be available for the transmission of intelligence and
getting under arms, and would in most cases be sufficient, even
although the communication is not made by means of signals,
cannon-shots, etc., but simply by relays of orderlies, the only really
sure method.
With an advanced guard pushed forward three miles in front, our
cantonments might therefore cover a space of thirty square miles. In a
moderately-peopled country there would be 10,000 houses in this space,
which for an army of 50,000, after deducting the advanced guard, would
be four men to a billet, therefore very comfortable quarters; and for
an army of twice the strength nine men to a billet, therefore still not
very close quarters. On the other hand, if the advanced guard is only
one mile in front, we could only occupy a space of four square miles;
for although the time gained does not diminish exactly in proportion as
the distance of the advanced guard diminishes, and even with a distance
of one mile we may still calculate on a gain of six hours, yet the
necessity for caution increases when the enemy is so close. But in such
a space an army of 50,000 men could only find partial accommodation,
even in a very thickly populated country.
From all this we see what an important part is played here by great or
at least considerable towns, which afford convenience for sheltering
10,000 or even 20,000 men almost at one point.
From this result it follows that, if we are not very close to the
enemy, and have a suitable advanced guard we might remain in
cantonments, even if the enemy is concentrated, as Frederick the Great
did at Breslau in the beginning of the year 1762, and Buonaparte at
Witebsk in 1812. But although by preserving a right distance and by
suitable arrangements we have no reason to fear not being able to
assemble in time, even opposite an enemy who is concentrated, yet we
must not forget that an army engaged in assembling itself in all haste
can do nothing else in that time; that it is therefore, for a time at
least, not in a condition to avail itself in an instant of fortuitous
opportunities, which deprives it of the greater part of its really
efficient power. The consequence of this is, that an army should only
break itself up completely in cantonments under some one or other of
the three following cases:
1. If the enemy does the same.
2. If the condition of the troops makes it unavoidable.
3. If the more immediate object with the army is completely limited to
the maintenance of a strong position, and therefore the only point of
importance is concentrating the troops at that point in good time.
The campaign of 1815 gives a very remarkable example of the assembly of
an army from cantonments. General Ziethen, with Blücher’s advanced
guard, 30,000 men, was posted at Charleroi, only two miles from
Sombreff, the place appointed for the assembly of the army. The
farthest cantonments of the army were about eight miles from Sombreff,
that is, on the one side beyond Ciney, and on the other near Liége.
Notwithstanding this, the troops cantoned about Ciney were assembled at
Ligny several hours before the battle began, and those near Liége
(Bulow’s Corps) would have been also, had it not been for accident and
faulty arrangements in the communication of orders and intelligence.
Unquestionably, proper care for the security of the Prussian army was
not taken; but in explanation we must say that the arrangements were
made at a time when the French army was still dispersed over widely
extended cantonments, and that the real fault consisted in not altering
them the moment the first news was received that the enemy’s troops
were in movement, and that Buonaparte had joined the army.
Still it remains noteworthy that the Prussian army was able in any way
to concentrate at Sombreff before the attack of the enemy. Certainly,
on the night of the 14th, that is, twelve hours before Ziethen was
actually attacked, Blücher received information of the advance of the
enemy, and began to assemble his army; but on the 15th at nine in the
morning, Ziethen was already hotly engaged, and it was not until the
same moment that General Thielman at Ciney first received orders to
march to Namur. He had therefore then to assemble his divisions, and to
march six and a half miles to Sombreff, which he did in 24 hours.
General Bulow would also have been able to arrive about the same time,
if the order had reached him as it should have done.
But Buonaparte did not resolve to make his attack on Ligny until two in
the afternoon of the 16th. The apprehension of having Wellington on the
one side of him, and Blücher on the other, in other words, the
disproportion in the relative forces, contributed to this slowness;
still we see how the most resolute commander may be detained by the
cautious feeling of the way which is always unavoidable in cases which
are to a certain degree complicated.
Some of the considerations here raised are plainly more tactical than
strategic in their nature; but we have preferred rather to encroach a
little than to run the risk of not being sufficiently explicit.
CHAPTER XIV. Subsistence
This subject has acquired much greater importance in modern warfare
from two causes in particular. First, because the armies in general are
now much greater than those of the middle ages, and even those of the
old world; for, although formerly armies did appear here and there
which equalled or even surpassed modern ones in size, still these were
only rare and transient occurrences, whilst in modern military history,
since the time of Louis XIV, armies have always been very strong in
number. But the second cause is still more important, and belongs
entirely to modern times. It is the very much closer inner connection
which our wars have in themselves, the constant state of readiness for
battle of the belligerents engaged in carrying them on. Almost all old
wars consist of single unconnected enterprises, which are separated
from each other by intervals during which the war in reality either
completely rested, and only still existed in a political sense, or when
the armies at least had removed so far from each other that each,
without any care about the army opposite, only occupied itself with its
own wants.
Modern wars, that is, the wars which have taken place since the Peace
of Westphalia, have, through the efforts of respective governments,
taken a more systematic connected form; the military object, in
general, predominates everywhere, and demands also that arrangements
for subsistence shall be on an adequate scale. Certainly there were
long periods of inaction in the wars of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, almost amounting to a cessation of war; these are the
regular periods passed in cantonments; still even those periods were
subordinate to the military object; they were caused by the inclemency
of the season, not by any necessity arising out of the subsistence of
the troops, and as they regularly terminated with the return of summer,
therefore we may say at all events uninterrupted action was the rule of
war during the fine season of the year.
As the transition from one situation or method of action to another
always takes place gradually so it was in the case before us. In the
wars against Louis XIV. the allies used still to send their troops into
winter cantonments in distant provinces in order to subsist them the
more easily; in the Silesian war that was no longer done.
This systematic and connected form of carrying on war only became
possible when states took regular troops into their service in place of
the feudal armies. The obligation of the feudal law was then commuted
into a fine or contribution: personal service either came to an end,
enlistment being substituted, or it was only continued amongst the
lowest classes, as the nobility regarded the furnishing a quota of men
(as is still done in Russia and Hungary) as a kind of tribute, a tax in
men. In every case, as we have elsewhere observed, armies became
henceforward, an instrument of the cabinet, their principal basis being
the treasury or the revenue of the government.
Just the same kind of thing which took place in the mode of raising and
keeping up an establishment of troops could not but follow in the mode
of subsisting them. The privileged classes having been released from
the first of these services on payment of a contribution in money, the
expense of the latter could not be again imposed on them quite so
easily. The cabinet and the treasury had therefore to provide for the
subsistence of the army, and could not allow it to be maintained in its
own country at the expense of the people. Administrations were
therefore obliged to look upon the subsistence of the army as an affair
for which they were specially responsible. The subsistence thus became
more difficult in two ways: first, because it was an affair belonging
to government, and next, because the forces required to be permanently
embodied to confront those kept up in other states.
Thus arose a separate military class in the population, with an
independent organisation provided for its subsistence, and carried out
to the utmost possible perfection.
Not only were stores of provisions collected, either by purchase or by
deliveries in kind from the landed estates (Dominiallieferungen),
consequently from distant points, and lodged in magazines, but they
were also forwarded from these by means of special wagons, baked near
the quarters of the troops in ovens temporarily established, and from
thence again carried away at last by the troops, by means of another
system of transport attached to the army itself. We take a glance at
this system not merely from its being characteristic of the military
arrangements of the period, but also because it is a system which can
never be entirely done away; some parts of it must continually
reappear.
Thus military organisation strove perpetually towards becoming more
independent of people and country.
The consequence was that in this manner war became certainly a more
systematic and more regular affair, and more subordinated to the
military, that is the political object; but it was at the same time
also much straitened and impeded in its movement, and infinitely
weakened in energy. For now an army was tied to its magazines, limited
to the working powers of its transport service, and it naturally
followed that the tendency of everything was to economise the
subsistence of the troops. The soldier fed on a wretched pittance of
bread, moved about like a shadow, and no prospect of a change for the
better comforted him under his privations.
Whoever treats this miserable way of feeding soldiers as a matter of no
moment, and points to what Frederick the Great did with soldiers
subsisted in this manner, only takes a partial view of the matter. The
power of enduring privations is one of the finest virtues in a soldier,
and without it no army is animated with the true military spirit; but
such privation must be of a temporary kind, commanded by the force of
circumstances, and not the consequence of a wretchedly bad system, or
of a parsimonious abstract calculation of the smallest ration that a
man can exist upon. When such is the case the powers of the men
individually will always deteriorate physically and morally. What
Frederick the Great managed to do with his soldiers cannot be taken as
a standard for us, partly because he was opposed to those who pursued a
similar system, partly because we do not know how much more he might
have effected if he had been able to let his troops live as Buonaparte
allowed his whenever circumstances permitted.
The feeding of horses by an artificial system of supply is, however, an
experiment which has not been tried, because forage is much more
difficult to provide on account of its bulk. A ration for a horse
weighs about ten times as much as one for a man, and the number of
horses with an army is more than one-tenth the number of men, at
present it is one-fourth to one-third, and formerly it was one-third to
one-half, therefore the weight of the forage required is three, four,
or five times as much as that of the soldier’s rations required for the
same period of time; on this account the shortest and most direct means
were taken to meet the wants of an army in this respect, that is by
foraging expeditions. Now these expeditions occasioned great
inconvenience in the conduct of war in other ways, first by making it a
principal object to keep the war in the enemy’s country; and next
because they made it impossible to remain very long in one part of the
country. However, at the time of the Silesian war, foraging expeditions
were much less frequent, they were found to occasion a much greater
drain upon the country, and much greater waste than if the requirements
were satisfied by means of requisitions and imposts.
When the French Revolution suddenly brought again upon the war stage a
national army, the means which governments could command were found
insufficient, and the whole system of war, which had its origin in the
limited extent of these means, and found again its security in this
limitation, fell to pieces, and of course in the downfall of the whole
was included that of the branch of which we are now speaking, the
system of subsistence. Without troubling themselves about magazines,
and still less about such an organisation as the artificial clockwork
of which we have spoken, by which the different divisions of the
transport service went round like a wheel, the leading spirits of the
revolution sent their soldiers into the field, forced their generals to
fight, subsisted, reinforced their armies, and kept alive the war by a
system of exaction, and of helping themselves to all they required by
robbery and plunder.
Between these two extremes the war under Buonaparte, and against him,
preserved a sort of medium, that is to say, it just made use of such
means as suited it best amongst all that were available; and so it will
be also in future.
The modern method of subsisting troops, that is, seizing every thing
which is to be found in the country without regard to _meum et tuum_
may be carried out in four different ways: that is, subsisting on the
inhabitant, contributions which the troops themselves look after,
general contributions and magazines. All four are generally applied
together, one generally prevailing more than the others: still it
sometimes happens that only one is applied entirely by itself.
1.—Living on the inhabitants, or on the community, which is the same
thing.
If we bear in mind that in a community consisting even as it does in
great towns, of consumers only, there must always be provisions enough
to last for several days, we may easily see that the most densely
populated place can furnish food and quarters for a day for about as
many troops as there are inhabitants, and for a less number of troops
for several days without the necessity of any particular previous
preparation. In towns of considerable size this gives a very
satisfactory result, because it enables us to subsist a large force at
one point. But in smaller towns, or even in villages, the supply would
be far from sufficient; for a population of 3,000 or 4,000 in a square
mile which would be large in such a space, would only suffice to feed
3,000 or 4,000 soldiers, and if the whole mass of troops is great they
would have to be spread over such an extent of country at this rate as
would hardly be consistent with other essential points. But in level
countries, and even in small towns, the quantity of those kinds of
provisions which are essential in war is generally much greater; the
supply of bread which a peasant has is generally adequate to the
consumption of his family for several, perhaps from eight to fourteen
days; meat can be obtained daily, vegetable productions are generally
forthcoming in sufficient quantity to last till the following crop.
Therefore in quarters which have never been occupied there is no
difficulty in subsisting troops three or four times the number of the
inhabitants for several days, which again is a very satisfactory
result. According to this, where the population is about 2,000 or 3,000
per square mile, and if no large town is included, a column of 30,000
would require about four square miles, which would be a length of side
of two miles. Therefore for an army of 90,000, which we may reckon at
about 75,000 combatants, if marching in three columns contiguous to
each other, we should require to take up a front six miles in breadth
in case three roads could be found within that breadth.
If several columns follow one another into these cantonments, then
special measures must be adopted by the civil authorities, and in that
way there can be no great difficulty in obtaining all that is required
for a day or two more. Therefore if the above 90,000 are followed the
day after by a like number, even these last would suffer no want; this
makes up the large number of 150,000 combatants.
Forage for the horses occasions still less difficulty, as it neither
requires grinding nor baking, and as there must be forage forthcoming
in sufficient quantity to last the horses in the country until next
harvest, therefore even where there is little stall-feeding, still
there should be no want, only the deliveries of forage should certainly
be demanded from the community at large, not from the inhabitants
individually. Besides, it is supposed that some attention is, of
course, paid to the nature of the country in making arrangements for a
march, so as not to send cavalry mostly into places of commerce and
manufactures, and into districts where there is no forage.
The conclusion to be drawn from this hasty glance is, therefore, that
in a moderately populated country, that is, a country of from 2,000 to
3,000 souls per square mile, an army of 150,000 combatants may be
subsisted by the inhabitants and community for one or two days within
such a narrow space as will not interfere with its concentration for
battle, that is, therefore, that such an army can be subsisted on a
continuous march without magazines or other preparation.
On this result were based the enterprises of the French army in the
revolutionary war, and under Buonaparte. They marched from the Adige to
the Lower Danube, and from the Rhine to the Vistula, with little means
of subsistence except upon the inhabitants, and without ever suffering
want. As their undertakings depended on moral and physical superiority,
as they were attended with certain results, and were never delayed by
indecision or caution, therefore their progress in the career of
victory was generally that of an uninterrupted march.
If circumstances are less favourable, if the population is not so
great, or if it consists more of artisans than agriculturists, if the
soil is bad, the country already several times overrun—then of course
the results will fall short of what we have supposed. Still, we must
remember that if the breadth of the front of a column is extended from
two miles to three, we get a superficial extent of country more than
double in size, that is, instead of four we command nine square miles,
and that this is still an extent which in ordinary cases will always
admit of concentration for action; we see therefore that even under
unfavourable circumstances this method of subsistence will still be
always compatible with a continuous march.
But if a halt of several days takes place, then great distress must
ensue if preparations have not been made beforehand for such an event
in other ways. Now these preparatory measures are of two kinds, and
without them a considerable army even now cannot exist. The first is
equipping the troops with a wagon train, by means of which bread or
flour, as the most essential part of their subsistence, can be carried
with them for a few, that is, for three or four days; if to this we add
three or four days’ rations which the soldier himself can carry, then
we have provided what is most indispensable in the way of subsistence
for eight days.
The second arrangement is that of a regular commissariat, which
whenever there is a moment’s halt gathers provisions from distant
localities, so that at any moment we can pass over from the system of
quartering on the inhabitants to a different system.
Subsisting in cantonments has the immense advantage that hardly any
transport is required, and that it is done in the shortest time, but
certainly it supposes as a prior condition that cantonments can be
provided for all the troops.
2.—Subsistence through exactions enforced by the troops themselves.
If a single battalion occupies a camp, this camp may be placed in the
vicinity of some villages, and these may receive notice to furnish
subsistence; then the method of subsistence would not differ
essentially from the preceding mode. But, as is most usual, if the mass
of troops to be encamped at some one point is much larger, there is no
alternative but to make a collection in common within the circle of
districts marked out for the purpose, collecting sufficient for the
supply of one of the parts of the army, a brigade or division, and
afterwards to make a distribution from the common stock thus collected.
The first glance shows that by such a mode of proceeding the
subsistence of a large army would be a matter of impossibility. The
collection made from the stores in any given district in the country
will be much less than if the troops had taken up their quarters in the
same district, for when thirty or forty men take possession of a
farmer’s house they can if necessary collect the last mouthful, but one
officer sent with a few men to collect provisions has neither time nor
means to hunt out all the provisions that may be stored in a house,
often also he has not the means of transport; he will therefore only be
able to collect a small proportion of what is actually forthcoming.
Besides, in camps the troops are crowded together in such a manner at
one point, that the range of country from which provisions can be
collected in a hurry is not of sufficient extent to furnish the whole
of what is required. What could be done in the way of supplying 30,000
men, within a circle of a mile in diameter, or from an area of three or
four square miles? Moreover it would seldom be possible to collect even
what there is, for the most of the nearest adjacent villages would be
occupied by small bodies of troops, who would not allow anything to be
removed. Lastly, by such a measure there would be the greatest waste,
because some men would get more than they required, whilst a great deal
would be lost, and of no benefit to any one.
The result is, therefore, that the subsistence of troops by forced
contributions in this manner can only be adopted with success when the
bodies of troops are not too large, not exceeding a division of 8,000
or 10,000 men, and even then it is only to be resorted to as an
unavoidable evil.
It cannot in general be avoided in the case of troops directly in front
of the enemy, such as advanced guards and outposts, when the army is
advancing, because these bodies must arrive at points where no
preparations could have been made, and they are usually too far from
the stores collected for the rest of the army; further, in the case of
moveable columns acting independently; and lastly, in all cases where
by chance there is neither time nor means to procure subsistence in any
other way.
The more troops are accustomed to live by regular requisitions, the
more time and circumstances permit the adoption of that way of
subsisting, then the more satisfactory will be the result. But time is
generally wanting, for what the troops get for themselves directly is
got much quicker.
3.—By regular requisitions.
This is unquestionably the simplest and most efficacious means of
subsisting troops, and it has been the basis of all modern wars.
It differs from the preceding way chiefly by its having the
co-operation of the local authorities. The supply in this case must not
be carried off forcibly just from the spot where it is found, but be
regularly delivered according to an equitable division of the burden.
This division can only be made by the recognised official authorities
of the country.
In this all depends on time. The more time there is, the more general
can the division be made, the less will it press on individuals, and
the more regular will be the result. Even purchases may be made with
ready money to assist, in which way it will approach the mode which
follows next in order (Magazines). In all assemblages of troops in
their own country there is no difficulty in subsisting by regular
requisitions; neither, as a rule, is there any in retrograde movements.
On the other hand, in all movements into a country of which we are not
in possession, there is very little time for such arrangements, seldom
more than the one day which the advanced guard is in the habit of
preceding the army. With the advanced guard the requisitions are sent
to the local officials, specifying how many rations they are to have
ready at such and such places. As these can only be furnished from the
immediate neighbourhood, that is, within a circuit of a couple of miles
round each point, the collections so made in haste will never be nearly
sufficient for an army of considerable strength, and consequently, if
the troops do not carry with them enough for several days, they will
run short. It is therefore the duty of the commissariat to economise
what is received, and only to issue to those troops who have nothing.
With each succeeding day, however, the embarrassment diminishes; that
is to say, if the distances from which provisions can be procured
increase in proportion to the number of days, then the superficial area
over which the contributions can be levied increases as the squares of
the distances gained. If on the first day only four square miles have
been drawn upon, on the next day we shall have sixteen, on the third,
thirty-six; therefore on the second day twelve more than on the first,
and on the third day twenty more than on the second.
Of course this is a mere rough estimate of what may take place, subject
to many modifying circumstances which may intervene, of which the
principal is, that one district may not be capable of contributing like
another. But on the other hand, we must also remember that the radius
within which we can levy may increase more than two miles a day in
width, perhaps three or four, or in many places still more.
The due execution of these requisitions is enforced by detachments
placed under the orders of the official functionaries, but still more
by the fear of responsibility, punishment, and ill-treatment which, in
such cases, like a general weight, presses on the whole population.
However, it is not our intention to enter into details—into the whole
machinery of commissariat and army subsistence; we have only results in
view.
The result to be derived from a common-sense view of all the
circumstances in general, and the view which the experience of the wars
since the French revolution tends to confirm is,—that even the largest
army, if it carries with it provisions for a few days, may undoubtedly
be subsisted by contributions which, commencing at the moment of
entering a country, affect at first only the districts in the immediate
vicinity of the army, but afterwards, in the course of time, are levied
on a greater scale, over a range of country always increasing, and with
an ever increasing weight of authority.
This resource has no limits except those of the exhaustion,
impoverishment, and devastation of the country. When the stay of an
invading army is of some duration, the administration of this system at
last is handed over to those in the highest official capacity; and they
naturally do all they can to equalise its pressure as much as possible,
and to alleviate the weight of the tax by purchases; at the same time,
even an invader, when his stay is prolonged in his enemy’s country, is
not usually so barbarous and reckless as to lay upon that country the
entire burden of his support; thus the system of contributions of
itself gradually approaches to that of magazines, at the same time
without ever ceasing altogether, or sensibly losing any of that
influence which it exercises on the operations of the war; for there is
a wide difference between a case in which some of the resources which
have been drawn from a country are replaced by supplies brought from
more distant parts (the country, however, still remaining substantially
the source on which the army depends for its supplies), and the case of
an army which—as in the eighteenth century—provides for all its wants
from its own resources, the country in which it is operating
contributing, as a rule, nothing towards its support.
The great difference consists in two things,—namely, the employment of
the transport of the country, and its ovens. In this way, that enormous
burden of any army, that incubus which is always destroying its own
work, a military transport train, is almost got rid of.
It is true that even now no army can do entirely without some
subsistence wagons, but the number is immensely diminished, and little
more is required than sufficient to carry the surplus of one day on
till the next. Peculiar circumstances, as in Russia in 1812, may even
again compel an army to carry an enormous train, and also field-ovens;
but in the first place these are exceptional cases; for how seldom will
it happen that 300,000 men make a hostile advance of 130 miles upon
almost a single road, and that through countries such as Poland and
Russia, and shortly before the season of harvest; and in the next
place, any means of supply attached to an army in such cases, may be
looked upon as only an assistance in case of need, the contributions of
the country being always regarded as the groundwork of the whole system
of supply.
Since the first campaigns of the French revolutionary war, the
requisition system has formed constantly the mainstay of their armies,
the armies opposed to them were also obliged to adopt the same system,
and it is not at all likely that it will ever be abandoned. There is no
other which can be substituted for it with the same results, both as
regards its simplicity and freedom from restraint, and also as respects
energy in the prosecution of the war. As an army is seldom distressed
for provisions during the first three or four weeks of a campaign
whatever direction it takes, and afterwards can be assisted by
magazines, we may very well say that by this method war has acquired
the most perfect freedom of action. Certainly difficulties may be
greater in one direction than in another, and that may carry weight in
preliminary deliberation; but we can never encounter an absolute
impossibility, and the attention which is due to the subject of
subsistence can never decide a question imperatively. To this there is
only one exception, which is a retreat through an enemy’s country. In
such a case many of the inconveniences connected with subsistence meet
together. The operation is one of a continuous nature, generally
carried on without a halt worth speaking of; there is, therefore, no
time to procure provisions; the circumstances under which the operation
commences are generally unfavourable, it is therefore necessary to keep
the troops in masses, and a dispersion in cantonments, or even any
considerable extension in the width of the column cannot be allowed;
the hostile feeling of the country precludes the chance of any
collection of contributions by mere orders issued without the support
of a force capable of executing the order; and, lastly, the moment is
most auspicious for the inhabitants to give vent to their feelings by
acts of hostility. On account of all this, an army so situated is
generally obliged to confine itself strictly to its previously prepared
lines of communication and retreat.
When Buonaparte had to retreat in 1812, it was impossible for him to do
so by any other line but the one upon which he had advanced, on account
of the subsistence of his army; and if he had attempted any other he
would only have plunged into more speedy and certain destruction; all
the censure therefore passed on him by even French writers as well as
by others with regard to this point is sheer nonsense.
4.—Subsistence from Magazines.
If we are to make a generic distinction between this method of
subsisting troops and the preceding, it must be by an organisation such
as existed for about thirty years at the close of the seventeenth and
during the eighteenth century. Can this organisation ever reappear?
Certainly we cannot conceive how it can be dispensed with if great
armies are to be bound down for seven, ten, or twelve years long to one
spot, as they have been formerly in the Netherlands, on the Rhine, in
Upper Italy, Silesia, and Saxony; for what country can continue for
such a length of time to endure the burden of two great armies, making
it the entire source of their supplies, without being utterly ruined in
the end, and therefore gradually becoming unable to meet the demands?
But here naturally arises the question: shall the war prescribe the
system of subsistence, or shall the latter dictate the nature of the
war? To this we answer: the system of subsistence will control the war,
in the first place, as far as the other conditions on which it depends
permit; but when the latter are encroached upon, the war will react on
the subsistence system, and in such case determine the same.
A war carried on by means of the system of requisitions and local
supplies furnished on the spot has such an advantage over one carried
on in dependence on issues from magazines, that the latter does not
look at all like the same instrument. No state will therefore venture
to encounter the former with the latter; and if any war minister should
be so narrow-minded and blind to circumstances as to ignore the real
relation which the two systems bear to each other, by sending an army
into the field to live upon the old system, the force of circumstances
would carry the commander of that army along with it in its course, and
the requisition system would burst forth of itself. If we consider
besides, that the great expense attending such an organisation must
necessarily reduce the extent of the armament in other respects,
including of course the actual number of combatant soldiers, as no
state has a superabundance of wealth, then there seems no probability
of any such organisation being again resorted to unless it should be
adopted by the belligerents by mutual agreement, an idea which is a
mere play of the imagination.
Wars therefore may be expected henceforward always to commence with the
requisition system; how much one or other government will do to
supplement the same by an artificial organisation to spare their own
country, etc., etc., remains to be seen; that it will not be overmuch
we may be certain, for at such moments the tendency is to look to the
most urgent wants, and an artificial system of subsisting troops does
not come under that category.
But now, if a war is not so decisive in its results, if its operations
are not so comprehensive as is consistent with its real nature, then
the requisition system will begin to exhaust the country in which it is
carried on to that degree that either peace must be made, or means must
be found to lighten the burden on the country, and to become
independent of it for the supplies of the army. The latter was the case
of the French army under Buonaparte in Spain, but the first happens
much more frequently. In most wars the exhaustion of the state
increases to that degree that, instead of thinking of prosecuting the
war at a still greater expense, the necessity for peace becomes so
urgent as to be imperative. Thus from this point of view the modern
method of carrying on war has a tendency to shorten the duration of
wars.
At the same time we shall not positively deny the possibility of the
old system of subsistence reappearing in future wars; it will perhaps
be resorted to by belligerents hereafter, where the nature of their
mutual relations urge them to it, and circumstances are favourable to
its adoption; but we can never perceive in that system a natural
organisation; it is much rather an abnormal growth permitted by
circumstances, but which can never spring from war in its true sense.
Still less can we consider that form or system as any improvement in
war on the ground of its being more humane, for war itself is not a
humane proceeding.
Whatever method of providing subsistence may be chosen, it is but
natural that it should be more easily carried out in rich and
well-peopled countries, than in the midst of a poor and scanty
population. That the population should be taken into consideration,
lies in the double relation which that element bears to the quantity of
provisions to be found in a country: first because, where the
consumption is large, the provision to meet that consumption is also
large; and in the next place, because as a rule a large population
produces also largely. From this we must certainly except districts
peopled chiefly by manufacturers, particularly when, as is often the
case, such districts lie in mountain valleys surrounded by unproductive
land; but in the generality of cases it is always very much easier to
feed troops in a well populated than in a thinly inhabited country. An
army of 100,000 men cannot be supported on four hundred square miles
inhabited by 400,000 people, as well as it would be on four hundred
square miles with a population of 2,000,000 inhabitants, even supposing
the soil equally good in the two cases. Besides, the roads and means of
water-carriage are much better in rich countries and afford a greater
choice, being more numerous, the means of transport are more abundant,
the commercial relations easier and more certain. In a word, there is
infinitely less difficulty in supporting an army in Flanders than in
Poland.
The consequence is, that war with its manifold suckers fixes itself by
preference along high roads, near populous towns, in the fertile
valleys of large rivers, or along such sea-coasts as are well
frequented.
This shows clearly how the subsistence of troops may have a general
influence upon the direction and form of military undertakings, and
upon the choice of a theatre of war and lines of communication.
The extent of this influence, what weight shall attach to the facility
or difficulty of provisioning the troops, all that in the calculation
depends very much on the way in which the war is to be conducted. If it
is to be carried on in its real spirit, that is, with the unbridled
force which belongs to its element, with a constant pressing forward
to, or seeking for the combat and decisive solution, then the
sustenance of the troops although an important, is but a subordinate,
affair; but if there is to be a state of equilibrium during which the
armies move about here and there in the same province for several
years, then the subsistence must often become the principal thing, the
intendant the commander-in-chief, and the conduct of the war an
administration of wagons.
There are numberless campaigns of this kind in which nothing took
place; the plans miscarried, the forces were used to no purpose, the
only excuse being the plea of a want of subsistence; on the other hand
Buonaparte used to say “_Qu’on ne me parle pas des vivres!_”
Certainly that general in the Russian campaign proved that such
recklessness may be carried too far, for not to say that perhaps his
whole campaign was ruined through that cause alone, which at best would
be only a supposition, still it is beyond doubt that to his want of
regard to the subsistence of his troops he was indebted for the
extraordinary melting away of his army on his advance, and for its
utter ruin on the retreat.
But while fully recognising in Buonaparte the eager gambler who
ventures on many a mad extreme, we may justly say that he and the
revolutionary generals who preceded him dispelled a powerful prejudice
in respect to the subsistence of troops, and showed that it should
never be looked upon in any other light than as a _condition_ of war,
never as an object.
Besides, it is with privation in war just as with physical exertion and
danger; the demands which the general can make on his army are without
any defined bounds; an iron character demands more than a feeble
sensitive man; also the endurance of an army differs in degree,
according as habit, military spirit, confidence in and affection
towards the commander, or enthusiasm for the cause of fatherland,
sustain the will and energy of the soldier. But this we may look upon
as an established principle, that privation and want, however far they
may be carried, should never be otherwise regarded than as
transition-states which should be succeeded by a state of abundance,
indeed even by superfluity. Can there be any thing more touching than
the thought of so many thousand soldiers, badly clothed, with packs on
their backs weighing thirty or forty pounds, toiling over every kind of
road, in every description of weather, for days and days continually on
the march, health and life for ever in peril, and for all that unable
to get a sufficiency of dry bread. Any one who knows how often this
happens in war, is at a loss to know how it does not oftener lead to a
refusal of the will and powers to submit any longer to such exactions,
and how the mere bent constantly given to the imagination of human
beings in one direction, is capable of first calling forth, and then
supporting such incredible efforts.
Let any one then, who imposes great privations on his men because great
objects demand such a trial of endurance, always bear in mind as a
matter of prudence, if not prompted to it by his own feelings, that
there is a recompence for such sacrifices which he is bound to pay at
some other time.
We have now to consider the difference which takes place in respect to
the question of subsistence in war, according as the action is
offensive or defensive.
The defensive is in a position to make uninterrupted use of the
subsistence which he has been able to lay in beforehand, as long as his
defensive act continues. The defensive side therefore can hardly be in
want of the necessaries of life, particularly if he is in his own
country; but even in the enemy’s this holds good. The offensive on the
other hand is moving away from his resources, and as long as he is
advancing, and even during the first weeks after he stops, must procure
from day to day what he requires, and this can very rarely be done
without want and inconvenience being felt.
This difficulty is felt in its fullest force at two particular periods,
first in the advance, before the decision takes place; then the
supplies of the defensive side are all at hand, whilst the assailant
has been obliged to leave his behind; he is obliged to keep his masses
concentrated, and therefore cannot spread his army over any
considerable space; even his transport cannot keep close to him when he
commences his movements preliminary to a battle. If his preparations
have not been very well made, it may easily happen at this moment that
his army may be in want of supplies for several days before the
decisive battle, which certainly is not a means of bringing them into
the fight in the highest state of efficiency.
The second time a state of want arises is at the end of a victorious
career, if the lines of communication begin to be too long, especially
if the war is carried on in a poor, sparsely-populated country, and
perhaps also in the midst of a people whose feelings are hostile. What
an enormous difference between a line of communication from Wilna to
Moscow, on which every carriage must be forcibly seized, and a line
from Cologne by Liége, Louvain, Brussels, Mons, and Valenciennes to
Paris, where a mercantile contract or a bill of exchange would suffice
to procure millions of rations.
Frequently has the difficulty we are now speaking of resulted in
obscuring the splendour of the most brilliant victories, reduced the
powers of the victorious army, rendered retreat necessary, and then by
degrees ended in producing all the symptoms of a real defeat.
Forage, of which, as we have before said, there is usually at first the
least deficiency, will run short soonest if a country begins to become
exhausted, for it is the most difficult supply to procure from a
distance, on account of its bulk, and the horse feels the effect of low
feeding much sooner than the man. For this reason, an over-numerous
cavalry and artillery may become a real burden, and an element of
weakness to an army.
CHAPTER XV. Base of Operations
If an army sets out on any expedition, whether it be to attack the
enemy and his theatre of war, or to take post on its own frontier, it
continues in a state of necessary dependence on the sources from which
it draws its subsistence and reinforcements, and must maintain its
communication with them, as they are the conditions of its existence
and preservation. This dependence increases in intensity and extent in
proportion to the size of the army. But now it is neither always
possible nor requisite that the army should continue in direct
communication with the whole of its own country; it is sufficient if it
does so with that portion immediately in its rear, and which is
consequently covered by its position. In this portion of the country
then, as far as necessary, special depôts of provisions are formed, and
arrangements are made for regularly forwarding reinforcements and
supplies. This strip of territory is therefore the foundation of the
army and of all its undertakings, and the two must be regarded as
forming in connection only one whole. If the supplies for their greater
security are lodged in fortified places, the idea of a base becomes
more distinct; but the idea does not originate in any arrangement of
that kind, and in a number of cases no such arrangement is made.
But a portion of the enemy’s territory may also become a base for our
army, or, at least, form part of it; for when an army penetrates into
an enemy’s land, a number of its wants are supplied from that part of
the country which is taken possession of; but it is then a necessary
condition that we are completely masters of this portion of territory,
that is, certain of our orders being obeyed within its limits. This
certainty, however, seldom extends beyond the reach of our ability to
keep the inhabitants in awe by small garrisons, and detachments moving
about from place to place, and that is not very far in general. The
consequence is, that in the enemy’s country, the part of territory from
which we can draw supplies is seldom of sufficient extent to furnish
all the supplies we require, and we must therefore still depend on our
own land for much, and this brings us back again to the importance of
that part of our territory immediately in rear of our army as an
indispensable portion of our base.
The wants of an army may be divided into two classes, first those which
every cultivated country can furnish; and next those which can only be
obtained from those localities where they are produced. The first are
chiefly provisions, the second the means of keeping an army complete in
every way. The first can therefore be obtained in the enemy’s country;
the second, as a rule, can only be furnished by our own country, for
example men, arms, and almost all munitions of war. Although there are
exceptions to this classification in certain cases, still they are few
and trifling, and the distinction we have drawn is of standing
importance, and proves again that the communication with our own
country is indispensable.
Depôts of provisions and forage are generally formed in open towns,
both in the enemy’s and in our own country, because there are not as
many fortresses as would be required for these bulky stores continually
being consumed, and wanted sometimes here, sometimes there, and also
because their loss is much easier to replace; on the other hand, stores
to keep the army complete, such as arms, munition of war, and articles
of equipment are never lodged in open places in the vicinity of the
theatre of war if it can be avoided, but are rather brought from a
distance, and in the enemy’s country never stored anywhere but in
fortresses. From this point, again, it may be inferred that the base is
of more importance in relation to supplies intended to refit an army
than in relation to provisions for food.
Now, the more means of each kind are collected together in great
magazines before being brought into use, the more, therefore, all
separate streams unite in great reservoirs, so much the more may these
be regarded as taking the place of the whole country, and so much the
more will the conception of a base fix itself upon these great depôts
of supply; but this must never go so far that any such place becomes
looked upon as constituting a base in itself alone.
If these sources of supply and refitment are abundant, that is, if the
tracts of territory are wide and rich, if the stores are collected in
great depôts to be more speedily brought into use, if these depôts are
covered in a military sense in one way or another, if they are in close
proximity to the army and accessible by good roads, if they extend
along a considerable width in the rear of the army or surround it in
part as well—then follows a greater vitality for the army, as well as a
greater freedom in its movements. Attempts have been made to sum up all
the advantages which an army derives from being so situated in one
single conception, that is, the extent of the base of operations. By
the relation which this base bears to the object of the undertakings,
by the angle which its extremities make with this object (supposed as a
point), it has been attempted to express the whole sum of the
advantages and disadvantages which accrue to an army from the position
and nature of its sources of supply and equipment; but it is plain this
elegant piece of geometrical refinement is merely a play of fancy, as
it is founded on a series of substitutions which must all be made at
the expense of truth. As we have seen, the base of an army is a triple
formation in connection with the situation in which an army is placed:
the resources of the country adjacent to the position of the army, the
depôts of stores which have been made at particular points, and the
_province_ from which these stores are derived or collected. These
three things are separated in space, and cannot be collected into one
whole, and least of all can we substitute for them a line which is to
represent the width of the base, a line which is generally imagined in
a manner perfectly arbitrary, either from one fortress to another or
from one capital of a province to another, or along a political
boundary of a country. Neither can we determine precisely the mutual
relation of these three steps in the formation of a base, for in
reality they blend themselves with each other always more or less. In
one case the surrounding country affords largely the means of refitting
an army with things which otherwise could only be obtained from a long
distance; in another case we are obliged to get even food from a long
distance. Sometimes the nearest fortresses are great arsenals, ports,
or commercial cities, which contain all the military resources of a
whole state, sometimes they are nothing but old, feeble ramparts,
hardly sufficient for their own defence.
The consequence is that all deductions from the length of the base of
operations and its angles, and the whole theory of war founded on these
data, as far as its geometrical phase, have never met with any
attention in real war, and in theory they have only caused wrong
tendencies. But as the basis of this chain of reasoning is a truth, and
only the conclusions drawn are false, this same view will easily and
frequently thrust itself forward again.
We think, therefore, that we cannot go beyond acknowledging generally
the influence of a base on military enterprises, that at the same time
there are no means of framing out of this maxim any serviceable rules
by a few abstract ideas; but that in each separate case the whole of
the things which we have specified must be _kept in view together_.
When once arrangements are made within a certain radius to provide the
means of subsisting an army and keeping it complete in every respect,
and with a view to operations in a certain direction, then, even in our
own country, this district only is to be regarded as the base of the
army; and as any alteration of a base requires time and labour,
therefore an army cannot change its base every day, even in its own
country, and this again limits it always more or less in the direction
of its operations. If, then, in operating against an enemy’s country we
take the whole line of our own frontier, where it forms a boundary
between the two countries as our base, we may do so in a general sense,
in so far that we might make those preparations which constitute a base
anywhere on that frontier; but it will not be a base at any moment if
preparations have not been already made everywhere. When the Russian
army retreated before the French in 1812, at the beginning of the
campaign the whole of Russia might have been considered as its base,
the more so because the vast extent of the country offered the army
abundance of space in any direction it might select. This is no
illusory notion, as it was actually realised at a subsequent time, when
other Russian armies from different quarters entered the field; but
still at every period throughout the campaign the base of the Russian
army was not so extensive; it was principally confined to the road on
which the whole train of transport to and from their army was
organised. This limitation prevented the Russian army, for instance,
from making the further retreat which became necessary after the three
days’ fighting at Smolensk in any direction but that of Moscow, and so
hindered their turning suddenly in the direction of Kaluga, as was
proposed in order to draw the enemy away from Moscow. Such a change of
direction could only have been possible by having been prepared for
long beforehand.
We have said that the dependence on the base increases in intensity and
extent with the size of the army, which is easy to understand. An army
is like a tree. From the ground out of which it grows it draws its
nourishment; if it is small it can easily be transplanted, but this
becomes more difficult as it increases in size. A small body of troops
has also its channels, from which it draws the sustenance of life, but
it strikes root easily where it happens to be; not so a large army.
When, therefore, we talk of the influence of the base on the operations
of an army, the dimensions of the army must always serve as the scale
by which to measure the magnitude of that influence.
Further it is consistent with the nature of things that for the
immediate wants of the present hour the _subsistence_ is the main
point, but for the general efficiency of the army through a long period
of time the _refitment_ and _recruitment_ are the more important,
because the latter can only be done from particular sources while the
former may be obtained in many ways; this again defines still more
distinctly the influence of the base on the operations of the army.
However great that influence may be, we must never forget that it
belongs to those things which can only show a decisive effect after
some considerable time, and that therefore the question always remains
what may happen in that time. The value of a base of operations will
seldom determine the choice of an undertaking in the first instance.
Mere difficulties which may present themselves in this respect must be
put side by side and compared with other means actually at our command;
obstacles of this nature often vanish before the force of decisive
victories.
CHAPTER XVI. Lines of Communication
The roads which lead from the position of an army to those points in
its rear where its depôts of supply and means of recruiting and
refitting its forces are principally united, and which it also in all
ordinary cases chooses for its retreat, have a double signification; in
the first place, they are its _lines of communication_ for the constant
nourishment of the combatant force, and next they are _roads of
retreat_.
We have said in the preceding chapter, that, although according to the
present system of subsistence, an army is chiefly fed from the district
in which it is operating, it must still be looked upon as forming a
whole with its base. The lines of communication belong to this whole;
they form the connection between the army and its base, and are to be
considered as so many great vital arteries. Supplies of every kind,
convoys of munitions, detachments moving backwards and forwards, posts,
orderlies, hospitals, depôts, reserves of stores, agents of
administration, all these objects are constantly making use of these
roads, and the total value of these services is of the utmost
importance to the army.
These great channels of life must therefore neither be permanently
severed, nor must they be of too great length, or beset with
difficulties, because there is always a loss of strength on a long
road, which tends to weaken the condition of an army.
By their second purpose, that is as lines of retreat, they constitute
in a real sense the strategic rear of the army.
For both purposes the value of these roads depends on their _length_,
their _number_, their _situation_, that is their general direction, and
their direction specially as regards the army, their _nature_ as roads,
_difficulties_ of _ground_, the _political relations and feeling of
local population_, and lastly, on the _protection_ they derive from
fortresses or natural obstacles in the country.
But all the roads which lead from the point occupied by an army to its
sources of existence and power, are not on that account necessarily
lines of communication for that army. They may no doubt be used for
that purpose, and may be considered as supplementary of the system of
communication, but that system is confined to the lines regularly
prepared for the purpose. Only those roads on which magazines,
hospitals, stations, posts for despatches and letters are organised
under commandants with police and garrisons, can be looked upon as real
lines of communication. But here a very important difference between
our own and the enemy’s army makes its appearance, one which is often
overlooked. An army, even in its own country, has its prepared lines of
communication, but it is not completely limited to them, and can in
case of need change its line, taking some other which presents itself,
for it is every where at home, has officials in authority, and the
friendly feeling of the people. Therefore, although other roads may not
be as good as those at first selected there is nothing to prevent their
being used, and the use of them is not to be regarded as _impossible_
in case the army is turned and obliged to change its front. An army in
an enemy’s country on the contrary can as a rule only look upon those
roads as lines of communication upon which it has advanced; and hence
arises through small and almost invisible causes a great difference in
operating. The army in the enemy’s country takes under its protection
the organisation which, as it advances, it necessarily introduces to
form its lines of communication; and in general, inasmuch as terror,
and the presence of an enemy’s army in the country invests these
measures in the eyes of the inhabitants with all the weight of
unalterable necessity, the inhabitants may even be brought to regard
them as an alleviation of the evils inseparable from war. Small
garrisons left behind in different places support and maintain this
system. But if these commissaries, commandants of stations, police,
fieldposts, and the rest of the apparatus of administration, were sent
to some distant road upon which the army had not been seen, the
inhabitants then would look upon such measures as a burden which they
would gladly get rid of, and if the most complete defeats and
catastrophes had not previously spread terror throughout the land, the
probability is that these functionaries would be treated as enemies,
and driven away with very rough usage. Therefore in the first place it
would be necessary to establish garrisons to subjugate the new line,
and these garrisons would require to be of more than ordinary strength,
and still there would always be a danger of the inhabitants rising and
attempting to overpower them. In short, an army marching into an
enemy’s country is destitute of the mechanism through which obedience
is rendered; it has to institute its officials into their places, which
can only be done by a strong hand, and this cannot be effected
thoroughly without sacrifices and difficulties, nor is it the work of a
moment—From this it follows that a change of the system of
communication is much less easy of accomplishment in an enemy’s country
than in our own, where it is at least possible; and it also follows
that the army is more restricted in its movements, and must be much
more sensitive about any demonstrations against its communications.
But the choice and organisation of lines of communication is from the
very commencement subject also to a number of conditions by which it is
restricted. Not only must they be in a general sense good high roads,
but they will be the more serviceable the wider they are, the more
populous and wealthy towns they pass through, the more strong places
there are which afford them protection. Rivers, also, as means of water
communication, and bridges as points of passage, have a decisive weight
in the choice. It follows from this that the situation of a line of
communication, and consequently the road by which an army proceeds to
commence the offensive, is only a matter of free choice up to a certain
point, its situation being dependent on certain geographical relations.
All the foregoing circumstances taken together determine the strength
or weakness of the communication of an army with its base, and this
result, compared with one similarly obtained with regard to the enemy’s
communications, decides which of the two opponents is in a position to
operate against the other’s lines of communication, or to cut off his
retreat, that is, in technical language to _turn him_. Setting aside
all considerations of moral or physical superiority, that party can
only effectually accomplish this whose communications are the strongest
of the two, for otherwise the enemy saves himself in the shortest mode,
by a counterstroke.
Now this turning can, by reason of the double signification of these
lines, have also two purposes. Either the communications may be
interfered with and interrupted, that the enemy may melt away by
degrees from want, and thus be compelled to retreat, or the object may
be directly to cut off the retreat.
With regard to the first, we have to observe that a mere momentary
interruption will seldom have any effect while armies are subsisted as
they now are; a certain time is requisite to produce an effect in this
way in order that the losses of the enemy by frequent repetition may
compensate in number for the small amount he suffers in each case. One
single enterprise against the enemy’s flank, which might have been a
decisive stroke in those days when thousands of bread-waggons traversed
the lines of communication, carrying out the systematised method then
in force for subsisting troops, would hardly produce any effect now, if
ever so successful; one convoy at most might be seized, which would
cause the enemy some partial damage, but never compel him to retreat.
The consequence is, that enterprises of this description on a flank,
which have always been more in fashion in books than in real warfare,
now appear less of a practical nature than ever, and we may safely say
that there is no danger in this respect to any lines of communication
but such as are very long, and otherwise unfavourably circumstanced,
more especially by being exposed everywhere and at any moment to
attacks from an _insurgent population_.
With respect to the cutting off an enemy’s retreat, we must not be
overconfident in this respect either of the consequences of threatening
or closing the enemy’s lines of retreat, as recent experience has shown
that, when troops are good and their leader resolute, it is _more
difficult_ to make them prisoners, than it is for them to cut their way
through the force opposed to them.
The means of shortening and protecting long lines of communication are
very limited. The seizure of some fortresses adjacent to the position
taken up by the army, and on the roads leading to the rear—or in the
event of there being no fortresses in the country, the construction of
temporary defences at suitable points—the kind treatment of the people
of the country, strict discipline on the military roads, good police,
and active measures to improve the roads, are the only means by which
the evil may be diminished, but it is one which can never be entirely
removed.
Furthermore, what we said when treating of the question of subsistence
with respect to the roads which the army should chose by preference,
applies also particularly to lines of communication. The best lines of
communication are roads leading through the most flourishing towns and
the most important provinces; they ought to be preferred, even if
considerably longer, and in most cases they exercise an important
influence on the definitive disposition of the army.
CHAPTER XVII. On Country and Ground
Quite irrespective of their influence as regards the means of
subsistence of an army, country and ground bear another most intimate
and never-failing relation to the business of war, which is their
decisive influence on the battle, both upon what concerns its course,
as well as upon the preparation for it, and the use to be made of it.
We now proceed to consider country and ground in this phase, that is,
in the full meaning of the French expression “_Terrain._”
The way to make use of them is a subject which lies mostly within the
province of tactics, but the effects resulting from them appear in
strategy; a battle in the mountains is, in its consequences as well as
in itself, quite a different thing from a battle on a level plain.
But until we have studied the distinction between offensive and
defensive, and examined the nature of each separately and fully, we
cannot enter upon the consideration of the principal features of the
ground in their effects; we must therefore for the present confine
ourselves to an investigation of its general properties. There are
three properties through which the ground has an influence on action in
war; that is, as presenting an obstacle to approach, as an obstacle to
an extensive view, and as protection against the effect of fire-arms;
all other effects may be traced back to these three.
Unquestionably this threefold influence of ground has a tendency to
make warfare more diversified, more complicated, and more scientific,
for they are plainly three more quantities which enter into military
combinations.
A completely level plain, quite open at the same time, that is, a tract
of country which cannot influence war at all, has no existence except
in relation to small bodies of troops, and with respect to them only
for the duration of some given moment of time. When larger bodies are
concerned, and a longer duration of time, accidents of ground mix
themselves up with the action of such bodies, and it is hardly possible
in the case of a whole army to imagine any particular moment, such as a
battle, when the ground would not make its influence felt.
This influence is therefore never in abeyance, but it is certainly
stronger or weaker according to the nature of the country.
If we keep in view the great mass of topographical phenomena we find
that countries deviate from the idea of perfectly open level plains
principally in three ways: first by the form of the ground, that is,
hills and valleys; then by woods, marshes, and lakes as natural
features; and lastly, by such changes as have been introduced by the
hand of man. Through each of these three circumstances there is an
increase in the influence of ground on the operations of war. If we
trace them up to a certain distance we have mountainous country, a
country little cultivated and covered with woods and marshes, and the
well cultivated. The tendency in each case is to render war more
complicated and connected with art.
The degree of influence which cultivation exercises is greater or less
according to the nature of the cultivation; the system pursued in
Flanders, Holstein, and some other countries, where the land is
intersected in every direction with ditches, dykes, hedges, and walls,
interspersed with many single dwellings and small woods has the
greatest effect on war.
The conduct of war is therefore of the easiest kind in a level
moderately-cultivated country. This however only holds good in quite a
general sense, leaving entirely out of consideration the use which the
defensive can make of obstacles of ground.
Each of these three kinds of ground has an effect in its own way on
movement, on the range of sight, and in the cover it affords.
In a thickly-wooded country the obstacle to sight preponderates; in a
mountainous country, the difficulty of movement presents the greatest
obstacle to an enemy; in countries very much cultivated both these
obstacles exist in a medium degree.
As thick woods render great portions of ground in a certain manner
impracticable for military movements, and as, besides the difficulty
which they oppose to movement they also obstruct the view, thereby
preventing the use of means to clear a passage, the result is that they
simplify the measures to be adopted on one side in proportion as they
increase the difficulties with which the other side has to contend.
Although it is difficult practically to concentrate forces for action
in a wooded country, still a partition of forces does not take place to
the same extent as it usually does in a mountainous country, or in a
country very much intersected with canals, rivers, &c.: in other words,
the partition of forces in such a country is more unavoidable but not
so great.
In mountains, the obstacles to movement preponderate and take effect in
two ways, because in some parts the country is quite impassable, and
where it is practicable we must move slower and with greater
difficulty. On this account the rapidity of all movements is much
diminished in mountains, and all operations are mixed up with a larger
quantity of the element of time. But the ground in mountains has also
the special property peculiar to itself, that one point commands
another. We shall devote the following chapter to the discussion of the
subject of commanding heights generally, and shall only here remark
that it is this peculiarity which causes the great partition of forces
in operations carried on amongst mountains, for particular points thus
acquire importance from the influence they have upon other points in
addition to any intrinsic value which they have in themselves.
As we have elsewhere observed, each of these three kinds of ground in
proportion as its own special peculiarity has a tendency to an extreme,
has in the same degree a tendency to lower the influence of the supreme
command, increasing in like manner the independent action of
subordinates down to the private soldier. The greater the partition of
any force, the less an undivided control is possible, so much the more
are subordinates left to themselves; that is self-evident. Certainly
when the partition of a force is greater, then through the diversity of
action and greater scope in the use of means the influence of
intelligence must increase, and even the commander-in-chief may show
his talents to advantage under such circumstances; but we must here
repeat what has been said before, that in war the sum total of single
results decides more than the form or method in which they are
connected, and therefore, if we push our present considerations to an
extreme case, and suppose a whole army extended in a line of
skirmishers so that each private soldier fights his own little battle,
more will depend on the sum of single victories gained than on the form
in which they are connected; for the benefit of good combinations can
only follow from positive results, not from negative. Therefore in such
a case the courage, the dexterity, and the spirit of individuals will
prove decisive. It is only when two opposing armies are on a par as
regards military qualities, or that their peculiar properties hold the
balance even, that the talent and judgment of the commander become
again decisive. The consequence is that national armies and insurgent
levies, etc., etc., in which, at least in the individual, the warlike
spirit is highly excited, although they are not superior in skill and
bravery, are still able to maintain a superiority by a great dispersion
of their forces favoured by a difficult country, and that they can only
maintain themselves for a continuance upon that kind of system, because
troops of this description are generally destitute of all the qualities
and virtues which are indispensable when tolerably large numbers are
required to act as a united body.
Also in the nature of forces there are many gradations between one of
these extremes and the other, for the very circumstance of being
engaged in the defence of its own country gives to even a regular
standing army something of the character of a national army, and makes
it more suited for a war waged by an army broken up into detachments.
Now the more these qualifications and influences are wanting in an
army, the greater they are on the side of its opponent, so much the
more will it dread being split into fractions, the more it will avoid a
broken country; but to avoid fighting in such a description of country
is seldom a matter of choice; we cannot choose a theatre of war like a
piece of merchandise from amongst several patterns, and thus we find
generally that armies which from their nature fight with advantage in
concentrated masses, exhaust all their ingenuity in trying to carry out
their system as far as possible in direct opposition _to the nature of
the country_. They must in consequence submit to other disadvantages,
such as scanty and difficult subsistence for the troops, bad quarters,
and in the combat numerous attacks from all sides; but the disadvantage
of giving up their own special advantage would be greater.
These two tendencies in opposite directions, the one to concentration
the other to dispersion of forces, prevail more or less according as
the nature of the troops engaged incline them more to one side or the
other, but however decided the tendency, the one side cannot always
remain with his forces concentrated, neither can the other expect
success by following his system of warfare in scattered bodies on all
occasions. The French were obliged to resort to partitioning their
forces in Spain, and the Spaniards, whilst defending their country by
means of an insurgent population, were obliged to try the fate of great
battles in the open field with part of their forces.
Next to the connection which country and ground have with the general,
and especially with the political, composition of the forces engaged,
the most important point is the relative proportion of the three arms.
In all countries which are difficult to traverse, whether the obstacles
are mountains, forests, or a peculiar cultivation, a numerous cavalry
is useless: that is plain in itself; it is just the same with artillery
in wooded countries; there will probably be a want of room to use it
with effect, of roads to transport it, and of forage for the horses.
For this arm highly cultivated countries are less disadvantageous, and
least of all a mountainous country. Both, no doubt, afford cover
against its fire, and in that respect they are unfavourable to an arm
which depends entirely on its fire: both also often furnish means for
the enemy’s infantry to place the heavy artillery in jeopardy, as
infantry can pass anywhere; but still in neither is there in general
any want of space for the use of a numerous artillery, and in
mountainous countries it has this great advantage, that its effects are
prolonged and increased in consequence of the movements of the enemy
being slower.
But it is undeniable that infantry has a decided advantage over every
other arm in difficult country, and that, therefore, in such a country
its number may considerably exceed the usual proportion.
CHAPTER XVIII. Command of Ground
The word “command” has a charm in the art of war peculiar to itself,
and in fact to this element belongs a great part, perhaps half the
influence which ground exercises on the use of troops. Here many of the
sacred relics of military erudition have their root, as, for instance,
commanding positions, key positions, strategic manœuvres, etc. We shall
take as clear a view of the subject as we can without prolixity, and
pass in review the true and the false, reality and exaggeration.
Every exertion of physical force if made upwards is more difficult than
if it is made in the contrary direction (downwards); consequently it
must be so in fighting; and there are three evident reasons why it is
so. First, every height may be regarded as an obstacle to approach;
secondly, although the range is not perceptibly greater in shooting
down from a height, yet, all geometrical relations being taken into
consideration, we have a better chance of hitting than in the opposite
case; thirdly, an elevation gives a better command of view. How all
these advantages unite themselves together in battle we are not
concerned with here; we collect the sum total of the advantages which
tactics derives from elevation of position and combine them in one
whole which we regard as the first strategic advantage.
But the first and last of these advantages that have been enumerated
must appear once more as advantages of strategy itself, for we march
and reconnoitre in strategy as well as in tactics; if, therefore, an
elevated position is an obstacle to the approach of those on lower
ground, that is the second; and the better command of view which this
elevated position affords is the third advantage which strategy may
derive in this way.
Of these elements is composed the power of dominating, overlooking,
commanding; from these sources springs the sense of superiority and
security which is felt in standing on the brow of a hill and looking at
the enemy below, and the feeling of weakness and apprehension which
pervades the minds of those below. Perhaps the total impression made is
at the same time stronger than it ought to be, because the advantage of
the higher ground strikes the senses more than the circumstances which
modify that advantage. Perhaps the impression made surpasses that which
the truth warrants, in which case the effect of imagination must be
regarded as a new element, which exaggerates the effect produced by an
elevation of ground.
At the same time the advantage of greater facility of movement is not
absolute, and not always in favour of the side occupying the higher
position; it is only so when his opponent wishes to attack him; it is
not if the combatants are separated by a great valley, and it is
actually in favour of the army on the lower ground if both wish to
fight in the plain (battle of Hohenfriedberg). Also the power of
overlooking, or command of view, has likewise great limitations. A
wooded country in the valley below, and often the very masses of the
mountains themselves on which we stand, obstruct the vision. Countless
are the cases in which we might seek in vain on the spot for those
advantages of an elevated position which a map would lead us to expect;
and we might often be led to think we had only involved ourselves in
all kinds of disadvantages, the very opposite of the advantages we
counted upon. But these limitations and conditions do not abrogate or
destroy the superiority which the more elevated position confers, both
on the defensive and offensive. We shall point out, in a few words, how
this is the case with each.
Out of the three strategic advantages of the more elevated ground, _the
greater tactical strength, the more difficult approach_, and _the
better view_, the first two are of such a nature that they belong
really to the defensive only; for it is only in holding firmly to a
position that we can make use of them, whilst the other side
(offensive) in moving cannot remove them and take them with him; but
the third advantage can be made use of by the offensive just as well as
by the defensive.
From this it follows that the more elevated ground is highly important
to the defensive, and as it can only be maintained in a decisive way in
mountainous countries, therefore it would seem to follow, as a
consequence, that the defensive has an important advantage in mountain
positions. How it is that, through other circumstances, this is not so
in reality, we shall show in the chapter on the defence of mountains.
We must first of all make a distinction if the question relates merely
to commanding ground at one single point, as, for example, a position
for an army; in such case the strategic advantages rather merge in the
tactical one of a battle fought under advantageous circumstances; but
if now we imagine a considerable tract of country—suppose a whole
province—as a regular slope, like the declivity at a general watershed,
so that we can make several marches, and always hold the upper ground,
then the strategic advantages become greater, because we can now use
the advantages of the more elevated ground not only in the combination
of our forces with each other for one particular combat, but also in
the combination of several combats with one another. Thus it is with
the defensive.
As regards the offensive, it enjoys to a certain extent the same
advantages as the defensive from the more elevated ground; for this
reason that the stragetic attack is not confined to one act like the
tactical. The strategic advance is not the continuous movement of a
piece of wheelwork; it is made in single marches with a longer or
shorter interval between them, and at each halting point the assailant
is just as much acting on the defensive as his adversary.
Through the advantage of a better view of the surrounding country, an
elevated position confers, in a certain measure, on the offensive as
well as the defensive, a power of action which we must not omit to
notice; it is the facility of operating with separate masses. For each
portion of a force separately derives the same advantages which the
whole derives from this more elevated position; by this—a separate
corps, let it be strong or weak in numbers, is stronger than it would
otherwise be, and we can venture to take up a position with less danger
than we could if it had not that particular property of being on an
elevation. The advantages which are to be derived from such separate
bodies of troops is a subject for another place.
If the possession of more elevated ground is combined with other
geographical advantages which are in our favour, if the enemy finds
himself cramped in his movements from other causes, as, for instance,
by the proximity of a large river, such disadvantages of his position
may prove quite decisive, and he may feel that he cannot too soon
relieve himself from such a position. No army can maintain itself in
the valley of a great river if it is not in possession of the heights
on each side by which the valley is formed.
The possession of elevated ground may therefore become virtually
command, and we can by no means deny that this idea represents a
reality. But nevertheless the expressions “commanding ground,”
“sheltering position,” “key of the country,” in so far as they are
founded on the nature of heights and descents, are hollow shells
without any sound kernel. These imposing elements of theory have been
chiefly resorted to in order to give a flavour to the seeming
commonplace of military combinations; they have become the darling
themes of learned soldiers, the magical wands of adepts in strategy,
and neither the emptiness of these fanciful conceits, nor the frequent
contradictions which have been given to them by the results of
experience have sufficed to convince authors, and those who read their
books, that with such phraseology they are drawing water in the leaky
vessel of the Danaides. The conditions have been mistaken for the thing
itself, the instrument for the hand. The occupation of such and such a
position or space of ground, has been looked upon as an exercise of
power like a thrust or a cut, the ground or position itself as a
substantive quantity; whereas the one is like the lifting of the arm,
the other is nothing but the lifeless instrument, a mere property which
can only realise itself upon an object, a mere sign of plus or minus
which wants the figures or quantities. This cut and thrust, this
object, this quantity, is _a victorious battle;_ it alone really
counts; with it only can we reckon; and we must always have it in view,
as well in giving a critical judgment in literature as in real action
in the field.
Consequently, if nothing but the number and value of victorious combats
decides in war, it is plain that the comparative value of the opposing
armies and ability of their respective leaders again rank as the first
points for consideration, and that the part which the influence of
ground plays can only be one of an inferior grade.
BOOK VI DEFENCE
CHAPTER I. Offence and Defence
1.—Conception of Defence.
What is defence in conception? The warding off a blow. What is then its
characteristic sign? The state of expectancy (or of waiting for this
blow). This is the sign by which we always recognise an act as of a
defensive character, and by this sign alone can the defensive be
distinguished from the offensive in war. But inasmuch as an absolute
defence completely contradicts the idea of war, because there would
then be war carried on by one side only, it follows that the defence in
war can only be relative and the above distinguishing signs must
therefore only be applied to the essential idea or general conception:
it does not apply to all the separate acts which compose the war. A
partial combat is defensive if we receive the onset, the charge of the
enemy; a battle is so if we receive the attack, that is, wait for the
appearance of the enemy before our position and within range of our
fire; a campaign is defensive if we wait for the entry of the enemy
into our theatre of war. In all these cases the sign of waiting for and
warding off belongs to the general conception, without any
contradiction arising with the conception of war, for it may be to our
advantage to wait for the charge against our bayonets, or the attack on
our position or our theatre of war. But as we must return the enemy’s
blows if we are really to carry on war on our side, therefore this
offensive act in defensive war takes place more or less under the
general title defensive—that is to say, the offensive of which we make
use falls under the conception of position or theatre of war. We can,
therefore, in a defensive campaign fight offensively, in a defensive
battle we may use some divisions for offensive purposes, and lastly,
while remaining in position awaiting the enemy’s onslaught, we still
make use of the offensive by sending at the same time balls into the
enemy’s ranks. The defensive form in war is therefore no mere shield
but a shield formed of blows delivered with skill.
2.—Advantages of the Defensive.
What is the object of defence? _To preserve_. To preserve is easier
than to acquire; from which follows at once that the means on both
sides being supposed equal, the defensive is easier than the offensive.
But in what consists the greater facility of preserving or keeping
possession? In this, that all time which is not turned to any account
falls into the scale in favour of the defence. He reaps where he has
not sowed. Every suspension of offensive action, either from erroneous
views, from fear or from indolence, is in favour of the side acting
defensively. This advantage saved the State of Prussia from ruin more
than once in the Seven Years’ War. It is one which derives itself from
the conception and object of the defensive, lies in the nature of all
defence, and in ordinary life, particularly in legal business which
bears so much resemblance to war, it is expressed by the Latin proverb,
_Beati sunt possidentes_. Another advantage arising from the nature of
war and belonging to it exclusively, is the aid afforded by locality or
ground; this is one of which the defensive form has a preferential use.
Having established these general ideas we now turn more directly to the
subject.
In tactics every combat, great or small, is _defensive_ if we leave the
initiative to the enemy, and wait for his appearance in our front. From
that moment forward we can make use of all offensive means without
losing the said two advantages of the defence, namely, that of waiting
for, and that of ground. In strategy, at first, the campaign represents
the battle, and the theatre of war the position; but afterwards the
whole war takes the place of the campaign, and the whole country that
of the theatre of war, and in both cases the defensive remains that
which it was in tactics.
It has been already observed in a general way that the defensive is
easier than the offensive; but as the defensive has a negative object,
that of _preserving_, and the offensive a positive object that of
_conquering_, and as the latter increases our own means of carrying on
war, but the preserving does not, therefore in order to express
ourselves distinctly, we must say, _that the defensive form of war is
in itself stronger than the offensive_. This is the result we have been
desirous of arriving at; for although it lies completely in the nature
of the thing, and has been confirmed by experience a thousand times,
still it is completely contrary to prevalent opinion—a proof how ideas
may be confused by superficial writers.
If the defensive is the stronger form of conducting war, but has a
negative object, it follows of itself that we must only make use of it
so long as our weakness compels us to do so, and that we must give up
that form as soon as we feel strong enough to aim at the positive
object. Now as the state of our circumstances is usually improved in
the event of our gaining a victory through the assistance of the
defensive, it is therefore, also, the natural course in war to begin
with the defensive, and to end with the offensive. It is therefore just
as much in contradiction with the conception of war to suppose the
defensive the ultimate object of the war as it was a contradiction to
understand passivity to belong to all the parts of the defensive, as
well as to the defensive as a whole. In other words: a war in which
victories are merely used to ward off blows, and where there is no
attempt to return the blow, would be just as absurd as a battle in
which the most absolute defence (passivity) should everywhere prevail
in all measures.
Against the justice of this general view many examples might be quoted
in which the defensive continued defensive to the last, and the
assumption of the offensive was never contemplated; but such an
objection could only be urged if we lost sight of the fact that here
the question is only about general ideas (abstract ideas), and that
examples in opposition to the general conception we are discussing are
all of them to be looked upon as cases in which the time for the
possibility of offensive reaction had not yet arrived.
In the Seven Years’ War, at least in the last three years of it,
Frederick the Great did not think of an offensive; indeed we believe
further, that generally speaking, he only acted on the offensive at any
time in this war as the best means of defending himself; his whole
situation compelled him to this course, and it is natural that a
general should aim more immediately at that which is most in accordance
with the situation in which he is placed for the time being.
Nevertheless, we cannot look at this example of a defence upon a great
scale without supposing that the idea of a possible counterstroke
against Austria lay at the bottom of the whole of it, and saying to
ourselves, the moment for that counterstroke had not arrived before the
war came to a close. The conclusion of peace shows that this idea is
not without foundation even in this instance; for what could have
actuated the Austrians to make peace except the thought that they were
not in a condition with their own forces alone to make head against the
talent of the king; that to maintain an equilibrium their exertions
must be greater than heretofore, and that the slightest relaxation of
their efforts would probably lead to fresh losses of territory. And, in
fact, who can doubt that if Russia, Sweden, and the army of the German
Empire had ceased to act together against Frederick the Great he would
have tried to conquer the Austrians again in Bohemia and Moravia?
Having thus defined the true meaning of the defensive, having defined
its boundaries, we return again to the assertion that the defensive _is
the stronger form of making war._
Upon a closer examination, and comparison of the offensive and
defensive, this will appear perfectly plain; but for the present we
shall confine ourselves to noticing the contradiction in which we
should be involved with ourselves, and with the results of experience
by maintaining the contrary to be the fact. If the offensive form was
the stronger there would be no further occasion ever to use the
defensive, as it has merely a negative object, every one would be for
attacking, and the defensive would be an absurdity. On the other hand,
it is very natural that the higher object should be purchased by
greater sacrifices. Whoever feels himself strong enough to make use of
the weaker form has it in his power to aim at the greater object;
whoever sets before himself the smaller object can only do so in order
to have the benefit of the stronger form—If we look to experience, such
a thing is unheard of as any one carrying on a war upon two different
theatres—offensively on one with the weaker army, and defensively on
the other with his strongest force But if the reverse of this has
everywhere and at all times taken place that shows plainly that
generals although their own inclination prompts them to the offensive,
still hold the defensive to be the stronger form. We have still in the
next chapters to explain some preliminary points.
CHAPTER II. The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to Each Other
in Tactics
First of all we must inquire into the circumstances which give the
victory in a battle.
Of superiority of numbers, and bravery, discipline, or other qualities
of an army, we say nothing here, because, as a rule, they depend on
things which lie out of the province of the art of war in the sense in
which we are now considering it; besides which they exercise the same
effect in the offensive as the defensive; and, moreover also, the
superiority in _numbers in general_ cannot come under consideration
here, as the number of troops is likewise a given quantity or
condition, and does not depend on the will or pleasure of the general.
Further, these things have no particular connection with attack and
defence. But, irrespective of these things, there are other three which
appear to us of decisive importance, these are: _surprise, advantage of
ground_, and _the attack from several quarters_. The surprise produces
an effect by opposing to the enemy a great many more troops than he
expected at some particular point. The superiority in numbers in this
case is very different to a general superiority of numbers; it is the
most powerful agent in the art of war.—The way in which the advantage
of ground contributes to the victory is intelligible enough of itself,
and we have only one observation to make which is, that we do not
confine our remarks to obstacles which obstruct the advance of an
enemy, such as scarped grounds, high hills, marshy streams, hedges,
inclosures, etc.; we also allude to the advantage which ground affords
as cover, under which troops are concealed from view. Indeed we may say
that even from ground which is quite unimportant a person acquainted
with the locality may derive assistance. The attack from several
quarters includes in itself all tactical turning movements great and
small, and its effects are derived partly from the double execution
obtained in this way from fire-arms, and partly from the enemy’s dread
of his retreat being cut off.
Now how do the offensive and defensive stand respectively in relation
to these things?
Having in view the three principles of victory just described, the
answer to this question is, that only a small portion of the first and
last of these principles is in favour of the offensive, whilst the
greater part of them, and the whole of the second principle, are at the
command of the party acting defensively.
The offensive side can only have the advantage of one complete surprise
of the whole mass with the whole, whilst the defensive is in a
condition to surprise incessantly, throughout the whole course of the
combat, by the force and form which he gives to his partial attacks.
The offensive has greater facilities than the defensive for surrounding
and cutting off the whole, as the latter is in a manner in a fixed
position while the former is in a state of movement having reference to
that position. But the superior advantage for an enveloping movement,
which the offensive possesses, as now stated, is again limited to a
movement against the whole mass; for during the course of the combat,
and with separate divisions of the force, it is easier for the
defensive than for the offensive to make attacks from several quarters,
_because, as we have already said, the former is in a better situation
to surprise by the force and form of his attacks._
That the defensive in an especial manner enjoys the assistance which
ground affords is plain in itself; as to what concerns the advantage
which the defensive has in surprising by the force and form of his
attacks, that results from the offensive being obliged to approach by
roads and paths where he may be easily observed, whilst the defensive
conceals his position, and, until almost the decisive moment, remains
invisible to his opponent.—Since the true method of defence has been
adopted, reconnaissances have gone quite out of fashion, that is to
say, they have become impossible. Certainly reconnaissances are still
made at times, but they seldom bring home much with them. Immense as is
the advantage of being able to examine well a position, and become
perfectly acquainted with it before a battle, plain as it is that he
(the defensive) who lies in wait near such a chosen position can much
more easily effect a surprise than his adversary, yet still to this
very hour the old notion is not exploded that a battle which is
accepted is half lost. This comes from the old kind of defensive
practised twenty years ago, and partly also in the Seven Years’ War,
when the only assistance expected from the ground was that it should be
difficult of approach in front (by steep mountain slopes, etc., etc.),
when the little depth of the positions and the difficulty of moving the
flanks produced such weakness that the armies dodged one another from
one hill to another, which increased the evil. If some kind of support
were found on which to rest the wings, then all depended on preventing
the army stretched along between these points, like a piece of work on
an embroidery frame, from being broken through at any point. The ground
occupied possessed a direct value at every point, and therefore a
direct defence was required everywhere. Under such circumstances, the
idea of making a movement or attempting a surprise during the battle
could not be entertained; it was the exact reverse of what constitutes
a good defence, and of that which the defence has actually become in
modern warfare.
In reality, contempt for the defensive has always been the result of
some particular method of defence having become worn out (outlived its
period); and this was just the case with the method we have now
mentioned, for in times antecedent to the period we refer to, that very
method was superior to the offensive.
If we go through the progressive development of the modern art of war,
we find that at the commencement—that is the Thirty Years’ War and the
war of the Spanish Succession—the deployment and drawing up of the army
in array, was one of the great leading points connected with the
battle. It was the most important part of the plan of the battle. This
gave the defensive, as a rule, a great advantage, as he was already
drawn up and deployed. As soon as the troops acquired greater
capability of manœuvring, this advantage ceased, and the superiority
passed over to the side of the offensive for a time. Then the defensive
sought shelter behind rivers or deep valleys, or on high land. The
defensive thus recovered the advantage, and continued to maintain it
until the offensive acquired such increased mobility and expertness in
manœuvring that he himself could venture into broken ground and attack
in separate columns, and therefore became able _to turn_ his adversary.
This led to a gradual increase in the length of positions, in
consequence of which, no doubt, it occurred to the offensive to
concentrate at a few points, and break through the enemy’s thin line.
The offensive thus, for a third time, gained the ascendancy, and the
defence was again obliged to alter its system. This it has done in
recent wars by keeping its forces concentrated in large masses, the
greater part not deployed, and, where possible, concealed, thus merely
taking up a position in readiness to act according to the measures of
the enemy as soon as they are sufficiently revealed.
This does not preclude a partially passive defence of the ground; its
advantage is too great for it not to be used a hundred times in a
campaign. But that kind of passive defence of the ground is usually no
longer the principal affair: that is what we have to do with here.
If the offensive should discover some new and powerful element which it
can bring to its assistance—an event not very probable, seeing the
point of simplicity and natural order to which all is now brought—then
the defence must again alter its method. But the defensive is always
certain of the assistance of ground, which insures to it in general its
natural superiority, as the special properties of country and ground
exercise a greater influence than ever on actual warfare.
CHAPTER III. The Relations of the Offensive and Defensive to Each Other
in Strategy
Let us ask again, first of all, what are the circumstances which insure
a successful result in strategy?
In strategy there is no victory, as we have before said. On the one
hand, the strategic success is the successful preparation of the
tactical victory; the greater this strategic success, the more probable
becomes the victory in the battle. On the other hand, strategic success
lies in the making use of the victory gained. The more events the
strategic combinations can in the sequel include in the consequences of
a battle gained, the more strategy can lay hands on amongst the wreck
of all that has been shaken to the foundation by the battle, the more
it sweeps up in great masses what of necessity has been gained with
great labour by many single hands in the battle, the grander will be
its success.—Those things which chiefly lead to this success, or at
least facilitate it, consequently the leading principles of efficient
action in strategy, are as follow:—
1. The advantage of ground.
2. The surprise, let it be either in the form of an actual attack by
surprise or by the unexpected display of large forces at certain
points.
3. The attack from several quarters (all three, as in tactics).
4. The assistance of the theatre of war by fortresses, and everything
belonging to them.
5. The support of the people.
6. The utilisation of great moral forces.
Now, what are the relations of offensive and defensive with respect to
these things?
The party on the defensive has the advantage of ground; the offensive
side that of the attack by surprise in strategy, as in tactics But
respecting the surprise, we must observe that it is infinitely more
efficacious and important in strategy than in tactics. In the latter, a
surprise seldom rises to the level of a great victory, while in
strategy it often finishes the war at one stroke. But at the same time
we must observe that the advantageous use of this means supposes some
_great_ and _uncommon_, as well as _decisive_ error committed by the
adversary, therefore it does not alter the balance much in favour of
the offensive.
The surprise of the enemy, by placing superior forces in position at
certain points, has again a great resemblance to the analogous case in
tactics. Were the defensive compelled to distribute his forces upon
several points of approach to his theatre of war, then the offensive
would have plainly the advantage of being able to fall upon one point
with all his weight. But here also, the new art of acting on the
defensive by a different mode of proceeding has imperceptibly brought
about new principles. If the defensive side does not apprehend that the
enemy, by making use of an undefended road, will throw himself upon
some important magazine or depôt, or on some unprepared fortification,
or on the capital itself.—and if he is not reduced to the alternative
of opposing the enemy on the road he has chosen, or of having his
retreat cut off, then there are no peremptory grounds for dividing his
forces; for if the offensive chooses a different road from that on
which the defensive is to be found, then some days later the latter can
march against his opponent with his whole force upon the road he has
chosen; besides, he may at the same time, in most cases, rest satisfied
that the offensive will do him the honour to seek him out.—If the
offensive is obliged to advance with his forces divided, which is often
unavoidable on account of subsistence, then plainly the defensive has
the advantage on his side of being able to fall in force upon a
fraction of the enemy.
Attacks in flank and rear, which in strategy mean on the sides and
reverse of the theatre of war, are of a very different nature to
attacks so called in tactics.
1st. There is no bringing the enemy under two fires, because we cannot
fire from one end of a theatre of war to the other.
2nd. The apprehension of losing the line of retreat is very much less,
for the spaces in strategy are so great that they cannot be barred as
in tactics.
3rd. In strategy, on account of the extent of space embraced, the
efficacy of interior, that is of shorter lines, is much greater, and
this forms a great safeguard against attacks from several directions.
4th. A new principle makes its appearance in the sensibility, which is
felt as to lines of communication, that is in the effect which is
produced by merely interrupting them.
Now it confessedly lies in the nature of things, that on account of the
greater spaces in strategy, the enveloping attack, or the attack from
several sides, as a rule is only possible for the side which has the
initiative, that is the offensive, and that the defensive is not in a
condition, as he is in tactics, in the course of the action, to turn
the tables on the enemy by surrounding him, because he has it not in
his power either to draw up his forces with the necessary depth
relatively, or to conceal them sufficiently: but then, of what use is
the facility of enveloping to the offensive, if its advantages are not
forthcoming? We could not therefore bring forward the enveloping attack
in strategy as a principle of victory in general, if its influence on
the lines of communication did not come into consideration. But this
factor is seldom great at the first moment, when attack and defence
first meet, and while they are still opposed to each other in their
original position; it only becomes great as a campaign advances, when
the offensive in the enemy’s country is by degrees brought into the
condition of defensive; then the lines of communication of this new
party acting on the defensive, become weak, and the party originally on
the defensive, in assuming the offensive can derive advantage from this
weakness. But who does not see that this casual superiority of the
attack is not to be carried to the credit of the offensive in general,
for it is in reality created out of the superior relations of the
defensive.
The fourth principle, the _Assistance of the Theatre of War_, is
naturally an advantage on the side of the defensive. If the attacking
army opens the campaign, it breaks away from its own theatre, and is
thus weakened, that is, it leaves fortresses and depôts of all kinds
behind it. The greater the sphere of operations which must be
traversed, the more it will be weakened (by marches and garrisons); the
army on the defensive continues to keep up its connection with
everything, that is, it enjoys the support of its fortresses, is not
weakened in any way, and is near to its sources of supply.
_The support of the population_ as a fifth principle is not realised in
every defence, for a defensive campaign may be carried on in the
enemy’s country, but still this principle is only derived from the idea
of the defensive, and applies to it in the majority of cases. Besides
by this is meant chiefly, although not exclusively, the effect of
calling out the last Reserves, and even of a national armament, the
result of which is that all friction is diminished, and that all
resources are sooner forthcoming and flow in more abundantly.
The campaign of 1812, gives as it were in a magnifying glass a very
clear illustration of the effect of the means specified under
principles 3 and 4. 500,000 men passed the Niemen, 120,000 fought at
Borodino, and much fewer arrived at Moscow.
We may say that the effect itself of this stupendous attempt was so
disastrous that even if the Russians had not assumed any offensive at
all, they would still have been secure from any fresh attempt at
invasion for a considerable time. It is true that with the exception of
Sweden there is no country in Europe which is situated like Russia, but
the efficient principle is always the same, the only distinction being
in the greater or less degree of its strength.
If we add to the fourth and fifth principles, the consideration that
these forces of the defensive belong to the original defensive, that is
the defensive carried on in our own soil, and that they are much weaker
if the defence takes place in an enemy’s country and is mixed up with
an offensive undertaking, then from that there is a new disadvantage
for the offensive, much the same as above, in respect to the third
principle; for the offensive is just as little composed entirely of
active elements, as the defensive of mere warding off blows; indeed
every attack which does not lead directly to peace must inevitably end
in the defensive.
Now, if all defensive elements which are brought into use in the attack
are weakened by its nature, that is by belonging to the attack, then
this must also be considered as a general disadvantage of the
offensive.
This is far from being an idle piece of logical refinement, on the
contrary we should rather say that in it lies the chief disadvantage of
the offensive in general, and therefore from the very commencement of,
as well as throughout every combination for a strategic attack, most
particular attention ought to be directed to this point, that is to the
defensive, which may follow, as we shall see more plainly when we come
to the book on plans of campaigns.
The great moral forces which at times saturate the element of war, as
it were with a leaven of their own, which therefore the commander in
certain cases can use to assist the other means at his command, are to
be supposed just as well on the side of the defensive as of the
offensive; at least those which are more especially in favour of the
attack, such as confusion and disorder in the enemy’s ranks—do not
generally appear until after the decisive stroke is given, and
consequently seldom contribute beforehand to produce that result.
We think we have now sufficiently established our proposition, that the
_defensive is a stronger form of war than the offensive;_ but there
still remains to be mentioned one small factor hitherto unnoticed. It
is the high spirit, the feeling of superiority in an army which springs
from a consciousness of belonging to the attacking party. The thing is
in itself a fact, but the feeling soon merges into the more general and
more powerful one which is imparted by victory or defeat, by the talent
or incapacity of the general.
CHAPTER IV. Convergence of Attack and Divergence of Defence
These two conceptions, these forms in the use of offensive and
defensive, appear so frequently in theory and reality, that the
imagination is involuntarily disposed to look upon them as intrinsic
forms, necessary to attack and defence, which, however, is not really
the case, as the smallest reflection will show. We take the earliest
opportunity of examining them, that we may obtain once for all clear
ideas respecting them, and that, in proceeding with our consideration
of the relations of attack and defence, we may be able to set these
conceptions aside altogether, and not have our attention for ever
distracted by the appearance of advantage and the reverse which they
cast upon things. We treat them here as pure abstractions, extract the
conception of them like an essence, and reserve our remarks on the part
which it has in actual things for a future time.
The defending party, both in tactics and in strategy, is supposed to be
waiting in expectation, therefore standing, whilst the assailant is
imagined to be in movement, and in movement expressly directed against
that standing adversary. It follows from this, necessarily, that
turning and enveloping is at the option of the assailant only, that is
to say, as long as his movement and the immobility of the defensive
continue. This freedom of choice of the mode of attack, whether it
shall be convergent or not, according as it shall appear advantageous
or otherwise, ought to be reckoned as an advantage to the offensive in
general. But this choice is free only in tactics; it is not always
allowed in strategy. In the first, the points on which the wings rest
are hardly ever absolutely secure; but they are very frequently so in
strategy, as when the front to be defended stretches in a straight line
from one sea to another, or from one neutral territory to another. In
such cases, the attack cannot be made in a convergent form, and the
liberty of choice is limited. It is limited in a still more
embarrassing manner if the assailant is obliged to operate by
converging lines. Russia and France cannot attack Germany in any other
way than by converging lines; therefore they cannot attack with their
forces united. Now if we assume as granted that the concentric form in
the action of forces in the majority of cases is the weaker form, then
the advantage which the assailant possesses in the greater freedom of
choice may probably be completely outweighed by the disadvantage, in
other cases, of being compelled to make use of the weaker form.
We proceed to examine more closely the action of these forms, both in
tactics and in strategy.
It has been considered one of the chief advantages of giving a
concentric direction to forces, that is, operating from the
circumference of a circle towards the centre, that the further the
forces advance, the nearer they approach to each other; the fact is
true, but the supposed advantage is not; for the tendency to union is
going on equally on both sides; consequently, the equilibrium is not
disturbed. It is the same in the dispersion of force by eccentric
movements.
But another and a real advantage is, that forces operating on
converging lines direct their action towards a _common point_, those
operating on diverging lines do not.—Now what are the effects of the
action in the two cases? Here we must separate tactics from strategy.
We shall not push the analysis too far, and therefore confine ourselves
to the following points as the advantages of the action in tactics.
1. A cross fire, or, at least, an increased effect of fire, as soon as
all is brought within a certain range.
2. Attack of one and the same point from several sides.
3. The cutting off the retreat.
The interception of a retreat may be also conceived strategically, but
then it is plainly much more difficult, because great spaces are not
easily blocked. The attack upon one and the same body from several
quarters is generally more effectual and decisive, the smaller this
body is, the nearer it approaches to the lowest limit—that of a single
combatant. An army can easily give battle on several sides, a division
less easily, a battalion only when formed in mass, a single man not at
all. Now strategy, in its province, deals with large masses of men,
extensive spaces, and considerable duration of time; with tactics, it
is the reverse. From this follows that the attack from several sides in
strategy cannot have the same results as in tactics.
The effect of fire does not come within the scope of strategy; but in
its place there is something else. It is that tottering of the base
which every army feels when there is a victorious enemy in its rear,
whether near or far off.
It is, therefore, certain that the concentric action of forces has an
advantage in this way, that the action or effect against a is at the
same time one against _b_, without its force against _a_ being
diminished, and that the action against _b_ is likewise action against
_a_. The whole, therefore, is not _a_ + _b_, but something more; and
this advantage is produced both in tactics and strategy, although
somewhat differently in each.
Now what is there in the eccentric or divergent action of forces to
oppose to this advantage? Plainly the advantage of having the forces in
greater proximity to each other, and the moving on _interior lines_. It
is unnecessary to demonstrate how this can become such a multiplier of
forces that the assailant cannot encounter the advantage it gives his
opponent unless he has a great superiority of force.—When once the
defensive has adopted the principle of movement (movement which
certainly commences later than that of the assailant, but still time
enough to break the chains of paralysing inaction), then this advantage
of greater concentration and the interior lines tends much more
decisively, and in most cases more effectually, towards victory than
the concentric form of the attack. But victory must precede the
realisation of this superiority; we must conquer before we can think of
cutting off an enemy’s retreat. In short, we see that there is here a
relation similar to that which exists between attack and defence
generally; the concentric form leads to brilliant results, the
advantages of the eccentric are more secure: the former is the weaker
form with the positive object; the latter, the stronger form with the
negative object. In this way these two forms seem to us to be brought
nearly to an even balance. Now if we add to this that the defence, not
being always absolute, is also not always precluded from using its
forces on converging lines, we have no longer a right to believe that
this converging form is alone sufficient to ensure to the offensive a
superiority over the defensive universally, and thus we set ourselves
free from the influence which that opinion usually exercises over the
judgment, whenever there is an opportunity.
What has been said up to the present, relates to both tactics and
strategy; we have still a most important point to bring forward, which
applies to strategy only. The advantage of interior lines increases
with the distances to which these lines relate. In distances of a few
thousand yards, or a half mile, the time which is gained, cannot of
course be as much as in distances of several days’ march, or indeed, of
twenty or thirty miles; the first, that is, the small distances,
concerns tactics, the greater ones belong to strategy. But, although we
certainly require more time, to reach an object in strategy, than in
tactics, and an army is not so quickly defeated as a battalion, still,
these periods of time in strategy can only increase up to a certain
point; that is, they can only last until a battle takes place, or,
perhaps, over and above that, for the few days during which a battle
may be avoided without serious loss. Further, there is a much greater
difference in the real start in advance, which is gained in one case,
as compared with the other. Owing to the insignificance of the
distances in tactics, the movements of one army in a battle, take place
almost in sight of the other; the army, therefore, on the exterior
line, will generally very soon be made aware of what his adversary is
doing. From the long distances, with which strategy has to deal, it
very seldom happens, that the movement of one army, is not concealed
from the other for at least a day, and there are numerous instances, in
which especially if the movement is only partial, such as a
considerable detachment, that it remains secret for weeks.—It is easy
to see, what a great advantage this power of concealing movements must
be to that party, who through the nature of his position has reason to
desire it most.
We here close our considerations on the convergent and divergent use of
forces, and the relation of those forms to attack and defence,
proposing to return to the subject at another time.
CHAPTER V. Character of the Strategic Defensive
We have already explained what the defensive is generally, namely,
nothing more than a stronger form of carrying on war, by means of which
we endeavour to wrest a victory, in order, after having gained a
superiority, to pass over to the offensive, that is to the positive
object of war.
Even if the intention of a war is only the maintenance of the existing
situation of things, the _status quo_, still a mere parrying of a blow
is something quite contradictory to the conception of the term war,
because the conduct of war is unquestionably no mere state of
endurance. If the defender has obtained an important advantage, then
the defensive form has done its part, and under the protection of this
success he must give back the blow, otherwise he exposes himself to
certain destruction; common sense points out that iron should be struck
while it is hot, that we should use the advantage gained to guard
against a second attack. How, when and where this reaction shall
commence is subject certainly to a number of other conditions, which we
can only explain hereafter. For the present we keep to this, that we
must always consider this transition to an offensive return as a
natural tendency of the defensive, therefore as an essential element of
the same, and always conclude that there is something wrong in the
management of a war when a victory gained through the defensive form is
not turned to good account in any manner, but allowed to wither away.
A swift and vigorous assumption of the offensive—the flashing sword of
vengeance—is the most brilliant point in the defensive; he who does not
at once think of it at the right moment, or rather he who does not from
the first include this transition in his idea of the defensive will
never understand the superiority of the defensive as a form of war; he
will be for ever thinking only of the means which will be consumed by
the enemy and gained by ourselves through the offensive, which means
however depend not on tying the knot, but on untying it. Further, it is
a stupid confusion of ideas if, under the term offensive, we always
understand sudden attack or surprise, and consequently under defensive
imagine nothing but embarrassment and confusion.
It is true that a conqueror makes his determination to go to war sooner
than the unconscious defender, and if he knows how to keep his measures
properly secret, he may also perhaps take the defender unawares; but
that is a thing quite foreign to war itself, for it should not be so.
War actually takes place more for the defensive than for the conqueror,
for invasion only calls forth resistance, and it is not until there is
resistance that there is war. A conqueror is always a lover of peace
(as Buonaparte always asserted of himself); he would like to make his
entry into our state unopposed; in order to prevent this, we must
choose war, and therefore also make preparations, that is in other
words, it is just the weak, or that side which must defend itself,
which should be always armed in order not to be taken by surprise; so
it is willed by the art of war.
The appearance of one side sooner than the other in the theatre of war
depends, besides, in most cases on things quite different from a view
to offensive or defensive. But although a view to one or other of these
forms is not the cause, it is often the result of this priority of
appearance. Whoever is first ready will on that account go to work
offensively, if the advantage of surprise is sufficiently great to make
it expedient; and the party who is the last to be ready can only then
in some measure compensate for the disadvantage which threatens him by
the advantages of the defensive.
At the same time, it must be looked upon in general as an advantage for
the offensive, that he can make that good use of being the first in the
field which has been noticed in the third book; only this general
advantage is not an absolute necessity in every case.
If, therefore, we imagine to ourselves a defensive, such as it should
be, we must suppose it with every possible preparation of all means,
with an army fit for, and inured to, war, with a general who does not
wait for his adversary with anxiety from an embarrassing feeling of
uncertainty, but from his own free choice, with cool presence of mind,
with fortresses which do not dread a siege, and lastly, with a loyal
people who fear the enemy as little as he fears them. With such
attributes the defensive will act no such contemptible part in
opposition to the offensive, and the latter will not appear such an
easy and certain form of war, as it does in the gloomy imaginations of
those who can only see in the offensive courage, strength of will, and
energy; in the defensive, helplessness and apathy.
CHAPTER VI. Extent of the Means of Defence
We have shown in the second and third chapters of this book how the
defence has a natural advantage in the employment of those things,
which,—irrespective of the absolute strength and qualities of the
combatant force,—influence the tactical as well as the strategic
result, namely, the advantage of ground, sudden attack, attack from
several directions (converging form of attack), the assistance of the
theatre of war, support of the people, and the utilising great moral
forces. We think it useful now to cast again a glance over the extent
of the means which are at command of the defensive in particular, and
which are to be regarded as the columns of the different orders of
architecture in his edifice.
1.—Landwehr (Militia).
This force has been used in modern times to combat the enemy on foreign
soil; and it is not to be denied that its organisation in many states,
for instance in Prussia, is of such a kind, that it may almost be
regarded as part of the standing army, therefore it does not belong to
the defensive exclusively. At the same time, we must not overlook the
fact, that the very great use made of it in 1813-14-15 was the result
of defensive war; that it is organised in very few places to the same
degree as in Prussia, and that always when its organisation falls below
the level of complete efficiency, it is better suited for the defensive
than for the offensive. But besides that, there always lies in the idea
of a militia the notion of a very extensive more or less voluntary
co-operation of the whole mass of the people in support of the war,
with all their physical powers, as well as with their feelings, and a
ready sacrifice of all they possess. The more its organisation deviates
from this, so much the more the force thus created will become a
standing army under another name, and the more it will have the
advantages of such a force; but it will also lose in proportion the
advantages which belong properly to the militia, those of being a
force, the limits of which are undefined, and capable of being easily
increased by appealing to the feelings and patriotism of the people. In
these things lies the essence of a militia; in its organisation,
latitude must be allowed for this co-operation of the whole people; if
we seek to obtain something extraordinary from a militia, we are only
following a shadow.
But now the close relationship between this essence of a militia
system, and the conception of the defensive, is not to be denied,
neither can it be denied that such a militia will always belong more to
the defensive form than to the offensive, and that it will manifest
chiefly in the defensive, those effects through which it surpasses the
attack.
2.—Fortresses.
The assistance afforded by fortresses to the offensive does not extend
beyond what is given by those close upon the frontiers, and is only
feeble in influence; the assistance which the defensive can derive from
this reaches further into the heart of the country, and therefore more
of them can be brought into use, and their utility itself differs in
the degree of its intensity. A fortress which is made the object of a
regular siege, and holds out, is naturally of more considerable weight
in the scales of war, than one which by the strength of its works
merely forbids the idea of its capture, and therefore neither occupies
nor consumes any of the enemy’s forces.
3.—The People.
Although the influence of a single inhabitant of the theatre of war on
the course of the war in most cases is not more perceptible than the
co-operation of a drop of water in a whole river, still even in cases
where there is no such thing as a general rising of the people, the
_total influence_ of the inhabitants of a country in war is anything
but imperceptible. Every thing goes on easier in our own country,
provided it is not opposed by the general feeling of the population.
All contributions great and small, are only yielded to the enemy under
the compulsion of direct force; that operation must be undertaken by
the troops, and cost the employment of many men as well as great
exertions. The defensive receives all he wants, if not always
voluntarily, as in cases of enthusiastic devotion, still through the
long-used channels of submission to the state on the part of the
citizens, which has become second nature, and which besides that, is
enforced by the terrors of the law with which the army has nothing to
do. But the spontaneous co-operation of the people proceeding from true
attachment is in all cases most important, as it never fails in all
those points where service can be rendered without any sacrifice. We
shall only notice one point, which is of the highest importance in war,
that is _intelligence_, not so much special, great and important
information through persons employed, as that respecting the
innumerable little matters in connection with which the daily service
of an army is carried on in uncertainty, and with regard to which a
good understanding with the inhabitants gives the defensive a general
advantage.
If we ascend from this quite general and never failing beneficial
influence, up to special cases in which the populace begins to take
part in the war, and then further up to the highest degree, where as in
Spain, the war, as regards its leading events is chiefly a war carried
on by the people themselves, we may see that we have here virtually a
new power rather than a manifestation of increased cooperation on the
part of the people, and therefore that—
4.—The National Armament,
or general call to arms, may be considered as a particular means of
defence.
5.—Allies.
Finally, we may further reckon _allies_ as the last support of the
defensive. Naturally we do not mean ordinary allies, which the
assailant may likewise have; we speak of those _essentially interested
in maintaining_ the integrity of the country. If for instance we look
at the various states composing Europe at the present time, we find
(without speaking of a systematically regulated balance of power and
interests, as that does not exist, and therefore is often with justice
disputed, still, unquestionably) that the great and small states and
interests of nations are interwoven with each other in a most
diversified and changeable manner, each of these points of intersection
forms a binding knot, for in it the direction of the one gives
equilibrium to the direction of the other; by all these knots
therefore, evidently a more or less compact connection of the whole
will be formed, and this general connection must be partially
overturned by every change. In this manner the whole relations of all
states to each other serve rather to preserve the stability of the
whole than to produce changes, that is to say, _this tendency_ to
stability exists in general.
This we conceive to be the true notion of a balance of power, and in
this sense it will always of itself come into existence, wherever there
are extensive connections between civilised states.
How far this tendency of the general interests to the maintenance of
the existing state of things is efficient is another question; at all
events we can conceive some changes in the relations of single states
to each other, which promote this efficiency of the whole, and others
which obstruct it. In the first case they are efforts to perfect the
political balance, and as these have the same tendency as the universal
interests, they will also be supported by the majority of these
interests. But in the other case, they are of an abnormal nature, undue
activity on the part of some single states, real maladies; still that
these should make their appearance in a whole with so little cohesion
as an assemblage of great and little states is not to be wondered at,
for we see the same in that marvellously organised whole, the natural
world.
If in answer we are reminded of instances in history where single
states have effected important changes, solely for their own benefit,
without any effort on the part of the whole to prevent the same, or
cases where a single state has been able to raise itself so much above
others as to become almost the arbiter of the whole,—then our answer is
that these examples by no means prove that a tendency of the interests
of the whole in favour of stability does not exist, they only show that
its action was not powerful enough at the moment. The effort towards an
object is a different thing from the motion towards it. At the same
time it is anything but a nullity, of which we have the best
exemplification in the dynamics of the heavens.
We say, the tendency of equilibrium is to the maintenance of the
existing state, whereby we certainly assume that rest, that is
equilibrium, existed in this state; for where that has been already
disturbed, tension has already commenced, and there the equilibrium may
certainly also tend to a change. But if we look to the nature of the
thing, this change can only affect some few separate states, never the
majority, and therefore it is certain that the preservation of the
latter is supported and secured through the collective interests of the
whole—certain also that each single state which has not against it a
tension of the whole will have more interest in favour of its defence
than opposition to it.
Whoever laughs at these reflections as utopian dreams, does so at the
expense of philosophical truth. Although we may learn from it the
relations which the essential elements of things bear to each other, it
would be rash to attempt to deduce laws from the same by which each
individual case should be governed without regard to any accidental
disturbing influences. But when a person, in the words of a great
writer, “_never rises above anecdote_,” builds all history on it,
begins always with the most individual points, with the climaxes of
events, and only goes down just so deep as he finds a motive for doing,
and therefore never reaches to the lowest foundation of the predominant
general relations, his opinion will never have any value beyond the one
case, and to him, that which philosophy proves to be applicable to
cases in general, will only appear a dream.
Without that general striving for rest and the maintenance of the
existing condition of things, a number of civilised states could not
long live quietly side by side; they must necessarily become fused into
one. Therefore, as Europe has existed in its present state for more
than a thousand years, we can only regard the fact as a result of that
tendency of the collective interests; and if the protection afforded by
the whole has not in every instance proved strong enough to preserve
the independence of each individual state, such exceptions are to be
regarded as irregularities in the life of the whole, which have not
destroyed that life, but have themselves been mastered by it.
It would be superfluous to go over the mass of events in which changes
which would have disturbed the balance too much have been prevented or
reversed by the opposition more or less openly declared of other
states. They will be seen by the most cursory glance at history. We
only wish to say a few words about a case which is always on the lips
of those who ridicule the idea of a political balance, and because it
appears specially applicable here as a case in which an unoffending
state, acting on the defensive, succumbed without receiving any foreign
aid. We allude to Poland. That a state of eight millions of inhabitants
should disappear, should be divided amongst three others without a
sword being drawn by any of the rest of the European states, appears,
at first sight, a fact which either proves conclusively the general
inefficiency of the political balance, or at least shows that it is
inefficient to a very great extent in some instances. That a state of
such extent should disappear, a prey to others, and those already the
most powerful (Russia and Austria), appears such a very extreme case
that it will be said, if an event of this description could not rouse
the collective interests of all free states, then the efficient action
which this collective interest should display for the benefit of
individual states is imaginary. But we still maintain that a single
case, however striking, does not negative the general truth, and we
assert next that the downfall of Poland is also not so unaccountable as
may at first sight appear. Was Poland really to be regarded as a
European state, as a homogeneous member of the community of nations in
Europe? No! It was a Tartar state, which instead of being located, like
the Tartars of the Crimea, on the Black Sea, on the confines of the
territory inhabited by the European community, had its habitation in
the midst of that community on the Vistula. We neither desire by this
to speak disrespectfully of the Poles, nor to justify the partition of
their country, but only to look at things as they really are. For a
hundred years this country had ceased to play any independent part in
European politics, and had been only an apple of discord for the
others. It was impossible that for a continuance it could maintain
itself amongst the others with its state and constitution unaltered: an
essential alteration in its Tartar nature would have been the work of
not less than half, perhaps a whole century, supposing the chief men of
that nation had been in favour of it. But these men were far too
thorough Tartars to wish any such change. Their turbulent political
condition, and their unbounded levity went hand in hand, and so they
tumbled into the abyss. Long before the partition of Poland the
Russians had become quite at home there, the idea of its being an
independent state, with boundaries of its own, had ceased, and nothing
is more certain than that Poland, if it had not been partitioned, must
have become a Russian province. If this had not been so, and if Poland
had been a state capable of making a defence, the three powers would
not so readily have proceeded to its partition, and those powers most
interested in maintaining its integrity, like France, Sweden and
Turkey, would have been able to co-operate in a very different manner
towards its preservation. But if the maintenance of a state is entirely
dependent on external support, then certainly too much is asked.
The partition of Poland had been talked of frequently for a hundred
years, and for that time the country had been not like a private house,
but like a public road, on which foreign armies were constantly
jostling one another. Was it the business of other states to put a stop
to this; were they constantly to keep the sword drawn to preserve the
political inviolability of the Polish frontier? That would have been to
demand a moral impossibility. Poland was at this time politically
little better than an uninhabited steppe; and as it is impossible that
defenceless steppes, lying in the midst of other countries should be
guarded for ever from invasion, therefore it was impossible to preserve
the integrity of this state, as it was called. For all these reasons
there is as little to cause wonder in the noiseless downfall of Poland
as in the silent conquest of the Crimean Tartars; the Turks had a
greater interest in upholding the latter than any European state had in
preserving the independence of Poland, but they saw that it would be a
vain effort to try to protect a defenceless steppe.—
We return to our subject, and think we have proved that the defensive
in general may count more on foreign aid than the offensive; he may
reckon the more certainly on it in proportion as his existence is of
importance to others, that is to say, the sounder and more vigorous his
political and military condition.
Of course the subjects which have been here enumerated as means
properly belonging to the defensive will not be at the command of each
particular defensive. Sometimes one, sometimes another, may be wanting;
but they all belong to the idea of the defensive as a whole.
CHAPTER VII. Mutual Action and Reaction of Attack and Defence
We shall now consider attack and defence separately, as far as they can
be separated from each other. We commence with the defensive for the
following reasons:—It is certainly very natural and necessary to base
the rules for the defence upon those of the offensive, and _vice
versâ;_ but one of the two must still have a third point of departure,
if the whole chain of ideas is to have a beginning, that is, to be
possible. The first question concerns this point.
If we reflect upon the commencement of war philosophically, the
conception of war properly does not originate with the _offensive_, as
that form has for its absolute object, not so much _fighting_ as the
_taking possession of something._ The idea of war arises first by the
_defensive_, for that form has the battle for its direct object, as
warding off and fighting plainly are one and the same. The warding off
is directed entirely against the attack; therefore supposes it,
necessarily; but the attack is not directed against the warding off; it
is directed upon something else—the _taking possession;_ consequently
does not presuppose the warding off. It lies, therefore, in the nature
of things, that the party who first brings the element of war into
action, the party from whose point of view two opposite parties are
first conceived, also establishes the first laws of war, and that party
is the _defender_. We are not speaking of any individual case; we are
only dealing with a general, an abstract case, which theory imagines in
order to determine the course it is to take.
By this we now know where to look for this fixed point, outside and
independent of the reciprocal effect of attack and defence, and that it
is in the defensive.
If this is a logical consequence, the defensive must have motives of
action, even when as yet he knows nothing of the intentions of the
offensive; and these motives of action must determine the organisation
of the means of fighting. On the other hand, as long as the offensive
knows nothing of the plans of his adversary, there are no motives of
action for him, no grounds for the application of his military means.
He can do nothing more than take these means along with him, that is,
take possession by means of his army. And thus it is also in point of
fact; for to carry about the apparatus of war is not to use it; and the
offensive who takes such things with him, on the quite general
supposition that he may require to use them, and who, instead of taking
possession of a country by official functionaries and proclamations,
does so with an army, has not as yet committed, properly speaking, any
act of warfare; but the defensive who both collects his apparatus of
war, and disposes of it with a view to fighting, is the first to
exercise an act which really accords with the conception of war.
The second question is now: what is theoretically the nature of the
motives which must arise in the mind of the defensive first, before the
attack itself is thought of? Plainly the advance made with a view to
taking possession, which we have imagined extraneous to the war, but
which is the foundation of the opening chapter. The defence is to
oppose this advance; therefore in idea we must connect this advance
with the land (country); and thus arise the first most general measures
of the defensive. When these are once established, then upon them the
application of the offensive is founded, and from a consideration of
the means which the offensive then applies, new principles again of
defence are derived. Now here is the reciprocal effect which theory can
follow in its inquiry, as long as it finds the fresh results which are
produced are worth examination.
This little analysis was necessary in order to give more clearness and
stability to what follows, such as it is; it is not made for the field
of battle, neither is it for the generals of the future; it is only for
the army of theorists, who have made a great deal too light of the
subject hitherto.
CHAPTER VIII. Methods of Resistance
The conception of the defence is warding off; in this warding off lies
the state of expectance, and this state of expectance we have taken as
the chief characteristic of the defence, and at the same time as its
principal advantage.
But as the defensive in war cannot be a state of endurance, therefore
this state of expectation is only a relative, not an absolute state;
the subjects with which this waiting for is connected are, as regards
space, either the country, or the theatre of war, or the position, and,
as regards time, the war, the campaign, or the battle. That these
subjects are no immutable units, but only the centres of certain
limited regions, which run into one another and are blended together,
we know; but in practical life we must often be contented only to group
things together, not rigidly to separate them; and these conceptions
have, in the real world itself, sufficient distinctness to be made use
of as centres round which we may group other ideas.
A defence of the country, therefore, only waits for attack on the
country; a defence of a theatre of war an attack on the theatre of war;
and the defence of a position the attack of that position. Every
positive, and consequently more or less offensive, kind of action which
the defensive uses after the above period of waiting for, does not
negative the idea of the continuance of the defensive; for the state of
expectation, which is the chief sign of the same, and its chief
advantage, has been realised.
The conception of war, campaign, and battle, in relation to time, are
coupled respectively with the ideas of country, theatre of war, and
position, and on that account they have the same relations to the
present subject.
The defensive consists, therefore, of two heterogeneous parts, the
state of expectancy and that of action. By having referred the first to
a definite subject, and therefore given it precedence of action, we
have made it possible to connect the two into one whole. But an act of
the defensive, especially a considerable one, such as a campaign or a
whole war, does not, as regards time, consist of two great halves, the
first the state of mere expectation, the second entirely of a state of
action; it is a state of alternation between the two, in which the
state of expectation can be traced through the whole act of the
defensive like a continuous thread.
We give to this state of expectation so much importance simply because
it is demanded by the nature of the thing. In preceding theories of war
it has certainly never been brought forward as an independent
conception, but in reality it has always served as a guide, although
often unobserved. It is such a fundamental part of the whole act of
war, that the one without the other appears almost impossible; and we
shall therefore often have occasion to recur to it hereafter by calling
attention to its effects in the dynamic action of the powers called
into play.
For the present we shall employ ourselves in explaining how the
principle of the state of expectation runs through the act of defence,
and what are the successive stages in the defence itself which have
their origin in this state.
In order to establish our ideas on subjects of a more simple kind, we
shall defer the defence of a country, a subject on which a very great
diversity of political influences exercises a powerful effect, until we
come to the Book on the Plan of War; and as on the other hand, the
defensive act in a position or in a battle is matter of tactics, which
only forms a starting point for strategic action as a _whole_, we shall
take the defence of a _theatre, of war_ as being the subject, in which
we can best show the relations of the defensive.
We have said, that the state of expectation and of action—which last is
always a counterstroke, therefore a reaction—are both essential parts
of the defensive; for without the first, there would be no defensive,
without the second no war. This view led us before to the idea of the
defensive being nothing but the _stronger form of war, in order the
more certainly to conquer the enemy;_ this idea we must adhere to
throughout, partly because it alone saves us in the end from absurdity,
partly, because the more vividly it is impressed on the mind, so much
the greater is the energy it imparts to the whole act of the defensive.
If therefore we should make a distinction between the reaction,
constituting the second element of the defensive, and the other element
which consists in reality in the repulse only of the enemy;—if we
should look at expulsion from the country, from the theatre of war, in
such a light as to see in it alone the _necessary thing_ by itself, the
ultimate object beyond the attainment of which our efforts should not
be carried, and on the other hand, regard the possibility of a reaction
carried still further, and _passing into the real strategic attack_, as
a subject foreign to and of no consequence to the defence,—such a view
would be _in opposition to_ the nature of the idea above represented,
and therefore we cannot look upon this distinction as really existing,
and we must adhere to our assertion, that the idea of _revenge_ must
always be at the bottom of every defensive; for otherwise, however much
damage might be occasioned to the enemy, by a successful issue of the
first reaction, there would always be a deficiency in the necessary
balance of the dynamic relations of the attack and defence.
We say, then, the defensive is the more powerful form of making war, in
order to overcome the enemy more easily, and we leave to circumstances
to determine whether this victory over the object against which the
defence was commenced is sufficient or not.
But as the defensive is inseparable from the idea of the state of
expectation, that object, _the defeat of the enemy_, only exists
conditionally, that is, only if the offensive takes place; and
otherwise (that is, if the offensive stroke does not follow) of course
the defensive is contented with the maintenance of its possessions;
this maintenance is therefore its object in the state of expectation,
that is, its immediate object; and it is only as long as it contents
itself with this more modest end, that it preserves the advantages of
the stronger form of war.
If we suppose an army with its theatre of war intended for defence, the
defence may be made as follows:
1. By attacking the enemy the moment he enters the theatre of war.
(Mollwitz, Hohenfriedberg).
2. By taking up a position close on the frontier, and waiting till the
enemy appears with the intention of attacking it, in order then to
attack him (Czaslau, Soor, Rosbach). Plainly this second mode of
proceeding, partakes more of endurance, we “wait for” longer; and
although the _time_ gained by it as compared with that gained in the
first, may be very little, or none at all if the enemy’s attack
actually takes place, still, the battle which in the first case was
certain, is in the second much less certain, perhaps the enemy may not
be able to make up his mind to attack; the advantage of the “waiting
for,” is then at once greater.
3. By the army in such position not only awaiting the decision of the
enemy to fight a battle, that is his appearance in front of the
position, but also waiting to be actually assaulted (in order to keep
to the same general, Bunzelwitz). In such case, we fight a regular
defensive battle, which however, as we have before said, may include
offensive movements with one or more parts of the army. Here also, as
before, the gain of time does not come into consideration, but the
determination of the enemy is put to a new proof; many a one has
advanced to the attack, and at the last moment, or after one attempt
given it up, finding the position of the enemy too strong.
4. By the army transferring its defence to the heart of the country.
The object of retreating into the interior is to cause a diminution in
the enemy’s strength, and to wait until its effects are such that his
forward march is of itself discontinued, or at least until the
resistance which we can offer him at the end of his career is such as
he can no longer overcome.
This case is exhibited in the simplest and plainest manner, when the
defensive can leave one or more of his fortresses behind him, which the
offensive is obliged to besiege or blockade. It is clear in itself, how
much his forces must be weakened in this way, and what a chance there
is of an opportunity for the defensive to attack at some point with
superior forces.
But even when there are no fortresses, a retreat into the interior of
the country may procure by degrees for the defender that necessary
equilibrium or that superiority which was wanting to him on the
frontier; for every forward movement in the strategic attack lessens
its force, partly absolutely, partly through the separation of forces
which becomes necessary, of which we shall say more under the head of
the “Attack.” We anticipate this truth here as we consider it as a fact
sufficiently exemplified in all wars.
Now in this fourth case the gain of time is to be looked upon as the
principal point of all. If the assailant lays siege to our fortresses,
we have time till their probable fall, (which may be some weeks or in
some cases months); but if the weakening, that is the expenditure, of
the force of the attack is caused by the advance, and the garrisoning
or occupation of certain points, therefore merely through the length of
the assailant’s march, then the time gained in most cases becomes
greater, and our action is not so much restricted in point of time.
Besides the altered relations between offensive and defensive in regard
to power which is brought about at the end of this march, we must bring
into account in favour of the defensive an _increased_ amount of the
_advantage_ of the state of “waiting for.” Although the assailant by
this advance may not in reality be weakened to such a degree that he is
unfit to attack our main body where he halts, still he will probably
want resolution to do so, for that is an act requiring more resolution
in the position in which he is now placed, than would have sufficed
when operations had not extended beyond the frontier: partly, because
the powers are weakened, and no longer in fresh vigour, while the
danger is increased; partly, because with an irresolute commander the
possession of that portion of the country which has been obtained is
often sufficient to do away with all idea of a battle, because he
either really believes or assumes as a pretext, that it is no longer
necessary. By the offensive thus declining to attack, the defensive
certainly does not acquire, as he would on the frontier, a sufficient
result of a negative kind, but still there is a great gain of time.
It is plain that, in all the four methods indicated, the defensive has
the benefit of the ground or country, and likewise that he can by that
means bring into cooperation his fortresses and the people; moreover
these efficient principles increase at each fresh stage of the defence,
for they are a chief means of bringing about the weakening of the
enemy’s force in the fourth stage. Now as the advantages of the “state
of expectation” increase in the same direction, therefore it follows of
itself that these stages are to be regarded as a real intensifying of
the defence, and that this form of war always gains in strength the
more it differs from the offensive. We are not afraid on this account
of any one accusing us of holding the opinion that the most passive
defence would therefore be the best. The action of resistance is not
weakened at each new stage, it is only _delayed, postponed_. But the
assertion that a stouter resistance can be offered in a strong
judiciously entrenched position, and also that when the enemy has
exhausted his strength in fruitless efforts against such a position a
more effective counterstroke may be levelled at him, is surely not
unreasonable. Without the advantage of position Daun would not have
gained the victory at Kollin, and as Frederick the Great only brought
off 18,000 men from the field of battle, if Daun had pursued him with
more energy the victory might have been one of the most brilliant in
military history.
We therefore maintain, that at each new stage of the defensive the
preponderance, or more correctly speaking, the counterpoise increases
in favour of the defensive, and consequently there is also a gain in
power for the counterstroke.
Now are these advantages of the increasing force of the defensive to be
had for nothing? By no means, for the sacrifice with which they are
purchased increases in the same proportion.
If we wait for the enemy within our own theatre of war, however near
the border of our territory the decision takes place, still this
theatre of war is entered by the enemy, which must entail a sacrifice
on our part; whereas, had we made the attack, this disadvantage would
have fallen on the enemy. If we do not proceed at once to meet the
enemy and attack him, our loss will be the greater, and the extent of
the country which the enemy will overrun, as well as the time which he
requires to reach our position, will continually increase. If we wish
to give battle on the defensive, and we therefore leave its
determination and the choice of time for it to the enemy, then perhaps
he may remain for some time in occupation of the territory which he has
taken, and the time which through his deferred decision we are allowed
to gain will in that manner be paid for by us. The sacrifices which
must be made become still more burdensome if a retreat into the heart
of the country takes place.
But all these sacrifices on the part of the defensive, at most only
occasion him in general a loss of power which merely diminishes his
military force _indirectly_, therefore, at a later period, and not
directly, and often so indirectly that its effect is hardly felt at
all. The defensive, therefore, strengthens himself for the present
moment at the expense of the future, that is to say, he borrows, as
every one must who is too poor for the circumstances in which he is
placed.
Now, if we would examine the result of these different forms of
resistance, we must look to the _object of the aggression_. This is, to
obtain possession of our theatre of war, or, at least, of an important
part of it, for under the conception of the whole, at least the greater
part must be understood, as the possession of a strip of territory few
miles in extent is, as a rule, of no real consequence in strategy. As
long, therefore, as the aggressor is not in possession of this, that
is, as long as from fear of our force he has either not yet advanced to
the attack of the theatre of war, or has not sought to find us in our
position, or has declined the combat we offer, the object of the
defence is fulfilled, and the effects of the measures taken for the
defensive have therefore been successful. At the same time this result
is only a _negative one_, which certainly cannot directly give the
force for a real counterstroke. But it may give it _indirectly_, that
is to say, it is on the way to do so; for the time which elapses _the
aggression loses_, and every loss of time is a disadvantage, and must
weaken in some way the party who suffers the loss.
Therefore in the first three stages of the defensive, that is, if it
takes place on the frontier, _the non-decision is already a result in
favour of the defensive._
But it is not so with the fourth.
If the enemy lays siege to our fortresses we must relieve them in time,
to do this we must therefore bring about the decision by positive
action.
This is likewise the case if the enemy follows us into the interior of
the country without besieging any of our places. Certainly in this case
we have more time; we can wait until the enemy’s weakness is extreme,
but still it is always an indispensable condition that we are at last
to act. The enemy is now, perhaps, in possession of the whole territory
which was the object of his aggression, but it is only lent to him; the
tension continues, and the decision is yet pending. As long as the
defensive is gaining strength and the aggressor daily becoming weaker,
the postponement of the decision is in the interest of the former: but
as soon as the culminating point of this progressive advantage has
arrived, as it must do, were it only by the ultimate influence of the
general loss to which the offensive has exposed himself, it is time for
the defender to proceed to action, and bring on a solution, and the
advantage of the “waiting for” may be considered as completely
exhausted.
There can naturally be no point of time fixed generally at which this
happens, for it is determined by a multitude of circumstances and
relations; but it may be observed that the winter is usually a natural
turning point. If we cannot prevent the enemy from wintering in the
territory which he has seized, then, as a rule, it must be looked upon
as given up. We have only, however, to call to mind Torres Vedras, to
see that this is no general rule.
What is now the solution generally?
We have always supposed it in our observations in the form of a battle;
but in reality, this is not necessary, for a number of combinations of
battles with separate corps may be imagined, which may bring about a
change of affairs, either because they have really ended with
bloodshed, or because their probable result makes the retreat of the
enemy necessary.
Upon the theatre of war itself there can be no other solution; that is
a necessary consequence of our view of war; for, in fact, even if an
enemy’s army, merely from want of provisions, commences his retreat,
still it takes place from the state of restraint in which our sword
holds him; if our army was not in the way he would soon be able to
provision his forces.
Therefore, even at the end of his aggressive course, when the enemy is
suffering the heavy penalty of his attack, when detachments, hunger,
and sickness have weakened and worn him out, it is still always the
dread of our sword which causes him to turn about, and allow everything
to go on again as usual. But nevertheless, there is a great difference
between such a solution and one which takes place on the frontier.
In the latter case our arms only were opposed to his to keep him in
check, or carry destruction into his ranks; but at the end of the
aggressive career the enemy’s forces, by their own exertions, are half
destroyed, by which our arms acquire a totally different value, and
therefore, although they are the final they are not the only means
which have produced the solution. This destruction of the enemy’s
forces in the advance prepares the solution, and may do so to this
extent, that the mere possibility of a reaction on our part may cause
the retreat, consequently a reversal of the situation of affairs. In
this case, therefore, we can practically ascribe the solution to
nothing else than the efforts made in the advance. Now, in point of
fact we shall find no case in which the sword of the defensive has not
co-operated; but, for the practical view, it is important to
distinguish which of the two principles is the predominating one.
In this sense we think we may say that there is a double solution in
the defensive, consequently a double kind of reaction, according as the
aggressor is ruined by the _sword of the defensive_, or _by his own
efforts_.
That the first kind of solution predominates in the first three steps
of the defence, the second in the fourth, is evident in itself; and the
latter will, in most cases, only come to pass by the retreat being
carried deep into the heart of the country, and nothing but the
prospect of that result can be a sufficient motive for such a retreat,
considering the great sacrifices which it must cost.
We have, therefore, ascertained that there are two different principles
of defence; there are cases in military history where they each appear
as separate and distinct as it is possible for an elementary conception
to appear in practical life. When Frederick the Great attacked the
Austrians at Hohenfriedberg, just as they were descending from the
Silesian mountains, their force could not have been weakened in any
sensible manner by detachments or fatigue; when, on the other hand,
Wellington, in his entrenched camp at Torres Vedras, waited till
hunger, and the severity of the weather, had reduced Massena’s army to
such extremities that they commenced to retreat of themselves, the
sword of the defensive party had no share in the weakening of the
enemy’s army. In other cases, in which they are combined with each
other in a variety of ways, still, one of them distinctly predominates.
This was the case in the year 1812. In that celebrated campaign such a
number of bloody encounters took place as might, under other
circumstances, have sufficed for a most complete decision by the sword;
nevertheless, there is hardly any campaign in which we can so plainly
see how the aggressor may be ruined by his own efforts. Of the 300,000
men composing the French centre only about 90,000 reached Moscow; not
more than 13,000 were detached; consequently there had been a loss of
197,000 men, and certainly not a third of that loss can be put to
account of battles.
All campaigns which are remarkable for temporising, as it is called,
like those of the famous Fabius Cunctator, have been calculated chiefly
on the destruction of the enemy by his own efforts. This principle has
been the leading one in many campaigns without that point being almost
ever mentioned; and it is only when we disregard the specious reasoning
of historians, and look at things clearly with our own eyes, that we
are led to this real cause of many a solution.
By this we believe we have unravelled sufficiently those ideas which
lie at the root of the defensive, and that in the two great kinds of
defence we have shown plainly and made intelligible how the principle
of the waiting for runs through the whole system and connects itself
with positive action in such a manner that, sooner or later, action
does take place, and that then the advantage of the attitude of waiting
for appears to be exhausted.
We think, now, that in this way we have gone over and brought into view
everything comprised in the province of the defensive. At the same
time, there are subjects of sufficient importance in themselves to form
separate chapters, that is, points for consideration in themselves, and
these we must also study; for example, the nature and influence of
fortified places, entrenched camps, defence of mountains and rivers,
operations against the flank, etc., etc. We shall treat of them in
subsequent chapters, but none of these things lie outside of the
preceding sequence of ideas; they are only to be regarded as a closer
application of it to locality and circumstances. That order of ideas
has been deduced from the conception of the defensive, and from its
relation to the offensive; we have connected these simple ideas with
reality, and therefore shown the way by which we may return again from
the reality to those simple ideas, and obtain firm ground, and not be
forced in reasoning to take refuge on points of support which
themselves vanish in the air.
But resistance by the sword may wear such an altered appearance, assume
such a different character, through the multiplicity of ways of
combining battles, especially in cases where these are not actually
realised, but become effectual merely through their possibility, that
we might incline to the opinion that there must be some other efficient
active principle still to be discovered; between the sanguinary defeat
in a simple battle, and the effects of strategic combinations which do
not bring the thing nearly so far as actual combat, there seems such a
difference, that it is necessary to suppose some fresh force, something
in the same way as astronomers have decided on the existence of other
planets from the great space between Mars and Jupiter.
If the assailant finds the defender in a strong position which he
thinks he cannot take, or behind a large river which he thinks he
cannot cross, or even if he fears that by advancing further he will not
be able to subsist his army, in all these cases it is nothing but the
sword of the defensive which produces the effect; for it is the fear of
being conquered by this sword, either in a great battle or at some
specially important points, which compels the aggressor to stop, only
he will either not admit that at all, or does not admit it in a
straightforward way.
Now even if it is granted that, where there has been a decision without
bloodshed, the combat merely _offered_, but not accepted, has been the
ultimate cause of the decision, it will still be thought that in such
cases the really effectual principle is the _strategic combination of_
these combats and not their tactical decision, and that this
superiority of the strategic combination could only have been thought
of because there are other defensive means which may be considered
besides an actual appeal to the sword. We admit this, and it brings us
just to the point we wished to arrive at, which is as follows: if the
tactical result of a battle must be the _foundation_ of all strategic
combinations, then it is always possible and to be feared that the
assailant may lay hold of this principle, and above all things direct
his efforts to be superior in the hour of decision, in order to baffle
the strategic combination; and that therefore this strategic
combination can _never be regarded as something all-sufficient in
itself;_ that it only has a value when either on one ground or another
we can look forward to the tactical solution without any misgivings. In
order to make ourselves intelligible in a few words, we shall merely
call to our readers’ recollection how such a general as Buonaparte
marched without hesitation through the whole web of his opponents’
strategic plans, to seek for the battle itself, because he had no
doubts as to its issue. Where, therefore, strategy had not directed its
whole effort to ensure a preponderance over him in this battle, where
it engaged in finer (feebler) plans, there it was rent asunder like a
cobweb. But a general like Daun might be checked by such measures; it
would therefore be folly to offer Buonaparte and his army what the
Prussian army of the Seven Years’ War dared to offer Daun and his
contemporaries. Why?—Because Buonaparte knew right well that all
depended on the tactical issue, and made certain of gaining it; whereas
with Daun it was very different in both respects.
_On this account_ we hold it therefore to be serviceable to show that
every strategic combination rests only upon the tactical results, and
that these are everywhere, in the bloody as well as in the bloodless
solution, the real fundamental grounds of the ultimate decision. It is
only if we have no reason to fear that decision, whether on account of
the character or the situation of the enemy, or on account of the moral
and physical equality of the two armies, or on account of our own
superiority—it is only then that we can expect something from strategic
combinations in themselves without battles.
Now if a great many campaigns are to be found within the compass of
military history in which the assailant gives up the offensive without
any blood being spilt in fight, in which, therefore, strategic
combinations show themselves effectual to that degree, this may lead to
the idea that these combinations have at least great inherent force in
themselves, and might in general decide the affair alone, where too
great a preponderance in the tactical results is not supposed on the
side of the aggressor. To this we answer that, if the question is about
things which have their origin in the theatre of war, and consequently
belong to the war itself, this idea is also equally false; and we add
that the cause of the failure of most attacks is to be found in the
higher, the political relations of war.
The general relations out of which a war springs, and which naturally
constitute its foundation, determine also its character; on this
subject we shall have more to say hereafter, in treating of the plan of
a war. But these general relations have converted most wars into
half-and-half things, into which real hostility has to force its way
through such a conflict of interests, that it is only a very weak
element at the last. This effect must naturally show itself chiefly and
with most force on the side of the offensive, _the side of positive
action_. One cannot therefore wonder if such a short-winded,
consumptive attack is brought to a standstill by the touch of a finger.
Against a weak resolution so fettered by a thousand considerations,
that it has hardly any existence, a mere show of resistance is often
enough.
It is not the number of unassailable positions in all directions, not
the formidable look of the dark mountain masses encamped round the
theatre of war, or the broad river which passes through it, not the
ease with which certain combinations of battles can effectually
paralyse the muscle which should strike the blow against us—none of
these things are the true causes of the numerous successes which the
defensive gains on bloodless fields; the cause lies in the weakness of
the will with which the assailant puts forward his hesitating feet.
These counteracting influences may and ought to be taken into
consideration, but they should only be looked upon in their true light,
and their effects should not be ascribed to other things, namely the
things of which alone we are now treating. We must not omit to point
out in an emphatic manner how easily military history in this respect
may become a perpetual liar and deceiver if criticism is not careful
about taking a correct point of view.
Let us now consider, in what we may call their ordinary form, the many
offensive campaigns which have miscarried without a bloody solution.
The assailant advances into the enemy’s country, drives back his
opponent a little way, but finds it too serious a matter to bring on a
decisive battle. He therefore remains standing opposite to him; acts as
if he had made a conquest, and had nothing else to do but to protect
it; as if it was the enemy’s business to seek the battle, as if he
offered it to him daily, etc., etc. These are the _representations_
with which the commander deludes his army, his government, the world,
even himself. But the truth is, that he finds the enemy in a position
too strong for him. We do not now speak of a case where an aggressor
does not proceed with his attack because he can make no use of a
victory, because at the end of his first bound he has not enough
impulsive force left to begin another. Such a case supposes an attack
which has been successful, a real conquest; but we have here in view
the case where an assailant sticks fast half way to his intended
conquest.
He is now waiting to take advantage of favourable circumstances, of
which favourable circumstances there is in general no prospect, for the
aggression now intended shows at once that there is no better prospect
from the future than from the present; it is, therefore, a further
illusion. If now, as is commonly the case, the undertaking is in
connection with other simultaneous operations, then what they do not
want to do themselves is transferred to other shoulders, and their own
inactivity is ascribed to want of support and proper co-operation.
Insurmountable obstacles are talked of, and motives in justification
are discovered in the most confused and subtil considerations. Thus the
forces of the assailant are wasted away in inactivity, or rather in a
partial activity, destitute of any utility. The defensive gains time,
the greatest gain to him; bad weather arrives, and the aggression ends
by the return of the aggressor to winter quarters in his own theatre of
war.
A tissue of false representations thus passes into history in place of
the simple real ground of absence of any result, namely _fear of the
enemy’s sword_. When criticism takes up such a campaign, it wearies
itself in the discussion of a number of motives and counter-motives,
which give no satisfactory result, because they all dwindle into
vapour, and we have not descended to the real foundation of the truth.
The opposition through which the elementary energy of war, and
therefore of the offensive in particular, becomes weakened, lies for
the most part in the relations and views of states, and these are
always concealed from the world, from the mass of the people belonging
to the state, as well as from the army, and very often from the
general-in-chief. No one will account for his faint-heartedness by the
admission that he feared he could not attain the desired object with
the force at his disposal, or that new enemies would be roused, or that
he did not wish to make his allies too powerful, etc. Such things are
hushed up; but as occurrences have to be placed before the world in a
presentable form, therefore the commander is obliged, either on his own
account or on that of his government to pass off a tissue of fictitious
motives. This ever-recurring deception in military dialectics has
ossified into systems in theory, which, of course, are equally devoid
of truth. Theory can never be deduced from the essence of things except
by following the simple thread of cause and effect, as we have tried to
do.
If we look at military history with this feeling of suspicion, then a
great parade of mere words about offensive and defensive collapses, and
the simple idea of it, which we have given, comes forward of itself. We
believe it therefore to be applicable to the whole domain of the
defensive, and that we must adhere closely to it in order to obtain
that clear view of the mass of events by which alone we can form
correct judgments.
We have still to inquire into the question of the employment of these
different forms of defence.
As they are merely gradations of the same which must be purchased by a
higher sacrifice, corresponding to the increased intensity of the form,
there would seem to be sufficient in that view to indicate always to
the general which he should choose, provided there are no other
circumstances which interfere. He would, in fact, choose that form
which appeared sufficient to give his force the requisite degree of
defensive power and no more, that there might be no unnecessary waste
of his force. But we must not overlook the circumstance that the room
given for choice amongst these different forms is generally very
circumscribed, because other circumstances which must be attended to
necessarily urge a preference for one or other of them. For a retreat
into the interior of the country a considerable superficial space is
required, or such a condition of things as existed in Portugal (1810),
where one ally (England) gave support in rear, and another (Spain) with
its wide territory, considerably diminished the impulsive force of the
enemy. The position of the fortresses more on the frontier or more in
the interior may likewise decide for or against such a plan; but still
more the nature of the country and ground, the character, habits, and
feelings of the inhabitants. The choice between an offensive or
defensive battle may be decided by the plans of the enemy, by the
peculiar qualities of both armies and their generals; lastly, the
possession of an excellent position or line of defence, or the want of
them may determine for one or the other;—in short, at the bare mention
of these things, we can perceive that the choice of the form of
defensive must in many cases be determined more by them than by the
mere relative strength of the armies. As we shall hereafter enter more
into detail on the more important subjects which have just been touched
upon, the influence which they must have upon the choice will then
develop itself more distinctly, and in the end the whole will be
methodised in the Book on Plans of Wars and Campaigns.
But this influence will not, in general, be decisive unless the
inequality in the strength of the opposing armies is trifling; in the
opposite case (as in the generality of cases), the relation of the
numerical strength will be decisive. There is ample proof, in military
history, that it has done so heretofore, and that without the chain of
reasoning by which it has been brought out here; therefore in a manner
intuitively by _mere tact of judgment_, like most things that happen in
war. It was the same general who at the head of the same army, and on
the same theatre of war, fought the battle of Hohenfriedberg, and at
another time took up the camp of Bunzelwitz. Therefore even Frederick
the Great, a general above all inclined to the offensive as regards the
battle, saw himself compelled at last, by a great disproportion of
force, to resort to a real defensive position; and Buonaparte, who was
once in the habit of falling on his enemy like a wild boar, have we not
seen him, when the proportion of force turned against him, in August
and September, 1813, turn himself hither and thither as if he had been
pent up in a cage, instead of rushing forward recklessly upon some one
of his adversaries? And in October of the same year, when the
disproportion reached its climax, have we not seen him at Leipsic,
seeking shelter in the angle formed by the Parth, the Elster, and
Pleiss, as it were waiting for his enemy in the corner of a room, with
his back against the wall?
We cannot omit to observe, that from this chapter, more than from any
other in our book, it is plainly shown that our object is not to lay
down new principles and methods of conducting war, but merely to
investigate what has long existed in its innermost relations, and to
reduce it to its simplest elements.
CHAPTER IX. Defensive Battle
We have said, in the preceding chapter, that the defender, in his
defensive, would make use of a battle, technically speaking, of a
purely offensive character, if, at the moment the enemy invades his
theatre of war, he marches against him and attacks him; but that he
might also wait for the appearance of the enemy in his front, and then
pass over to the attack; in which case also the battle tactically would
be again an offensive battle, although in a modified form; and lastly,
that he might wait till the enemy attacked his position, and then
oppose him both by holding a particular spot, and by offensive action
with portions of his force. In all this we may imagine several
different gradations and shades, deviating always more from the
principle of a positive counterstroke, and passing into that of the
defence of a spot of ground. We cannot here enter on the subject of how
far this should be carried, and which is the most advantageous
proportion of the two elements of offensive and defensive, as regards
the winning a decisive victory. But we maintain that when such a result
is desired, the offensive part of the battle should never be completely
omitted, and we are convinced that all the effects of a decisive
victory may and must be produced by this offensive part, just as well
as in a purely tactical offensive battle.
In the same manner as the field of battle is only a point in strategy,
the duration of a battle is only, strategically, an instant of time,
and the end and result, not the course of a battle, constitutes a
strategic quantity.
Now, if it is true that a complete victory may result from the
offensive elements which lie in every defensive battle, then there
would be no fundamental difference between an offensive and a defensive
battle, as far as regards strategic combinations; we are indeed
convinced that this is so, but the thing wears a different appearance.
In order to fix the subject more distinctly in the eye, to make our
view clear and thereby remove the appearance now referred to, we shall
sketch, hastily, the picture of a defensive battle, such as we imagine
it.
The defensive waits the attack in a position; for this he has selected
proper ground, and turned it to the best account, that is, he has made
himself well acquainted with the locality, thrown up strong
entrenchments at some of the most important points, opened and levelled
communications, constructed batteries, fortified villages, and looked
out places where he can draw up his masses under cover, etc., etc.,
etc. Whilst the forces on both sides are consuming each other at the
different points where they come into contact, the advantage of a front
more or less strong, the approach to which is made difficult by one or
more parallel trenches or other obstacles, or also by the influence of
some strong commanding points, enables him with a _small part of his
force_ to destroy _great numbers of the enemy_ at every stage of the
defence up to the heart of the position. The points of support which he
has given his wings secure him from any sudden attack from several
quarters; the covered ground which he has chosen for his masses makes
the enemy cautious, indeed timid, and affords the defensive the means
of diminishing by partial and successful attacks the general backward
movement which goes on as the combat becomes gradually concentrated
within narrower limits. The defender therefore casts a contented look
at the battle as it burns in a moderate blaze before him;—but he does
not reckon that his resistance in front can last for ever;—he does not
think his flanks impregnable;—he does not expect that the whole course
of the battle will be changed by the successful charge of a few
battalions or squadrons. His position is _deep_, for each part in the
scale of gradation of the order of battle, from the division down to
the battalion, has its reserve for unforeseen events, and for a renewal
of the fight; and at the same time an important mass, one fifth to a
quarter of the whole, is kept quite in the rear out of the battle, so
far back as to be quite out of fire, and if possible so far as to be
beyond the circuitous line by which the enemy might attempt to turn
either flank. With this corps he intends to cover his flanks from wider
and greater turning movements, secure himself against unforeseen
events, and in the latter stage of the battle, when the assailant’s
plan is fully developed, when the most of his troops have been brought
into action, he will throw this mass on a part of the enemy’s army, and
open at that part of the field a smaller offensive battle on his own
part, using all the elements of attack, such as charges, surprise,
turning movements, and by means of this pressure against the centre of
gravity of the battle, now only resting on a point, make the whole
recoil.
This is the normal idea which we have formed of a defensive battle,
based on the tactics of the present day. In this battle the general
turning movement made by the assailant in order to assist his attack,
and at the same time with a view to make the results of victory more
complete, is replied to by a partial turning movement on the part of
the defensive, that is, by the turning of that part of the assailant’s
force used by him in the attempt to turn. This partial movement may be
supposed sufficient to destroy the effect of the enemy’s attempt, but
it cannot lead to a like general enveloping of the assailant’s army;
and there will always be a distinction in the features of a victory on
this account, that the side fighting an offensive battle encircles the
enemy’s army, and acts towards the centre of the same, while the side
fighting on the defensive acts more or less from the centre to the
circumference, in the direction of the radii.
On the field of battle itself, and in the first stages of the pursuit,
the enveloping form must always be considered the most effectual; we do
not mean on account of its form generally, we only mean in the event of
its being carried out to such an extreme as to limit very much the
enemy’s means of retreat during the battle. But it is just against this
extreme point that the enemy’s positive counter-effort is directed, and
in many cases where this effort is not sufficient to obtain a victory,
it will at least suffice to protect him from such an extreme as we
allude to. But we must always admit that this danger, namely, of having
the line of retreat seriously contracted, is particularly great in
defensive battles, and if it cannot be guarded against, the results in
the battle itself, and in the first stage of the retreat are thereby
very much enhanced in favour of the enemy.
But as a rule this danger does not extend beyond the first stage of the
retreat, that is, until night-fall; on the following day enveloping is
at an end, and both parties are again on an equality in this respect.
Certainly the defender may have lost his principal line of retreat, and
therefore be placed in a disadvantageous strategic situation for the
future; but in most cases the turning movement itself will be at an
end, because it was only planned to suit the field of battle, and
therefore cannot apply much further. But what will take place, on the
other hand, if the _defender_ is victorious? A division of the defeated
force. This may facilitate the retreat at the first moment, but _next
day a concentration of all parts_ is the one thing most needful. Now if
the victory is a most decisive one, if the defender pursues with great
energy, this concentration will often become impossible, and from this
separation of the beaten force the worst consequences may follow, which
may go on step by step to a complete rout. If Buonaparte had conquered
at Leipsic, the allied army would have been completely cut in two,
which would have considerably lowered their relative strategic
position. At Dresden, although Buonaparte certainly did not fight a
regular defensive battle, the attack had the geometrical form of which
we have been speaking, that is, from the centre to the circumference;
the embarrassment of the Allies in consequence of their separation, is
well known, an embarrassment from which they were only relieved by the
victory on the Katzbach, the tidings of which caused Buonaparte to
return to Dresden with the Guard.
This battle on the Katzbach itself is a similar example. In it the
defender, at the last moment passes over to the offensive, and
consequently operates on diverging lines; the French corps were thus
wedged asunder, and several days after, as the fruits of the victory,
Puthod’s division fell into the hands of the Allies.
The conclusion we draw from this is, that if the assailant, by the
concentric form which is homogeneous to him, has the means of giving
expansion to his victory, on the other hand the defender also, by the
divergent form which is homogeneous to the defence, acquires a a means
of giving greater results to his victory than would be the case by a
merely parallel position and perpendicular attack, and we think that
one means is at least as good as the other.
If in military history we rarely find such great victories resulting
from the defensive battle as from the offensive, that proves nothing
against our assertion that the one is as well suited to produce victory
as the other; the real cause is in the very different relations of the
defender. The army acting on the defensive is generally the weaker of
the two, not only in the amount of his forces, but also in every other
respect; he either is, or thinks he is, not in a condition to follow up
his victory with great results, and contents himself with merely
fending off the danger and saving the honour of his arms. That the
defender by inferiority of force and other circumstances may be tied
down to that degree we do not dispute, but there is no doubt that this,
which is only the consequence of a contingent necessity, has often been
assumed to be the consequence of that part which every defender has to
play: and thus in an absurd manner it has become a prevalent view of
the defensive that its battles should really be confined to warding off
the attacks of the enemy, and not directed to the destruction of the
enemy. We hold this to be a prejudicial error, a regular substitution
of the form for the thing itself; and we maintain unreservedly that in
the form of war which we call _defence_, the victory may not only be
more probable, but may also attain the same magnitude and efficacy as
in the attack, and that this may be the case not only in the _total
result_ of all the combats which constitute campaign, but also in any
_particular_ battle, if the necessary degree of force and energy is not
wanting.
CHAPTER X. Fortresses
Formerly, and up to the time of great standing armies, fortresses, that
is castles and fortified towns, were only built for the defence and
protection of the inhabitants. The baron, if he saw himself pressed on
all sides, took refuge in his castle to gain time and wait a more
favourable moment; and towns sought by their walls to keep off the
passing hurricane of war. This simplest and most natural object of
fortresses did not continue to be the only one; the relation which such
a place acquired with regard to the whole country and to troops acting
here and there in the country soon gave these fortified points a wider
importance, a signification which made itself felt beyond their walls,
and contributed essentially to the conquest or occupation of the
country, to the successful or unsuccessful issue of the whole contest,
and in this manner they even became a means of making war more of a
connected whole. Thus fortresses acquired that strategic significance
which for a time was regarded as so important that it dictated the
leading features of the plans of campaigns, which were more directed to
the taking of one or more fortresses than the destruction of the
enemy’s army in the field. Men reverted to the cause of the importance
of these places, that is to the connection between a fortified point,
and the country, and the armies; and then thought that they could not
be sufficiently particular or too philosophical in choosing the points
to be fortified. In these abstract objects the original one was almost
lost sight of, and at length they came to the idea of fortresses
without either towns or inhabitants.
On the other hand, the times are past in which the mere enclosure of a
place with walls, without any military preparations, could keep a place
dry during an inundation of war sweeping over the whole country. Such a
possibility rested partly on the division of nations formerly into
small states, partly on the periodical character of the incursions then
in vogue, which had fixed and very limited duration, almost in
accordance with the seasons, as either the feudal forces hastened home,
or the pay for the condottieri used regularly to run short. Since large
standing armies, with powerful trains of artillery mow down the
opposition of walls or ramparts as it were with a machine, neither town
nor other small corporation has any longer an inclination to hazard all
their means only to be taken a few weeks or months later, and then to
be treated so much the worse. Still less can it be the interest of an
army to break itself up into garrisons for a number of strong places,
which may for a time retard the progress of the enemy, but must in the
end submit. We must always keep enough forces, over and above those in
garrison, to make us equal to the enemy in the open field, unless we
can depend on the arrival of an ally, who will relieve our strong
places and set our army free. Consequently the number of fortresses has
necessarily much diminished, and this has again led to the abandonment
of the idea of directly protecting the population and property in towns
by fortifications, and promoted the other idea of regarding the
fortresses as an indirect protection to the country, which they secure
by their strategic importance as knots which hold together the
strategic web.
Such has been the course of ideas, not only in books but also in actual
experience, at the same time, as usually happens, it has been much more
spun out in books.
Natural as was this tendency of things, still these ideas were carried
out to an extreme, and mere crotchets and fancies displaced the sound
core of a natural and urgent want. We shall look into these simple and
important wants when we enumerate the objects and conditions of
fortresses all together; we shall thereby advance from the simple to
the more complicated, and in the succeeding chapter we shall see what
is to be deduced therefrom as to the determination of the position and
number of fortresses.
The efficacy of a fortress is plainly composed of two different
elements, the passive and the active. By the first it shelters the
place, and all that it contains; by the other it possesses a certain
influence over the adjacent country, even beyond the range of its guns.
This active element consists in the attacks which the garrison may
undertake upon every enemy who approaches within a certain distance.
The larger the garrison, so much the stronger numerically will be the
detachments that may be employed on such expeditions, and the stronger
such detachments the wider as a rule will be the range of their
operations; from which it follows that the sphere of the active
influence of a great fortress is not only greater in intensity but also
more extensive than that of a small one. But the active element itself
is again, to a certain extent, of two kinds, consisting namely of
enterprises of the garrison proper, and of enterprises which other
bodies of troops, great and small, not belonging to the garrison but in
co-operation with it, may be able to carry out. For instance, corps
which independently would be too weak to face the enemy, may, through
the shelter which, in case of necessity, the walls of a fortress afford
them, be able to maintain themselves in the country, and to a certain
extent to command it.
The enterprises which the garrison of a fortress can venture to
undertake are always somewhat restricted. Even in the case of large
places and strong garrisons, the bodies of troops which can be employed
on such operations are mostly inconsiderable as compared with the
forces in the field, and their average sphere of action seldom exceeds
a couple of days’ marches. If the fortress is small, the detachments it
can send out are quite insignificant and the range of their activity
will generally be confined to the nearest villages. But corps which do
not belong to the garrison, and therefore are not under the necessity
of returning to the place, are thereby much more at liberty in their
movements, and by their means, if other circumstances are favourable,
the external zone of action of a fortress may be immensely extended.
Therefore if we speak of the active influence of fortresses in general
terms, we must always keep this feature of the same principally in
view.
But even the smallest active element of the weakest garrison, is still
essential for the different objects which fortresses are destined to
fulfil, for strictly speaking even the most passive of all the
functions of a fortress (defence against attack) cannot be imagined
exclusive of that active agency. At the same time it is evident that
amongst the different purposes which a fortress may have to answer
generally, or in this or that moment, the passive element will be most
required at one time, the active at another. The role which a fortress
is to fulfil may be perfectly simple, and the action of the place will
in such case be to a certain extent direct; it may be partly
complicated, and the action then becomes more or less indirect. We
shall examine these subjects separately, commencing with the first; but
at the outset we must state that a fortress may be intended to answer
several of these purposes, perhaps all of them, either at once, or at
least at different stages of the war.
We say, therefore, that fortresses are great and most important
supports of the defensive.
1. _As secure depots of stores of all kinds._ The assailant during his
aggression subsists his army from day to day; the defensive usually
must have made preparations long beforehand, he need not therefore draw
provisions exclusively from the district he occupies, and which he no
doubt desires to spare. Storehouses are therefore for him a great
necessity. The provisions of all kinds which the aggressor possesses
are in his rear as he advances, and are therefore exempt from the
dangers of the theatre of war, while those of the defensive are exposed
to them. If these provisions of all kinds are not in _fortified
places_, then a most injurious effect on the operations in the field is
the consequence, and the most extended and compulsory positions often
become necessary in order to cover depots or sources of supply.
An army on the defensive without fortresses has a hundred vulnerable
spots; it is a body without armour.
2. _As a protection to great and wealthy towns_. This purpose is
closely allied to the first, for great and wealthy towns, especially
commercial ones, are the natural storehouses of an army; as such their
possession and loss affects the army directly. Besides this, it is also
always worth while to preserve this portion of the national wealth,
partly on account of the resources which they furnish directly, partly
because, in negotiations for peace, an important place is in itself a
valuable weight thrown into the scale.
This use of fortresses has been too little regarded in modern times,
and yet it is one of the most natural, and one which has a most
powerful effect, and is the least liable to mistakes. If there was a
country in which not only all great and rich cities, but all populous
places as well were fortified, and defended by the inhabitants and the
people belonging to the adjacent districts, then by that means the
expedition of military operation would be so much reduced, and the
people attacked would press with so great a part of their whole weight
in the scales, that the talent as well as the force of will of the
enemy’s general would sink to nothing.
We just mention this ideal application of fortification to a country to
do justice to what we have just supposed to be the proper use of
fortresses, and that the importance of the _direct_ protection which
they afford may not be overlooked for a moment; but in any other
respect this idea will not again interrupt our considerations, for
amongst the whole number of fortresses there must always be some which
must be more strongly fortified than others, to serve as the real
supports of the active army.
The purposes specified under 1 and 2 hardly call forth any other but
the passive action of fortresses.
3. _As real barriers_, they close the roads, and in most cases the
rivers, on which they are situated.
It is not as easy as is generally supposed to find a practicable
lateral road which passes round a fortress, for this turning must be
made, not only out of reach of the guns of this place, but also by a
detour greater or less, to avoid sorties of the garrison.
If the country is in the least degree difficult, there are often delays
connected with the slightest deviation of the road which may cause the
loss of a whole day’s march, and, if the road is much used, may become
of great importance.
How they may have an influence on enterprises by closing the navigation
of a river is clear in itself.
4. _As tactical points d’appui_. As the diameter of the zone covered by
the fire of even a very inferior class of fortifications is usually
some leagues, fortresses may be considered always as the best points
d’appui for the flanks of a position. A lake of several miles long is
certainly an excellent support for the wing of an army, and yet a
fortress of moderate size is better. The flank does not require to rest
close upon it, as the assailant, for the sake of his retreat, would not
throw himself between our flank and that obstacle.
5. _As a station_ (_or stage_). If fortresses are on the line of
communication of the defensive, as is generally the case, they serve as
halting places for all that passes up and down these lines. The chief
danger to lines of communication is from irregular bands, whose action
is always of the nature of a shock. If a valuable convoy, on the
approach of such a comet, can reach a fortress by hastening the march
or quickly turning, it is saved, and may wait there till the danger is
past. Further, all troops marching to or from the army, after halting
here for a a few days, are better able to hasten the remainder of the
march, and a halting day is just the time of greatest danger. In this
way a fortress situated half way on a line of communication of 30 miles
shortens the line in a manner one half.
6. _As places of refuge for weak or defeated corps._ Under the guns of
a moderate sized fortress every corps is safe from the enemy’s blows,
even if no entrenched camp is specially prepared for them. No doubt
such a corps must give up its further retreat if it waits too long; but
this is no great sacrifice in cases where a further retreat would only
end in complete destruction.
In many cases a fortress can ensure a few days’ halt without the
retreat being altogether stopped. For the slightly wounded and
fugitives who precede a beaten army, it is especially suited as a place
of refuge, where they can wait to rejoin their corps.
If Magdeburg had lain on the direct line of the Prussian retreat in
1806, and if that line had not been already lost at Auerstadt, the army
could easily have halted for three or four days near that great
fortress, and rallied and reorganised itself. But even as it was it
served as a rallying point for the remains of Hohenlohe’s corps, which
there first resumed the appearance of an army.
It is only by actual experience in war itself that the beneficial
influence of fortresses close at hand in disastrous times can be
rightly understood. They contain powder and arms, forage and bread,
give covering to the sick, security to the sound, and recovery of sense
to the panic-stricken. They are like an hostelry in the desert.
In the four last named purposes it is evident that the active agency of
fortresses is called more into requisition.
7. _As a real shield against the enemy’s aggression._ Fortresses which
the defender leaves in his front break the stream of the enemy’s attack
like blocks of ice. The enemy must at least invest them, and requires
for that, if the garrisons are brave and enterprising, perhaps double
their strength. But, besides, these garrisons may and do mostly consist
in part of troops, who, although competent to duty in a garrison, are
not fit for the field—half trained militia, invalids, convalescents,
armed citizens, landsturm, etc. The enemy, therefore, in such case is
perhaps weakened four times more than we are.
This disproportionate weakening of the enemy’s power is the first and
most important but not the only advantage which a besieged fortress
affords by its resistance. From the moment that the enemy crosses our
line of fortresses, all his movements become much more constrained; he
is limited in his lines of retreat, and must constantly attend to the
direct covering of the sieges which he undertakes.
Here, therefore, fortresses co-operate with the defensive act in a most
extensive and decisive manner, and of all the objects that they can
have, this may be regarded as the most important.
If this use of fortresses—far from being seen regularly repeating
itself—seldom comparatively occurs in military history, the cause is to
be found in the character of most wars, this means being to a certain
extent far too decisive and too thoroughly effectual for them, the
explanation of which we leave till hereafter.
In this use of fortresses it is chiefly their offensive power that is
called for, at least it is that by which their effectual action is
chiefly produced. If a fortress was no more to an aggressor than a
point which could not be occupied by him, it might be an obstacle to
him, but not to such a degree as to compel him to lay siege to it But
as he cannot leave six, eight, or ten thousand men to do as they like
in his rear, he is obliged to invest the place with a sufficient force,
and if he desires that this investment should not continue to employ so
large a detachment, he must convert the investment into a siege, and
take the place. From the moment the siege commences, it is then chiefly
the passive efficacy of the fortress which comes into action.
All the destinations of fortresses which we have been hitherto
considering are fulfilled in a simple and mainly in a direct manner. On
the other hand, in the next two objects the method of action is more
complicated.
8. _As a protection to extended cantonments._ That a moderate-sized
fortress closes the approach to cantonments lying behind it for a width
of three or four milesis a simple result of its existence; but how such
a place comes to have the honour of covering a line of cantonments
fifteen or twenty miles in length, which we find frequently spoken of
in military history as a fact—that requires investigation as far as it
has really taken place, and refutation so far as it may be mere
illusion.
The following points offer themselves for consideration:—
(1.) That the place in itself blocks one of the main roads, and really
covers a breadth of three or four miles of country.
(2.) That it may be regarded as an exceptionally strong advanced post,
or that it affords a more complete observation of the country, to which
may be added facilities in the way of secret information through the
ordinary relations of civil life which exist between a great town and
the adjacent districts It is natural that in a place of six, eight or
ten thousand inhabitants, one should be able to learn more of what is
going on in the neighbourhood than in a mere village, the quarters of
an ordinary outpost.
(3.) That smaller corps are appuyed on it, derive from it protection
and security, and from time to time can advance towards the enemy, it
may be to bring in intelligence, or, in case he attempts to turn the
fortress, to underdertake something against his rear; that therefore
although a fortress, cannot quit its place, still it may have the
efficacy of an advanced corps (Fifth Book, eighth Chapter).
(4.) That the defender, after assembling his corps, can take up his
position at a point directly behind this fortress, which the assailant
cannot reach without becoming exposed to danger from the fortress in
his rear.
No doubt every attack on a line of cantonments as such is to be taken
in the sense of a surprise, or rather, we are only speaking here of
that kind of attack; now it is evident in itself that an attack by
surprise accomplishes its effect in a much shorter space of time than a
regular attack on a theatre of war. Therefore, although in the latter
case, a fortress which is to be passed by must necessarily be invested
and kept in check, this investment will not be so indispensable in the
case of a mere sudden attack on cantonments, and therefore in the same
proportion the fortress will be less an obstacle to the attack of the
cantonments. That is true enough; also the cantonments lying at a
distance of six to eight miles from the fortress cannot be directly
protected by it; but the object of such a sudden attack does not
consist alone in the attack of a few cantonments. Until we reach the
book on attack we cannot describe circumstantially the real object of
such a sudden attack and what may be expected from it; but this much we
may say at present, that its principal results are obtained, not by the
actual attack on some isolated quarters, but by the series of combats
which the aggressor forces on single corps not in proper order, and
more bent upon hurrying to certain points than upon fighting. But this
attack and pursuit will always be in a direction more or less towards
the centre of the enemy’s cantonments, and, therefore, an important
fortress lying before this centre will certainly prove a very great
impediment to the attack.
If we reflect on these four points in the whole of their effects, we
see that an important fortress in a direct and in an indirect way
certainly gives some security to a much greater extent of cantonments
than we should think at first sight. “Some security” we say, for all
these indirect agencies do not render the advance of the enemy
impossible; they only make it _more difficult_, and a _more serious
consideration;_ consequently less probable and less of a danger for the
defensive. But that is also all that was required, and all that should
be understood in this case under the term covering. The real direct
security must be attained by means of outposts and the arrangement of
the cantonments themselves.
There is, therefore, some truth in ascribing to a great fortress the
capability of covering a wide extent of cantonments lying in rear of
it; but it is also not to be denied that often in plans of real
campaigns, but still oftener in historical works, we meet with vague
and empty expressions, or illusory views in connection with this
subject. For if that covering is only realised by the co-operation of
several circumstances, if it then also only produces a diminution of
the danger, we can easily see that, in particular cases, through
special circumstances, above all, through the boldness of the enemy,
this whole covering may prove an illusion, and therefore in actual war
we must not content ourselves with assuming hastily at once the
efficacy of such and such a fortress, but carefully examine and study
each single case on its own merits.
9. _As covering a province not occupied._ If during war province is
either not occupied at all, or only occupied by an insufficient force,
and likewise exposed more or less to incursions from flying columns,
then a fortress, if not too unimportant in size, may be looked upon as
a covering, or, if we prefer, as a security for this province. As a
security it may at all events be regarded, for an enemy cannot become
master of the province until he has taken it, and that gives us time to
hasten to its defence. But the actual covering can certainly only be
supposed very indirect, or as _not preperly belonging to it_. That is,
the fortress by its active opposition can only in some measure check
the incursions of hostile bands. If this opposition is limited to
merely what the garrison can effect, then the result must be little
indeed, for the garrisons of such places are generally weak and usually
consist of infantry only, and that not of the best quality. The idea
gains a little more reality if small columns keep themselves in
communication with the place, making it their base and place of retreat
in case of necessity.
10. _As the focus of a general arming of the nation._ Provisions, arms,
and munitions can never be supplied in a regular manner in a People’s
War; on the other hand, it is just in the very nature of such a war to
do the best we can; in that way a thousand small sources furnishing
means of resistance are opened which otherwise might have remained
unused; and it is easy to see that a strong commodious fortress, as a
great magazine of these things, can well give to the whole defence more
force and intensity, more cohesion, and greater results.
Besides, a fortress is a place of refuge for wounded, the seat of the
civil functionaries, the treasury, the point of assembly for the
greater enterprises, etc., etc.; lastly, a nucleus of resistance which
during the siege places the enemy’s force in a condition which
facilitates and favours the attacks of national levies acting in
conjunction.
11. _For the defence of rivers and mountains._ Nowhere can a fortress
answer so many purposes, undertake to play so many parts, as when it is
situated on a great river. It secures the passage at any time at that
spot, and hinders that of the enemy for several miles each way, it
commands the use of the river for commercial purposes, receives all
ships within its walls, blocks bridges and roads, and helps the
indirect defence of the river, that is, the defence by a position on
the enemy’s side. It is evident that, by its influence in so many ways,
it very greatly facilitates the defence of the river, and may be
regarded as an essential part of that defence.
Fortresses in mountains are important in a similar manner. They there
form the knots of whole systems of roads, which have their commencement
and termination at that spot; they thus command the whole country which
is traversed by these roads, and they may be regarded as the true
buttresses of the whole defensive system.
CHAPTER XI. Fortresses (_Continued_)
We have discussed the object of fortresses: now for their situation. At
first the subject seems very complicated, when we think of the
diversity of objects, each of which may again be modified by the
locality; but such a view has very little foundation if we keep to the
essence of the thing, and guard against unnecessary subtilties.
It is evident that all these demands are at once satisfied, if, in
those districts of country which are to be regarded as the theatre of
war, all the largest and richest towns on the great high roads
connecting the two countries with each other are fortified, more
particularly those adjacent to harbours and bays of the sea, or
situated on large rivers and in mountains. Great towns and great roads
always go hand in hand, and both have also a natural connection with
great rivers and the coasts of the sea, all these four conditions,
therefore, agree very well with each other, and give rise to no
incongruity; on the other hand, it is not the same with mountains, for
large towns are seldom found there. If, therefore, the position and
direction of a mountain chain makes it favourable to a defensive line,
it is necessary to close its roads and passes by small forts, built for
this purpose only, and at the least possible cost, the great outlay on
works of fortification being reserved for the important places of arms
in the level country.
We have not yet noticed the frontiers of the state, nor said anything
of the geometrical form of the whole system of fortresses, nor of the
other geographical points in connection with their situation, because
we regard the objects above mentioned as the most essential, and are of
opinion that in many cases they alone are sufficient, particularly in
small states. But, at the same time, other considerations may be
admitted, and may be imperative in countries of a greater superficial
extent, which either have a great many important towns and roads, or,
on the contrary, are almost without any, which are either very rich,
and, possessing already many fortresses, still want new ones, or those
which, on the other hand, are very poor, and under the necessity of
making a few answer, in short, in cases where the number of fortresses
does not correspond with the number of important towns and roads which
present themselves, being either considerably greater or less.
We shall now cast a glance at the nature of such other considerations.
The chief questions which remain relate to
1. The choice of the principal roads, if the two countries are
connected by more roads than we wish to fortify.
2. Whether the fortresses are to be placed on the frontier only, or
spread over the country. Or,
3. Whether they shall be distributed uniformly, or in groups.
4. Circumstances relating to the geography of the country to which it
is necessary to pay attention.
A number of other points with respect to the geometrical form of the
line of fortifications, such as whether they should be placed in a
single line or in several lines, that is, whether they do more service
when placed one behind another, or side by side in line with each
other; whether they should be chequer-wise, or in a straight line; or
whether they should take the form of a fortification itself, with
salients and re-entering angles all these we look upon as empty
subtilties, that is, considerations so insignificant, that, compared
with the really important points, they are not worth notice; and we
only mention them here because they are not merely treated of in many
books, but also a great deal more is made of this rubbish than it is
worth.
As regards the first question, in order to place it in a clearer light
we shall merely instance the relation of the south of Germany to
France, that is, to the upper Rhine. If, without reference to the
number of separate states composing this district of country, we
suppose it a whole which is to be fortified strategically, much doubt
will arise, for a great number of very fine roads lead from the Rhine
into the interior of Franconia, Bavaria and Austria. Certainly, towns
are not wanting which surpass others in size and importance, as
Nuremburg, Wurzburg, Ulm, Augsburg, and Munich; but if we are not
disposed to fortify all, there is no alternative but to make a
selection. If, further, in accordance with our view, the fortification
of the greatest and wealthiest is held to be the principal thing, still
it is not to be denied that, owing to the distance between Nuremburg
and Munich, the first has a very different strategic signification from
the second; and therefore it always remains to be considered whether it
would not be better, in place of Nuremburg, to fortify some other place
in the neighbourhood of Munich, even if the place is one of less
importance in itself.
As concerns the decision in such cases, that is, answering the first
question, we must refer to what has been said in the chapters on the
general plan of defence, and on the choice of points of attack.
Wherever the most natural point of attack is situated, there the
defensive arrangements should be made by preference.
Therefore, amongst a number of great roads leading from the enemy’s
country into ours, we should first of all fortify that which leads most
directly to the heart of our dominions, or that which, traversing
fertile provinces, or running parallel to navigable rivers, facilitates
the enemy’s undertaking, and then we may rest secure. The assailant
then encounters these works, or should he resolve to pass them by, he
will naturally offer a favourable opportunity for operations against
his flank.
Vienna is the heart of South Germany, and plainly Munich or Augsburg,
in relation to France alone (Switzerland and Italy being therefore
supposed neutral) would be more efficient as a principal fortress than
Nuremburg or Wurzburg. But if, at the same time, we look at the roads
leading from Italy into Germany by Switzerland and the Tyrol, this will
become still more evident, because, in relation to these, Munich and
Augsburg will always be places of importance, whereas Wurzburg and
Nuremburg are much the same, in this respect, as if they did not exist.
We turn now to the second question Whether the fortresses should be
placed on the frontier, or distributed over the country? In the first
place, we must observe, that, as regards small states, this question is
superfluous, for what are called _strategic frontiers_ coincide, in
their case, nearly with the whole country. The larger the state is
supposed to be in the consideration of this question, the plainer
appears the necessity for its being answered.
The most natural answer is, that fortresses belong to the frontiers,
for they are to defend the state, and the state is defended as long as
the frontiers are defended. This argument may be valid in the abstract,
but the following considerations will show that it is subject to very
many modifications.
Every defence which is calculated chiefly on foreign assistance lays
great value on gaining time; it is not a vigorous counterstroke, but a
slow proceeding, in which the chief gain consists more in delay than in
any weakening of the enemy which is effected. But now it lies in the
nature of the thing that, supposing all other circumstances alike,
fortresses which are spread over the whole country, and include between
them a very considerable area of territory, will take longer to capture
than those squeezed together in a close line on the frontier. Further,
in all cases in which the object is to overcome the enemy through the
length of his communications, and the difficulty of his existence
therefore in countries which can chiefly reckon on this kind of
reaction, it would be a complete contradiction to have the defensive
preparations of this kind only on the frontier. Lastly, let us also
remember that, if circumstances will in any way allow of it, the
fortification of the capital is a main point; that according to our
principles the chief towns and places of commerce in the provinces
demand it likewise; that rivers passing through the country, mountains,
and other irregular features of ground, afford advantages for new lines
of defence; that many towns, through their strong natural situation,
invite fortification; moreover, that certain accessories of war, such
as manufactories of arms, &c., are better placed in the interior of the
country than on the frontier, and their value well entitles them to the
protection of works of fortification; then we see that there is always
more or less occasion for the construction of fortresses in the
interior of a country; on this account we are of opinion, that although
states which possess a great number of fortresses are right in placing
the greater number on the frontier, still it would be a great mistake
if the interior of the country was left entirely destitute of them. We
think that this mistake has been made in a remarkable degree in France.
A great doubt may with reason arise if the border provinces of a
country contain no considerable towns, such towns lying further back
towards the interior, as is the case in South Germany in particular,
where Swabia is almost destitute of great towns, whilst Bavaria
contains a large number. We do not hold it to be necessary to remove
these doubts once for all on general grounds, believing that in such
cases, in order to arrive at a solution, reasons derived from the
particular situation must come into consideration. Still we must call
attention to the closing remarks in this chapter.
The third question Whether fortresses should be disposed in groups, or
more equally distributed? will, if we reflect upon it, seldom arise;
still we must not, for that reason, set it down as a useless subtilty,
because certainly a group of two, three, or four fortresses, which are
only a few days’ march from a common centre, give that point and the
army placed there such strength, that, if other conditions allowed of
it, in some measure one would be very much tempted to form such a
strategic bastion.
The last point concerns the other geographical properties of the points
to be chosen. That fortresses on the sea, on streams and great rivers,
and in mountains, are doubly effective, has been already stated to be
one of the principal considerations; but there are a number of other
points in connection with fortresses to which regard must be paid.
If a fortress cannot lie on the river itself, it is better not to place
it near, but at a distance of ten or twelve miles from it; otherwise,
the river intersects, and lowers the value of the sphere of action of
the fortress in all those points above mentioned.(*)
(*) Philippsburg was the pattern of a badly-placed fortress; it
resembled a fool standing with his nose close to a wall.
This is not the same in mountains, because there the movement of large
or small masses upon particular points is not restricted in the same
degree as it is by a river. But fortresses on the enemy’s side of a
mountain are not well placed, because they are difficult to succour. If
they are on our side, the difficulty of laying siege to them is very
great, as the mountains cut across the enemy’s line of communication.
We give Olmütz, 1758, as an example.
It is easily seen that impassable forests and marshes have a similar
effect to that of rivers.
The question has been often raised as to whether towns situated in a
very difficult country are well or ill suited for fortresses. As they
can be fortified and defended at a small expense, or be made much
stronger, often impregnable, at an equal expenditure, and the services
of a fortress are always more passive than active, it does not seem
necessary to attach much importance to the objection that they can
easily be blockaded.
If we now, in conclusion, cast a retrospective glance over our simple
system of fortification for a country, we may assert that it rests on
comprehensive data, lasting in their nature, and directly connected
with the foundations of the state itself, not on transient views on
war, fashionable for a day; not on imaginary strategic niceties, nor on
requirements completely singular in character an error which might be
attended with irreparable consequences if allowed to influence the
construction of fortresses intended to last five hundred, perhaps a
thousand, years. Silberberg, in Silesia, built by Frederick the Great
on one of the ridges of the Sudetics, has, from the complete alteration
in circumstances which has since taken place, lost almost entirely its
importance and object, whilst Breslau, if it had been made a strong
place of arms, and continued to be so, would have always maintained its
value against the French, as well as against the Russians, Poles, and
Austrians.
Our reader will not overlook the fact that these considerations are not
raised on the supposed case of a state providing itself with a set of
new fortifications; they would be useless if such was their object, as
such a case seldom, if ever, happens; but they may all arise at the
designing of each single fortification.
CHAPTER XII. Defensive Position
Every position in which we accept battle, at the same time making use
of the ground as a means of protection, is a _defensive position_, and
it makes no difference in this respect whether we act more passively or
more offensively in the action. This follows from the general view of
the defensive which we have given.
Now we may also apply the term to every position in which an army
whilst marching to encounter the enemy would certainly accept battle if
the latter sought for it. In point of fact, most battles take place in
this way, and in all the middle ages no other was ever thought of. That
is, however, not the kind of position of which we are now speaking; by
far the greater number of positions are of this kind, and the
conception of a _position_ in contradistinction to a _camp taken up on
the march_ would suffice for that. A position which is specially called
a _defensive position_ must therefore have some other distinguishing
characteristics.
In the decisions which take place in an ordinary position, the idea of
time evidently predominates; the armies march against each other in
order to come to an engagement: the place is a subordinate point, all
that is required from it is that it should not be unsuitable. But in a
real defensive position the idea of _place_ predominates; the decision
is to be realised on this _spot_, or rather, chiefly _through_ this
spot. That is the only kind of position we have here in view.
Now the connection of place is a double one; that is, in the first
instance, inasmuch as a force posted at this point exercises a certain
influence upon the war in general; and next, inasmuch as the local
features of the ground contribute to the strength of the army and
afford protection: in a word, a strategic and a tactical connection.
Strictly speaking, the term _defensive position_ has its origin only in
connection with tactics, for its connection with strategy, namely, that
an army posted at this point by its presence serves to defend the
country, will also suit the case of an army acting offensively.
The strategic effect to be derived from a position cannot be shown
completely until hereafter, when we discuss the defence of a theatre of
war; we shall therefore only consider it here as far as can be done at
present, and for that end we must examine more closely the nature of
two ideas which have a similarity and are often mistaken for one
another, that is, the _turning a position_, and _the passing by it_.
The turning a position relates to its front, and is done either by an
attack upon the side of the position or on its rear, or by acting
against its lines of retreat and communication.
The first of these, that is, an attack on flank or rear is tactical in
its nature. In our days in which the mobility of troops is so great,
and all plans of battles have more or less in view the turning or
enveloping the enemy, every position must accordingly be adapted to
meet such measures, and one to deserve the name of strong must, with a
strong front, allow at least of good combinations for battle on the
sides and rear as well, in case of their being menaced. In this way a
position will not become untenable by the enemy turning it with a view
to an attack on the flank or rear, as the battle which then takes place
was provided for in the choice of the position, and should ensure the
defender all the advantages which he could expect from this position
generally.
If the position _is turned_ by the enemy with a view to acting against
the lines of retreat and communication, this is a _strategic_ relation,
and the question is how long the position can be maintained, and
whether we cannot outbid the enemy by a scheme like his own, both these
questions depend on the situation of the point (strategically), that
is, chiefly on the relations of the lines of communication of both
combatants. A good position should secure to the army on the defensive
the advantage in this point. In any case the position will not be
rendered of no effect in this way, as the enemy is neutralised by the
position when he is occupied by it in the manner supposed.
But if the assailant, without troubling himself about the existence of
the army awaiting his attack in a defensive position, advances with his
main body by another line in pursuit of his object, then he _passes by
the position;_ and if he can do this with impunity, and really does it,
he will immediately enforce the abandonment of the position,
consequently put an end to its usefulness.
There is hardly any position in the world which, in the simple sense of
the words, cannot be passed by, for cases such as the isthmus of
Perekop are so rare that they are hardly worth attention. The
impossibility of passing by must therefore be understood as merely
applying to the disadvantages in which the assailant would become
involved if he set about such an operation. We shall have a more
fitting opportunity to state these disadvantages in the twenty-seventh
chapter; whether small or great, in every case they are the equivalent
of the tactical effect which the position is capable of producing but
which has not been realised, and in common with it constitute the
object of the position.
From the preceding observations, therefore, two strategic properties of
the defensive position have resulted:
1. That it cannot be passed round.
2. That in the struggle for the lines of communication it gives the
defender advantages.
Here we have to add two other strategic properties, namely—
3. That the relation of the lines of communication may also have a
favourable influence on the form of combat; and
4. That the general influence of the country is advantageous.
For the relation of the lines of communication has an influence not
only upon the possibility or impossibility of passing by a position or
of cutting off the enemy’s supplies, but also on the whole course of
the battle. An oblique line of retreat facilitates a tactical turning
movement on the part of the assailant, and paralyses our own tactical
movements during the battle. But an oblique position in relation to the
lines of communication is often not the fault of tactics but a
consequence of a defective strategic point; it is, for example, not to
be avoided when the road changes direction in the vicinity of the
position (Borodino, 1812); the assailant is then in such a position
that he can turn our line _without deviating from, his own
perpendicular disposition._
Further, the aggressor has much greater freedom for tactical movement
if he commands several roads for his retreat whilst we are limited to
one. In such cases the tactical skill of the defensive will be exerted
in vain to overcome the disadvantageous influence resulting from the
strategic relations.
Lastly as regards the fourth point, such a disadvantageous general
influence may predominate in the other characteristics of ground, that
the most careful choice, and the best use of tactical means, can do
nothing to combat them. Under such circumstances the chief points are
as follows:
1. The defensive must particularly seek for the advantage of being able
to overlook his adversary, so that he may be able swiftly to throw
himself upon him inside the limits of his position. It is only when the
local difficulties of approach combine with these two conditions that
the ground is really favourable to the defensive.
On the other hand, those points which are under the influence of
commanding ground are disadvantageous to him; also most positions in
mountains (of which we shall speak more particularly in the chapters on
mountain warfare). Further, positions which rest one flank on
mountains, for such a position certainly makes the _passing by_ more
difficult, but facilitates a _turning movement_. Of the same kind are
all positions which have a mountain immediately in their front, and
generally all those which bear relation to the description of ground
above specified.
As an example of the opposite of these disadvantageous properties, we
shall only instance the case of a position which has a mountain in
rear; from this so many advantages result that it may be assumed in
general to be one of the most favourable of all positions for the
defensive.
2. A country may correspond more or less to the character and
composition of an army. A very numerous cavalry is a proper reason for
seeking an open country. Want of this arm, perhaps also of artillery,
while we have at command a courageous infantry inured to war, and
acquainted with the country, make it advisable to take advantage of a
difficult, close country.
We do not here enter into particulars respecting the tactical relation
which the local features of a defensive position bear to the force
which is to occupy it. We only speak of the total result, as that only
is a strategic quantity.
Undoubtedly a position in which an army is to await the full force of
the hostile attack, should give the troops such an important advantage
of ground as may be considered a multiplier of its force. Where nature
does much, but not to the full as much as we want, the art of
entrenchment comes to our help. In this way it happens not unfrequently
that some parts become _unassailable_, and not unusually the whole is
made so: plainly in this last case, the whole nature of the measure is
changed. It is then no longer a battle under advantageous conditions
which we seek, and in this battle the issue of the campaign, but an
issue without a battle. Whilst we occupy with our force an unassailable
position, we directly refuse the battle, and oblige our enemy to seek
for a solution in some other way.
We must, therefore, completely separate these two cases, and shall
speak of the latter in the following chapter, under the title of a
_strong position_.
But the defensive position with which we have now to do is nothing more
than a field of battle with the addition of advantages in our favour;
and that it should become a field of battle, the advantages in our
favour must not be _too great_. But now what degree of strength may
such a position have? Plainly more in proportion as our enemy is more
determined on the attack, and that depends on the nature of the
individual case. Opposed to a Buonaparte, we may and should withdraw
behind stronger ramparts than before a Daun or a Schwartzenburg.
If certain portions of a position are unattackable, say the front, then
that is to be taken as a separate factor of its whole strength, for the
forces not required at that point are available for employment
elsewhere; but we must not omit to observe that whilst the enemy is
kept completely off such impregnable points, the form of his attack
assumes quite a different character, and we must ascertain, in the
first instance, how this alteration will suit our situation.
For instance, to take up a position, as has often been done, so close
behind a great river that it is to be looked upon as covering the
front, is nothing else but to make the river a point of support for the
right or left flank; for the enemy is naturally obliged to cross
further to the right or left, and cannot attack without changing his
front: the chief question, therefore, is what advantages or
disadvantages does that bring to us?
According to our opinion, a defensive position will come the nearer to
the true ideal of such a position the more its strength is hid from
observation, and the more it is favourable to our surprising the enemy
by our combinations in the battle. Just as we advisably endeavour to
conceal from the enemy the whole strength of our forces and our real
intentions, so in the same way we should seek to conceal from the enemy
the advantages which we expect to derive from the form of the ground.
This of course can only be done to a certain degree, and requires,
perhaps, a peculiar mode of proceeding, hitherto but little attempted.
The vicinity of a considerable fortress, in whatever direction it may
be, confers on every position a great advantage over the enemy in the
movement and use of the forces belonging to it. By suitable
field-works, the want of natural strength at particular points may be
remedied, and in that manner the great features of the battle may be
settled beforehand at will; these are the means of strengthening by
art; if with these we combine a good selection of those natural
obstacles of ground which impede the effective action of the enemy’s
forces without making action absolutely impossible, if we turn to the
best account the advantage we have over the enemy in knowing the
ground, which he does not, so that we succeed in concealing our
movements better than he does his, and that we have a general
superiority over him in unexpected movements in the course of the
battle, then from these advantages united, there may result in our
favour an overpowering and decisive influence in connection with the
ground, under the power of which the enemy will succumb, without
knowing the real cause of his defeat. This is what we understand under
_defensive position_, and we consider it one of the greatest advantages
of defensive war.
Leaving out of consideration particular circumstances, we may assume
that an undulating, not too well, but still not too little, cultivated
country affords the most positions of this kind.
CHAPTER XIII. Strong Positions and Entrenched Camps
We have said in the preceding chapter that a position so strong through
nature, assisted by art, that it is unassailable, does not come under
the meaning of an advantageous field of battle, but belongs to a
peculiar class of things. We shall in this chapter take a review of
what constitutes the nature of this peculiarity, and on account of the
analogy between such positions and fortresses, call them _strong
positions_.
Merely by entrenchments alone they can hardly be formed, except as
entrenched camps resting on fortresses; but still less are they to be
found ready formed entirely by natural obstacles. Art usually lends a
hand to assist nature, and therefore they are frequently designated as
_entrenched_ camps or positions. At the same time, that term may really
be applied to any position strengthened more or less by field works,
which need have nothing in common with the nature of the position we
are now considering.
The object of a strong position is to make the force there stationed in
point of fact unattackable, and by that means, either really to cover a
certain space directly, or only the troops which occupy that space in
order then, through them, in another way to effect the covering of the
country indirectly. The first was the signification of the _lines_ of
former times, for instance, those on the French frontier; the latter,
is that of _entrenched camps_ laid out near fortresses, and showing a
front in every direction.
If, for instance, the front of a position is so strong by works and
hindrances to approach that an attack is impossible, then the enemy is
compelled to turn it, to make his attack on a side of it or in rear.
Now to prevent this being easily done, _points d’appui_ were sought for
these lines, which should give them a certain degree of support on the
side, such as the Rhine and the Vosges give the lines in Alsace. The
longer the front of such a line the more easily it can be protected
from being turned, because every movement to turn it is attended with
danger to the side attempting the movement, the danger increasing in
proportion as the required movement causes a greater deviation from the
normal direction of the attacking force. Therefore, a considerable
length of front, which can be made unassailable, and good
flank-supports, ensure the possibility of protecting a large space of
territory directly from hostile invasion: at least, that was the view
in which works of this class originated; that was the object of the
lines in Alsace, with their right flank on the Rhine and the left on
the Vosges; and the lines in Flanders, fifteen miles long, resting
their right on the Scheldt and the fortress of Tournay, their left on
the sea.
But when we have not the advantages of such a long well-defended front,
and good flank-supports, if the country is to be held generally by a
force well entrenched, then that force (and its position) must be
protected against being turned by such an arrangement that it can show
a front in every direction. But then the idea of _a thoroughly covered
tract of country_ vanishes, for such a position is only strategically a
point which covers the force occupying it, and thus secures to that
force the power of keeping the field, that is to say, _maintaining
itself in the country_. Such a camp cannot be _turned_, that is, cannot
be attacked in flank or rear by reason of those parts being weaker than
its front, for it can show front in all directions, and is equally
strong everywhere. But such a camp can be _passed by_, and that much
easier than a fortified line, because its extent amounts to nothing.
Entrenched camps connected with fortresses are in reality of this
second kind, for the object of them is to protect the troops assembled
in them; but their further strategic meaning, that is, the application
of this protected force, is somewhat different from that of other
fortified camps.
Having given this explanation of the origin of these three different
defensive means, we shall now proceed to consider the value of each of
them separately, under the heads of _strong lines, strong positions_,
and _entrenched camps resting on fortresses._
1. _Lines_.—They are the worst kind of cordon war: the obstacle which
they present to the aggressor is of no value at all unless they are
defended by a powerful fire; in themselves they are simply worthless.
But now the extent to which an army can furnish an effective fire is
generally very small in proportion to the extent of country to be
defended; the lines can, therefore, only be short, and consequently
cover only a small extent of country, or the army will not be able
really to defend the lines at all points. In consequence of this, the
idea was started of not occupying all points in the line, but only
watching them, and defending them by means of strong reserves, in the
same way as a small river may be defended; but this procedure is in
opposition to the nature of the means. If the natural obstacles of the
ground are so great that such a method of defence could be applied,
then the entrenchments were needless, and entail danger, for that
method of defence is not local, and entrenchments are only suited to a
strictly local defence; but if the entrenchments themselves are to be
considered the chief impediments to approach, then we may easily
conceive that an _undefended_ line will not have much to say as an
obstacle to approach. What is a twelve or fifteen feet ditch, and a
rampart ten or twelve feet high, against the united efforts of many
thousands, if these efforts are not hindered by the fire of an enemy?
The consequence, therefore, is, that if such lines are short and
tolerably well defended by troops, they can be _turned;_ but if they
are extensive, and not sufficiently occupied, they can be attacked in
front, and taken without much difficulty.
Now as lines of this description tie the troops down to a local
defence, and take away from them all mobility, they are a bad and
senseless means to use against an enterprising enemy. If we find them
long retained in modern wars in spite of these objections, the cause
lies entirely in the low degree of energy impressed on the conduct of
war, one consequence of which was, that seeming difficulties often
effected quite as much as real ones. Besides, in most campaigns these
lines were used merely for a secondary defence against irregular
incursions; if they have been found not wholly inefficacious for that
purpose, we must only keep in view, at the same time, how much more
usefully the troops required for their defence might have been employed
at other points. In the latest wars such lines have been out of the
question, neither do we find any trace of them; and it is doubtful if
they will ever re-appear.
2. _Positions._—The defence of a tract of country continues (as we
shall show more plainly in the 27th chapter) as long as the force
designated for it maintains itself there, and only ceases if that force
removes and abandons it.
If a force is to maintain itself in any district of country which is
attacked by very superior forces, the means of protecting this force
against the power of the sword by a position which is unassailable is a
first consideration.
Now such a position, as before said, must be able to show a front in
all directions; and in conformity with the _usual_ extent of tactical
positions, if the force is not _very large_ (and a large force would be
contrary to the nature of the supposed case) it would take up a very
small space, which, in the course of the combat, would be exposed to so
many disadvantages that, even if strengthened in every possible way by
entrenchments, we could hardly expect to make a successful defence.
Such a camp, showing front in every direction, must therefore
necessarily have an extent of sides proportionably great; but these
sides must likewise be as good as unassailable; to give this requisite
strength, notwithstanding the required extension, is not within the
compass of the art of field fortification; it is therefore a
fundamental condition that such a camp must derive part of its strength
from natural impediments of ground which render many places impassable
and others difficult to pass. In order, therefore, to be able to apply
this defensive means, it is necessary to find such a spot, and when
that is wanting, the object cannot be attained merely by field works.
These considerations relate more immediately to tactical results in
order that we may first establish the existence of this strategic
means; we mention as examples for illustration, Pirna, Bunzelwitz,
Colberg, Torres Vedras, and Drissa. Now, as respects the strategic
properties and effects. The first condition is naturally that the force
which occupies this camp shall have its subsistence secured for some
time, that is, for as long as we think the camp will be required, and
this is only possible when the position has behind it a port, like
Colberg and Torres Vedras, or stands in connection with a fortress like
Bunzelwitz and Pirna, or has large depôts within itself or in the
immediate vicinity, like Drissa.
It is only in the first case that the provisioning can be ensured for
any time we please; in the second and third cases, it can only be so
for a more or less limited time, so that in this point there is always
danger. From this appears how the difficulty of subsistence debars the
use of many strong points which otherwise would be suitable for
entrenched positions, and, therefore, makes those that are eligible
_scarce_.
In order to ascertain the eligibility of a position of this
description, its advantages and defects, we must ask ourselves what the
aggressor can do against it.
_a._ The assailant can pass by this strong position, pursue his
enterprise, and watch the position with a greater or less force.
We must here make a distinction between the cases of a position which
is occupied by the main body, and one only occupied by an inferior
force.
In the first case the passing by the position can only benefit the
assailant, if, besides the principal force of the defendant, there is
also some other attainable and _decisive object of attack_, as, for
instance, the capture of a fortress or a capital city, etc. But even if
there is such an object, he can only follow it if the strength of his
base and the direction of his lines of communication are such that he
has no cause to fear operations against his strategic flanks.
The conclusions to be drawn from this with respect to the admissibility
and eligibility of a strong position for the main body of the
defender’s army are, that it is only an advisable position when either
the possibility of operating against the strategic flank of the
aggressor is so decisive that we may be sure beforehand of being able
in that way to keep him at a point where his army can effect nothing,
or in a case where there is no object attainable by the aggressor for
which the defence need be uneasy. If there is such an object, and the
strategic flank of the assailant cannot be seriously menaced, then such
position should not be taken up, or if it is it should only be as a
feint to see whether the assailant can be imposed upon respecting its
value; this is always attended with the danger, in case of failure, of
being too late to reach the point which is threatened.
If the strong position is only held by an inferior force, then the
aggressor can never be at a loss for a further object of attack,
because he has it in the main body itself of the enemy’s army; in this
case, therefore, the value of the position is entirely limited to the
means which it affords of operating against the enemy’s strategic
flank, and depends upon that condition.
_b._ If the assailant does not venture to pass by a position, he can
invest it and reduce it by famine. But this supposes two conditions
beforehand: first, that the position is not open in rear, and secondly,
that the assailant is sufficiently strong to be able to make such an
investment. If these two conditions are united then the assailant’s
army certainly would be neutralised for a time by this strong position,
but at the same time, the defensive pays the price of this advantage by
a loss of his defensive force.
From this, therefore, we deduce that the occupation of such a strong
position with the main body is a measure only to be taken,—
_aa._ When the rear is perfectly safe (Torres Vedras).
_bb._ When we foresee that the enemy’s force is not strong enough
formally to invest us in our camp. Should the enemy attempt the
investment with insufficient means, then we should be able to sally out
of the camp and beat him in detail.
_cc._ When we can count upon relief like the Saxons at Pirna, 1756, and
as took place in the main at Prague, because Prague could only be
regarded as an entrenched camp in which Prince Charles would not have
allowed himself to be shut up if he had not known that the Moravian
army could liberate him.
One of these three conditions is therefore absolutely necessary to
justify the choice of a strong position for the main body of an army;
at the same time we must add that the two last are bordering on a great
danger for the defensive.
But if it is a question of exposing an inferior corps to the risk of
being sacrificed for the benefit of the whole, then these conditions
disappear, and the only point to decide is whether by such a sacrifice
a greater evil may be avoided. This will seldom happen; at the same
time it is certainly not inconceivable. The entrenched camp at Pirna
prevented Frederick the Great from attacking Bohemia, as he would have
done, in the year 1756. The Austrians were at that time so little
prepared, that the loss of that kingdom appears beyond doubt; and
perhaps, a greater loss of men would have been connected with it than
the 17,000 allied troops who capitulated in the Pirna camp.
_c._ If none of those possibilities specified under _a_ and _b_ are in
favour of the aggressor; if, therefore, the conditions which we have
there laid down for the defensive are fulfilled, then there remains
certainly nothing to be done by the assailant but to fix himself before
the position, like a setter before a covey of birds, to spread himself,
perhaps, as much as possible by detachments over the country, and
contenting himself with these small and indecisive advantages to leave
the real decision as to the possession of territory to the future. In
this case the position has fulfilled its object.
3. _Entrenched camps near fortresses._—They belong, as already said, to
the class of entrenched positions generally, in so far, as they have
for their object to cover not a tract of territory, but an armed force
against a hostile attack, and only differ in reality from the other in
this, that with the fortress they make up an inseparable whole, by
which they naturally acquire much greater strength.
But there follows further from the above the undermentioned special
points.
_a._ That they may also have the particular object of rendering the
siege of the fortress either impossible or extremely difficult. This
object may be worth a great sacrifice of troops if the place is a port
which cannot be blockaded, but in any other case we have to take care
lest the place is one which may be reduced by hunger so soon that the
sacrifice of any considerable number of troops is not justifiable.
_b._ Entrenched camps can be formed near fortresses for smaller bodies
of troops than those in the open field. Four or five thousand men may
be invincible under the walls of a fortress, when, on the contrary, in
the strongest camp in the world, formed in the open field, they would
be lost.
_c._ They may be used for the assembly and organisation of forces which
have still too little solidity to be trusted in contact with the enemy,
without the support afforded by the works of the place, as for example,
recruits, militia, national levies, etc.
They might, therefore, be recommended as a very useful measure, in many
ways, if they had not the immense disadvantage of injuring the
fortress, more or less, when they cannot be occupied; and to provide
the fortress always with a garrison, in some measure sufficient to
occupy the camp also, would be much too onerous a condition.
We are, therefore, very much inclined to consider them only advisable
for places on a sea coast, and as more injurious than useful in all
other cases.
If, in conclusion, we should summarise our opinion in a general view,
then strong and entrenched positions are—
1. The more requisite the smaller the country, the less the space
afforded for a retreat.
2. The less dangerous the more surely we can reckon on succouring or
relieving them by other forces, or by the inclemency of season, or by a
rising of the nation, or by want, &c.
3. The more efficacious, the weaker the elementary force of the enemy’s
attack.
CHAPTER XIV. Flank Positions
We have only allotted to this prominent conception, in the world of
ordinary military theory, a special chapter in dictionary fashion, that
it may the more easily be found; for we do not believe that anything
independent in itself is denoted by the term.
Every position which is to be held, even if the enemy passes by it, is
a flank position; for from the moment that he does so it can have no
other efficacy but that which it exercises on the enemy’s strategic
flank. Therefore, necessarily, all _strong positions_ are flank
positions as well; for as they cannot be attacked, the enemy
accordingly is driven to pass them by, therefore they can only have a
value by their influence on his strategic flank. The direction of the
proper front of a strong position is quite immaterial, whether it runs
parallel with the enemy’s strategic flank, as Colberg, or at right
angles as Bunzelwitz and Drissa, for a strong position must front every
way.
But it may also be desirable still to maintain a position which is
_not_ unassailable, even if the enemy passes by it, should its
situation, for instance, give us such a preponderating advantage in the
comparative relations of the lines of retreat and communication, that
we can not only make an efficacious attack on the strategic flank of
the advancing enemy, but also that the enemy alarmed for his own
retreat is unable to seize ours entirely; for if that last is not the
case, then because our position is not a strong, that is not an
_unassailable one_, we should run the risk of being obliged to fight
without having the command of any retreat.
The year 1806 affords an example which throws a light on this. The
disposition of the Prussian army, on the right bank of the Saal, might
in respect to Buonaparte’s advance by Hof, have become in every sense a
flank position, if the army had been drawn up with its front parallel
to the Saal, and there, in that position, waited the progress of
events.
If there had not been here such a disproportion of moral and physical
powers, if there had only been a Daun at the head of the French army,
then the Prussian position might have shown its efficacy by a most
brilliant result. To pass it by was quite impossible; that was
acknowledged by Buonaparte, by his resolution to attack it; in severing
from it the line of retreat even Buonaparte himself did not
_completely_ succeed, and if the disproportion in physical and moral
relations had not been quite so great, that would have been just as
little practicable as the passing it by, for the Prussian army was in
much less danger from its left wing being overpowered than the French
army would have been by the defeat of their left wing. Even with the
disproportion of physical and moral power as it existed, a resolute and
sagacious exercise of the command would still have given great hopes of
a victory. There was nothing to prevent the Duke of Brunswick from
making arrangements on the 13th, so that on the morning of the 14th, at
day-break, he might have opposed 80,000 men to the 60,000 with which
Buonaparte passed the Saal, near Jena and Dornburg. Had even this
superiority in numbers, and the steep valley of the Saal behind the
French not been sufficient to procure a decisive victory, still it was
a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, and if with such advantages
no successful decision could be gained, no decision was to be expected
in that district of country; and we should, therefore, have retreated
further, in order to gain reinforcements and weaken the enemy.
The Prussian position on the Saal, therefore, although assailable,
might have been regarded as a flank position in respect to the great
road through Hof; but like every position which can be attacked, that
property is not to be attributed to it absolutely, because it would
only have become so if the enemy had not attempted to attack it.
Still less would it bespeak a clear idea if those positions which
_cannot_ be maintained after the enemy has passed by them, and from
which, in consequence of that, the defensive seeks to attack the
assailant’s flank, were called _flank positions_ merely because his
attack is directed against a flank; for this flank attack has hardly
anything to do with the position itself, or, at least, is not mainly
produced by its properties, as is the case in the action against a
strategic flank.
It appears from this that there is nothing new to establish with regard
to the properties of a flank position. A few words only on the
character of the measure may properly be introduced here; we set aside,
however, completely strong positions in the true sense, as we have said
enough about them already.
A flank position which is not assailable is an extremely efficacious
instrument, but certainly just on that account a dangerous one. If the
assailant is checked by it, then we have obtained a great effect by a
small expenditure of force; it is the pressure of the finger on the
long lever of a sharp bit. But if the effect is too insignificant, if
the assailant is not stopped, then the defensive has more or less
imperilled his retreat, and must seek to escape either in haste and by
a detour—consequently under very unfavourable circumstances, or he is
in danger of being compelled to fight without any line of retreat being
open to him. Against a bold adversary, having the moral superiority,
and seeking a decisive solution, this means is therefore extremely
hazardous and entirely out of place, as shown by the example of 1806
above quoted. On the other hand, when used against a cautious opponent
in a war of mere observation, it may be reckoned one of the best means
which the defensive can adopt. The Duke Ferdinand’s defence of the
Weser by his position on the left bank, and the well-known positions of
Schmotseifen and Landshut are examples of this; only the latter, it is
true, by the catastrophe which befell Fouqué’s corps in 1760, also
shows the danger of a false application.
CHAPTER XV. Defence of Mountains
The influence of mountains on the conduct of war is very great; the
subject, therefore, is very important for theory. As this influence
introduces into action a retarding principle, it belongs chiefly to the
defensive. We shall therefore discuss it here in a wider sense than
that conveyed by the simple conception, defence of mountains. As we
have discovered in our consideration of the subject results which run
counter to general opinion in many points, we shall therefore be
obliged to enter into rather an elaborate analysis of it.
We shall first examine the tactical nature of the subject, in order to
gain the point where it connects itself with strategy.
The endless difficulty attending the march of large columns on mountain
roads, the extraordinary strength which a small post obtains by a steep
scarp covering its front, and by ravines right and left supporting its
flanks, are unquestionably the principal causes why such efficacy and
strength are universally attributed to the defence of mountains, so
that nothing but the peculiarities in armament and tactics at certain
periods has prevented large masses of combatants from engaging in it.
When a column, winding like a serpent, toils its way through narrow
ravines up to the top of a mountain, and passes over it at a snail’s
pace, artillery and train-drivers, with oaths and shouts, flogging
their over-driven cattle through the narrow rugged roads, each broken
waggon has to be got out of the way with indescribable trouble, whilst
all behind are detained, cursing and blaspheming, every one then thinks
to himself, Now if the enemy should appear with only a few hundred men,
he might disperse the whole. From this has originated the expression
used by historical writers, when they describe a narrow pass as a place
where “a handful of men might keep an army in check.” At the same time,
every one who has had any experience in war knows, or ought to know,
that such a march through mountains has little or nothing in common
with _the attack_ of these same mountains, and that therefore to infer
from the _difficulty_ of marching through mountains that the difficulty
of attacking them must be much greater is a false conclusion.
It is natural enough that an inexperienced person should thus argue,
and it is almost as natural that the art of war itself for a certain
time should have been entangled in the same error, for the fact which
it related to was almost as new at that time to those accustomed to war
as to the uninitiated. Before the Thirty Years’ War, owing to the deep
order of battle, the numerous cavalry, the rude fire-arms, and other
peculiarities, it was quite unusual to make use of formidable obstacles
of ground in war, and a formal defence of mountains, at least by
regular troops, was almost impossible. It was not until a more extended
order of battle was introduced, and that infantry and their arms became
the chief part of an army, that the use which might be made of hills
and valleys occurred to men’s minds. But it was not until a hundred
years afterwards, or about the middle of the eighteenth century, that
the idea became fully developed.
The second circumstance, namely, the great defensive capability which
might be given to a small post planted on a point difficult of access,
was still more suited to lead to an exaggerated idea of the strength of
mountain defences. The opinion arose that it was only necessary to
multiply such a post by a certain number to make an army out of a
battalion, a chain of mountains out of a mountain.
It is undeniable that a small post acquires an extraordinary strength
by selecting a good position in a mountainous country. A small
detatchment, which would be driven off in the level country by a couple
of squadrons, and think itself lucky to save itself from rout or
capture by a hasty retreat, can in the mountains stand up before a
whole army, and, as one might say, with a kind of tactical effrontery
exact the military honour of a regular attack, of having its flank
turned, etc., etc. How it obtains this defensive power, by obstacles to
approach, _points d’appui_ for its flanks, and new positions which it
finds on its retreat, is a subject for tactics to explain; we accept it
as an established fact.
It was very natural to believe that a number of such posts placed in a
line would give a very strong, almost unassailable front, and all that
remained to be done was to prevent the position from being turned by
extending it right and left until either flank-supports were met with
commensurate with the importance of the whole, or until the extent of
the position itself gave security against turning movements. A
mountainous country specially invites such a course by presenting such
a succession of defensive positions, each one apparently better than
another, that one does not know where to stop; and therefore it ended
in all and every approach to the mountains within a certain distance
being guarded, with a view to defence, and ten or fifteen single posts,
thus spread over a space of about ten miles or more, were supposed to
bid defiance to that odious turning movement. Now as the connection
between these posts was considered sufficiently secure by the
intervening spaces, being ground of an impassable nature (columns at
that time not being able to quit the regular roads), it was thought a
wall of brass was thus presented to the enemy. As an extra precaution,
a few battalions, some horse artillery, and a dozen squadrons of
cavalry, formed a reserve to provide against the event of the line
being unexpectedly burst through at any point.
No one will deny that the prevalence of this idea is shown by history,
and it is not certain that at this day we are completely emancipated
from these errors.
The course of improvement in tactics since the Middle Ages, with the
ever increasing strength of armies, likewise contributed to bring
mountainous districts in this sense more within the scope of military
action.
The chief characteristic of mountain defence is its complete passivity;
in this light the tendency towards the defence of mountains was very
natural before armies attained to their present capability of movement.
But armies were constantly becoming greater, and on account of the
effect of fire-arms began to extend more and more into long thin lines
connected with a great deal of art, and on that account very difficult,
often almost impossible, to move. To dispose, in order of battle, such
an artistic machine, was often half a day’s work, and half the battle;
and almost all which is now attended to in the preliminary plan of the
battle was included in this first disposition or drawing up. After this
work was done it was therefore difficult to make any modifications to
suit new circumstances which might spring up; from this it followed
that the assailant, being the last to form his line of battle,
naturally adapted it to the order of battle adopted by the enemy,
without the latter being able in turn to modify his in accordance. The
attack thus acquired a general superiority, and the defensive had no
other means of reinstating the balance than that of seeking protection
from the impediments of ground, and for this nothing was so favourable
in general as mountainous ground. Thus it became an object to couple,
as it were, the army with a formidable obstacle of ground, and the two
united then made common cause. The battalion defended the mountain, and
the mountain the battalion; so the passive defence through the aid of
mountainous ground became highly efficacious, and there was no other
evil in the thing itself except that it entailed a greater loss of
freedom of movement, but of that quality they did not understand the
particular use at that time.
When two antagonistic systems act upon each other, the exposed, that
is, the weak point on the one side always draws upon itself the blows
from the other side. If the defensive becomes fixed, and as it were,
spell-bound in posts, which are in themselves strong, and can not be
taken, the aggressor then becomes bold in turning movements, because he
has no apprehension about his own flanks. This is what took place—The
_turning_, as it was called, soon became the order of the day: to
counteract this, positions were extended more and more; they were thus
weakened in front, and the offensive suddenly turned upon that part:
instead of trying to outflank by extending, the assailant now
concentrated his masses for attack at some one point, and the line was
broken. This is nearly what took place in regard to mountain defences
according to the latest modern history.
The offensive had thus again gained a preponderance through the greater
mobility of troops; and it was only through the same means that the
defence could seek for help. But mountainous ground by its nature is
opposed to mobility, and thus the whole theory of mountain defence
experienced, if we may use the expression, a defeat like that which the
armies engaged in it in the Revolutionary war so often suffered.
But that we may not reject the good with the bad, and allow ourselves
to be carried along by the stream of commonplace to assertions which,
in actual experience, would be refuted a thousand times by the force of
circumstances, we must distinguish the effects of mountain defence
according to the nature of the cases.
The principal question to be decided here, and that which throws the
greatest light over the whole subject is, whether the resistance which
is intended by the defence of mountains is to be _relative_ or
_absolute_—whether it is only intended to last for a time, or is meant
to end in a decisive victory. For a resistance of the first kind
mountainous ground is in a high degree suitable, and introduces into it
a very powerful element of strength; for one of the latter kind, on the
contrary, it is in general not at all suitable, or only so in some
special cases.
In mountains every movement is slower and more difficult, costs also
more time, and more men as well, if within the sphere of danger. But
the loss of the assailant in time and men is the standard by which the
defensive resistance is measured. As long as the movement is all on the
side of the offensive so long the defensive has a marked advantage; but
as soon as the defensive resorts to this principle of movement also,
that advantage ceases. Now from the nature of the thing, that is to
say, on tactical grounds, a relative resistance allows of a much
greater degree of passivity than one which is intended to lead to a
decisive result, and it allows this passivity to be carried to an
extreme, that is, to the end of the combat, which in the other case can
never happen. The impeding element of mountain ground, which as a
medium of greater density weakens all positive activity, is, therefore,
completely suited to the passive defence.
We have already said that a small post acquires an extraordinary
strength by the nature of the ground; but although this tactical result
in general requires no further proof, we must add to what we have said
some explanation. We must be careful here to draw a distinction between
what is relatively and what is absolutely small. If a body of troops,
let its size be what it may, isolates a portion of itself in a
position, this portion may possibly be exposed to the attack of the
whole body of the enemy’s troops, therefore of a superior force, in
opposition to which it is itself small. There, as a rule, no absolute
but only a relative defence can be the object. The smaller the post in
relation to the whole body from which it is detached and in relation to
the whole body of the enemy, the more this applies.
But a post also which is small in an absolute sense, that is, one which
is not opposed by an enemy superior to itself, and which, therefore,
may aspire to an absolute defence, a real victory, will be infinitely
better off in mountains than a large army, and can derive more
advantage from the ground as we shall show further on.
Our conclusion, therefore, is, that a small post in mountains possesses
great strength. How this may be of decisive utility in all cases which
depend entirely on a _relative_ defence is plain of itself; but will it
be of the same decisive utility for the _absolute_ defence by a whole
army? This is the question which we now propose to examine.
First of all we ask whether a front line composed of several posts has,
as has hitherto been assumed, the same strength proportionally as each
post singly. This is certainly not the case, and to suppose so would
involve one of two errors.
In the first place, a country _without roads_ is often confounded with
one which is _quite impassable_. Where a column, or where artillery and
cavalry cannot _march_, infantry may still, in general, be able to
pass, and even artillery may often be brought there as well, for the
movements made in a battle by excessive efforts of short duration are
not to be judged of by the same scale as marches. The secure connection
of the single posts with one another rests therefore on an illusion,
and the flanks are in reality in danger.
Or next it is supposed, a line of small posts, which are very strong in
front, are also equally strong on their flanks, because a ravine, a
precipice, etc., etc., form excellent supports for a small post. But
why are they so?—not because they make it impossible to turn the post,
but because they cause the enemy an expenditure of time and of force,
which gives scope for the effectual action of the post. The enemy who,
in spite of the difficulty of the ground, wishes, and in fact is
obliged, to turn such a post, because the front is unassailable
requires, perhaps, half-a-day to execute his purpose, and cannot after
all accomplish it without some loss of men. Now if such a post can be
succoured, or if it is only designed to resist for a certain space of
time, or lastly, if it is able to cope with the enemy, then the flank
supports have done their part, and we may say the position had not only
a strong front, but strong flanks as well. But it is not the same if it
is a question of a line of posts, forming part of an extended mountain
position. None of these three conditions are realised in that case. The
enemy attacks one point with an overwhelming force, the support in rear
is perhaps slight, and yet it is a question of absolute resistance.
Under such circumstances the flank supports of such posts are worth
nothing.
Upon a weak point like this the attack usually directs its blows. The
assault with concentrated, and therefore very superior forces, upon a
point in front, may certainly _be met by a resistance, which is very
violent as regards that point, but which is unimportant as regards the
whole._ After it is overcome, the line is pierced, and the object of
the attack attained.
From this it follows that the relative resistance in mountain warfare
is, in general, greater than in a level country, that it is
comparatively greatest in small posts, and does not increase in the
same measure as the masses increase.
Let us now turn to the real object of great battles generally—to the
_positive victory_ which may also be the object in the defence of
mountains. If the whole mass, or the principal part of the force, is
employed for that purpose, then _the defence of mountains_ changes
itself _eo ipso_ into a _defensive battle in the mountains_. A battle,
that is the application of all our powers to the destruction of the
enemy is now the form, a victory the object of the combat. The defence
of mountains which takes place in this combat, appears now a
subordinate consideration, for it is no longer the object, it is only
the means. Now in this view, how does the ground in mountains answer to
the object?
The character of a defensive battle is a passive reaction in front, and
an increased active reaction in rear; but for this the ground in
mountains is a paralysing principle. There are two reasons for this:
first, want of roads affording means of rapidly moving in all
directions, from the rear towards the front, and even the sudden
tactical attack is hampered by the unevenness of ground; secondly, a
free view over the country, and the enemy’s movements is not to be had.
The ground in mountains, therefore, ensures in this case to the enemy
the same advantages which it gave to us in the front, and deadens all
the better half of the resistance. To this is to be added a third
objection, namely the danger of being cut off. Much as a mountainous
country is favourable to a retreat, made under a pressure exerted along
the whole front, and great as may be the loss of time to an enemy who
makes a turning movement in such a country, still these again are only
advantages in the case of a _relative defence_, advantages which have
no connection with the decisive battle, the resistance to the last
extremity. The resistance will last certainly somewhat longer, that is
until the enemy has reached a point with his flank-columns which
menaces or completely bars our retreat. Once he has gained such a point
then relief is a thing hardly possible. No act of the offensive which
we can make from the rear can drive him out again from the _points
which threaten us;_ no desperate assault with our whole mass can clear
the passage _which he blocks_. Whoever thinks he discovers in this a
contradiction, and believes that the advantages which the assailant has
in mountain warfare, must also accrue to the defensive in an attempt to
cut his way through, forgets the difference of circumstances. The corps
which opposes the passage is not engaged in an _absolute_ defence, a
few hours’ resistance will probably be sufficient; it is, therefore, in
the situation of a small post. Besides this, its opponent is no longer
in full possession of all his fighting powers; he is thrown into
disorder, wants ammunition, etc. Therefore, in any view, the chance of
cutting through is small, and this is the danger that the defensive
fears above all; this fear is at work even during the battle, and
enervates every fibre of the struggling athlete. A nervous sensibility
springs up on the flanks, and every small detachment which the
aggressor makes a display of on any wooded eminence in our rear, is for
him a new lever, helping on the victory.
These disadvantages will, for the most part, disappear, leaving all the
advantages, if the defence of a mountain district consists in the
concentrated disposition of the army on an extensive mountain plateau.
There we may imagine a very strong front; flanks very difficult of
approach, and yet the most perfect freedom of movement, both within and
in rear of the position. Such a position would be one of the strongest
that there can be, but it is little more than an illusion, for although
most mountains are more easily traversed along their crests than on
their declivities, yet most plateaux of mountains are either too small
for such a purpose, or they have no proper right to be called plateaux,
and are so termed more in a geological, than in a geometrical sense.
For smaller bodies of troops, the disadvantages of a defensive position
in mountains diminish as we have already remarked. The cause of this
is, that such bodies take up less space, and require fewer roads for
retreat, etc., etc. A single hill is not a mountain system, and has not
the same disadvantages. The smaller the force, the more easily it can
establish itself on a single ridge or hill, and the less will be the
necessity for it to get entangled in the intricacies of countless steep
mountain gorges.
CHAPTER XVI. Defence of Mountains (_Continued_)
We now proceed to the strategic use of the tactical results developed
in the preceding chapter. We make a distinction between the following
points:
1. A mountainous district as a battle-field.
2. The influence which the possession of it exercises on other parts of
the country.
3. Its effect as a strategic barrier.
4. The attention which it demands in respect to the supply of the
troops.
The first and most important of these heads, we must again subdivide as
follows:
_a._ A general action.
_b._ Inferior combats.
1. A mountain system as a battle-field.
We have shown in the preceding chapter how unfavourable _mountain
ground_ is to the defensive in a _decisive battle_, and, on the other
hand, how much it favours the assailant. This runs exactly counter to
the generally received opinion; but then how many other things there
are which general opinion confuses; how little does it draw
distinctions between things which are of the most opposite nature! From
the powerful resistance which small bodies of troops may offer in a
mountainous country, common opinion becomes impressed with an idea that
all mountain defence is extremely strong, and is astonished when any
one denies that this great strength is communicated to the greatest act
of all defence, the defensive battle. On the other hand, it is
instantly ready, whenever a battle is lost by the defensive in mountain
warfare, to point out the inconceivable error of a system of cordon
war, without any regard to the fact that in the nature of things such a
system is unavoidable in mountain warfare. We do not hesitate to put
ourselves in direct opposition to such an opinion, and at the same time
we must mention, that to our great satisfaction, we have found our
views supported in the works of an author whose opinion ought to have
great weight in this matter; we allude to the history of the campaigns
of 1796 and 1797, by the Archduke Charles, himself a good historical
writer, a good critic, and above all, a good general.
We can only characterise it as a lamentable position when the weaker
defender, who has laboriously, by the greatest effort, assembled all
his forces, in order to make the assailant feel the effect of his love
of Fatherland, of his enthusiasm and his ability, in a decisive battle
when he on whom every eye is fixed in anxious expectation, having
betaken himself to the obscurity of thickly veiled mountains, and
hampered in every movement by the obstinate ground, stands exposed to
the thousand possible forms of attack which his powerful adversary can
use against him. Only towards one single side is there still left an
open field for his intelligence, and that is in making all possible use
of every obstacle of ground; but this leads close to the borders of the
disastrous war of cordons, which, under all circumstances, is to be
avoided. Very far therefore from seeing a refuge for the defensive, in
a mountainous country, when a decisive battle is sought, we should
rather advise a general in such a case to avoid such a field by every
possible means.
It is true, however, that this is sometimes impossible; but the battle
will then necessarily have a very different character from one in a
level country: the disposition of the troops will be much more extended
in most cases twice or three times the length; the resistance more
passive, the counter blow much less effective. These are influences of
mountain ground which are inevitable; still, in such a battle the
defensive is not to be converted into a mere defence of mountains; the
predominating character must be a concentrated order of battle in the
mountains, in which everything unites into _one_ battle, and passes as
much as possible under the eye of _one_ commander, and in which there
are sufficient reserves to make the decision something more than a mere
warding off, a mere holding up of the shield. This condition is
indispensable, but difficult to realise; and the drifting into the pure
defence of mountains comes so naturally, that we cannot be surprised at
its often happening; the danger in this is so great that theory cannot
too urgently raise a warning voice.
Thus much as to a decisive battle with the main body of the army.
For combats of minor significance and importance, a mountainous
country, on the other hand, may be very favourable, because the main
point in them is not absolute defence, and because no decisive results
are coupled with them. We may make this plainer by enumerating the
objects of this reaction.
_a._ Merely to gain time. This motive occurs a hundred times: always in
the case of a defensive line formed with the view of observation;
besides that, in all cases in which a reinforcement is expected.
_b._ The repulse of a mere demonstration or minor enterprise of the
enemy. If a province is guarded by mountains which are defended by
troops, then this defence, however weak, will always suffice to prevent
partisan attacks and expeditions intended to plunder the country.
Without the mountains, such a weak chain of posts would be useless.
_c._ To make demonstrations on our own part. It will be some time yet
before general opinion with respect to mountains will be brought to the
right point; until then an enemy may at any time be met with who is
afraid of them, and shrinks back from them in his undertakings. In such
a case, therefore, the principal body may also be used for the defence
of a mountain system. In wars carried on with little energy or
movement, this state of things will often happen; but it must always be
a condition then that we neither design to accept a general action in
this mountain position, nor can be compelled to do so.
_d._ In general, a mountainous country is suited for all positions in
which we do not intend to accept any great battle, for each of the
separate parts of the army is stronger there, and it is only the whole
that is weaker; besides, in such a position, it is not so easy to be
suddenly attacked and forced into a decisive battle.
_e._ Lastly, a mountainous country is the true region for the efforts
of a people in arms. But while national risings should always be
supported by small bodies of regular troops, on the other hand, the
proximity of a great army seems to have an unfavourable effect upon
movements of this kind; this motive, therefore, as a rule, will never
give occasion for transferring the whole army to the mountains.
Thus much for mountains in connection with the positions which may be
taken up there for battle.
2. The influence of mountains on other parts of the country.
Because, as we have seen, it is so easy in mountainous ground to secure
a considerable tract of territory by small posts, so weak in numbers
that in a district easily traversed they could not maintain themselves,
and would be continually exposed to danger; because every step forward
in mountains which have been occupied by the enemy must be made much
more slowly than in a level country, and therefore cannot be made at
the same rate with him therefore the question, Who is in possession? is
also much more important in reference to mountains than to any other
tract of country of equal extent. In an open country, the possession
may change from day to day. The mere advance of strong detachments
compels the enemy to give up the country we want to occupy. But it is
not so in mountains; there a very stout resistance is possible by much
inferior forces, and for that reason, if we require a portion of
country which includes mountains, enterprises of a special nature,
formed for the purpose, and often necessitating a considerable
expenditure of time as well as of men, are always required in order to
obtain possession. If, therefore, the mountains of a country are not
the theatre of the principal operations of a war, we cannot, as we
should were it the case of a district of level country, look upon the
possession of the mountains as dependent on and a necessary consequence
of our success at other parts.
A mountainous district has therefore much more independence, and the
possession of it is much firmer and less liable to change. If we add to
this that a ridge of mountains from its crests affords a good view over
the adjacent open country, whilst it remains itself veiled in
obscurity, we may therefore conceive that when we are close to
mountains, without being in actual possession of them, they are to be
regarded as a constant source of disadvantage a sort of laboratory of
hostile forces; and this will be the case in a still greater degree if
the mountains are not only occupied by the enemy, but also form part of
his territory. The smallest bodies of adventurous partisans always find
shelter there if pursued, and can then sally forth again with impunity
at other points; the largest bodies, under their cover, can approach
unperceived, and our forces must, therefore, always keep at a
sufficient distance if they would avoid getting within reach of their
dominating influence if they would not be exposed to disadvantageous
combats and sudden attacks which they cannot return.
In this manner every mountain system, as far as a certain distance,
exercises a very great influence over the lower and more level country
adjacent to it. Whether this influence shall take effect momentarily,
for instance in a battle (as at Maltsch on the Rhine, 1796) or only
after some time upon the lines of communication, depends on the local
relations; whether or not it shall be overcome through some decisive
event happening in the valley or level country, depends on the
relations of the armed forces to each other respectively.
Buonaparte, in 1805 and 1809, advanced upon Vienna without troubling
himself much about the Tyrol; but Moreau had to leave Swabia in 1796,
chiefly because he was not master of the more elevated parts of the
country, and too many troops were required to watch them. In campaigns,
in which there is an evenly balanced series of alternate successes on
each side, we shall not expose ourselves to the constant disadvantage
of the mountains remaining in possession of the enemy: we need,
therefore, only endeavour to seize and retain possession of that
portion of them which is required on account of the direction of the
principal lines of our attack; this generally leads to the mountains
being the arena of the separate minor combats which take place between
forces on each side. But we must be careful of overrating the
importance of this circumstance, and being led to consider a
mountain-chain as the key to the whole in all cases, and its possession
as the main point. When a victory is the object sought; then it is the
principal, object; and if the victory is gained, other things can be
regulated according to the paramount requirement of the situation.
3. Mountains considered in their aspect of a strategic barrier.
We must divide this subject under two heads.
The first is again that of a decisive battle. We can, for instance,
consider the mountain chain as a river, that is, as a barrier with
certain points of passage, which may afford us an opportunity of
gaining a victory, because the enemy will be compelled by it to divide
his forces in advancing, and is tied down to certain roads, which will
enable us with our forces concentrated behind the mountains to fall
upon fractions of his force. As the assailant on his march through the
mountains, irrespective of all other considerations, cannot march in a
single column because he would thus expose himself to the danger of
getting engaged in a decisive battle with only one line of retreat,
therefore, the defensive method recommends itself certainly on
substantial grounds. But as the conception of mountains and their
outlets is very undefined, the question of adopting this plan depends
entirely on the nature of the country itself, and it can only be
pointed out as possible whilst it must also be considered as attended
with two disadvantages, the first is, that if the enemy receives a
severe blow, he soon finds shelter in the mountains; the second is,
that he is in possession of the higher ground, which, although not
decisive, must still always be regarded as a disadvantage for the
pursuer.
We know of no battle given under such circumstances unless the battle
with Alvinzi in 1796 can be so classed. But that the case _may_ occur
is plain from Buonaparte’s passage of the Alps in the year 1800, when
Melas might and should have fallen on him with his whole force before
he had united his columns.
The second influence which mountains may have as a barrier is that
which they have upon the lines of communication if they cross those
lines. Without taking into account what may be done by erecting forts
at the points of passage and by arming the people, the bad roads in
mountains at certain seasons of the year may of themselves alone prove
at once destructive to an army; they have frequently compelled a
retreat after having first sucked all the marrow and blood out of the
army. If, in addition, troops of active partisans hover round, or there
is a national rising to add to the difficulties, then the enemy’s army
is obliged to make large detachments, and at last driven to form strong
posts in the mountains and thus gets engaged in one of the most
disadvantageous situations that can be in an offensive war.
4. Mountains in their relation to the provisioning of an army.
This is a very simple subject, easy to understand. The opportunity to
make the best use of them in this respect is when the assailant is
either obliged to remain in the mountains, or at least to leave them
close in his rear.
These considerations on the defence of mountains, which, in the main,
embrace all mountain warfare, and, by their reflection, throw also the
necessary light on offensive war, must not be deemed incorrect or
impracticable because we can neither make plains out of mountains, nor
hills out of plains, and the choice of a theatre of war is determined
by so many other things that it appears as if there was little margin
left for considerations of this kind. In affairs of magnitude it will
be found that this margin is not so small. If it is a question of the
disposition and effective employment of the principal force, and that,
even in the moment of a decisive battle, by a few marches more to the
front or rear an army can be brought out of mountain ground into the
level country, then a resolute concentration of the chief masses in the
plain will neutralise the adjoining mountains.
We shall now once more collect the light which has been thrown on the
subject, and bring it to a focus in one distinct picture.
We maintain and believe we have shown, that mountains, both tactically
and strategically, are in general unfavourable to the defensive,
meaning thereby, that kind of defensive which is _decisive_, on the
result of which the question of the possession or loss of the country
depends. They limit the view and prevent movements in every direction;
they force a state of passivity, and make it necessary to stop every
avenue or passage, which always leads more or less to a war of cordons.
We should therefore, if possible, avoid mountains with the principal
mass of our force, and leave them on one side, or keep them before or
behind us.
At the same time, we think that, for minor operations and objects,
there is an element of increased strength to be found in mountain
ground; and after what has been said, we shall not be accused of
inconsistency in maintaining that such a country is the real place of
refuge for the weak, that is, for those who dare not any longer seek an
absolute decision. On the other hand again, the advantages derived from
a mountainous country by troops acting an inferior rôle cannot be
participated in by large masses of troops.
Still all these considerations will hardly counteract the impressions
made on the senses. The imagination not only of the inexperienced but
also of all those accustomed to bad methods of war will still feel in
the concrete case such an overpowering dread of the difficulties which
the inflexible and retarding nature of mountainous ground opposes to
all the movements of an assailant, that they will hardly be able to
look upon our opinion as anything but a most singular paradox. Then
again, with those who take a general view, the history of the last
century (with its peculiar form of war) will take the place of the
impressions of the senses, and therefore there will be but few who will
not still adhere to the belief that Austria, for example, should be
better able to defend her states on the Italian side than on the side
of the Rhine. On the other hand, the French who carried on war for
twenty years under a leader both energetic and indifferent to minor
considerations, and have constantly before their eyes the successful
results thus obtained, will, for some time to come, distinguish
themselves in this as well as in other cases by the tact of a practised
judgment.
Does it follow from this that a state would be better protected by an
open country than by mountains, that Spain would be stronger without
the Pyrenees; Lombardy more difficult of access without the Alps, and a
level country such as North Germany more difficult to conquer than a
mountainous country? To these false deductions we shall devote our
concluding remarks.
We do not assert that Spain would be stronger without the Pyrenees than
_with_ them, but we say that a Spanish army, feeling itself strong
enough to engage in a decisive battle, would do better by concentrating
itself in a position behind the Ebro, than by fractioning itself
amongst the fifteen passes of the Pyrenees. But the influence of the
Pyrenees on war is very far from being set aside on that account. We
say the same respecting an Italian army. If it divided itself in the
High Alps it would be vanquished by each resolute commander it
encountered, without even the alternative of victory or defeat; whilst
in the plains of Turin it would have the same chance as every other
army. But still no one can on that account suppose that it is desirable
for an aggressor to have to march over masses of mountains such as the
Alps, and to leave them behind. Besides, a determination to accept a
great battle in the plains, by no means excludes a preliminary defence
of the mountains by subordinate forces, an arrangement very advisable
in respect to such masses as the Alps and Pyrenees. Lastly, it is far
from our intention to argue that the conquest of a mountainous country
is easier than that of a level(*) one, unless a single victory sufficed
to prostrate the enemy completely. After this victory ensues a state of
defence for the conqueror, during which the mountainous ground must be
as disadvantageous to the assailant as it was to the defensive, and
even more so. If the war continues, if foreign assistance arrives, if
the people take up arms, this reaction will gain strength from a
mountainous country.
(*) As it is conceived that the words “_ebenen_” and “_gebirgigen_” in
this passage in the original have by some means become transposed,
their equivalents—_level_ and _mountainous_—are here placed in the
order in which it is presumed the author intended the words to
stand.—Tr.
It is here as in dioptrics, the image represented becomes more luminous
when moved in a certain direction, not, however, as far as one pleases,
but only until the focus is reached, beyond that the effect is
reversed.
If the defensive is weaker in the mountains, that would seem to be a
reason for the assailant to prefer a line of operations in the
mountains. But this will seldom occur, because the difficulties of
supporting an army, and those arising from the roads, the uncertainty
as to whether the enemy will accept battle in the mountains, and even
whether he will take up a position there with his principal force, tend
to neutralise that possible advantage.
CHAPTER XVII. Defence of Mountains (_continued_)
In the fifteenth chapter we spoke of the nature of combats in
mountains, and in the sixteenth of the use to be made of them by
strategy, and in so doing we often came upon the idea of _mountain
defence_, without stopping to consider the form and details of such a
measure. We shall now examine it more closely.
As mountain systems frequently extend like streaks or belts over the
surface of the earth, and form the division between streams flowing in
different directions, consequently the separation between whole water
systems, and as this general form repeats itself in the parts composing
that whole, inasmuch as these parts diverge from the main chain in
branches or ridges, and then form the separation between lesser water
systems; hence the idea of a system of mountain defence has naturally
founded itself in the first instance, and afterwards developed itself,
upon the conception of the general form of mountains, that of an
obstacle, like a great barrier, having greater length than breadth.
Although geologists are not yet agreed as to the origin of mountains
and the laws of their formation, still in every case the course of the
waters indicates in the shortest and surest manner the general form of
the system, whether the action of the water has contributed to give
that general form (according to the aqueous theory), or that the course
of the water is a consequence of the form of the system itself. It was,
therefore, very natural again, in devising a system of mountain
defence, to take the course of the waters as a guide, as those courses
form a natural series of levels, from which we can obtain both the
general height and the general profile of the mountain, while the
valleys formed by the streams present also the best means of access to
the heights, because so much of the effect of the erosive and alluvial
action of the water is permanent, that the inequalities of the slopes
of the mountain are smoothed down by it to one regular slope. Hence,
therefore, the idea of mountain defence would assume that, when a
mountain ran about parallel with the front to be defended, it was to be
regarded as a great obstacle to approach, as a kind of rampart, the
gates of which were formed by the valleys. The real defence was then to
be made on the crest of this rampart, (that is, on the edge of the
plateau which crowned the mountain) and cut the valleys transversely.
If the line of the principal mountain-chain formed somewhat of a right
angle with the front of defence, then one of the principal branches
would be selected to be used instead; thus the line chosen would be
parallel to one of the principal valleys, and run up to the principal
ridge, which might be regarded as the extremity.
We have noticed this scheme for mountain defence founded on the
geological structure of the earth, because it really presented itself
in theory for some time, and in the so-called “theory of ground” the
laws of the process of aqueous action have been mixed up with the
conduct of war.
But all this is so full of false hypotheses and incorrect
substitutions, that when these are abstracted, nothing in reality
remains to serve as the basis of any kind of a system.
The principal ridges of real mountains are far too impracticable and
inhospitable to place large masses of troops upon them; it is often the
same with the adjacent ridges, they are often too short and irregular.
Plateaux do not exist on all mountain ridges, and where they are to be
found they are mostly narrow, and therefore unfit to accommodate many
troops; indeed, there are few mountains which, closely examined, will
be found surmounted by an uninterrupted ridge, or which have their
sides at such an angle that they form in some measure practicable
slopes, or, at least, a succession of terraces. The principal ridge
winds, bends, and splits itself; immense branches launch into the
adjacent country in curved lines, and lift themselves often just at
their termination to a greater height than the main ridge itself;
promontories then join on, and form deep valleys which do not
correspond with the general system. Thus it is that, when several lines
of mountains cross each other, or at those points from which they
branch out, the conception of a small band or belt is completely at an
end, and gives place to mountain and water lines radiating from a
centre in the form of a star.
From this it follows, and it will strike those who have examined
mountain-masses in this manner the more forcibly, that the idea of a
systematic disposition is out of the question, and that to adhere to
such an idea as a fundamental principle for our measures would be
wholly impracticable. There is still one important point to notice
belonging to the province of practical application.
If we look closely at mountain warfare in its tactical aspects, it is
evident that these are of two principal kinds, the first of which is
the defence of steep slopes, the second is that of narrow valleys. Now
this last, which is often, indeed almost generally, highly favourable
to the action of the defence, is not very compatible with the
disposition on the principal ridge, for the occupation of the valley
_itself_ is often required and that at its outer extremity nearest to
the open country, not at its commencement, because there its sides are
steeper. Besides, this defence of valleys offers a means of defending
mountainous districts, even when the ridge itself affords no position
which can be occupied; the rôle which it performs is, therefore,
generally greater in proportion as the masses of the mountains are
higher and more inaccessible.
The result of all these considerations is, that we must entirely give
up the idea of a defensible line more or less regular, and coincident
with one of the geological lines, and must look upon a mountain range
as merely a surface intersected and broken with inequalities and
obstacles strewed over it in the most diversified manner, the features
of which we must try to make the best use of which circumstances
permit; that therefore, although a knowledge of the geological features
of the ground is indispensable to a clear conception of the form of
mountain masses, it is of little value in the organisation of defensive
measures.
Neither in the war of the Austrian Succession, nor in the Seven Years’
War, nor in those of the French Revolution, do we find military
dispositions which comprehended a whole mountain system, and in which
the defence was systematised in accordance with the leading features of
that system. Nowhere do we find armies on the principal ridges always
in position on the slopes. Sometimes at a greater, sometimes at a lower
elevation; sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another; parallel,
at right angles, and obliquely; with and against the watercourse; in
lofty mountains, such as the Alps, frequently extended along the
valleys; amongst mountains of a inferior class, like the Sudetics (and
this is the strangest anomaly), at the middle of the declivity, as it
sloped towards the defender, therefore with the principal ridge in
front, like the position in which Frederick the Great, in 1762, covered
the siege of Schwednitz, with the “hohe Eule” before the front of his
camp.
The celebrated positions, Schmotseifen and Landshut, in the Seven
Years’ War, are for the most part in the bottoms of valleys. It is the
same with the position of Feldkirch, in the Vorarlsberg. In the
campaigns of 1799 and 1800, the chief posts, both of the French and
Austrians, were always quite in the valleys, not merely across them so
as to close them, but also parallel with them, whilst the ridges were
either not occupied at all, or merely by a few single posts.
The crests of the higher Alps in particular are so difficult of access,
and afford so little space for the accommodation of troops, that it
would be impossible to place any considerable bodies of men there. Now
if we must positively have armies in mountains to keep possession of
them, there is nothing to be done but to place them in the valleys. At
first sight this appears erroneous, because, in accordance with the
prevalent theoretical ideas, it will be said, the heights command the
valleys. But that is really not the case. Mountain ridges are only
accessible by a few paths and rude tracks, with a few exceptions only
passable for infantry, whilst the carriage roads are in the valleys.
The enemy can only appear there at certain points with infantry; but in
these mountain masses the distances are too great for any effective
fire of small arms, and therefore a position in the valleys is less
dangerous than it appears. At the same time, the valley defence is
exposed to another great danger, that of being cut off. The enemy can,
it is true, only descend into the valley with infantry, at certain
points, slowly and with great exertion; he cannot, therefore, take us
by surprise; but none of the positions we have in the valley defend the
outlets of such paths into the valley. The enemy can, therefore, bring
down large masses gradually, then spread out, and burst through the
thin and from that moment weak line, which, perhaps, has nothing more
for its protection than the rocky bed of a shallow mountain-stream. But
now retreat, which must always be made piecemeal in a valley, until the
outlet from the mountains is reached, is impossible for many parts of
the line of troops; and that was the reason that the Austrians in
Switzerland almost always lost a third, or a half of their troops taken
prisoners.—
Now a few words on the usual way of dividing troops in such a method of
defence.
Each of the subordinate positions is in relation with a position taken
up by the principal body of troops, more or less in the centre of the
whole line, on the principal road of approach. From this central
position, other corps are detached right and left to occupy the most
important points of approach, and thus the whole is disposed in a line,
as it were, of three, four, five, six posts, &c. How far this
fractioning and extension of the line shall be carried, must depend on
the requirements of each individual case. An extent of a couple of
marches, that is, six to eight miles is of moderate length, and we have
seen it carried as far as twenty or thirty miles.
Between each of these separate posts, which are one or two leagues from
each other, there will probably be some approaches of inferior
importance, to which afterwards attention must be directed. Some very
good posts for a couple of battalions each are selected, which form a
good connection between the chief posts, and they are occupied. It is
easy to see that the distribution of the force may be carried still
further, and go down to posts occupied only by single companies and
squadrons; and this has often happened. There are, therefore, in this
no general limits to the extent of fractioning. On the other hand, the
strength of each post must depend on the strength of the whole; and
therefore we can say nothing as to the possible or natural degree which
should be observed with regard to the strength of the principal posts.
We shall only append, as a guide, some maxims which are drawn from
experience and the nature of the case.
1. The more lofty and inaccessible the mountains are, so much the
further this separation of divisions of the force not only may be, _but
also must be_, carried; for the less any portion of a country can be
kept secure by combinations dependent on the movement of troops, so
much the more must the security be obtained by direct covering. The
defence of the Alps requires a much greater division of force, and
therefore approaches nearer to the cordon system, than the defence of
the Vosges or the Giant mountains.
2. Hitherto, wherever defence of mountains has taken place, such a
division of the force employed has been made that the chief posts have
generally consisted of only one line of infantry, and in a second line,
some squadrons of cavalry; at all events, only the chief post
established in the centre has perhaps had some battalions in a second
line.
3. A strategic reserve, to reinforce any point attacked, has very
seldom been kept in rear, because the extension of front made the line
feel too weak already in all parts. On this account the support which a
post attacked has received, has generally been furnished from other
posts in the line not themselves attacked.
4. Even when the division of the forces has been relatively moderate,
and the strength of each single post considerable, the principal
resistance has been always confined to a local defence; and if once the
enemy succeeded in wresting a post, it has been impossible to recover
it by any supports afterwards arriving.
How much, according to this, may be expected from mountain defence, in
what cases this means may be used, how far we can and may go in the
extension and fractioning of the forces—these are all questions which
theory must leave to the tact of the general. It is enough if it tells
him what these means really are, and what rôle they can perform in the
active operations of the army.
A general who allows himself to be beaten in an extended mountain
position deserves to be brought before a court martial.
CHAPTER XVIII. Defence of Streams and Rivers
Streams and large rivers, in so far as we speak of their defence,
belong, like mountains, to the category of strategic barriers. But they
differ from mountains in two respects. The one concerns their relative,
the other their absolute defence.
Like mountains, they strengthen the relative defence; but one of their
peculiarities is, that they are like implements of hard and brittle
metal, they either stand every blow without bending, or their defence
breaks and then ends altogether. If the river is very large, and the
other conditions are favourable, then the passage may be absolutely
impossible. But if the defence of any river is forced at one point,
then there cannot be, as in mountain warfare, a persistent defence
afterwards; the affair is finished with that one act, unless that the
river itself runs between mountains.
The other peculiarity of rivers in relation to war is, that in many
cases they admit of very good, and in general of better combinations
than mountains for a decisive battle.
Both again have this property in common, that they are dangerous and
seductive objects which have often led to false measures, and placed
generals in awkward situations. We shall notice these results in
examining more closely the defence of rivers.
Although history is rather bare in examples of rivers defended with
success, and therefore the opinion is justified that rivers and streams
are no such formidable barriers as was once supposed, when an absolute
defensive system seized all means of strengthening itself which the
country offered, still the influence which they exercise to the
advantage of the battle, as well as of the defence of a country, cannot
be denied.
In order to look over the subject in a connected form, we shall specify
the different points of view from which we propose to examine it.
First and foremost, the strategic results which streams and rivers
produce through their defence, must be distinguished from the influence
which they have on the defence of a country, even when not themselves
specially defended.
Further, the defence itself may take three different forms:—
1. An absolute defence with the main body.
2. A mere demonstration of resistance.
3. A relative resistance by subordinate bodies of troops, such as
outposts, covering lines, flanking corps, etc.
Lastly, we must distinguish three different degrees or kinds of
defence, in each of its forms, namely—
1. A direct defence by opposing the passage.
2. A rather indirect one, by which the river and its valley are only
used as a means towards a better combination for the battle.
3. A completely direct one, by holding an unassailable position on the
enemy’s side of the river.
We shall subdivide our observations, in conformity with these three
degrees, and after we have made ourselves acquainted with each of them
in its relation to the first, which is the most important of the forms,
we shall then proceed to do the same in respect to their relations to
the other two. Therefore, first, the direct defence, that is, such a
defence as is to prevent the passage of the enemy’s army itself.
This can only come into the question in relation to large rivers, that
is, great bodies of water.
The combinations of space, time, and force, which require to be looked
into as elements of this theory of defence, make the subject somewhat
complicated, so that it is not easy to gain a sure point from which to
commence. The following is the result at which every one will arrive on
full consideration.
The time required to build a bridge determines the distance from each
other at which the corps charged with the defence of the river should
be posted. If we divide the whole length of the line of defence by this
distance, we get the number of corps required for the defence; if with
that number we divide the mass of troops disposable, we shall get the
strength of each corps. If we now compare the strength of each single
corps with the number of troops which the enemy, by using all the means
in his power, can pass over during the construction of his bridge, we
shall be able to judge how far we can expect a successful resistance.
For we can only assume the forcing of the passage to be impossible when
the defender is able to attack the troops passed over with a
_considerable numerical superiority_, say _the double_, before the
bridge is completed. An illustration will make this plain.
If the enemy requires twenty-four hours for the construction of a
bridge, and if he can by other means only pass over 20,000 men in those
twenty-four hours, whilst the defender within twelve hours can appear
at any point whatever with 20,000 men, in such case the passage cannot
be forced; for the defender will arrive when the enemy engaged in
crossing has only passed over the half of 20,000. Now as in twelve
hours, the time for conveying intelligence included, we can march four
miles, therefore every eight miles 20,000 men would be required, which
would make 60,000 for the defence of a length of twenty-four miles of
river. These would be sufficient for the appearance of 20,000 men at
any point, even if the enemy attempted the passage at two points at the
same time; if at only one point twice 20,000 could be brought to oppose
him at that single point.
Here, then, there are three circumstances exercising a decisive
influence: (1) the breadth of the river; (2) the means of passage, for
the two determine both the time required to construct the bridge, and
the number of troops that can cross during the time the bridge is being
built; (3) the strength of the defender’s army. The strength of the
enemy’s force itself does not as yet come into consideration. According
to this theory we may say that there is a point at which the
possibility of crossing completely stops, and that no numerical
superiority on the part of the enemy would enable him to force a
passage.
This is the simple theory of the direct defence of a river, that is, of
a defence intended to prevent the enemy from finishing his bridge and
from making the passage itself; in this there is as yet no notice taken
of the effect of demonstrations which the enemy may use. We shall now
bring into consideration particulars in detail, and measures requisite
for such a defence.
Setting aside, in the first place, geographical peculiarities, we have
only to say that the corps as proposed by the present theory, must be
posted close to the river, and each corps in itself concentrated. It
must be close to the river, because every position further back
lengthens unnecessarily and uselessly the distance to be gone over to
any point menaced; for as the waters of the river give security against
any important movement on the part of the enemy, a reserve in rear is
not required, as it is for an ordinary line of defence, where there is
no river in front. Besides, the roads running parallel to and near a
river up and down, are generally better than transverse roads from the
interior leading to any particular points on the river. Lastly, the
river is unquestionably better watched by corps thus placed than by a
mere chain of posts, more particularly as the commanders are all close
at hand.—Each of these corps must be concentrated in itself, because
otherwise all the calculation as to time would require alteration. He
who knows the loss of time in effecting a concentration, will easily
comprehend that just in this concentrated position lies the great
efficacy of the defence. No doubt, at first sight, it is very tempting
to make the crossing, even in boats, impossible for the enemy by a line
of posts; but with a few exceptions of points, specially favourable for
crossing, such a measure would be extremely prejudicial. To say nothing
of the objection that the enemy can generally drive off such a post by
bringing a superior force to bear on it from the opposite side, it is,
as a rule, a waste of strength, that is to say, the most that can be
obtained by any such post, is to compel the enemy to choose another
point of passage. If, therefore, we are not so strong that we can treat
and defend the river like a ditch of a fortress, a case for which no
new precept is required, such a method of directly defending the bank
of a river leads necessarily away from the proposed object. Besides
these general principles for positions, we have to consider—first, the
examination of the special peculiarities of the river; second, the
removal of all means of passage; third, the influence of any fortresses
situated on the river.
A river, considered as a line of defence, must have at the extremities
of the line, right and left, _points d’appui_, such as, for instance,
the sea, or a neutral territory; or there must be other causes which
make it impracticable for the enemy to turn the line of defence by
crossing beyond its extremities. Now, as neither such flank supports
nor such impediments are to be found, unless at considerable distances,
we see at once that the defence of a river must embrace a considerable
portion of its length, and that, therefore, the possibility of a
defence by placing a large body of troops behind a relatively short
length of the river vanishes from the class of possible facts (to which
we must always confine ourselves). We say _a relatively short length of
the river_, by which we mean a length which does not very much exceed
that which the same number of troops would usually occupy on an
ordinary position in line without a river. Such cases, we say, do not
occur, and every direct defence of a river always becomes a kind of
cordon system, at least as far as regards the extension of the troops,
and therefore is not at all adapted to oppose a turning movement on the
part of the enemy in the same manner which is natural to an army in a
concentrated position. Where, therefore, such turning movement is
possible, the direct defence of the river, however promising its
results in other respects, is a measure in the highest degree
dangerous.
Now, as regards the portion of the river between its extreme points, of
course we may suppose that all points within that portion are not
equally well suited for crossing. This subject admits of being somewhat
more precisely determined in the abstract, but not positively fixed,
for the very smallest local peculiarity often decides more than all
which looks great and important in books. Besides, it is wholly
unnecessary to lay down any rules on this subject, for the appearance
of the river, and the information to be obtained from those residing
near it, will always amply suffice, without referring back to books.
As matters of detail, we may observe that roads leading down upon a
river, its affluents, the great towns through which it passes, and
lastly above all, its islands, generally favour a passage the most;
that on the other hand, the elevation of one bank over another, and the
bend in the course of the river at the point of passage, which usually
act such a prominent rôle in books, are seldom of any consequence. The
reason of this is, that the presumed influence of these two things
rests on the limited idea of an absolute defence of the river bank—a
case which seldom or never happens in connection with great rivers.
Now, whatever may be the nature of the circumstances which make it
easier to cross a river at particular points, they must have an
influence on the position of the troops, and modify the general
geometrical law; but it is not advisable to deviate too far from that
law, relying on the difficulties of the passage at many points. The
enemy would choose exactly those spots which are the least favourable
by nature for crossing, if he knew that these are the points where
there is the least likelihood of meeting us.
In any case the strongest possible occupation of islands is a measure
to be recommended, because a serious attack on an island indicates in
the surest way the intended point of passage.
As the corps stationed close to a river must be able to move either up
or down along its banks according as circumstances require, therefore
if there is no road parallel to the river, one of the most essential
preparatory measures for the defence of the river is to put the nearest
small roads running in a parallel direction into suitable order, and to
construct such short roads of connection as may be necessary.
The second point on which we have to speak, is the removal of the means
of crossing.—On the river itself the thing is no easy matter, at least
requires considerable time; but on the affluents which fall into the
river, particularly those on the enemy’s side, the difficulties are
almost insurmountable, as these branch rivers are generally already in
the hands of the enemy. For that reason it is important to close the
mouths of such rivers by fortifications.
As the equipment for crossing rivers which an enemy brings with him,
that is his pontoons, are rarely sufficient for the passage of great
rivers, much depends on the means to be found on the river itself, its
affluents, and in the great towns adjacent, and lastly, on the timber
for building boats and rafts in forests near the river. There are cases
in which all these circumstances are so unfavourable, that the crossing
of a river is by that means almost an impossibility.
Lastly, the fortresses, which lie on both sides, or on the enemy’s side
of the river, serve both to prevent any crossing at any points near
them, up or down the river, and as a means of closing the mouths of
affluents, as well as to receive immediately all craft or boats which
may be seized.
So much as to the direct defence of a river, on the supposition that it
is one containing a great volume of water. If a deep valley with
precipitous sides or marshy banks, are added to the barrier of the
river itself, then the difficulty of passing and the strength of the
defence are certainly increased; but the volume of water is not made up
for by such obstacles, for they constitute no absolute severance of the
country, which is an _indispensable_ condition of direct defence.
If we are asked what rôle such a direct river defence can play in the
strategic plan of the campaign, we must admit that it can never lead to
a decisive victory, partly because the object is not to let the enemy
pass over to our side at all, or to crush the first mass of any size
which passes; partly because the river prevents our being able to
convert the advantages gained into a decisive victory by sallying forth
in force.
On the other hand, the defence of a river in this way may produce a
great gain of time, which is generally all important for the defensive.
The collecting the means of crossing, takes up often much time; if
several attempts fail a good deal more time is gained. If the enemy, on
account of the river, gives his forces an entirely different direction,
then still further advantages may be gained by that means. Lastly,
whenever the enemy is not in downright earnest about advancing, a river
will occasion a stoppage in his movements and thereby afford a durable
protection to the country.
A direct defence of a river, therefore, when the masses of troops
engaged are considerable, the river large, and other circumstances
favourable, may be regarded as a very good defensive means, and may
yield results to which commanders in modern times (influenced only by
the thought of unfortunate attempts to defend rivers, which failed from
insufficient means), have paid too little attention. For if, in
accordance with the supposition just made (which may easily be realized
in connection with such rivers as the Rhine or the Danube), an
efficient defence of 24 miles of river is possible by 60,000 men in
face of a very considerably superior force, we may well say that such a
result deserves consideration.
We say, in opposition to a _considerably superior force_, and must
again recur to that point. According to the theory we have propounded,
all depends on the means of crossing, and nothing on the numerical
strength of the force seeking to cross, always supposing it is not less
than the force which defends the river. This appears very
extraordinary, and yet it is true. But we must take care not to forget
that most defences of rivers, or, more properly speaking, the whole,
have no absolute _points d’appui_, therefore, may be turned, and this
turning movement will be very much easier if the enemy has very
superior numbers.
If now we reflect that such a direct defence of a river, even if
overcome by the enemy, is by no means to be compared to a lost battle,
and can still less lead to a complete defeat, since only a part of our
force has been engaged, and the enemy, detained by the tedious crossing
over of his troops on a single bridge, cannot immediately follow up his
victory, we shall be the less disposed to despise this means of
defence.
In all the practical affairs of human life it is important to hit the
right point; and so also, in the defence of a river, it makes a great
difference whether we rightly appreciate our situation in all its
relations; an apparently insignificant circumstance may essentially
alter the case, and make a measure which is wise and effective in one
instance, a disastrous mistake in another. This difficulty of forming a
right judgment and of avoiding the notion that “a river is a river” is
perhaps greater here than anywhere else, therefore we must especially
guard against false applications and interpretations; but having done
so, we have also no hesitation in plainly declaring that we do not
think it worth while to listen to the cry of those who, under the
influence of some vague feeling, and without any fixed idea, expect
everything from attack and movement, and think they see the most true
picture of war in a hussar at full gallop brandishing his sword over
his head.
Such ideas and feelings are not always all that is required (we shall
only instance here the once famous dictator Wedel, at Züllichau, in
1759); but the worst of all is that they are seldom durable, and they
forsake the general at the last moment if great complex cases branching
out into a thousand relations bear heavily upon him.
We therefore believe that a direct defence of a river with large bodies
of troops, under favourable conditions, can lead to successful results
if we content ourselves with a moderate negative: but this does not
hold good in the case of smaller masses. Although 60,000 men on a
certain length of river could prevent an army of 100,000 or more from
passing, a corps of 10,000 on the same length would not be able to
oppose the passage of a corps of 10,000 men, indeed, probably, not of
one half that strength if such a body chose to run the risk of placing
itself on the same side of the river with an enemy so much superior in
numbers. The case is clear, as the means of passing do not alter.
We have as yet said little about feints or demonstrations of crossing,
as they do not essentially come into consideration in the direct
defence of a river, for partly such defence is not a question of
concentration of the army at one point, but each corps has the defence
of a portion of the river distinctly allotted to it; partly such
simulated intentions of crossing are also very difficult under the
circumstances we have supposed. If, for instance, the means of crossing
in themselves are already limited, that is, not in such abundance as
the assailant must desire to ensure the success of his undertaking, he
will then hardly be able or willing to apply a large share to a mere
demonstration: at all events the mass of troops to be passed over at
the true point of crossing must be so much the less, and the defender
gains again in time what through uncertainty he may have lost.
This direct defence, as a rule, seems only suitable to large rivers,
and on the last half of their course.
The second form of defence is suitable for smaller rivers with deep
valleys, often also for very unimportant ones. It consists in a
position taken up further back from the river at such a distance that
the enemy’s army may either be caught in detail after the passage (if
it passes at several points at the same time) or if the passage is made
by the whole at one point, then near the river, hemmed in upon one
bridge and road. An army with the rear pressed close against a river or
a deep valley, and confined to one line of retreat, is in a most
disadvantageous position for battle; in the making proper use of this
circumstance, consists precisely the most efficacious defence of rivers
of moderate size, and running in deep valleys.
The disposition of an army in large corps close to a river which we
consider the best in a direct defence, supposes that the enemy cannot
pass the river unexpectedly and in great force, because otherwise, by
making such a disposition, there would be great danger of being beaten
in detail. If, therefore, the circumstances which favour the defence
are not sufficiently advantageous, if the enemy has already in hand
ample means of crossing, if the river has many islands or fords, if it
is not broad enough, if we are too weak, etc., etc., then the idea of
that method may be dismissed: the troops for the more secure connection
with each other must be drawn back a little from the river, and all
that then remains to do is to ensure the most rapid concentration
possible upon that point where the enemy attempts to cross, so as to be
able to attack him before he has gained so much ground that he has the
command of several passages. In the present case the river or its
valley must be watched and partially defended by a chain of outposts
whilst the army is disposed in several corps at suitable points and at
a certain distance (usually a few leagues) from the river.
The most difficult point lies here in the passage through the narrow
way formed by the river and its valley. It is not now only the volume
of water in the river with which we are concerned, but the whole of the
defile, and, as a rule, a deep rocky valley is a greater impediment to
pass than a river of considerable breadth. The difficulty of the march
of a large body of troops through a long defile is in reality much
greater than appears at first consideration. The time required is very
considerable; and the danger that the enemy during the march may make
himself master of the surrounding heights must cause disquietude. If
the troops in front advance too far, they encounter the enemy too soon,
and are in danger of being overpowered; if they remain near the point
of passage then they fight in the worst situation. The passage across
such an obstacle of ground with a view to measure strength with the
enemy on the opposite side is, therefore, a bold undertaking, or it
implies very superior numbers and great confidence in the commander.
Such a defensive line cannot certainly be extended to such a length as
in the direct defence of a great river, for it is intended to fight
with the whole force united, and the passages, however difficult,
cannot be compared in that respect with those over a large river; it
is, therefore, much easier for the enemy to make a turning movement
against us. But at the same time, such a movement carries him out of
his natural direction (for we suppose, as is plain in itself, that the
valley crosses that direction at about right angles), and the
disadvantageous effect of a confined line of retreat only disappears
gradually, not at once, so that the defender will still always have
some advantage over the advancing foe, although the latter is not
caught exactly at the crisis of the passage, but by the detour he makes
is enabled to get a little more room to move.
As we are not speaking of rivers in connection only with the mass of
their waters, but have rather more in view the deep cleft or channel
formed by their valleys, we must explain that under the term we do not
mean any regular mountain gorge, because then all that has been said
about mountains would be applicable. But, as every one knows, there are
many level districts where the channels of even the smallest streams
have deep and precipitous sides; and, besides these, such as have
marshy banks, or whose banks are otherwise difficult of approach,
belong to the same class.
Under these conditions, therefore, an army on the defensive, posted
behind a large river or deep valley with steep sides, is in a very
excellent position, and this sort of river defence is a strategic
measure of the best kind.
Its defect (the point on which the defender is very apt to err) is the
over-extension of the defending force. It is so natural in such a case
to be drawn on from one point of passage to another, and to miss the
right point where we ought to stop; but then, if we do not succeed in
fighting with the whole army united, we miss the intended effect; a
defeat in battle, the necessity of retreat, confusion in many ways and
losses reduce the army nearly to ruin, even although the resistance has
not been pushed to an extremity.
In saying that the defensive, under the above conditions, should not
extend his forces widely, that he should be in any case able to
assemble all his forces on the evening of the day on which the enemy
passes, enough is said, and it may stand in place of all combinations
of time, power, and space, things which, in this case, must depend on
many local points.
The battle to which these circumstances lead must have a special
character—that of the greatest impetuosity on the side of the defender.
The feigned passages by which the enemy will keep him for some time in
uncertainty—will, in general prevent his discovering the real point of
crossing a moment too soon. The peculiar advantages of the situation of
the defender consist in the disadvantageous situation of the enemy’s
corps just immediately in his front; if other corps, having passed at
other points, menace his flank, he cannot, as in a defensive battle,
counteract such movements by vigorous blows from his rear, for that
would be to sacrifice the above-mentioned advantage of his situation;
he must, therefore, decide the affair in his front before such other
corps can arrive and become dangerous, that is, he must attack what he
has before him as swiftly and vigorously as possible, and decide all by
its defeat.
But the object of _this_ form of river defence can never be the repulse
of a very greatly superior force, as is conceivable in the direct
defence of a large river; for as a rule we have really to deal with the
bulk of the enemy’s force, and although we do so under favourable
circumstances, still it is easy to see the relation between the forces
must soon be felt.
This is the nature of the defence of rivers of a moderate size and deep
valleys when the principal masses of the armies are concerned, for in
respect to them the considerable resistance which can be offered on the
ridges or scarps of the valley stands no comparison with the
disadvantages of a scattered position, and to them a decisive victory
is a matter of necessity. But if nothing more is wanted but the
reinforcement of a secondary line of defence which is intended to hold
out for a short time, and which can calculate on support, then
certainly a direct defence of the scarps of the valley, or even of the
river bank, may be made; and although the same advantages are not to be
expected here as in mountain positions, still the resistance will
always last longer than in an ordinary country. Only one circumstance
makes this measure very dangerous, if not impossible: it is when the
river has many windings and sharp turnings, which is just what is often
the case when a river runs in a deep valley, Only look at the course of
the Mosel. In a case of its defence, the corps in advance on the
salients of the bends would almost inevitably be lost in the event of a
retreat.
That a great river allows the same defensive means, the same form of
defence, which we have pointed out as best suited for rivers of a
moderate size, in connection with the mass of an army, and also under
much more favourable circumstances, is plain of itself. It will come
into use more especially when the point with the defender is to gain a
decisive victory (Aspern).
The case of an army drawn up with its front close on a river, or
stream, or deep valley, in order by that means to command a tactical
obstacle to the approach to its position, or to strengthen its front,
is quite a different one, the detailed examination of which belongs to
tactics. Of the effect of this we shall only say this much, that it is
founded on a delusion.—If the cleft in the ground is very considerable,
the front of the position becomes absolutely unassailable. Now, as
there is no more difficulty in passing round such a position than any
other, it is just the same as if the defender had himself gone out of
the way of the assailant, yet that could hardly be the object of the
position. A position of this kind can, therefore, only be advisable
when, as a consequence of its position, it threatens the communications
of the assailant, so that every deviation by him from the direct road
is fraught with consequences altogether too serious to be risked.
In this second form of defence, feigned passages are much more
dangerous, for the assailant can make them more easily, while, on the
other hand, the proposition for the defender is, to assemble his whole
army at the right point. But the defender is certainly not quite so
much limited for time here, because the advantage of his situation
lasts until the assailant has massed his whole force, and made himself
master of several crossings; moreover, also, the simulated attack has
not the same degree of effect here as in the defence of a cordon, where
all must be held, and where, therefore, in the application of the
reserve, it is not merely a question, as in our proposition, where the
enemy has his principal force, but the much more difficult one, Which
is the point he will first seek to force?
With respect to both forms of defence of large and small rivers, we
must observe generally, that if they are undertaken in the haste and
confusion of a retreat, without preparation, without the removal of all
means of passage, and without an exact knowledge of the country, they
cannot certainly fulfil what has been here supposed; in most such
cases, nothing of the kind is to be calculated upon; and therefore it
will be always a great error for an army to divide itself over extended
positions.
As everything usually miscarries in war, if it is not done upon clear
convictions and with the whole will and energy, so a _river defence_
will generally end badly when it is only resorted to because we have
not the heart to meet the enemy in the open field, and hope that the
broad river or the deep valley will stop him. When that is the case,
there is so little confidence in the actual situation that both the
general and his army are usually filled with anxious forebodings, which
are almost sure to be realized quick enough. A battle in the open field
does not suppose a perfectly equal state of circumstances beforehand,
like a duel; and the defender who does not know how to gain for himself
any advantages, either through the special nature of the defence,
through rapid marches, or by knowledge of the country and freedom of
movement, is one whom nothing can save, and least of all will a river
or its valley be able to help him.
The third form of defence—by a strong position taken up on the enemy’s
side of the river—founds its efficacy on the danger in which it places
the enemy of having his communications cut by the river, and being thus
limited to some bridges. It follows, as a matter of course, that we are
only speaking of great rivers with a great volume of water, as these
alone can lead to such results, whilst a river which is merely in a
deep ravine usually affords such a number of passages that all danger
of the above disappears.
But the position of the defensive must be very strong, almost
unassailable; otherwise he would just meet the enemy half way, and give
up his advantages. But if it is of such strength that the enemy
resolves not to attack it, he will, under certain circumstances, be
confined thereby to the same bank with the defender. If the assailant
crosses, he exposes his communications; but certainly, at the same
time, he threatens ours. Here, as in all cases in which one army passes
by another, the great point is, whose communications, by their number,
situation, and other circumstances, are the best secured, and which has
also, in other respects, most to lose, therefore can be outbid by his
opponent; lastly, which possesses still in his army the most power of
victory upon which he can depend in an extreme case. The influence of
the river merely amounts to this, that it augments the danger of such a
movement for both parties, as both are dependent on bridges. Now, in so
far as we can assume that, according to the usual course of things, the
passage of the defender, as well as of his depôts of all kinds, are
better secured by fortresses than those of the offensive, in so far is
such a defence conceivable, and one which might be substituted for the
direct defence when circumstances are not favourable to that form.
Certainly then the river is not defended by the army, nor the army by
the river, but by the connection between the two the country is
defended, which is the main point.
At the same time it must be granted that this mode of defence, without
a decisive blow, and resembling the state of tension of two electric
currents, of which the atmospheres only are as yet in contact, cannot
stop any very powerful impulsive force. It might be applicable against
even a great superiority of force on the side of the enemy, if their
army is commanded by a cautious general, wanting in decision, and never
disposed to push forward with energy; it might also answer when a kind
of oscillation towards equality between the contending forces has
previously arisen, and nothing but small advantages are looked for on
either side. But if we have to deal with superior forces, led by a bold
general, we are upon a dangerous course, very close to an abyss.
This form of defence looks so bold, and at the same time so scientific,
that it might be called the elegant; but as elegance easily merges into
folly, and as it is not so easily excused in war as in society,
therefore we have had as yet few instances of this elegant art. From
this third mode a special means of assistance for the first two forms
is developed, that is, by the permanent occupation of a bridge and a
_tête du pont_ to keep up a constant threat of crossing.
Besides the object of an absolute defence with the main body, each of
the three modes of defence may also have that of a _feigned defence_.
This show of a resistance, which it is not intended really to offer, is
an act which is combined with many other measures, and fundamentally
with every position which is anything more than a camp of route; but
the feigned defence of a great river becomes a complete stratagem in
this way, that it is necessary to adopt actually more or less a number
of measures of detail, and that its action is usually on a greater
scale and of longer duration than that of any other; for the act of
passing a great river in sight of an army is always an important step
for the assailant, one over which he often ponders long, or which he
postpones to a more favourable moment.
For such a feigned defence it is therefore requisite that the main army
should divide and post itself along the river, (much in the same manner
as for a real defence); but as the intention of a mere demonstration
shows that circumstances are not favourable enough for a real defence,
therefore, from that measure as it always occasions a more or less
extended and scattered disposition, the danger of serious loss may very
easily arise if the corps should get engaged in a real resistance, even
if not carried to an extremity; it would then be in the true sense a
half measure. In a demonstration of defence, therefore, arrangement
must be made for a sure concentration of the army at a point
considerably (perhaps several days’ march) in rear, and the defence
should not be carried beyond what is consistent with this arrangement.
In order to make our views plainer, and to show the importance of such
a defensive demonstration, let us refer to the end of the campaign of
1813. Buonaparte repassed the Rhine with forty or fifty thousand men.
To attempt to defend this river with such a force at all points where
the Allies, according to the direction of their forces, might easily
pass, that is, between Manheim and Nimeguen, would have been to attempt
an impossibility. The only idea which Buonaparte could therefore
entertain was to offer his first real resistance somewhere on the
French Meuse, where he could make his appearance with his army in some
measure reinforced. Had he at once withdrawn his forces to that point,
the Allies would have followed close at his heels; had he placed his
army in cantonments for rest behind the Rhine, the same thing must have
taken place almost as soon, for at the least show of desponding caution
on his part, the Allies would have sent over swarms of Cossacks and
other light troops in pursuit, and, if that measure produced good
results, other corps would have followed. The French corps had
therefore nothing for it but to take steps to defend the Rhine in
earnest. As Buonaparte could foresee that this defence must end in
nothing whenever, the Allies seriously undertook to cross the river, it
may therefore be regarded in the light of a mere demonstration, in
which the French corps incurred hardly any danger, as their point of
concentration lay on the Upper Moselle. Only Macdonald, who, as is
known, was at Nimeguen with twenty thousand men, committed a mistake in
deferring his retreat till fairly compelled to retire, for this delay
prevented his joining Buonaparte before the battle of Brienne, as the
retreat was not forced on him until after the arrival of Winzurgerode’s
corps in January. This defensive demonstration on the Rhine, therefore,
produced the result of checking the Allies in their advance, and
induced them to postpone the crossing of the river until their
reinforcements arrived, which did not take place for six weeks. These
six weeks were of infinite value to Buonaparte. Without this defensive
demonstration on the Rhine, Paris would have become the next immediate
object after the victory of Leipsic, and it would have been impossible
for the French to have given battle on that side of their capital.
In a river defence of the second class, therefore, in that of rivers of
a smaller size, such demonstrations may also be used, but they will
generally be less effectual, because mere attempts to cross are in such
a case easier, and therefore the spell is sooner broken.
In the third kind of river defence, a demonstration would in all
probability be still less effectual, and produce no more result than
that of the occupation of any other temporary position.
Lastly, the two first forms of defence are very well suited to give a
chain of outposts, or any other defensive line (cordon) established for
a secondary object, or to a corps of observation, much greater and more
reliable strength than it would have without the river. In all these
cases the question is limited to a relative resistance, and that must
naturally be considerably strengthened by such a great natural
obstacle. At the same time, we must not think only of the relative
quantity of time gained by the resistance in fight in a case of this
sort, but also of the many anxieties which such undertakings usually
excite in the mind of the enemy, and which in ninety-nine cases out of
a hundred lead to his giving up his plans if not urged or pressed by
necessity.
CHAPTER XIX. Defence of Streams and Rivers (_continued_)
We have still to add something respecting the influence of streams and
rivers on the defence of a country, even when they are not themselves
defended.
Every important river, with its main valley and its adjacent valleys,
forms a very considerable obstacle in a country, and in that way it is,
therefore, advantageous to defence in general; but its peculiar
influence admits of being more particularly specified in its principal
effects.
First we must distinguish whether it flows parallel to the frontier,
that is, the general strategic front, or at an oblique or a right angle
to it. In the case of the parallel direction we must observe the
difference between having our own army or that of the enemy behind it,
and in both cases again the distance between it and the army.
An army on the defensive, having behind it a large river within easy
reach (but not less than a day’s march), and on that river an adequate
number of secure crossings, is unquestionably in a much stronger
situation than it would be without the river; for if it loses a little
in freedom of movement by the requisite care for the security of the
crossings, still it gains much more by the security of its strategic
rear, that means chiefly of its lines of communication. In all this we
allude to a defence in _our own country;_ for in the enemy’s country,
although his army might be before us, we should still have always more
or less to apprehend his appearance behind us on the other side of the
river, and then the river, involving as it does narrow defiles in
roads, would be more disadvantageous than otherwise in its effect on
our situation. The further the river is behind the army, the less
useful it will be, and at certain distances its influence disappears
altogether.
If an advancing army has to leave a river in its rear, the river cannot
be otherwise than prejudicial to its movements, for it restricts the
communications of the army to a few single passages. When Prince Henry
marched against the Russians on the right bank of the Oder near
Breslau, he had plainly a _point d’appui_ in the Oder flowing behind
him at a day’s march; on the other hand, when the Russians under
Cznernitschef passed the Oder subsequently, they were in a very
embarrassing situation, just through the risk of losing their line of
retreat, which was limited to one bridge.
If a river crosses the theatre of war more or less at a right angle
with the strategic front, then the advantage is again on the side of
the defensive; for, in the first place, there are generally a number of
good positions leaning on the river, and covered in front by the
transverse valleys connected with the principal valley (like the Elbe
for the Prussians in the Seven Years’ War); secondly, the assailant
must leave one side of the river or the other unoccupied, or he must
divide his forces; and such division cannot fail to be in favour again
of the defensive, because he will be in possession of more well secured
passages than the assailant. We need only cast a glance over the whole
Seven Years’ War, to be convinced that the Oder and Elbe were very
useful to Frederick the Great in the defence of his theatre of war
(namely Silesia, Saxony and the Mark), and consequently a great
impediment to the conquest of these provinces by the Austrians and
Russians, although there was no real defence of those rivers in the
whole Seven Years’ War, and their course is mostly, as connected with
the enemy, at an oblique or a right angle rather than parallel with the
front.
It is only the convenience of a river as a means of transport, when its
course is more or less in a perpendicular direction, which can, in
general, be advantageous to the assailant; in that respect it may be so
for this reason, that as he has the longer line of communication, and,
therefore, the greater difficulty in the transport of all he requires,
water carriage may relieve him of a great deal of trouble and prove
very useful. The defender, on his side, certainly has it in his power
to close the navigation within his own frontier by fortresses; still
even by that means the advantages which the river affords the assailant
will not be lost so far as regards its course up to that frontier. But
if we reflect upon the fact that many rivers are often not navigable,
even where they are of no unimportant breadth as respects other
military relations, that others are not navigable at all seasons, that
the ascent against the stream is tedious, that the winding of a river
often doubles its length, that the chief communications between
countries now are high roads, and that now more than ever the wants of
an army are supplied from the country adjacent to the scene of its
operations, and not by carriage from distant parts,—we can well see
that the use of a river does not generally play such a prominent part
in the subsistence of troops as is usually represented in books, and
that its influence on the march of events is therefore very remote and
uncertain.
CHAPTER XX. A. Defence of Swamps
Very large wide swamps, such as the Bourtang Moor in North Germany, are
so uncommon that it is not worth while to lose time over them; but we
must not forget that certain lowlands and marshy banks of small rivers
are more common, and form very considerable obstacles of ground which
may be, and often have been, used for defensive purposes.
Measures for their defence are certainly very like those for the
defence of rivers, at the same time there are some peculiarties to be
specially noticed. The first and principal one is, that a marsh which
except on the causeway is impracticable for infantry is much more
difficult to cross than any river; for, in the first place, a causeway
is not so soon built as a bridge; secondly, there are no means at hand
by which the troops to cover the construction of the dyke or causeway
can be sent across. No one would begin to build a bridge without using
some of the boats to send over an advanced guard in the first instance;
but in the case of a morass no similar assistance can be employed; the
easiest way to make a crossing for infantry over a morass is by means
of planks, but when the morass is of some width, this is a much more
tedious process than the crossing of the first boats on a river. If
now, besides, there is in the middle of the morass a river which cannot
be passed without a bridge, the crossing of the first detachment of
troops becomes a still more difficult affair, for although single
passengers may get across on boards, the heavy material required for
bridge building cannot be so transported. This difficulty on many
occasions may be insurmountable.
A second peculiarity of a swamp is, that the means used to cross cannot
be completely removed like those, used for passing a river; bridges may
be broken, or so completely destroyed that they can never be used
again; the most that can be done with dykes is to cut them, which is
not doing much. If there is a river in the middle, the bridge can of
course be taken away, but the whole passage will not by that means be
destroyed in the same degree as that of a large river by the
destruction of a bridge. The natural consequence is that dykes which
exist must always be occupied in force and strenuously defended if we
desire to derive any general advantage from the morass.
On the one hand, therefore, we are compelled to adopt a local defence,
and on the other, such a defence is favoured by the difficulty of
passing at other parts. From these two peculiarities the result is,
that the defence of a swamp must be more local and passive than that of
a river.
It follows from this that we must be stronger in a relative degree than
in the direct defence of a river, consequently that the line of defence
must not be of great length, especially in cultivated countries, where
the number of passages, even under the most favourable circumstances
for defence, is still very great.
In this respect, therefore, swamps are inferior to great rivers, and
this is a point of great importance, for all local defence is illusory
and dangerous to an extreme. But if we reflect that such swamps and low
grounds generally have a breadth with which that of the largest rivers
in Europe bears no comparison, and that consequently a post stationed
for the defence of a passage is never in danger of being overpowered by
the fire from the other side, that the effects of its own fire over a
long narrow dyke is greatly increased, and that the time required to
pass such a defile, perhaps a quarter or half a mile long, is much
longer than would suffice to pass an ordinary bridge: if we consider
all this, we must admit that such low lands and morasses, if means of
crossing are not too numerous, belong to the strongest lines of defence
which can be formed.
An indirect defence, such as we made ourselves acquainted with in the
case of streams and rivers, in which obstacles of ground are made use
of to bring on a great battle under advantageous circumstances, is
generally quite as applicable to morasses.
The third method of a river-defence by means of a position on the
enemy’s side would be too hazardous on account of the toilsome nature
of the crossing.
It is extremely dangerous to venture on the defence of such morasses,
soft meadows, bogs, etc., as are not quite impassable beyond the dykes.
One single line of crossing discovered by the enemy is sufficient to
pierce the whole line of defence which, in case of a serious
resistance, is always attended with great loss to the defender.
B. Inundations
Now we have still to consider inundations. As defensive means and also
as phenomena in the natural world they have unquestionably the nearest
resemblance to morasses.
They are not common certainly; perhaps Holland is the only country in
Europe where they constitute a phenomenon which makes them worth notice
in connection with our object; but just that country, on account of the
remarkable campaigns of 1672 and 1787, as well as on account of its
important relation in itself to both France and Germany, obliges us to
devote some consideration to this matter.
The character of these Dutch inundations differs from ordinary swampy
and impassable wet low lands in the following respects:
1. The soil itself is dry and consists either of dry meadows or of
cultivated fields.
2. For purposes of irrigation or of drainage, a number of small ditches
of greater or loss depth and breadth intersect the country in such a
way that they may be seen running in lines in parallel directions.
3. Larger canals, inclosed by dykes and intended for irrigation,
drainage, and transit of vessels, run through the country in all
possible directions and are of such a size that they can only be passed
on bridges.
4. The level of the ground throughout the whole district subject to
inundation, lies perceptibly under the level of the sea, therefore, of
course, under that of the canals.
5. The consequence of this is, that by means of cutting the dams,
closing and opening the sluices, the whole country can be laid under
water, so that there are no dry roads except on the tops of the dykes,
all others being either entirely under water or, at least, so soaked
that they become no longer fit for use. Now, if even the inundation is
only three or four feet deep, so that, perhaps, for short distances it
might be waded through, still even that is made impossible on account
of the smaller ditches mentioned under No. 2, which are not visible. It
is only where these ditches have a corresponding direction, so that we
can move between two of them without crossing either, that the
inundation does not constitute in effect an absolute bar to all
communication. It is easy to conceive that this exception to the
general obstruction can only be for short distances, and, therefore,
can only be used for tactical purposes of an entirely special
character.
From all this we deduce
1. That the assailant’s means of moving are limited to a more or less
small number of practicable lines, which run along very narrow dykes,
and usually have a wet ditch on the right and left, consequently form
very long defiles.
2. That every defensive preparation upon such a dam may be easily
strengthened to such a degree as to become impregnable.
3. But that, because the defensive is so hemmed in, he must confine
himself to the most passive resistance as respects each isolated point,
and consequently must look for his safety entirely from passive
resistance.
4. That in such a country it is not a system of a single defensive
line, closing the country like a simple barrier, but that as in every
direction the same obstacle to movement exists, and the same security
for flanks may be found, new posts may incessantly be formed, and in
this manner any portion of the first defensive line, if lost, may be
replaced by a new piece. We may say that the number of combinations
here, like those on a chessboard, are infinite.
5. But while this general condition of a country is only conceivable
along with the supposition of a high degree of cultivation and a dense
population, it follows of itself that the number of passages, and
therefore the number of posts required or their defence, must be very
great in comparison to other strategetic dispositions; from which again
we have, as a consequence, that such a defensive line must not be long.
The principal line of defence in Holland is from Naarden on the Zuyder
Zee (the greater part of the way behind the Vecht), to Gorcum on the
Waal, that is properly to the Biesbosch, its extent being about eight
miles. For the defence of this line a force of 25,000 to 30,000 was
employed in 1672, and again in 1787. If we could reckon with certainty
upon an invincible resistance, the results would certainly be very
great, at least for the provinces of Holland lying behind that line.
In 1672 the line actually withstood very superior forces led by great
generals, first Condé, and afterwards Luxembourg, who had under their
command 40,000 to 50,000 men, and yet would not assault, preferring to
wait for the winter, which did not prove severe enough. On the other
hand, the resistance which was made on this first line in 1787 amounted
to nothing, and even that which was made by a second line much shorter,
between the Zuyder Zee and the lake of Haarlem, although somewhat more
effective, was overcome by the Duke of Brunswick in one day, through a
very skilful tactical disposition well adapted to the locality, and
this although the Prussian force actually engaged in the attack was
little, if at all, superior in numbers to the troops guarding the
lines.
The different result in the two cases is to be attributed to the
difference in the supreme command. In the year 1672 the Dutch were
surprised by Louis XIV., while everything was on a peace establishment,
in which, as is well known, there breathed very little military spirit
as far as concerned land forces. For that reason the greater number of
the fortresses were deficient in all articles of material and
equipment, garrisoned only by weak bodies of hired troops, and defended
by governors who were either native-born incapables, or treacherous
foreigners. Thus all the Brandenburg fortresses on the Rhine,
garrisoned by Dutch, as well as all their own places situated to the
east of the line of defence above described, except Groningen, very
soon fell into the hands of the French, and for the most part without
any real defence. And in the conquest of this great number of places
consisted the chief exertions of the French army, 150,000 strong, at
that time.
But when, after the murder of the brothers De Witt, in August 1672, the
Prince of Orange came to the head of affairs, bringing unity to the
measures for national defence, there was still time to close the
defensive line above-mentioned, and all the measures then adopted
harmonised so well with each other that neither Condé nor Luxembourg,
who commanded the French armies left in Holland after the departure of
the two armies under Turenne and Louis in person, would venture to
attempt anything against the separate posts.
In the year 1787 all was different. It was not the Republic of seven
united provinces, but only the province of Holland which had to resist
the invasion. The conquest of all the fortresses, which had been the
principal object in 1672, was therefore not the question; the defence
was confined at once to the line we have described. But the assailant
this time, instead of 150,000 men, had only 25,000, and was no mighty
sovereign of a great country adjoining Holland, but the subordinate
general of a distant prince, himself by no means independent in many
respects. The people in Holland, like those everywhere else at that
time, were divided into two parties, but the republican spirit in
Holland was decidedly predominant, and had at the same time attained
even to a kind of enthusiastic excitement. Under these circumstances
the resistance in the year 1787 ought to have ensured at least as great
results as that of 1672. But there was one important difference, which
is, that in the year 1787 unity of command was entirely wanting. What
in 1672 had been left to the wise, skilful, and energetic guidance of
the Prince of Orange, was entrusted to a so called Defence Commission
in 1787, which although it included in its number men of energy, was
not in a position to infuse into its work the requisite unity of
measures, and to inspire others with that confidence which was wanted
to prevent the whole instrument from proving imperfect and inefficient
in use.
We have dwelt for a moment on this example, in order to give more
distinctness to the conception of this defensive measure, and at the
same time to show the difference in the effects produced, according as
more or less unity and sequence prevail in the direction of the whole.
Although the organisation and method of defence of such a defensive
line are tactical subjects, still, in connection with the latter, which
is the nearest allied to strategy, we cannot omit to make an
observation to which the campaign of 1787 gives occasion.
We think, namely, that however passive the defence must naturally be at
each point in a line of this kind, still an offensive action from some
one point of the line is not impossible, and may not be unproductive of
good results if the enemy, as was the case in 1787, is not decidedly
very superior. For although such an attack must be executed by means of
dykes, and on that account cannot certainly have the advantage of much
freedom of movement or of any great impulsive force, nevertheless, it
is impossible for the offensive side to occupy all the dykes and roads
which he does not require for his own purposes, and therefore the
defensive with his better knowledge of the country, and being in
possession of the strong points, should be able by some of the
unoccupied dykes to effect a real flank attack against the columns of
the assailant, or to cut them off from their sources of supply. If now,
on the other hand, we reflect for a moment on the constrained position
in which the assailant is placed, how much more dependent he is on his
communications than in almost any other conceivable case, we may well
imagine that every sally on the part of the defensive side which has
the remotest possibility of success must at once as a demonstration be
most effective. We doubt very much if the prudent and cautious duke of
Brunswick would have ventured to approach Amsterdam if the Dutch had
only made such a demonstration, from Utrecht for instance.
CHAPTER XXI. Defence of Forests
Above all things we must distinguish thick tangled and impassable
forests from extensive woods under a certain degree of culture, which
are partly quite clear, partly intersected by numerous roads.
Whenever the object is to form a defensive line, the latter should be
left in rear or avoided as much as possible. The defensive requires
more than the assailant to see clearly round him, partly because, as a
rule, he is the weaker, partly because the natural advantages of his
position cause him to develop his plans later than the assailant. If he
should place a woody district before him he would be fighting like a
blind man against one with his eyesight. If he should place himself in
the middle of the wood then both would be blind, but that equality of
condition is just what would not answer the natural requirements of the
defender.
Such a wooded country can therefore not be brought into any favourable
connection with the defensive except it is kept in rear of the
defender’s army, so as to conceal from the enemy all that takes place
behind that army, and at the same time to be available as an assistance
to cover and facilitate the retreat.
At present we only speak of forests in level country, for where the
decided mountain character enters into combination, its influence
becomes predominant over tactical and strategic measures, and we have
already treated of those subjects elsewhere.
But impassable forests, that is, such as can only be traversed on
certain roads, afford advantages in an indirect defence similar to
those which the defence derives from mountains for bringing on a battle
under favourable circumstances; the army can await the enemy behind the
wood in a more or less concentrated position with a view to falling on
him the moment he debouches from the road defiles. Such a forest
resembles mountain in its effects more than a river: for it affords, it
is true, only one very long and difficult defile, but it is in respect
to the retreat rather advantageous than otherwise.
But a direct defence of forests, let them be ever so impracticable, is
a very hazardous piece of work for even the thinnest chain of outposts;
for abattis are only imaginary barriers, and no wood is so completely
impassable that it cannot be penetrated in a hundred places by small
detachments, and these, in their relation to a chain of defensive
posts, may be likened to the first drops of water which ooze through a
roof and are soon followed by a general rush of water.
Much more important is the influence of great forests of every kind in
connection with the arming of a nation; they are undoubtedly the true
element for such levies; if, therefore, the strategic plan of defence
can be so arranged that the enemy’s communications pass through great
forests, then, by that means, another mighty lever is brought into use
in support of the work of defence.
CHAPTER XX. The Cordon
The term cordon is used to denote every defensive plan which is
intended directly to cover a whole district of country by a line of
posts in connection with each other. We say _directly_, for several
corps of a great army posted in line with each other might protect a
large district of country from invasion without forming a cordon; but
then this protection would not be direct, but through the effect of
combinations and movements.
It is evident at a glance that such a long defensive line as that must
be, which is to cover an extensive district of country directly, can
only have a very small degree of defensive stamina. Even when very
large bodies of troops occupy the lines this would be the case if they
were attacked by corresponding masses. The object of a cordon can
therefore only be to resist a weak blow, whether that the weakness
proceeds from a feeble will or the smallness of the force employed.
With this view the wall of China was built: a protection against the
inroads of Tartars. This is the intention of all lines and frontier
defences of the European States bordering on Asia and Turkey. Applied
in this way the cordon system is neither absurd nor does it appear
unsuitable to its purpose. Certainly it is not sufficient to stop all
inroads, but it will make them more difficult and therefore of less
frequent occurrence, and this is a point of considerable importance
where relations subsist with people like those of Asia, whose passions
and habits have a perpetual tendency to war.
Next to this class of cordons come the lines, which, in the wars of
modern times have been formed between European States, such as the
French lines on the Rhine and in the Netherlands. These were originally
formed only with a view to protect a country against inroads made for
the purpose of levying contributions or living at the expense of the
enemy. They are, therefore, only intended to check minor operations,
and consequently it is also meant that they should be defended by small
bodies of troops. But, of course, in the event of the enemy’s principal
force taking its direction against these lines, the defender must also
use his principal force in their defence, an event by no means
conducive to the best defensive arrangements. On account of this
disadvantage and because the protection against incursions in temporary
war is quite a minor object, by which through the very existence of
these lines an excessive expenditure of troops may easily be caused,
their formation is looked upon in our day as a pernicious measure. The
more power and energy thrown into the prosecution of the war the more
useless and dangerous this means becomes.
Lastly, all very extended lines of outposts covering the quarters of an
army and intended to offer a certain amount of resistance come under
the head of cordons.
This defensive measure is chiefly designed as an impediment to raids,
and other such minor expeditions directed against single cantonments,
and for this purpose it may be quite sufficient if favoured by the
country. Against an advance of the main body of the enemy the
opposition offered can be only relative, that is, intended to gain
time: but as this gain of time will be but inconsiderable in most
cases, this object may be regarded as a very minor consideration in the
establishment of these lines. The assembling and advance of the enemy’s
army itself can never take place so unobservedly that the defender gets
his first information of it through his outposts; when such is the case
he is much to be pitied.
Consequently, in this case also, the cordon is only intended to resist
the attack of a weak force, and the object, therefore, in this and in
the other two cases is not at variance with the means.
But that an army formed for the defence of a country should spread
itself out in a long line of defensive posts opposite to the enemy,
that it should disperse itself in a cordon form, seems to be so absurd
that we must seek to discover the circumstances and motives which lead
to and accompany such a proceeding.
Every position in a mountainous country, even if taken up with the view
of a battle with the whole force united, is and must necessarily be
more extended than a position in a level country. It _may be_ because
the aid of the ground augments very much the force of the resistance;
it _must be_ because a wider basis of retreat is required, as we have
shown in the chapter on mountain defences. But if there is no near
prospect of a battle, if it is probable that the enemy will remain in
his position opposite to us for some time without undertaking anything
unless tempted by some very favourable opportunity which may present
itself (the usual state of things in most wars formerly), then it is
also natural not to limit ourselves merely to the occupation of so much
country as is absolutely necessary, but to hold as much right or left
as is consistent with the security of the army, by which we obtain many
advantages, as we shall presently show. In open countries with plenty
of communications, this object may be effected to a greater extent than
in mountains, through the principle of _movement_, and for that reason
the extension and dispersion of the troops is less necessary in an open
country; it would also be much more dangerous there on account of the
inferior capability of resistance of each part.
But in mountains where all occupation of ground is more dependent on
local defence, where relief cannot so soon be afforded to a point
menaced, and where, when once the enemy has got possession of a point,
it is more difficult to dislodge him by a force slightly superior—in
mountains, under these circumstances, we shall always come to a form of
position which, if not strictly speaking a cordon, still approaches
very near to it, being a line of defensive posts. From such a
disposition, consisting of several detached posts, to the cordon
system, there is still certainly a considerable step, but it is one
which generals, nevertheless, often take without being aware of it,
being drawn on from one step to another. First, the covering and the
possession of the country is the object of the dispersion; afterwards
it is the security of the army itself. Every commander of a post
calculates the advantage which may be derived from this or that point
connected with the approach to his position on the right or the left,
and thus the whole progresses insensibly from one degree of subdivision
to another.
A cordon war, therefore, carried on by the principal force of an army,
is not to be considered a form of war designedly chosen with a view to
stopping every blow which the enemy’s forces might attempt, but a
situation which the army is drawn into in the pursuit of a very
different object, namely, the holding and covering the country against
an enemy who has no decisive undertaking in view. Such a situation must
always be looked upon as a mistake; and the motives through which
generals have been lured by degrees into allowing one small post after
another, are contemptible in connection with the object of a large
army; this point of view shows, at all events, the possibility of such
a mistake. That it is really an error, namely, a mistaken appreciation
of our own position, and that of the enemy is sometimes not observed,
and it is spoken of as an erroneous _system_. But this same system,
when it is pursued with advantage, or, at all events, without causing
damage, is quietly approved. Every one praises the _faultless_
campaigns of Prince Henry in the Seven Years’ War, because they have
been pronounced so by the king, although these campaigns exhibit the
most decided and most incomprehensible examples of chains of posts so
extended that they may just with as much propriety be called cordons as
any that ever were. We may completely justify these positions by
saying, the prince knew his opponent; he knew that he had no
enterprises of a decisive character to apprehend from that quarter, and
as the object of his position besides was to occupy always as much
territory as possible, he therefore carried out that object as far as
circumstances in any way permitted. If the prince had once been
unfortunate with one of these cobwebs, and had met with a severe loss,
we should not say that he had pursued a faulty system of warfare, but
that he had been mistaken about a measure and had applied it to a case
to which it was not suited.
While we thus seek to explain how the cordon system, as it is called,
may be resorted to by the principal force in a theatre in war, and how
it may even be a judicious and useful measure, and, therefore, far from
being an absurdity, we must, at the same time, acknowledge that there
appear to have been instances where generals or their staff have
overlooked the real meaning or object of a cordon system, and assumed
its relative value to be a general one; conceiving it to be really
suited to afford protection against every kind of attack, instances,
therefore, where there was no mistaken application of the measure but a
complete misunderstanding of its nature; we shall further allow that
this very absurdity amongst others seems to have taken place in the
defence of the Vosges by the Austrian and Prussian armies in 1793 and
1794.
CHAPTER XXIII. Key to the Country
There is no theoretical idea in the art of war which has played such a
part in criticism as that we are now entering upon. It is the “great
war steed” in all accounts of battles and campaigns; the most frequent
point of view in all arguments, and one of those fragments of
scientific form with which critics make a show of learning. And yet the
conception embodied in it has never yet been established, nor has it
ever been clearly explained.
We shall try to ascertain its real meaning, and then see how far it can
be made available for practical use.
We treat of it here because the defence of mountains, river defences,
as well as the conceptions of strong and entrenched camps with which it
closely connects itself, required to have precedence.
The indefinite confused conception which is concealed behind this
ancient military metaphor has sometimes signified the most exposed part
of a country at other times the strongest.
If there is any spot without the _possession of which no one dare
venture to penetrate into an enemy’s country_ that may, with propriety,
be called the key of that country. But this simple, though certainly at
the same time also, barren notion has not satisfied theorists, and they
have amplified it, and under the term key of a country imagined
_points_ which _decide upon the possession of the whole country._
When the Russians wanted to advance into the Crimean peninsula, they
were obliged to make themselves masters of the isthmus of Perekop and
its lines, not so much to gain an entrance generally—for Lascy turned
it twice (1737 and 1738)—but to be able to establish themselves with
tolerable security in the Crimea. That is very simple, but we gain very
little in this through the conception of a key-point. But if it might
be said, Whoever has possession of the district of Langres commands all
France as far as Paris—that is to say, it only rests with himself to
take possession—that is plainly a very different thing, something of
much higher importance. According to the first kind of conception the
possession of the country cannot be thought of without the possession
of the point which we have called key; that is a thing which is
intelligible to the most ordinary capacity: but according to the second
kind of conception, the possession of the point which we have called
key, cannot be imagined without the possession of the country following
as a necessary consequence; that is plainly, something marvellous,
common sense is no longer sufficient to grasp this, the magic of the
occult sciences must be called into requisition. This cabala came into
existence in works published fifty years ago, and reached its zenith at
the end of the last century; and notwithstanding the irresistible
force, certainty and distinctness with which Buonaparte’s method of
conducting war carried conviction generally, this cabala has,
nevertheless, still managed, we say, to spin out the thread of its
tenacious existence through the medium of books.
(Setting aside for a moment _our_ conception of the key-point) it is
self-evident that in every country there are points of _commanding_
importance, where several roads meet, where our means of subsistence
may be conveniently collected, which have the advantage of being
centrally situated with reference to other important points, the
possession of which in short meets many requirements and affords many
advantages. Now, if generals wishing to express the importance of such
a point by one word have called it the _key of the land_, it would be
pedantic affectation to take offence at their using that term; on the
contrary we should rather say the term is very expressive and pleasing.
But if we try to convert this mere flower of speech into the germ of a
system branching out like a tree into many ramifications, common sense
rises in opposition, and demands that the expression should be
restricted to its true value.
In order to develop a system out of the expression, it was necessary to
resort to something more distinct and absolute than the practical, but
certainly very indefinite, meaning attaching to the term in the
narrations of generals when speaking of their military enterprises. And
from amongst all its various relations, that of high ground was chosen.
Where a road traverses a mountain ridge, we thank heaven when we get to
the top and have only to descend. This feeling so natural to a single
traveller is still more so in the case of an army All difficulties seem
to be overcome, and so they are indeed in most instances; we find that
the descent is easy, and we are conscious of a kind of feeling of
superiority over any one who would stop us; we have an extensive view
over the country, and command it with a look beforehand. Thus the
highest point on a road over a mountain is always considered to possess
a decisive importance, and it does in fact in the majority of cases,
but by no means in all. Such points are very often described in the
despatches of generals by the name of key-points; but certainly again
in a somewhat different and generally in a more restricted sense. This
idea has been the starting point of a false theory (of which, perhaps,
Lloyd may be regarded as the founder); and on this account, elevated
points from which several roads descend into the adjacent country, came
to be regarded as the keypoints of the country—as points which
_command_ the country. It was natural that this view should amalgamate
itself with one very nearly connected with it, that of a _systematic
defence of mountains_, and that the matter should thus be driven still
further into the regions of the illusory; added to which many tactical
elements connected with the defence of mountains came into play, and
thus the idea of the highest _point in the road_ was soon abandoned,
and the highest point generally of the whole mountain system, that is
the point of the _watershed_, was substituted for it as the key of the
country.
Now just at that time, that is the latter half of the preceding
century, more definite ideas on the forms given to the surface of the
earth through aqueous action became current; thus natural science lent
a hand to the theory of war by this geological system, and then every
barrier of practical truth was broken through, and reasoning floated in
the illusory system of a geological analogy. In consequence of this,
about the end of the eighteenth century we heard, or rather we _read_,
of nothing but the sources of the Rhine and Danube. It is true that
this nuisance prevailed mostly in books, for only a small portion of
book wisdom ever reaches the real world, and the more foolish a theory
the less it will attain to practice; but this of which we are now
speaking has not been unproductive of injury to Germany by its
practical effects, therefore we are not fighting with a windmill, in
proof of which we shall quote two examples; first, the important but
very scientific campaigns of the Prussian army, 1793 and 1794 in the
Vosges, the theoretical key to which will be found in the works of
Gravert and Massenbach; secondly, the campaign of 1814, when, on the
principle of the same theory, an army of 200,000 men was led by the
nose through Switzerland on to the plateau of Langres as it is called.
But a high point in a country from which all its waters flow, is
generally nothing more than a high point; and all that in exaggeration
and false application of ideas, true in themselves, was written at the
end of the eighteenth and commencement of the nineteenth centuries,
about its influence on military events, is completely imaginary. If the
Rhine and Danube and all the six rivers of Germany had their common
source on the top of one mountain, that mountain would not on that
account have any claim to any greater military value than being suited
for the position of a trigonometrical point. For a signal tower it
would be less useful, still less so for a vidette, and for a whole army
worth just nothing at all.
To seek for a _key-position_ therefore in the so called _key country_,
that is where the different branches of the mountains diverge from a
common point, and at the highest source of its waters, is merely an
idea in books, which is overthrown by nature itself, because nature
does not make the ridges and valleys so easy to descend as is assumed
by the hitherto so called theory of ground, but distributes peaks and
gorges, in the most irregular manner, and not unfrequently the lowest
water level is surrounded by the loftiest masses of mountain. If any
one questions military history on the subject, he will soon convince
himself that the leading geological points of a country exercise very
little regular influence on the use of the country for the purposes of
war, and that little is so over-balanced by other local circumstances,
and other requirements, that a line of positions may often run quite
close to one of the points we are discussing without having been in any
way attracted there by that point.
We have only dwelt so long upon this false idea because a whole—and
very pretentious—system has built itself upon it. We now leave it, and
turn back to our own views.
We say, then, that if the expression, _key-position_, is to represent
an independent conception in strategy, it must only be that of a
locality the possession of which is indispensable before daring to
enter the enemy’s country. But if we choose to designate by that term
every convenient point of entrance to a country, or every advantageous
central point in the country, then the term loses its real meaning
(that is, its value), and denotes something which may be found anywhere
more or less. It then becomes a mere pleasing figure of speech.
But positions such as the term conveys to our mind are very rarely
indeed to be found. In general, the best key to the country lies in the
enemy’s army; and when the idea of country predominates over that of
the armed force, some very specially advantageous circumstances must
prevail. These, according to our opinion, may be recognised by their
tending to two principal results: first, that the force occupying the
position, through the help of the ground, obtains extraordinary
capability of tactical resistance; second, that the enemy’s lines of
communication can be sooner effectively threatened from this position
than he can threaten ours.
CHAPTER XXIV. Operating Against a Flank
We need hardly observe that we speak of the strategic flank, that is, a
side of the theatre of war, and that the attack from one side in
battle, or the tactical movement against a flank, must not be
confounded with it; and even in cases in which the strategic operation
against a flank, in its last stage, ends in the tactical operation,
they can quite easily be kept separate, because the one never follows
necessarily out of the other.
These flanking movements, and the flanking positions connected with
them, belong also to the mere useless pageantry of theory, which is
seldom met with in actual war. Not that the means itself is either
ineffectual or illusory, but because both sides generally seek to guard
themselves against its effects; and cases in which this is impossible
are rare. Now in these uncommon cases this means has often also proved
highly efficacious, and for this reason, as well as on account of the
constant watching against it which is required in war, it is important
that it should be clearly explained in theory. Although the strategic
operation against a flank can naturally be imagined, not only on the
part of the defensive, but also on that of the offensive, still it has
much more affinity with the first, and therefore finds its place under
the head of defensive means.
Before we enter into the subject, we must establish the simple
principle, which must never be lost sight of afterwards in the
consideration of the subject, that troops which are to act against the
rear or flank of the enemy cannot be employed against his front, and
that, therefore, whether it be in tactics or strategy, it is a
completely false kind of notion to consider that _coming on the rear_
of the enemy is at once an advantage in itself. In itself, it is as yet
nothing; but it will become something in connection with other things,
and something either advantageous or the reverse, according to the
nature of these things, the examination of which now claims our
attention.
First, in the action against the strategic flank, we must make a
distinction between two objects of that measure—between the action
merely against the _communications_, and that against the _line of
retreat_, with which, at the same time, an effect upon the
communications may also be combined.
When Daun, in 1758, sent a detachment to seize the convoys on their way
to the siege of Olmütz, he had plainly no intention of impeding the
king’s retreat into Silesia; he rather wished to bring about that
retreat, and would willingly have opened the line to him.
In the campaign of 1812, the object of all the expeditionary corps that
were detached from the Russian army in the months of September and
October, was only to intercept the communications, not to stop the
retreat; but the latter was quite plainly the design of the Moldavian
army which, under Tschitschagof, marched against the Beresina, as well
as of the attack which General Wittgenstein was commissioned to make on
the French corps stationed on the Dwina.
These examples are merely to make the exposition clearer.
The action against the lines of communication is directed against the
enemy’s convoys, against small detachments following in rear of the
army, against couriers and travellers, small depôts, etc.; in fact,
against all the means which the enemy requires to keep his army in a
vigorous and healthy condition; its object is, therefore, to weaken the
condition of the enemy in this respect, and by this means to cause him
to retreat.
The action against the enemy’s line of retreat is to cut his army off
from that line. It cannot effect this object unless the enemy really
determines to retreat; but it may certainly cause him to do so by
threatening his line of retreat, and, therefore, it may have the same
effect as the action against the line of communication, by working as a
demonstration. But as already said, none of these effects are to be
expected from the mere turning which has been effected, from the mere
geometrical form given to the disposition of the troops, they only
result from the conditions suitable to the same.
In order to learn more distinctly these conditions, we shall separate
completely the two actions against the flank, and first consider that
which is directed against the communications.
Here we must first establish two principal conditions, one or other of
which must always be forthcoming.
The first is, that the forces used for this action against the flank of
the enemy must be so insignificant in numbers that their absence is not
observed in front.
The second, that the enemy’s army has run its career, and therefore can
neither make use of a fresh victory over our army, nor can he pursue us
if we evade a combat by moving out of the way.
This last case, which is by no means so uncommon as might be supposed,
we shall lay aside for the moment, and occupy ourselves with the
accessory conditions of the first.
The first of these is, that the communications have a certain length,
and cannot be protected by a few good posts; the second point is, that
the situation of the line is such as exposes it to our action.
This weakness of the line may arise in two ways—either by its
direction, if it is not perpendicular to the strategic front of the
enemy’s army, or because his lines of communication pass through our
territory; if both these circumstances exist, the line is so much the
more exposed. These two relations require a closer examination.
One would think that when it is a question of covering a line of
communication forty or fifty miles long, it is of little consequence
whether the position occupied by an army standing at one extremity of
this line forms an oblique angle or a right angle in reference to it,
as the breadth of the position is little more than a mere point in
comparison to the line; and yet it is not so unimportant as it may
seem. When an army is posted at a right angle with its communications,
it is difficult, even with a considerable superiority, to interrupt the
communications by any detachments or partisans sent out for the
purpose. If we think only of the difficulty of covering absolutely a
certain space, we should not believe this, but rather suppose, on the
contrary, that it must be very difficult for an army to protect its
rear (that is, the country behind it) against all expeditions which an
enemy superior in numbers may undertake. Certainly, if we could look at
everything in war as it is on a sheet of paper! Then the party covering
the line, in his uncertainty as to the point where light troops or
partisans may appear, would be in a certain measure blind, and only the
partisans would see. But if we think of the uncertainty and
insufficiency of intelligence gained in war, and know that both parties
are incessantly groping in the dark, then we easily perceive that a
detached corps sent round the enemy’s flank to gain his rear is in the
position of a man engaged in a fray with numbers in a dark room. In the
end he must fall; and so must it also be with bands who get round an
army occupying a perpendicular position, and who therefore place
themselves near to the enemy, but widely separated from their own
people. Not only is there danger of losing numbers in this way; there
is also a risk of the whole instrument itself being blunted
immediately; for the very first misfortune which happens to one such
party will make all the others timid, and instead of bold attacks and
insolent dodging, the only play will be constant running away.
Through this difficulty, therefore, an army occupying a perpendicular
position covers the nearest points on its line of communications for a
distance of two or three marches, according to the strength of the
army; but those nearest points are just those which are most in danger,
as they are the nearest to the enemy.
On the other hand, in the case of a decidedly oblique position, no such
part of the line of communication is covered; the smallest pressure,
the most insignificant attempt on the part of the enemy, leads at once
to a vulnerable point.
But now, what is it which determines the front of a position, if it is
not just the direction perpendicular to the line of communication? The
front of the enemy; but then, again, this may be equally as well
supposed as dependent on our front. Here there is a reciprocal effect,
for the origin of which we must search.
[Illustration: lines of communication]
If we suppose the lines of communication of the assailant, _a b_, so
situated with respect to those of the enemy, _c d_, that the two lines
form a considerable angle with each other, it is evident that if the
defensive wishes to take up a position at _e_, where the two lines
intersect, the assailant from _b_, by the mere geometrical relation,
could compel him to form front opposite to him, and thus to lay bare
his communications. The case would be reversed if the defensive took up
his position on this side of the point of junction, about _d_; then the
assailant must make front towards him, if so be that his line of
operations, which closely depends on geographical conditions, cannot be
arbitrarily changed, and moved, for instance, to the direction _a d_.
From this it would seem to follow that the defender has an advantage in
this system of reciprocal action, because he only requires to take a
position on this side of the intersection of the two lines. But very
far from attaching any importance to this geometrical element, we only
brought it into consideration to make ourselves the better understood;
and we are rather of opinion that local and generally individual
relations have much more to do with determining the position of the
defender; that, therefore, it is quite impossible to lay down in
general which of two belligerents will be obliged soonest to expose his
communications.
If the lines of communication of both sides lie in one and the same
direction, then whichever of the two parties takes up an oblique
position will certainly compel his adversary to do the same. But then
there is nothing gained geometrically by this, and both parties attain
the same advantages and disadvantages.
In the continuation of our considerations we shall, therefore, confine
ourselves to the case of the line of communication of one side only
being exposed.
Now as regards the second disadvantageous relation of a line of
communication, that is to say, when it runs through an enemy’s country,
it is clear in itself how much the line is compromised by that
circumstance, if the inhabitants of the country have taken up arms; and
consequently the case must be looked at as if a body of the enemy was
posted all along the line; this body, it is true, is in itself weak
without solidity or intensive force; but we must also take into
consideration what the close contact and influence of such a hostile
force may nevertheless effect through the number of points which offer
themselves one after another on long lines of communication. That
requires no further explanation. But even if the enemy’s subjects have
not taken up arms, and even if there is no militia in the country, or
other military organisation, indeed if the people are even very
unwarlike in spirit, still the mere relation of the people as subjects
to a hostile government is a disadvantage for the lines of
communication of the other side which is always felt. The assistance
which expeditionary forces and partisans derive merely through a better
understanding with the people, through a knowledge of the country and
its inhabitants, through good information, through the support of
official functionaries, is, for them, of decided value; and this
support every such body will enjoy without any special effort on its
own part. Added to this, within a certain distance there will not be
wanting fortresses, rivers, mountains, or other places of refuge, which
of ordinary right belong to the enemy, if they have not been formally
taken possession of and occupied by our troops.
Now in such a case as is here supposed, especially if attended with
other favourable circumstances, it is possible to act against the
communications of an army, although their direction is perpendicular to
the position of that army; for the detachments employed for the purpose
do not then require to fall back always on their own army, because
being in their own country they are safe enough if they only make their
escape.
We have, therefore, now ascertained that—
1. A considerable length,
2. An oblique direction,
3. An enemy’s province,
are the principal circumstances under which the lines of communication
of an army may be interrupted by a relatively small proportion of armed
forces on the side of the enemy; in order to make this interruption
effectual, a fourth condition is still requisite, which is a certain
duration of time. Respecting this point, we beg attention to what has
been said in the fifteenth chapter of the fifth book.
But these four conditions are only the chief points which relate to the
subject; a number of local and special circumstances attach themselves
to these, and often attain to an influence more decisive and important
than that of the principal ones themselves. Selecting only the most
essential, we mention the state of the roads, the nature of the country
through which they pass, the means of cover which are afforded by
rivers, mountains, and morasses, the seasons and weather, the
importance of particular convoys, such as siege trains, the number of
light troops, etc., etc.
On all these circumstances, therefore, will depend the effect with
which a general can act on his opponent’s communications; and by
comparing the result of the whole of these circumstances on the one
side with the result of the whole on the other, we obtain a just
estimate of the relative advantages of both systems of communication,
on which will depend which of the two generals can play the highest
game.
What here seems so prolix in the explanation is often decided in the
concrete case at first sight; but still, the tact of a practised
judgment is required for that, and person must have thought over every
one of the cases now developed in order to see in its true light the
absurdity of those critical writers who think they have settled
something by the mere words “turning” and “acting on a flank,” without
giving their reasons.
We now come to the _second chief condition_, under which the strategic
action against the enemy’s flank may take place.
If the enemy is hindered from advancing by any other cause but the
resistance which our army opposes, let that cause be what it may, then
our army has no reason to be apprehensive about weakening itself by
sending out detachments to harass the enemy; for if the enemy should
attempt to chastise us by an attack, we have only to yield some ground
and decline the combat. This is what was done by the chief Russian army
at Moscow in 1812. But it is not at all necessary that everything
should be again on the same great scale as in that campaign for such a
case to happen again. In the first Silesian war, Frederick the Great
was each time in this situation, on the frontiers of Bohemia and
Moravia, and in the complex affairs relating to generals and their
armies, many causes of different kinds, particularly political ones,
may be imagined, which make further advance an impossibility.
As in the case now supposed more forces may be spared to act against
the enemy’s flank, the other conditions need not be quite so
favourable: even the nature of our communications in relation to those
of the enemy need not give us the advantage in that respect, as an
enemy who is not in a condition to make any particular use of our
further retreat is not likely to use his right to retaliate, but will
rather be anxious about the direct covering of his own line of retreat.
Such a situation is therefore very well suited to obtain for us, by
means less brilliant and complete but less dangerous than a victory,
those results which it would be too great a risk to seek to obtain by a
battle.
As in such a case we feel little anxiety about exposing our own line of
communications, by taking up a position on one or other flank, and as
the enemy by that means may always be comspelled to form front
obliquely to his line of communications, therefore _this one_ of the
conditions above named will seldom fail to occur. The more the rest of
the conditions, as well as other circumstances, co-operate, so much the
more certain are we of success from the means now in question; but the
fewer favourable circumstances exist, the more will all depend on
superior skill in combination, and promptitude and precision in the
execution.
Here is the proper field for strategic manœuvres, such as are to be
found so frequently in the Seven Years’ War, in Silesia and Saxony, and
in the campaigns of 1760 and 1762. If, in many wars in which only a
moderate amount of elementary force is displayed, such strategic
manœuvring very often appears, this is not because the commander on
each occasion found himself at the end of his career, but because want
of resolution and courage, and of an enterprising spirit, and dread of
responsibility, have often supplied the place of real impediments; for
a case in point, we have only to call to mind Field Marshal Daun.
As a summary of the results of our considerations, we may say, that the
action against a flank is most effectual—
1. In the defensive;
2. Towards the end of a campaign;
3. Above all, in a retreat into the heart of the country; and
4. In connection with a general arming of the people.
On the mode of executing this action against the communications, we
have only a few words to say.
The enterprises must be conducted by skilful detachment leaders, who,
at the head of small bodies, by bold marches and attacks, fall upon the
enemy’s weak garrisons, convoys, and small detachments on the march
here and there, encourage the national levies (_landsturm_), and
sometimes join with them in particular undertakings. These parties must
be more numerous than strong individually, and so organised that it may
be possible to unite several of them for any greater undertaking
without any obstacle from the vanity or caprice of any of the single
leaders.
We have now to speak of the action against the enemy’s line of retreat.
Here we must keep in view, above all things, the principle with which
we commenced, that forces destined to operate in rear cannot be used in
front; that, therefore, the action against the rear or flanks is not an
increase of force in itself; it is only to be regarded as a more
powerful application (or employment) of the same; increasing the degree
of success in prospect, but also increasing the degree of risk.
Every opposition offered with the sword which is not of a direct and
simple nature, has a tendency to raise the result at the cost of its
certainty. An operation against the enemy’s flank, whether with one
compact force, or with separate bodies converging from several
quarters, belongs to this category.
But now, if cutting off the enemy’s retreat is not to be a mere
demonstration, but is seriously intended, the real solution is a
decisive battle, or, at least, the conjunction of all the conditions
for the same; and just in this solution we find again the two elements
above-mentioned—the greater result and the greater danger. Therefore,
if a general is to stand justified in adopting this method of action,
his reasons must be favourable conditions.
In this method of resistance we must distinguish the two forms already
mentioned. The first is, if a general with his whole force intends to
attack the enemy in rear, either from a position taken up on the flank
for that purpose, or by a formal turning movement; the second is, if he
divides his forces, and, by an enveloping position with one part,
threatens the enemy’s rear, with the other part his front.
The result is intensified in both cases alike, that is—either there is
a real interception of the retreat, and consequently the enemy’s army
taken prisoners, or the greater part scattered, or there may be a long
and hasty retreat of the enemy’s force to escape the danger.
But the intensified risk is different in the two cases.
If we turn the enemy with our whole force, the danger lies in the
laying open our own rear; and hence the question again depends on the
relation of the mutual lines of retreat, just as in the action against
the lines of communication, it depended on the relation of those lines.
Now certainly the defender, if he is in his own country, is less
restricted than the assailant, both as to his lines of retreat and
communication, and in so far is therefore in a better position to turn
his adversary strategically; but this general relation is not of a
sufficiently decisive character to be used as the foundation of a
practical method; therefore, nothing but the whole of the relations in
each individual case can decide.
Only so much we may add, that favourable conditions are naturally more
common in wide spheres of action than in small; more common, also, on
the side of independent states than on that of weak ones, dependent on
foreign aid, and whose armies must, therefore, constantly have their
attention bent on the point of junction with the auxiliary army;
lastly, they become most favorable for the defender towards the close
of the campaign, when the impulsive force of the assailant is somewhat
spent; very much, again, in the same manner as in the case of the lines
of communication.
Such a flank position as the Russians took up with such advantage on
the road from Moscow to Kaluga, when Buonaparte’s aggressive force was
spent, would have brought them into a scrape at the commencement of the
campaign at the camp of Drissa, if they had not been wise enough to
change their plan in good time.
The other method of turning the enemy, and cutting off his retreat by
dividing our force, entails the risk attending a division of our own
force, whilst the enemy, having the advantage of interior lines,
retains his forces united, and therefore has the power of acting with
superior numbers against one of our divisions. This is a disadvantage
which nothing can remove, and in exposing ourselves to it, we can only
be justified by one of three principal reasons:—
1. The original division of the force which makes such a method of
action necessary, unless we incur a great loss of time.
2. A great moral and physical superiority, which justifies the adoption
of a decisive method.
3. The want of impulsive force in the enemy as soon as he has arrived
at the culminating point of his career.
When Frederick the Great invaded Bohemia, 1757, on converging lines, he
had not in view to combine an attack in front with one on the strategic
rear, at all events, this was by no means his principal object, as we
shall more fully explain elsewhere, but in any case it is evident that
there never could have been any question of a concentration of forces
in Silesia or Saxony before the invasion, as he would thereby have
sacrificed all the advantages of a surprise.
When the allies formed their plan for the second part of the campaign
of 1813, looking to their great superiority in numbers, they might very
well at that time entertain the idea of attacking Buonaparte’s right on
the Elbe with their main force, and of thus shifting the theatre of war
from the Oder to the Elbe. Their ill-success at Dresden is to be
ascribed not to this general plan but to their faulty dispositions both
strategic and tactical. They could have concentrated 220,000 men at
Dresden against Buonaparte’s 130,000, a proportion of numbers eminently
favourable (at Leipsic, at least, the proportion was as 285 : 157). It
is true that Buonaparte had distributed his forces too evenly for the
particular system of a defence upon one line (in Silesia 70,000 against
90,000, in the Mark—Brandenburg—70,000 against 110,000), but at all
events it would have been difficult for him, without completely
abandoning Silesia, to assemble on the Elbe a force which could have
contended with the principal army of the allies in a decisive battle.
The allies could also have easily called up the army of Wrede to the
Maine, and employed it to try to cut Buonaparte off from the road to
Mayence.
Lastly, in 1812, the Russians might have directed their army of
Moldavia upon Volhynia and Lithuania in order to move it forward
afterwards against the rear of the principal French army, because it
was quite certain that Moscow must be the extreme point of the French
line of operations. For any part of Russia beyond Moscow there was
nothing to fear in that campaign, therefore the Russian main army had
no cause to consider itself too weak.
This same scheme formed part of the disposition of the forces laid down
in the first defensive plan proposed by General Phul, according to
which the army of Barclay was to occupy the camp at Drissa, whilst that
under Bragathion was to press forward against the rear of the main
French army. But what a difference of circumstances in the two cases!
In the first of them the French were three times as strong as the
Russians; in the second, the Russians were decidedly superior. In the
first, Buonaparte’s great army had in it an impulsive force which
carried it to Moscow 80 miles beyond Drissa: in the second, it is unfit
to make a day’s march beyond Moscow; in the first, the line of retreat
on the Niemen did not exceed 30 miles: in the second it was 112. The
same action against the enemy’s retreat therefore, which was so
successful in the second case, would, in the first, have been the
wildest folly.
As the action against the enemy’s line of retreat, if it is more than a
demonstration, becomes a formal attack from the rear, there remains
therefore still a good deal to be said on the subject, but it will come
in more appropriately in the book upon the attack; we shall therefore
break off here and content ourselves with having given the conditions
under which this kind of reaction may take place.
Very commonly the design of causing the enemy to retreat by menacing
his line of retreat, is understood to imply rather a mere demonstration
than the actual execution of the threat. If it was necessary that every
efficacious demonstration should be founded on the actual
practicability of real action, which seems a matter of course at first
sight, then it would accord with the same in all respects. But this is
not the case: on the contrary, in the chapter on demonstrations we
shall see that they are connected with conditions somewhat different,
at all events in some respects, we therefore refer our readers to that
chapter.
CHAPTER XXV. Retreat into the Interior of the Country
We have considered the voluntary retreat into the heart of the country
as a particular indirect form of defence through which it is expected
the enemy will be destroyed, not so much by the sword as by exhaustion
from his own efforts. In this case, therefore, a great battle is either
not supposed, or it is assumed to take place when the enemy’s forces
are considerably reduced.
Every assailant in advancing diminishes his military strength by the
advance; we shall consider this more in detail in the seventh book;
here we must assume that result which we may the more readily do as it
is clearly shown by military history in every campaign in which there
has been a considerable advance.
This loss in the advance is increased if the enemy has not been beaten,
but withdraws of his own accord with his forces intact, and offering a
steady continuous resistance, sells every step of ground at a bloody
price, so that the advance is a continuous combat for ground and not a
mere pursuit.
On the other hand, the losses which a party on the defensive suffers on
a retreat, are much greater if his retreat has been preceded by a
defeat in battle than if his retreat is voluntary. For if he is able to
offer the pursuer the daily resistance which we expect on a voluntary
retreat, his losses would be _at least_ the same in that way, over and
above which those sustained in the battle have still to be added. But
how contrary to the nature of the thing such a supposition as this
would be! The best army in the world if obliged to retire far into the
country after the loss of a battle, will suffer losses on the retreat,
_beyond measure out of proportion;_ and if the enemy is considerably
superior, as we suppose him, in the case of which we are now speaking,
if he pursues with great energy as has almost always been done in
modern wars, then there is the highest probability that a regular
flight takes place by which the army is usually completely ruined.
A _regularly measured_ daily resistance, that is, one which each time
only lasts as long as the balance of success in the combat can be kept
wavering, and in which we secure ourselves from defeat by giving up the
ground which has been contested at the right moment, will cost the
assailant at least as many men as the defender in these combats, for
the loss which the latter by retiring now and again must unavoidably
suffer in prisoners, will be balanced by the losses of the other under
fire, as the assailant must always fight against the advantages of the
ground. It is true that the retreating side loses entirely all those
men who are badly wounded, but the assailant likewise loses all his in
the same case for the present, as they usually remain several months in
the hospitals.
The result will be that the two armies will wear each other away in
nearly equal proportions in these perpetual collisions.
It is quite different in the pursuit of a beaten army. Here the troops
lost in battle, the general disorganisation, the broken courage, the
anxiety about the retreat, make such a resistance on the part of the
retreating army very difficult, in many cases impossible; and the
pursuer who, in the former case, advances extremely cautiously, even
hesitatingly, like a blind man, always groping about, presses forward
in the latter case with the firm tread of the conqueror, with the
overweening spirit which good fortune imparts, with the confidence of a
demigod, and the more daringly he urges the pursuit so much the more he
hastens on things in the direction which they have already taken,
because here is the true field for the moral forces which intensify and
multiply themselves without being restricted to the rigid numbers and
measures of the physical world.
It is therefore very plain how different will be the relations of two
armies according as it is by the first or the second of the above ways,
that they arrive at that point which may be regarded as the end of the
assailant’s course.
This is merely the result of the mutual destruction; to this must now
be added the reductions which the advancing party suffers otherwise in
addition, and respecting which, as already said, we refer to the
seventh book; further, on the other hand, we have to take into account
reinforcements which the retreating party receives in the great
majority of cases, by forces subsequently joining him either in the
form of help from abroad or through persistent efforts at home.
Lastly, there is, in the means of subsistence, such a disproportion
between the retreating side and the advancing, that the first not
uncommonly lives in superfluity when the other is reduced to want.
The army in retreat has the means of collecting provisions everywhere,
and he marches towards them, whilst the pursuer must have everything
brought after him, which, as long as he is in motion, even with the
shortest lines of communication, is difficult, and on that account
begets scarcity from the very first.
All that the country yields will be taken for the benefit of the
retreating army first, and will be mostly consumed. Nothing remains but
wasted villages and towns, fields from which the crops have been
gathered, or which are trampled down, empty wells, and muddy brooks.
The pursuing army, therefore, from the very first day, has frequently
to contend with the most pressing wants. On taking the enemy’s supplies
he cannot reckon; it is only through accident, or some unpardonable
blunder on the part of the enemy, that here and there some little falls
into his hands.
Thus there can be no doubt that in countries of vast dimensions, and
when there is no extraordinary disproportion between the belligerent
powers, a relation may be produced in this way between the military
forces, which holds out to the defensive an immeasurably greater chance
of a final result in his favour than he would have had if there had
been a great battle on the frontier. Not only does the probability of
gaining a victory become greater through this alteration in the
proportions of the contending armies, but the prospects of great
results from the victory are increased as well, through the change of
position. What a difference between a battle lost close to the frontier
of our country and one in the middle of the enemy’s country! Indeed,
the situation of the assailant is often such at the end of his first
start, that even a battle _gained_ may force him to retreat, because he
has neither enough impulsive power left to complete and make use of a
victory, nor is he in a condition to replace the forces he has lost.
There is, therefore, an immense difference between a decisive blow at
the commencement and at the end of the attack.
To the great advantage of this mode of defence are opposed two
drawbacks. The first is the loss which the country suffers through the
presence of the enemy in his advance, the other is the moral
impression.
To protect the country from loss can certainly never be looked upon as
the object of the whole defence. That object is an advantageous peace.
To obtain that as surely as possible is the endeavour, and for it no
momentary sacrifice must he considered too great. At the same time, the
above loss, although it may not be decisive, must still be laid in the
balance, for it always affects our interests.
This loss does not affect our army directly; it only acts upon it in a
more or less roundabout way, whilst the retreat itself directly
reinforces our army. It is, therefore, difficult to draw a comparison
between the advantage and disadvantage in this case; they are things of
a different kind, the action of which is not directed towards any
common point. We must, therefore, content ourselves with saying that
the loss is greater when we have to sacrifice fruitful provinces well
populated, and large commercial towns; but it arrives at a maximum when
at the same time we lose war-means either ready for use or in course of
preparation.
The second counterpoise is the moral impression. There are cases in
which the commander must be above regarding such a thing, in which he
must quietly follow out his plans, and run the risk of the objections
which short-sighted despondency may offer; but nevertheless, this
impression is no phantom which should be despised. It is not like a
force which acts upon one point: but like a force which, with the speed
of lightning, penetrates every fibre, and paralyses all the powers
which should be in full activity, both in a nation and in its army.
There are indeed cases in which the cause of the retreat into the
interior of the country is quickly understood by both nation and army,
and trust, as well as hope, are elevated by the step; but such cases
are rare. More usually, the people and the army cannot distinguish
whether it is a voluntary movement or a precipitate retreat, and still
less whether the plan is one wisely adopted, with a view to ensure
ulterior advantages, or the result of fear of the enemy’s sword. The
people have a mingled feeling of sympathy and dissatisfaction at seeing
the fate of the provinces sacrificed; the army easily loses confidence
in its leaders, or even in itself, and the constant combats of the
rear-guard during the retreat, tend always to give new strength to its
fears. _These are consequences_ of the retreat about which we must
never deceive ourselves. And it certainly is—considered in itself—more
natural, simpler, nobler, and more in accordance with the moral
existence of a nation, to enter the lists at once, that the enemy may
out cross the frontiers of its people without being opposed by its
genius, and being called to a bloody account.
These are the advantages and disadvantages of this kind of defence; now
a few words on its conditions and the circumstances which are in its
favour.
A country of great extent, or at all events, a long line of retreat, is
the first and fundamental condition; for an advance of a few marches
will naturally not weaken the enemy seriously. Buonaparte’s centre, in
the year 1812, at Witepsk, was 250,000 strong, at Smolensk, 182,000, at
Borodino it had only diminished to 130,000, that is to say, had fallen
to about an equality with the Russian centre. Borodino is ninety miles
from the frontier; but it was not until they came near Moscow that the
Russians reached that decided superiority in numbers, which of itself
reversed the situation of the combatants so assuredly, that the French
victory at Malo Jaroslewetz could not essentially alter it again.
No other European state has the dimensions of Russia, and in very few
can a line of retreat 100 miles long be imagined. But neither will a
power such as that of the French in 1812, easily appear under different
circumstances, still less such a superiority in numbers as existed at
the commencement of the campaign, when the French army had more than
double the numbers of its adversary, besides its undoubted moral
superiority. Therefore, what was here only effected at the end of 100
miles, may perhaps, in other cases, be attained at the end of 50 or 30
miles.
The circumstances which favour this mode of defence are—
1. A country only little cultivated.
2. A loyal and warlike people.
3. An inclement season.
All these things increase the difficulty of maintaining an army, render
great convoys necessary, many detachments, harassing duties, cause the
spread of sickness, and make operations against the flanks easier for
the defender.
Lastly, we have yet to speak of the absolute mass alone of the armed
force, as influencing the result.
It lies in the nature of the thing itself that, irrespective of the
mutual relation of the forces opposed to each other, a small force is
sooner exhausted than a larger, and, therefore, that its career cannot
be so long, nor its theatre of war so wide. There is, therefore, to a
certain extent, a constant relation between the absolute size of an
army and the space which that army can occupy. It is out of the
question to try to express this relation by any figures, and besides,
it will always be modified by other circumstances; it is sufficient for
our purpose to say that these things necessarily have this relation
from their very nature. We may be able to march upon Moscow with
500,000 but not with 50,000, even if the relation of the invader’s army
to that of the defender in point of numbers were much more favourable
in the latter case.
Now if we assume that there is this relation of absolute power to space
in two different cases, then it is certain that the effect of our
retreat into the interior in weakening the enemy will increase with the
masses.
1. Subsistence and lodging of the troops become more difficult—for,
supposing the space which an army covers to increase in proportion to
the size of the army, still the subsistence for the army will never be
obtainable from this space alone, and everything which has to be
brought after an army is subject to greater loss also; the whole space
occupied is never used for covering for the troops, only a small part
of it is required, and this does not increase in the same proportion as
the masses.
2. The advance is in the same manner more tedious in proportion as the
masses increase, consequently, the time is longer before the career of
aggression is run out, and the sum total of the daily losses is
greater.
Three thousand men driving two thousand before them in an ordinary
country, will not allow them to march at the rate of 1, 2, or at most 3
miles a day, and from time to time to make a few days’ halt. To come up
with them, to attack them, and force them to make a further retreat is
the work of a few hours; but if we multiply these masses by 100, the
case is altered. Operations for which a few hours sufficed in the first
case, require now a whole day, perhaps two. The contending forces
cannot remain together near one point; thereby, therefore, the
diversity of movements and combinations increases, and, consequently,
also the time required. But this places the assailant at a
disadvantage, because his difficulty with subsistence being greater, he
is obliged to extend his force more than the pursued, and, therefore,
is always in danger of being overpowered by the latter at some
particular point, as the Russians tried to do at Witepsk.
3. The greater the masses are, the more severe are the exertions
demanded from each individual for the daily duties required
strategically and tactically. A hundred thousand men who have to march
to and from the point of assembly every day, halted at one time, and
then set in movement again, now called to arms, then cooking or
receiving their rations—a hundred thousand who must not go into their
bivouac until the necessary reports are delivered in from all
quarters—these men, as a rule, require for all these exertions
connected with the actual march, twice as much time as 50,000 would
require, but there are only twenty-four hours in the day for both. How
much the time and fatigue of the march itself differs according to the
size of the body of troops to be moved, has been shown in the ninth
chapter of the preceding book. Now, the retreating army, it is true,
partakes of these fatigues as well as the advancing, but they are much
greater for the latter:—
1. because the mass of his troops is greater on account of the
superiority which we supposed,
2. because the defender, by being always the party to yield ground,
purchases by this sacrifice the right of the initiative, and,
therefore, the right always to give the law to the other. He forms his
plan beforehand, which, in most cases, he can carry out unaltered, but
the aggressor, on the other hand, can only make his plans conformably
to those of his adversary, which he must in the first instance find
out.
We must, however, remind our readers that we are speaking of the
pursuit of an enemy who has not suffered a defeat, who has not even
lost a battle. It is necessary to mention this, in order that we may
not be supposed to contradict what was said in the twelfth chapter of
our fourth book.
But this privilege of giving the law to the enemy makes a difference in
saving of time, expenditure of force, as well as in respect of other
minor advantages which, in the long run, becomes very important.
3. because the retreating force on the one hand does all he can to make
his own retreat easy, repairs roads, and bridges, chooses the most
convenient places for encampment, etc., and, on the other hand again,
does all he can to throw impediments in the way of the pursuer, as he
destroys bridges, by the mere act of marching makes bad roads worse,
deprives the enemy of good places for encampment by occupying them
himself, etc.
Lastly, we must add still, as a specially favourable circumstance, the
war made by the people. This does not require further examination here,
as we shall allot a chapter to the subject itself.
Hitherto, we have been engaged upon the advantages which such a retreat
ensures, the sacrifices which it requires, and the conditions which
must exist; we shall now say something of the mode of executing it.
The first question which we have to propose to ourselves is with
reference to the direction of the retreat.
It should be made into the _interior_ of the country, therefore, if
possible, towards a point where the enemy will be surrounded on all
sides by our provinces; there he will be exposed to their influence,
and we shall not be in danger _of being separated from the principal
mass of our territory_, which might happen if we chose a line too near
the frontier, as would have happened to the Russians in 1812 if they
had retreated to the south instead of the east.
This is the condition which lies in the object of the measure itself.
Which point in the country is the best, how far the choice of that
point will accord with the design of covering the capital or any other
important point directly, or drawing the enemy away from the direction
of such important places depends on circumstances.
If the Russians had well considered their retreat in 1812 beforehand,
and, therefore, made it completely in conformity with a regular plan,
they might easily, from Smolensk, have taken the road to Kaluga, which
they only took on leaving Moscow; it is very possible that under these
circumstances Moscow would have been entirely saved.
That is to say, the French were about 130,000 strong at Borodino, and
there is no ground for assuming that they would have been any stronger
if this battle had been fought by the Russians half way to Kaluga
instead; now, how many of these men could they have spared to detach to
Moscow? Plainly, very few; but it is not with a few troops that an
expedition can be sent a distance of fifty miles (the distance from
Smolensk to Moscow) against such a place as Moscow.
Supposing Buonaparte when at Smolensk, where he was 160,000 strong, had
thought he could venture to detach against Moscow before engaging in a
great battle, and had used 40,000 men for that purpose, leaving 120,000
opposite the principal Russian army, in that case, these 120,000 men
would not have been more than 90,000 in the battle, that is 40,000 less
than the number which fought at Borodino; the Russians, therefore,
would have had a superiority in numbers of 30,000 men. Taking the
course of the battle of Borodino as a standard, we may very well assume
that with such a superiority they would have been victorious. At all
events, the relative situation of the parties would have been more
favourable for the Russians than it was at Borodino. But the retreat of
the Russians was not the result of a well-matured plan; they retreated
as far as they did because each time that they were on the point of
giving battle they did not consider themselves strong enough yet for a
great action; all their supplies and reinforcements were on the road
from Moscow to Smolensk, and it could not enter the head of anyone at
Smolensk to leave that road. But, besides, a victory between Smolensk
and Kaluga would never have excused, in the eyes of the Russians, the
offence of having left Moscow uncovered, and exposed it to the
possibility of being captured.
Buonaparte, in 1813, would have secured Paris with more certainty from
an attack if he had taken up a position at some distance in a lateral
direction, somewhere behind the canal of Burgundy, leaving only with
the large force of National Guard in Paris a few thousand regular
troops. The allies would never have had the courage to march a corps of
50,000 or 60,000 against Paris whilst Buonaparte was in the field at
Auxerre with 100,000 men. If the case is supposed reversed, and the
allies in Buonaparte’s place, then no one, indeed, would have advised
them to leave the road open to their own capital with _Buonaparte_ for
their opponent. With such a preponderance he would not have hesitated a
moment about marching on the capital. So different is the effect under
the same circumstances but under different moral relations.
As we shall have hereafter to return to this subject when treating of
the plan of a war, we shall only at present add that, when such a
lateral position is taken, the capital or place which it is the object
to protect, must, in every case, be capable of making some resistance
that it may not be occupied and laid under contribution by every flying
column or irregular band.
But we have still to consider another peculiarity in the direction of
such a line of retreat, that is, a sudden _change of direction_. After
the Russians had kept the same direction as far as Moscow they left
that direction which would have taken them to Wladimir, and after first
taking the road to Riazan for some distance, they then transferred
their army to the Kaluga road. If they had been obliged to continue
their retreat they could easily have done so in this new direction
which would have led them to Kiew, therefore much nearer again to the
enemy’s frontier. That the French, even if they had still preserved a
large numerical superiority over the Russians, could not have
maintained their line of communication by Moscow under such
circumstances is clear in itself; they must have given up not only
Moscow but, in all probability, Smolensk also, therefore have again
abandoned the conquests obtained with so much toil, and contented
themselves with a theatre of war on this side the Beresina.
Now, certainly, the Russian army would thus have got into the same
difficulty to which it would have exposed itself by taking the
direction of Kiew at first, namely, that of being separated from the
mass of its own territory; but this disadvantage would now have become
almost insignificant, for how different would have been the condition
of the French army if it had marched straight upon Kiew without making
the detour by Moscow.
It is evident that such a sudden _change of direction_ of a line of
retreat, which is very practicable in a spacious country, ensures
remarkable advantages.
1. It makes it impossible for the enemy (the advancing force) to
maintain his old line of communication: but the organisation of a new
one is always a difficult matter, in addition to which the change is
made gradually, therefore, probably, he has to try more than one new
line.
2. If both parties in this manner approach the frontier again; the
position of the aggressor no longer covers his conquests, and he must
in all probability give them up.
Russia with its enormous dimensions, is a country in which two armies
might in this manner regularly play at prisoners’ base (Zeck jagen).
But such a change of the line of retreat is also possible in smaller
countries, when other circumstances are favourable, which can only be
judged of in each individual case, according to its different
relations.
When the direction in which the enemy is to be drawn into the country
is once fixed upon, then it follows of itself that our principal army
should take that direction, for otherwise the enemy would not advance
in that direction, and if he even did we should not then be able to
impose upon him all the conditions above supposed. The question then
only remains whether we shall take this direction with our forces
undivided, or whether considerable portions should spread out laterally
and therefore give the retreat a divergent (eccentric) form.
To this we answer that this latter form in itself is to be rejected.
1. Because it divides our forces, whilst their concentration on one
point is just one of the chief difficulties for the enemy.
2. Because the enemy gets the advantage of operating on interior lines,
can remain more concentrated than we are, consequently can appear in so
much the greater force at any one point. Now certainly this superiority
is less to be dreaded when we are following a system of constantly
giving way; but the very condition of this constantly yielding, is
always to continue formidable to the enemy and not to allow him to beat
us in detail, which might easily happen. A further object of such a
retreat, is to bring our principal force by degrees to a superiority of
numbers, and with this superiority to give a decisive blow, but that by
a partition of forces would become an uncertainty.
3. Because as a general rule the concentric (convergent) action against
the enemy is not adapted to the weaker forces.
4. Because many disadvantages of the weak points of the aggression
disappear when the defender’s army is divided into separate parts.
The weakest features in a long advance on the part of the aggressor are
for instance;—the length of the lines of communication, and the
exposure of the strategic flanks. By the divergent form of retreat, the
aggressor is compelled to cause a portion of his force to show a front
to the flank, and this portion properly destined only to neutralise our
force immediately in his front, now effects to a certain extent
something else in addition, by covering a portion of the lines of
communication.
For the mere strategic effect of the retreat, the divergent form is
therefore not favourable; but if it is to prepare an action hereafter
against the enemy’s line of retreat, then we must refer to what has
been said about that in the last chapter.
There is _only one_ object which can give occasion to a divergent
retreat, that is when we can by that means protect provinces which
otherwise the enemy would occupy.
What sections of territory the advancing foe will occupy right and left
of his course, can with tolerable accuracy be discerned by the point of
assembly of, and directions given to, his forces, by the situation of
his own provinces, fortresses, etc., in respect to our own. To place
troops in those districts of territory which he will in all probability
leave unoccupied, would be dangerous waste of our forces. But now
whether _by any disposition of our forces we shall be able to hinder
him_ from occupying those districts which in all probability he will
desire to occupy, is more difficult to decide, and it is therefore a
point, the solution of which depends much on tact of judgment.
When the Russians retreated in 1812, they left 30,000 men under
Tormassow in Volhynia, to oppose the Austrian force which was expected
to invade that province. The size of the province, the numerous
obstacles of ground which the country presents, the near proportion
between the forces likely to come into conflict justified the Russians
in their expectations, that they would be able to keep the upper hand
in that quarter, or at least to maintain themselves near to their
frontier. By this, very important advantages might have resulted in the
sequel, which we shall not stop here to discuss; besides this, it was
almost impossible for these troops to have joined the main army in time
if they had wished. For these reasons, the determination to leave these
troops in Volhynia to carry on there a distinct war of their own, was
right. Now on the other hand, if according to the proposed plan of
campaign submitted by General Phul, only the army of Barclay (80,000
men), was to retire to Drissa, and Bragathion’s army (40,000 men) was
to remain on the right flank of the French, with a view to subsequently
falling on their rear, it is evident at once that this corps could not
possibly maintain itself in South Lithuania so near to the rear of the
main body of the French army, and would soon have been destroyed by
their overwhelming masses.
That the defender’s interest in itself is to give up as few provinces
as possible to the assailant is intelligible enough, but this is always
a secondary consideration; that the attack is also made more difficult
the smaller or rather narrower the theatre of war is to which we can
confine the enemy, is likewise clear in itself; but all this is
subordinate to the condition that in so doing we have the probability
of a result in our favour, and that the main body of the force on the
defensive will not be too much weakened; for upon that force we must
chiefly depend for the final solution, because the difficulties and
distress suffered by the main body of the enemy, first call forth his
determination to retreat, and increase in the greatest degree the loss
of physical and moral power therewith connected.
The retreat into the interior of the country should therefore as a rule
be made directly before the enemy, and as slowly as possible, with an
army which has not suffered defeat and is undivided; and by its
incessant resistance it should force the enemy to a constant state of
readiness for battle, and to a ruinous expenditure of forces in
tactical and strategical measures of precaution.
When both sides have in this manner reached the end of the aggressor’s
first start, the defender should then dispose his army in a position,
if such can be found, forming an oblique angle with the route of his
opponent, and operate against the enemy’s rear with all the means at
his command.
The campaign of 1812 in Russia shows all these measures on a great
scale, and their effects, as it were, in a magnifying glass. Although
it was not a voluntary retreat, we may easily consider it from that
point of view. If the Russians with the experience they now have of the
results to be thus produced, had to undertake the defence of their
country over again, exactly under the same circumstances, they would do
voluntarily and systematically what in great part was done without a
definite plan in 1812; but it would be a great mistake to suppose that
there neither is nor can be any instance elsewhere of the same mode of
action where the dimensions of the Russian empire are wanting.
Whenever a strategic attack, without coming to the issue of a battle,
is wrecked merely on the difficulties encountered, and the aggressor is
compelled to make a more or less disastrous retreat, there the chief
conditions and principal effects of this mode of defence will be found
to have taken place, whatever may be the modifying circumstances
otherwise with which it is accompanied. Frederick the Great’s campaign
of 1742 in Moravia, of 1744 in Bohemia, the French campaign of 1743 in
Austria and Bohemia, the Duke of Brunswick’s campaign of 1792 in
France, Massena’s winter campaign of 1810—11 in Portugal, are all cases
in which this is exemplified, although in smaller proportions and
relations; there are besides innumerable fragmentary operations of this
kind, the results of which, although not wholly, are still partly to be
ascribed to the principle which we here uphold; these we do not bring
forward, because it would necessitate a development of circumstances
which would lead us into too wide a field.
In Russia, and in the other cases cited, the crisis or turn of affairs
took place without any successful battle, having given the decision at
the culminating point; but even when such an effect is not to be
expected, it is always a matter of immense importance in this mode of
defence to bring about such a relation of forces as makes victory
possible, and through that victory, as through a first blow, to cause a
movement which usually goes on increasing in its disastrous effects
according to the laws applicable to falling bodies.
CHAPTER XXVI. Arming the Nation
A people’s war in civilised Europe is a phenomenon of the nineteenth
century. It has its advocates and its opponents: the latter either
considering it in a political sense as a revolutionary means, a state
of anarchy declared lawful, which is as dangerous as a foreign enemy to
social order at home; or on military grounds, conceiving that the
result is not commensurate with the expenditure of the nation’s
strength. The first point does not concern us here, for we look upon a
people’s war merely as a means of fighting, therefore, in its
connection with the enemy; but with regard to the latter point, we must
observe that a people’s war in general is to be regarded as a
consequence of the outburst which the military element in our day has
made through its old formal limits; as an expansion and strengthening
of the whole fermentation-process which we call war. The requisition
system, the immense increase in the size of armies by means of that
system, and the general liability to military service, the utilizing
militia, are all things which lie in the same direction, if we make the
limited military system of former days our starting point; and the
_levée en masse_, or arming of the people, now lies also in the same
direction. If the first named of these new aids to war are the natural
and necessary consequences of barriers thrown down; and if they have so
enormously increased the power of those who first used them, that the
enemy has been carried along in the current, and obliged to adopt them
likewise, this will be the case also with people-wars. In the
generality of cases, the people who make judicious use of this means,
will gain a proportionate superiority over those who despise its use.
If this be so, then the only question is whether this modern
intensification of the military element is, upon the whole, salutary
for the interests of humanity or otherwise,—a question which it would
be about as easy to answer as the question of war itself—we leave both
to philosophers. But the opinion may be advanced, that the resources
swallowed up in people’s wars might be more profitably employed, if
used in providing other military means; no very deep investigation,
however, is necessary to be convinced that these resources are for the
most part not disposable, and cannot be utilized in an arbitrary manner
at pleasure. One essential part that is the moral element, is not
called into existence until this kind of employment for it arises.
We therefore do not ask again: how much does the resistance which the
whole nation in arms is capable of making, cost that nation? but we
ask: what is the effect which such a resistance can produce? What are
its conditions, and how is it to be used?
It follows from the very nature of the thing that defensive means thus
widely dispersed, are not suited to great blows requiring concentrated
action in time and space. Its operation, like the process of
evaporation in physical nature, is according to the surface. The
greater that surface and the greater the contact with the enemy’s army,
consequently the more that army spreads itself out, so much the greater
will be the effects of arming the nation. Like a slow gradual heat, it
destroys the foundations of the enemy’s army. As it requires time to
produce its effects, therefore whilst the hostile elements are working
on each other, there is a state of tension which either gradually wears
out if the people’s war is extinguished at some points, and burns
slowly away at others, or leads to a crisis, if the flames of this
general conflagration envelop the enemy’s army, and compel it to
evacuate the country to save itself from utter destruction. In order
that this result should be produced by a national war alone, we must
suppose either a surface-extent of the dominions invaded, exceeding
that of any country in Europe, except Russia, or suppose a
disproportion between the strength of the invading army and the extent
of the country, such as never occurs in reality. Therefore, to avoid
following a phantom, we must imagine a people-war always in
combination, with a war carried on by a regular army, and both carried
on according to a plan embracing the operations of the whole.
The conditions under which alone the people’s war can become effective
are the following—
1. That the war is carried on in the heart of the country.
2. That it cannot be decided by a single catastrophe.
3. That the theatre of war embraces a considerable extent of country.
4. That the national character is favourable to the measure.
5. That the country is of a broken and difficult nature, either from
being mountainous, or by reason of woods and marshes, or from the
peculiar mode of cultivation in use.
Whether the population is dense or otherwise, is of little consequence,
as there is less likelihood of a want of men than of anything else.
Whether the inhabitants are rich or poor is also a point by no means
decisive, at least it should not be; but it must be admitted that a
poor population accustomed to hard work and privations usually shows
itself more vigorous and better suited for war.
One peculiarity of country which greatly favors the action of war
carried on by the people, is the scattered sites of the dwellings of
the country people, such as is to be found in many parts of Germany.
The country is thus more intersected an dcovered; the roads are worse,
although more numerous; the lodgement of troops is attended with
endless difficulties, but especially that peculiarity repeats itself on
a small scale, which a people-war possesses on a great scale, namely
that the principle of resistance exists everywhere, but is nowhere
tangible. If the inhabitants are collected in villages, the most
troublesome have troops quartered on them, or they are plundered as a
punishment, and their houses burnt, etc, a system which could not be
very easily carried out with a peasant community of Westphalia.
National levies and armed peasantry cannot and should not be employed
against the main body of the enemy’s army, or even against any
considerable corps of the same, they must not attempt to crack the nut,
they must only gnaw on the surface and the borders. They should rise in
the provinces situated at one of the sides of the theatre of war, and
in which the assailant does not appear in force, in order to withdraw
these provinces entirely from his influence. Where no enemy is to be
found, there is no want of courage to oppose him, and at the example
thus given, the mass of the neighboring population gradually takes
fire. Thus the fire spreads as it does in heather, and reaching at last
that part of the surface of the soil on which the aggressor is based,
it seizes his lines of communication and preys upon the vital thread by
which his existence is supported. For although we entertain no
exaggerated ideas of the omnipotence of a people’s war, such as that it
is an inexhaustible, unconquerable element, over which the mere force
of an army has as little control as the human will has over the wind or
the rain; in short, although our opinion is not founded on flowery
ephemeral literature, still we must admit that armed peasants are not
to be driven before us in the same way as a body of soldiers who keep
together like a herd of cattle, and usually follow their noses. Armed
peasants, on the contrary, when broken, disperse in all directions, for
which no formal plan is required; through this circumstance, the march
of every small body of troops in a mountainous, thickly wooded, or even
broken country, becomes a service of a very dangerous character, for at
any moment a combat may arise on the march; if in point of fact no
armed bodies have even been seen for some time, yet the same peasants
already driven off by the head of a column, may at any hour make their
appearance in its rear. If it is an object to destroy roads or to block
up a defile; the means which outposts or detachments from an army can
apply to that purpose, bear about the same relation to those furnished
by a body of insurgent peasants, as the action of an automaton does to
that of a human being. The enemy has no other means to oppose to the
action of national levies except that of detaching numerous parties to
furnish escorts for convoys to occupy military stations, defiles,
bridges, etc. In proportion as the first efforts of the national levies
are small, so the detachments sent out will be weak in numbers, from
the repugnance to a great dispersion of forces; it is on these weak
bodies that the fire of the national war usually first properly kindles
itself, they are overpowered by numbers at some points, courage rises,
the love of fighting gains strength, and the intensity of this struggle
increases until the crisis approaches which is to decide the issue.
According to our idea of a people’s war, it should, like a kind of
nebulous vapoury essence, never condense into a solid body; otherwise
the enemy sends an adequate force against this core, crushes it, and
makes a great many prisoners; their courage sinks; every one thinks the
main question is decided, any further effort useless, and the arms fall
from the hands of the people. Still, however, on the other hand, it is
necessary that this mist should collect at some points into denser
masses, and form threatening clouds from which now and again a
formidable flash of lightning may burst forth. These points are chiefly
on the flanks of the enemy’s theatre of war, as already observed. There
the armament of the people should be organised into greater and more
systematic bodies, supported by a small force of regular troops, so as
to give it the appearance of a regular force and fit it to venture upon
enterprises on a larger scale. From these points, the irregular
character in the organisation of these bodies should diminish in
proportion as they are to be employed more in the direction of the rear
of the enemy, where he is exposed to their hardest blows. These better
organised masses, are for the purpose of falling upon the larger
garrisons which the enemy leaves behind him. Besides, they serve to
create a feeling of uneasiness and dread, and increase the moral
impression of the whole, without them the total action would be wanting
in force, and the situation of the enemy upon the whole would not be
made sufficiently uncomfortable.
The easiest way for a general to produce this more effective form of a
national armament, is to support the movement by small detachments sent
from the army. Without the support of a few regular troops as an
encouragement, the inhabitants generally want an impulse, and the
confidence to take up arms. The stronger these detachments are, the
greater will be their power of attraction, the greater will be the
avalanche which is to fall down. But this has its limits; partly,
first, because it would be detrimental to the army to cut it up into
detachments, for this secondary object to dissolve it, as it were, into
a body of irregulars, and form with it in all directions a weak
defensive line, by which we may be sure both the regular army and
national levies alike would become completely ruined; partly, secondly,
because experience seems to tell us that when there are too many
regular troops in a district, the people-war loses in vigour and
efficacy; the causes of this are in the first place, that too many of
the enemy’s troops are thus drawn into the district, and, in the second
place, that the inhabitants then rely on their own regular troops, and,
thirdly, because the presence of such large bodies of troops makes too
great demands on the powers of the people in other ways, that is, in
providing quarters, transport, contributions, etc., etc.
Another means of preventing any serious reaction on the part of the
enemy against this popular movement constitutes, at the same time, a
leading principle in the method of using such levies; this is, that as
a rule, with this great strategic means of defence, a tactical defence
should seldom or ever take place. The character of a _combat with
national levies_ is the same as that of all combats of masses of troops
of an inferior quality, great impetuosity and fiery ardour at the
commencement, but little coolness or tenacity if the combat is
prolonged. Further, the defeat and dispersion of a body of national
levies is of no material consequence, as they lay their account with
that, but a body of this description must not be broken up by losses in
killed, wounded, and prisoners; a defeat of that kind would soon cool
their ardour. But both these peculiarities are entirely opposed to the
nature of a tactical defensive. In the defensive combat a persistent
slow systematic action is required, and great risks must be run; a mere
attempt, from which we can desist as soon as we please, can never lead
to results in the defensive. If, therefore, the national levies are
entrusted with the defence of any particular portion of territory, care
must be taken that the measure does not lead to a regular great
defensive combat; for if the circumstances were ever so favourable to
them, they would be sure to be defeated. They may, and should,
therefore, defend the approaches to mountains, dykes, over marshes,
river-passages, as long as possible; but when once they are broken,
they should rather disperse, and continue their defence by sudden
attacks, than concentrate and allow themselves to be shut up in some
narrow last refuge in a regular defensive position.—However brave a
nation may be, however warlike its habits, however intense its hatred
of the enemy, however favourable the nature of the country, it is an
undeniable fact that a people’s war cannot be kept up in an atmosphere
too full of danger. If, therefore, its combustible material is to be
fanned by any means into a considerable flame it must be at remote
points where there is more air, and where it cannot be extinguished by
one great blow.
After these reflections, which are more of the nature of subjective
impressions than an objective analysis, because the subject is one as
yet of rare occurrence generally, and has been but imperfectly treated
of by those who have had actual experience for any length of time, we
have only to add that the strategic plan of defence can include in
itself the cooperation of a general arming of the people in two
different ways, that is, either as a last resource after a lost battle,
or as a natural assistance before a decisive battle has been fought.
The latter case supposes a retreat into the interior of the country,
and that indirect kind of reaction of which we have treated in the
eighth and twenty-fourth chapters of this book. We have, therefore,
here only to say a few words on the mission of the national levies
after a battle has been lost.
No State should believe its fate, that is, its entire existence, to be
dependent upon one battle, let it be even the most decisive. If it is
beaten, the calling forth fresh power, and the natural weakening which
every offensive undergoes with time, may bring about a turn of fortune,
or assistance may come from abroad. No such urgent haste to die is
needed yet; and as by instinct the drowning man catches at a straw, so
in the natural course of the moral world a people should try the last
means of deliverance when it sees itself hurried along to the brink of
an abyss.
However small and weak a State may be in comparison to its enemy, if it
foregoes a last supreme effort, we must say there is no longer any soul
left in it. This does not exclude the possibility of saving itself from
complete destruction by the purchase of peace at a sacrifice; but
neither does such an aim on its part do away with the utility of fresh
measures for defence; they will neither make peace more difficult nor
more onerous, but easier and better. They are still more necessary if
there is an expectation of assistance from those who are interested in
maintaining our political existence. Any government, therefore, which,
after the loss of a great battle, only thinks how it may speedily place
the nation in the lap of peace, and unmanned by the feeling of great
hopes disappointed, no longer feels in itself the courage or the desire
to stimulate to the utmost every element of force, completely
stultifies itself in such case through weakness, and shows itself
unworthy of victory, and, perhaps, just on that account, was incapable
of gaining one.
However decisive, therefore, the overthrow may be which is experienced
by a State, still by a retreat of the army into the interior, the
efficacy of its fortresses and an arming of the people may be brought
into use. In connection with this it is advantageous if the flank of
the principal theatre of war is fenced in by mountains, or otherwise
very difficult tracts of country, which stand forth as bastions, the
strategic enfilade of which is to check the enemy’s progress.
If the victorious enemy is engaged in siege works, if he has left
strong garrisons behind him everywhere to secure his communications, or
detached corps to make himself elbow-room, and to keep the adjacent
provinces in subjection, if he is already weakened by his various
losses in active means and material of war, then the moment is arrived
when the defensive army should again enter the lists, and by a
well-directed blow make the assailant stagger in his disadvantageous
position.
CHAPTER XXVII. Defence of a Theatre of War
Having treated of the _most important defensive means_, we might
perhaps be contented to leave the manner in which these means attach
themselves to the plan of defence as a whole to be discussed in the
last Book, which will be devoted to the _Plan of a War;_ for from this
every secondary scheme, either of attack or defence, emanates and is
determined in its leading features; and moreover in many cases the plan
of the war itself is nothing more than the plan of the attack or
defence of the principal theatre of war. But we have not been able to
commence with war as a whole, although in war more than in any other
phase of human activity, the parts are shaped by the whole, imbued with
and essentially altered by its character; instead of that, we have been
obliged to make ourselves thoroughly acquainted, in the first instance,
with each single subject as a separate part. Without this progress from
the simple to the complex, a number of undefined ideas would have
overpowered us, and the manifold phases of reciprocal action in
particular would have constantly confused our conceptions. We shall
therefore still continue to advance towards the whole by one step at a
time; that is, we shall consider the defence of a theatre in itself,
and look for the thread by which the subjects already treated of
connect themselves with it.
The defensive, according to our conception, is nothing _but the
stronger form of combat_. The preservation of our own forces and the
destruction of those of the enemy—in a word, the _victory_—is the aim
of this contest, but at the same time not its ultimate object.
That object is the preservation of our own political state and the
subjugation of that of the enemy; or again, in one word, the _desired
peace_, because it is only by it that this conflict adjusts itself, and
ends in a common result.
But what is the enemy’s state in connection with war? Above all things
its military force is important, then its territory; but certainly
there are also still many other things which, through particular
circumstances, may obtain a predominant importance; to these belong,
before all, foreign and domestic political relations, which sometimes
decide more than all the rest. But although the military force and the
territory of the enemy alone are still not the state itself, nor are
they the only connections which the state may have with the war, still
these two things are always preponderating, mostly immeasurably
surpassing all other connections in importance. Military force is to
protect the territory of the state, or to conquer that of an enemy; the
territory on the other hand, constantly nourishes and renovates the
military force. The two, therefore, depend on each other, mutually
support each other, are equal in importance one to the other. But still
there is a difference in their mutual relations. If the military force
is destroyed, that is completely defeated, rendered incapable of
further resistance, then the loss of the territory follows of itself;
but on the other hand, the destruction of the military force by no
means follows from the conquest of the country, because that force may
of its own accord evacuate the territory, in order afterwards to
reconquer it the more easily. Indeed, not only does the _complete_
destruction of its army decide the fate of a country, but even every
_considerable weakening_ of its military force leads regularly to a
loss of territory; on the other hand, every considerable loss of
territory does not cause a proportionate diminution of military power;
in the long run it will do so, but not always within the space of time
in which a war is brought to a close.
From this it follows that the preservation of our own military power,
and the diminution or destruction of that of the enemy, take precedence
in importance over the occupation of territory, and, therefore, is the
_first object_ which a general should strive for. The possession of
territory only presses for consideration _as an object_ if that means
(diminution or destruction of the enemy’s military force) has not
effected it.
If the whole of the enemy’s military power was united in _one army_,
and if the whole war consisted of _one battle_, then the possession of
the country would depend on the issue of that battle; destruction of
the enemy’s military forces, conquest of his country and security of
our own, would follow from that result, and, in a certain measure, be
identical with it. Now the question is, what can induce the defensive
to deviate from this simplest form of the act of warfare, and
distribute his power in space? The answer is, the insufficiency of the
victory which he might gain with all his forces united. Every victory
has its sphere of influence. If this extends over the whole of the
enemy’s state, consequently over the whole of his military force and
his territory, that is, if all the parts are carried along in the same
movement, which we have impressed upon the core of his power, then such
a victory is all that we require, and a division of our forces would
not be justified by sufficient grounds. But if there are portions of
the enemy’s military force, and of country belonging to either party,
over which our victory would have no effect, then we must give
particular attention to those parts; and as we cannot unite territory
like a military force in one point, therefore we must divide our forces
for the purpose of attacking or defending those portions.
It is only in small, compactly shaped states that it is possible to
have such a unity of military force, and that probably all depends upon
a victory over _that force_. Such a unity is practically impossible
when larger tracts of country, having for a great extent boundaries
conterminious with our own, are concerned, or in the case of an
alliance of several surrounding states against us. In such cases,
divisions of force must necessarily take place, giving occasion to
different theatres of war.
The effect of a victory will naturally depend on its _greatness_, and
that on the mass of the _conquered troops_. Therefore _the blow_ which,
if successful, will produce the greatest effect, must be made against
_that part_ of the country where the greatest number of the enemy’s
forces are collected together; and the greater the mass of our own
forces which we use for this blow, so much the surer shall we be of
this success. This natural sequence of ideas leads us to an
illustration by which we shall see this truth more clearly; it is the
nature and effect of the centre of gravity in mechanics.
As the centre of gravity is always situated where the greatest mass of
matter is collected, and as a shock against the centre of gravity of a
body always produces the greatest effect, and further, as the most
effective blow is struck with the centre of gravity of the power used,
so it is also in war. The armed forces of every belligerent, whether of
a single state or of an alliance of states, have a certain unity, and
in that way, connection; but where connection is there come in
analogies of the centre of gravity. There are, therefore, in these
armed forces certain centres of gravity, the movement and direction of
which decide upon other points, and these centres of gravity are
situated where the greatest bodies of troops are assembled. But just
as, in the world of inert matter, the action against the centre of
gravity has its measure and limits in the connection of the parts, so
it is in war, and here as well as there the force exerted may easily be
greater than the resistance requires, and then there is a blow in the
air, a waste of force.
What a difference there is between the solidity of an army under _one_
standard, led into battle under the personal command of _one_ general,
and that of an _allied army_ extended over 50 or 100 miles, or it may
be even based upon quite different sides (of the theatre of war). There
we see coherence in the strongest degree, unity most complete; here
unity in a very remote degree often only existing in the political view
held in common, and in that also in a miserable and insufficient
degree, the cohesion of parts mostly very weak, often quite an
illusion.
Therefore, if on the one hand, the violence with which we wish to
strike the blow prescribes the greatest concentration of force, so in
like manner, on the other hand, we have to fear every undue excess as a
real evil, because it entails a waste of power, and that in turn a
_deficiency_ of power at other points.
To distinguish these “_centra gravitatis_” in the enemy’s military
power, to discern their spheres of action is, therefore, a supreme act
of strategic judgment. We must constantly ask ourselves, what effect
the advance or retreat of part of the forces on either side will
produce on the rest.
We do not by this lay claim in any way to the discovery of a new
method, we have only sought to explain the foundation of the method of
all generals, in every age, in a manner which may place its connection
with the nature of things in a clearer light.
How this conception of the centre of gravity of the enemy’s force
affects the whole plan of the war, we shall consider in the last book,
for that is the proper place for the subject, and we have only borrowed
it from there to avoid leaving any break in the sequence of ideas. By
the introduction of this view we have seen the motives which occasion a
partition of forces in general. These consist fundamentally of two
interests which are in opposition to each other; the one, _the
possession of territory_ strives to divide the forces; the other, _the
effort of force against the centre of gravity of the enemy’s military
power_, combines them again up to a certain point.
Thus it is that theatres of war or particular army regions originate.
These are those boundaries of the area of the country and of the forces
thereon distributed, within which every decision given by the principal
force of such a region extends itself _directly_ over the whole, and
carries on the whole with it in its own direction. We say _directly_,
because a decision on one theatre of war must naturally have also an
influence more or less over those adjoining it.
Although it lies quite in the nature of the thing, we must again remind
our readers expressly that here as well as everywhere else our
definitions are only directed at the centres of certain speculative
regions, the limits of which we neither desire to, nor can we, define
by sharp lines.
We think, therefore, a theatre of war, whether large or small, with its
military force, whatever may be the size of that, represents a unity
which maybe reduced to one centre of gravity. At this centre of gravity
the decision must take place, and to be conqueror here means to defend
the theatre of war in the widest sense.
CHAPTER XXVIII. Defence of a Theatre of War—(_continued_)
Defence, however, consists of two different elements, these are the
_decision_ and the _state of expectation_. The combination of these two
elements forms the subject of this chapter.
First we must observe that the state of expectation is not, in point of
fact, the complete defence; it is only that province of the same in
which it proceeds to its aim. As long as a military force has not
abandoned the portion of territory placed under its guardianship, the
tension of forces on both sides created by the attack continues, and
this lasts until there is a decision. The decision itself can only be
regarded as having actually taken place when either the assailant or
defender has left the theatre of war.
As long as an armed force maintains itself within its theatre, the
defence of the same continues, and in this sense the defence of the
theatre of war is identical with the defence _in the same_. Whether the
enemy in the meantime has obtained possession of much or little of that
section of country is not essential, for it is only lent to him until
the decision.
But this kind of idea by which we wish to settle the proper relation of
the state of expectation to the whole is only correct when a decision
is really to take place, and is regarded by both parties as inevitable.
For it is only by that decision that the centres of gravity of the
respective forces, and the theatre of war determined through them are
_effectually_ hit. Whenever the idea of a decisive solution disappears,
then the centres of gravity are neutralised, indeed, in a certain
sense, the whole of the armed forces become so also, and now the
possession of territory, which forms the second principal branch of the
whole theatre of war, comes forward as the direct object. In other
words, the less a decisive blow is sought for by both sides in a war,
and the more it is merely a mutual observation of one another, so much
the more important becomes the possession of territory, so much the
more the defensive seeks to cover all directly, and the assailant seeks
to extend his forces in his advance.
Now we cannot conceal from ourselves the fact that the majority of wars
and campaigns approach much more to a state of observation than to a
struggle for life or death, that is, a contest in which one at least of
the combatants uses every effort to bring about a complete decision.
This last character is only to be found in the wars of the nineteenth
century to such a degree that a theory founded on this point of view
can be made use of in relation to them. But as all future wars will
hardly have this character, and it is rather to be expected that they
will again show a tendency to the observation character, therefore any
theory to be practically useful must pay attention to that. Hence we
shall commence with the case in which the desire of a decision
permeates and guides the whole, therefore with _real_, or if we may use
the expression, _absolute war;_ then in another chapter we shall
examine those modifications which arise through the approach, in a
greater or less degree, to the state of a war of observation.
In the first case (whether the decision is sought by the aggressor or
the defender) the defence of the theatre of war must consist in the
defender establishing himself there in such a manner, that in a
decision he will have an advantage on his side at any moment. This
decision may be either a battle, or a series of great combats, but it
may also consist in the resultant of mere relations, which arise from
the situation of the opposing forces, that is, _possible combats_.
If the battle were not also the most powerful, the most usual and most
effectual means of a decision in war, as we think we have already shown
on several occasions, still the mere fact of its being in a general way
one of the means of reaching this solution, would be sufficient to
enjoin _the greatest concentration of our forces_ which circumstances
will in any way permit. A great battle upon the theatre of war is the
blow of the centre of force against the centre of force; the more
forces can be collected in the one or the other, the surer and greater
will be the effect. Therefore every separation of forces which is not
called for by an object (which either cannot itself be attained by the
successful issue of a battle, or which itself is necessary to the
successful issue of the battle) is _blameable_.
But the greatest concentration of forces is not the only fundamental
condition; it is also requisite that they should have such a position
and place that the battle may be fought under favourable circumstances.
The different steps in the defence which we have become acquainted with
in the chapter on the methods of defence, are completely homogeneous
with these fundamental conditions; there will therefore be no
difficulty in connecting them with the same, according to the special
requirements of each case. But there is one point which seems at first
sight to involve a contradiction in itself, and which, as one of the
most important in the defence, requires explanation so much the more.
It is the hitting upon the exact centre of gravity of the enemy’s
force.
If the defender ascertains in time the roads by which the enemy will
advance, and upon which in particular the great mass of his force will
be found for a certainty, he may march against him on that road. This
will be the most usual case, for although the defence precedes the
attack in measures of a general nature, in the establishment of strong
places, great arsenals, and depôts, and in the peace establishment of
his army, and thus gives a line of direction to the assailant in his
preparations, still, when the campaign really opens, the defender, in
relation to the aggressor, has the peculiar advantage in general of
playing the last hand.
To attack a foreign country with a large army, very considerable
preparations are required. Provisions, stores, and articles of
equipment of all kinds must be collected, which is a work of time.
While these preparations are going on, the defender has time to prepare
accordingly, in regard to which we must not forget that the defensive
requires less time, generally speaking, because in every state things
are prepared rather for the defensive than the offensive.
But although this may hold good in the majority of cases, there is
always a possibility that, in particular cases, the defensive may
remain in uncertainty as to the principal line by which the enemy
intends to advance; and this case is more likely to occur when the
defence is dependent on measures which of themselves take a good deal
of time, as for example, the preparation of a strong position. Further,
supposing the defender places himself on the line by which the
aggressor is advancing, then, unless the defender is prepared to take
the initiative by attacking the aggressor, the latter may avoid the
position which the defender has taken up, by only altering a little his
line of advance, for in the cultivated parts of Europe we can never be
so situated that there are not roads to the right or left by which any
position may be avoided. Plainly, in such a case the defender could not
wait for his enemy in a position, or at least could not wait there in
the expectation of giving battle.
But before entering on the means available to the defensive in this
case, we must inquire more particularly into the nature of such a case,
and the probability of its occurrence.
Naturally there are in every State, and also in every theatre of war
(of which alone we are at present speaking), objects and points upon
which an attack is likely to be more efficacious than anywhere else.
Upon this we think it will be better to speak when we come to the
attack. Here we shall confine ourselves to observing that, if the most
advantageous object and point of attack is the motive for the assailant
in the direction of his blow, this motive reacts on the defensive, and
must be his guide in cases in which he knows nothing of the intentions
of his adversary. If the assailant does not take this direction which
is favourable to him, he foregoes part of his natural advantages. It is
evident that, if the defender has taken up a position in that
direction, the evading his position, or passing round, is not to be
done for nothing; it costs a sacrifice. From this it follows that there
is not on the side of the defender such a risk of _missing the
direction of his enemy;_ neither on the other hand, is it so easy for
the assailant _to pass round his adversary_ as appears at first sight,
because there exists beforehand a very distinct, and in most cases
preponderating, motive in favour of one or the other direction, and
that consequently the defender, although his preparations are fixed to
one spot, will not fail in most cases to come in contact with the mass
of the enemy’s forces. In other words, _if the defender has put himself
in the right position, he may be almost sure that the assailant will
come to meet him._
But by this we shall not and cannot deny the possibility of the
defender sometimes not meeting with the assailant after all these
arrangements, and therefore the question arises, what he should then
do, and how much of the real advantages of his position still remain
available to him.
If we ask ourselves what means still remain generally to the defender
when the assailant passes by his position, they are the following:—
1. To divide his forces instantly, so as to be certain to find the
assailant with one portion, and then to support that portion with the
other.
2. To take up a position with his force united, and in case the
assailant passes by him, to push on rapidly in front of him by a
lateral movement. In most cases there will not be time to make such a
movement directly to a flank, it will therefore be necessary to take up
the new position somewhat further back.
3. With his whole force to attack the enemy in flank.
4. To operate against his communications.
5. By a counter attack on _his_ theatre of war, to do exactly what the
enemy has done in passing by us.
We introduce this last measure, because it is possible to imagine a
case in which it may be efficacious; but as it is in contradiction to
the object of the defence, that is, the grounds on which that form has
been chosen, therefore it can only be regarded as an abnormity, which
can only take place because the enemy has made some great mistake, or
because there are other special features in a particular case.
Operating against the enemy’s communications implies that our own are
superior, which is also one of the fundamental requisites of a good
defensive position. But although on that ground this action may promise
the defender a certain amount of advantage, still, in the defence of a
theatre of war, it is seldom an operation suited to _lead to a
decision_, which we have supposed to be the object of the campaign.
The dimensions of a single theatre of war are seldom so large that the
line of communications is exposed to much danger by their length, and
even if they were in danger, still the time which the assailant
requires for the execution of his blow is usually too short for his
progress to be arrested by the slow effects of the action against his
communications.
Therefore this means (that is the action against the communications)
will prove quite inefficacious in most cases against an enemy
determined upon a decision, and also in case the defender seeks such a
solution.
The object of the three other means which remain for the defender, is a
direct decision—a meeting of centre of force with centre of force; they
correspond better, therefore, with the thing required. But we shall at
once say that we decidedly prefer the third to the other two, and
without quite rejecting the latter, we hold the former to be in the
majority of cases the true means of defence.
In a position where our forces are divided, there is always a danger of
getting involved in a war of posts, from which, if our adversary is
resolute, can follow, under the best of circumstances, only _a relative
defence on a large scale_, never a decision such as we desire; and even
if by superior tact we should be able to avoid this mistake, still, by
the preliminary resistance being with divided forces, the first shock
is sensibly weakened, and we can never be sure that the advanced corps
first engaged will not suffer disproportionate losses. To this is to be
added that the resistance of this corps which usually ends in its
falling back on the main body, appears to the troops in the light of a
lost combat, or miscarriage of plans, and the moral force suffers
accordingly.
The second means, that of placing our whole force in front of the
enemy, in whichever direction he may bend his march, involves a risk of
our arriving too late, and thus between two measures, falling short of
both. Besides this, a defensive battle requires coolness and
consideration, a knowledge, indeed intimate knowledge of the country,
which cannot be expected in a hasty oblique movement to a flank.
Lastly, positions suitable for a good defensive battle-field are too
rarely to be met with to reckon upon them at every point of every road.
On the other hand, the third means, namely to attack the enemy in
flank, therefore to give battle with a change of front, is attended
with great advantages.
Firstly, there is always in this case, as we know, an exposure of the
lines of communication, here the lines of retreat, and in this respect
the defender has one advantage in his general relations as defender,
and next and chiefly, the advantage which we have claimed for the
strategic properties of his position at present.
Secondly,—and this is the principal thing,—every assailant who attempts
to pass by his opponent is placed between two opposite tendencies. His
first desire is to advance to attain the object of his attack; but the
possibility of being attacked in flank at any moment, creates a
necessity for being prepared, at any moment, to deliver a blow in that
direction, and that too a blow with the mass of his forces. These two
tendencies are contradictory, and beget such a complication in the
internal relations (of his army), such a difficulty in the choice of
measures, if they are to suit every event, that there can hardly be a
more disagreeable position strategically. If the assailant knew with
certainty the moment when he would be attacked, he might prepare to
receive the enemy with skill and ability; but in his uncertainty on
this point, and pressed by the necessity of advancing, it is almost
certain that when the moment for battle arrives, it finds him in the
midst of hurried and half-finished preparations, and therefore by no
means in an advantageous relation to his enemy.
If then there are favourable moments for the defender to deliver an
offensive battle, it is surely at such a moment as this, above all
others, that we may look for success. If we consider, further, that the
knowledge of the country and choice of ground are on the side of the
defender, that he can prepare his movements, and can time them, no one
can doubt that he possesses in such a situation a decided superiority,
strategically, over his adversary.
We think, therefore, that a defender occupying a well chosen position,
with his forces united, may quietly wait for the enemy passing by his
army; should the enemy not attack him in his position, and that an
operation against the enemy’s communications does not suit the
circumstances, there still remains for him an excellent means of
bringing about a decision by resorting to a flank attack.
If cases of this kind are hardly to be found in military history, the
reason is, partly, that the defender has seldom had the courage to
remain firm in such a position, but has either divided his forces, or
rashly thrown himself in front of his enemy by a cross or diagonal
march, or that no assailant dares to venture past the defender under
such circumstances, and in that way his movement usually comes to a
stand still.
The defender is in this case compelled to resort to an offensive
battle: the further advantages of _the state of expectation of a strong
position, of good entrenchments_, etc., etc., he must give up; in most
cases the situation in which he finds the advancing enemy will not
quite make up for these advantages, for it is just to evade their
influence that the assailant has placed himself in his present
situation; still it always offers him _a certain compensation_, and
theory is therefore not just obliged to see a quantity disappear at
once from the calculation, to see the pro and contra mutually cancel
each other, as so often happens when critical writers of history
introduce a little bit of theory.
It must not, in fact, be supposed that we are now dealing with logical
subtilties; the subject is rather one which the more it is practically
considered, the more it appears as an idea embracing the whole essence
of defensive war, everywhere dominating and regulating it.
It is only by the determination on the part of the defender to assail
his opponent with all his force, the moment he passes by him, that he
avoids two pitfalls, close to which he is led by the defensive form;
that is a division of his force, and a hasty flank march to intercept
the assailant in front. In both he accepts the law of the assailant; in
both he seeks to aid himself through measures of a very critical
nature, and with a most dangerous degree of haste; and wherever a
resolute adversary, thirsting for victory and a decision, has
encountered such a system of defence, he has knocked it on the head.
But when the defender has assembled his forces at the right point to
fight a general action, if he is determined with this force, come what
will, to attack his enemy in flank, he has done right, and is in the
_right_ course, and he is supported by all the advantages which the
defence can give in his situation; his actions will then bear the stamp
_of good preparation, coolness, security, unity and simplicity._
We cannot here avoid mentioning a remarkable event in history, which
has a close analogy with the ideas now developed; we do so to
anticipate its being used in a wrong application.
When the Prussian army was, in October, 1806, waiting in Thuringia for
the French under Buonaparte, the former was posted between the two
great roads on which the latter might be expected to advance, that is,
the road to Berlin by Erfurth, and that by Hof and Leipsic. The first
intention of breaking into Franconia straight through the Thuringian
Forest, and afterwards, when that plan was abandoned, the uncertainty
as to which of the roads the French would choose for their advance,
caused this intermediate position. As such, it must therefore have led
to the adoption of the measure we have been discussing, a hasty
interception of the enemy in front by a lateral movement.
This was in fact the idea in case the enemy marched by Erfurth, for the
roads in that direction were good; on the other hand, the idea of a
movement of this description on the road by Hof could not be
entertained, partly because the army was two or three marches away from
that road, partly because the deep valley of the Saale interposed;
neither did this plan ever enter into the views of the Duke of
Brunswick, so that there was no kind of preparation made for carrying
it into effect, but it was always contemplated by Prince Hohenlohe,
that is, by Colonel Massenbach, who exerted all his influence to draw
the Duke into this plan. Still less could the idea be entertained of
leaving the position which had been taken on the left bank of the Saale
to try an offensive battle against Buonaparte on his advance, that is,
to such an attack in flank as we have been considering; for if the
Saale was an obstacle to intercepting the enemy in the last moment (_à
fortiori_) it would be a still greater obstacle to assuming the
offensive at a moment when the enemy would be in possession of the
opposite side of the river, at least partially. The Duke, therefore,
determined to wait behind the Saale to see what would happen, that is
to say, if we can call anything a determination which emanated from
this many-headed Headquarters’ Staff, and in this time of confusion and
utter indecision.
Whatever may have been the true condition of affairs during this state
of expectation, the consequent situation of the army was this:—
1. That the enemy might be attacked if he crossed the Saale to attack
the Prussian army.
2. That if he did not march against that army, operations might be
commenced against his communications.
3. If it should be found practicable and advisable, he might be
intercepted near Leipsic by a rapid flank march.
In the first case, the Prussian army possessed a great strategic and
tactical advantage in the deep valley of the Saale. In the second, the
strategic advantage was just as great, for the enemy had only a very
narrow base between our position and the neutral territory of Bohemia,
whilst ours was extremely broad; even in the third case, our army,
covered by the Saale, was still by no means in a disadvantageous
situation. All these three measures, in spite of the confusion and want
of any clear perception at head-quarters, _were really discussed;_ but
certainly we cannot wonder that, although a right idea may have been
entertained, it should have entirely failed in the _execution_ by the
complete want of resolution and the confusion generally prevailing.
In the two first cases, the position on the left bank of the Saale is
to be regarded as a real flank position, and it had undoubtedly as such
very great qualities; but in truth, against a very superior enemy,
_against a Buonaparte_, a flank position with an army that is not very
sure about what it is doing, _is a very bold measure_.
After long hesitation, the Duke on the 13th adopted the last of the
plans proposed, but it was too late, Buonaparte had already commenced
to pass the Saale, and the battles of Jena and Auerstadt were
inevitable. The Duke, through his indecision, had set himself between
two stools; he quitted his first position too late _to push his army in
before the enemy_, and too soon for a battle suited to the object.
Nevertheless, the natural strength of this position proved itself so
far that the Duke was able to destroy the right wing of the enemy’s
army at Auerstadt, whilst Prince Hohenlohe, by a bloody retreat, was
still able to back out of the scrape; but at Auerstadt they did not
venture to realise the victory, which was _quite certain;_ and at Jena
they thought they might reckon upon one which was _quite impossible_.
In any case, Buonaparte felt the strategic importance of the position
on the Saale so much, that he did not venture to pass it by, but
determined on a passage of the Saale in sight of the enemy.
By what we have now said we think we have sufficiently specified the
relations between the defence and the attack when a decisive course of
action is intended, and we believe we have shown also the threads to
which, according to their situation and connection, the different
subjects of the plan of defence attach themselves. To go through the
different arrangements more in detail does not come within our views,
for that would lead us into a boundless field of particular cases. When
a general has laid down for his direction a distinct point, he will see
how far it agrees with geographical, statistical, and political
circumstances, the material and personal relations of his own army and
that of the enemy, and how the one or the other may require that his
plans should be modified in carrying them into effect.
But in order more distinctly to connect and look closer at the
gradations in the defence specified in the chapter on the different
kinds of defence, we shall here lay before our readers what seems to us
most important, in relation to the same generally.
1. Reasons for marching against the enemy with a view to an offensive
battle, may be as follows:—
(_a_) If we know that the enemy is advancing with his forces very much
divided, and therefore we have reason to expect a victory, although we
are, upon the whole, much weaker.
But such an advance on the part of the assailant is in itself very
improbable, and consequently, unless we know of it upon certain
information, the plan is not good; for to reckon upon it, and rest all
our hopes on it through a _mere supposition_, and without sufficient
motive, leads generally to a very dangerous situation. We do not, then,
find things as we expected; we are obliged to give up the offensive
battle, we are not prepared to fight on the defensive, we are obliged
to commence with a retreat against our will, and leave almost
everything to chance.
This is very much what occurred in the defence, conducted by the army
under Dohna against the Russians, in the campaign of 1759, and which,
under General Wedel, ended in the unfortunate battle of Züllichau.
This measure shortens matters so much that plan-makers are only too
ready to propose it, without taking much trouble to inquire how far the
hypothesis on which it rests is well founded.
(_b_) If we are generally in sufficient strength for battle, and—
(_c_) If a blundering, irresolute adversary specially invites an
attack.
In this case the effect of surprise may be worth more than any
assistance furnished by the ground through a good position. It is the
real essence of good generalship thus to bring into play the power of
the moral forces;—but theory can never say loud enough nor often enough
there must be an _objective foundation_ for these suppositions; without
_such foundation_ to be always talking of surprises and the superiority
of novel or unusual modes of attack, and thereon to found plans,
considerations, criticisms, is acting without any grounds, and is
altogether objectionable.
(_d_) When the nature of our army makes it specially suited for the
offensive.
It was certainly not a visionary or false idea when Frederick the Great
conceived that in his mobile, courageous army, full of confidence in
him, obedient by habit, trained to precision, animated and elevated by
pride, and with its perfection in the oblique attack, he possessed an
instrument which, in his firm and daring hand, was much more suited to
attack than defence; all these qualities were wanting in his opponents,
and in this respect, therefore, he had the most decided superiority; to
make use of this was worth more to him, in most cases, than to take to
his assistance entrenchments and obstacles of ground.—But such a
superiority will always be rare; a well-trained army, thoroughly
practised in great movements, has only part of the above advantages. If
Frederick the Great maintained that the Prussian army was particularly
adapted for attack—and this has been incessantly repeated since his
time—still we should not attach too much weight to any such saying; in
most cases in war we feel more exhilarated, more courageous when acting
offensively than defensively: but this is a feeling which all troops
have in common, and there is hardly an army respecting which its
generals and leaders have not made the same assertion (as Frederick).
We must, therefore, not too readily rely on an appearance of
superiority, and through that neglect real advantages.
A very natural and weighty reason for resorting to an offensive battle
may be the composition of the army as regards the three arms, for
instance, a numerous cavalry and little artillery.
We continue the enumeration of reasons.
(_e_) When we can nowhere find a good position.
(_f_) When we must hasten with the decision.
(_g_) Lastly, the combined influence of several or all of these
reasons.
2. The waiting for the enemy in a locality where it is intended to
attack him (Minden, 1759) naturally proceeds from—
_a_, there being no such disproportion of force to our disadvantage as
to make it necessary to seek a strong position and strengthen it by
entrenchments.
_b_, a locality having been found particularly adapted to the purpose.
The properties which determine this belong to tactics; we shall only
observe that these properties chiefly consist in an easy approach for
the defender from his side, and in all kinds of obstacles on the side
next to the enemy.
3. A position will be taken with the express intention of there waiting
the attack of the enemy—
_a._ If the disproportion of forces compels us to seek cover from
natural obstacles or behind field-works.
_b._ When the country affords an excellent position for our purpose.
The two modes of defence, 2 and 3, will come more into consideration
according as we do not seek the decision itself, but content ourselves
with a negative result, and have reason to think that our opponent is
wavering and irresolute, and that he will in the end fail to carry out
his plans.
4. An entrenched unassailable camp only fulfils the object—
_a._ If it is situated at an extremely important strategic point.
The character of such a position consists in this, that we cannot be
driven out of it; the enemy is therefore obliged to try some other
means, that is, to pursue his object without touching this camp, or to
blockade it and reduce it by starvation: if it is impossible for him to
do this, then the strategic qualities of the position must be very
great.
_b._ If we have reason to expect aid from abroad.
Such was the case with the Saxon army in its position at Pirna.
Notwithstanding all that has been said against the measure on account
of the ill-success which attended it in this instance, it is perfectly
certain that 17,000 Saxons could never have been able to neutralise
40,000 Prussians in any other way. If the Austrians were unable to make
better use of the superiority obtained at Lowositz, that only shows the
badness of their whole method of war, as well as of their whole
military organisation; and there cannot be a doubt that if the Saxons
instead of taking post in the camp at Pirna had retired into Bohemia,
Frederick the Great would have driven both Austrians and Saxons beyond
Prague, and taken that place in the same campaign. Whoever does not
admit the value of this advantage, and limits his consideration to the
capture of the whole Saxon army, shows himself incapable of making a
calculation of all the circumstances in a case of this kind, and
without calculation no certain deduction can be obtained.
But as the cases _a_ and _b_ very rarely occur, therefore, the
entrenched camp is a measure which requires to be well considered, and
which is very seldom suitable in practice. The hope of _inspiring_ the
enemy _with respect_ by such a camp, and thus reducing him to a state
of complete inactivity, is attended with too much danger, namely, with
the danger of being obliged to fight without the possibility of
retreat. If Frederick the Great gained his object in this way at
Bunzelwitz, we must admire the correct judgment he formed of his
adversary, but we must certainly also lay more stress than usual on the
resources which he would have found at the last moment to clear a road
for the remnants of his army, and also on the _irresponsibility_ of a
king.
5. If there is one or if there are several fortresses near the
frontier, then the great question arises, whether the defender should
seek an action before or behind them. The latter recommends itself—
_a_, by the superiority of the enemy in numbers, which forces us to
break his power before coming to a final struggle.
_b_, by these fortresses being near, so that the sacrifice of territory
is not greater than we are compelled to make.
_c_, by the fitness _of the fortresses for defence_.
One principal use of fortresses is unquestionably, or should be, to
break the enemy’s force in his advance and to weaken considerably that
portion which we intend to bring to an engagement. If we so seldom see
this use made of fortresses, that proceeds from the cases in which a
decisive battle is sought for by one of the opposing parties being very
rare. But that is the only kind of case which we treat of here. We
therefore look upon it as a principle equally simple and important in
all cases in which the defender has one or more fortresses near him,
that he should keep them before him, and give the decisive battle
behind them. We admit that a battle lost within the line of our
fortresses will compel us to retreat further into the interior of the
country than one lost on the other side, tactical results in both cases
being the same, although the causes of the difference have their origin
rather in the imagination than in real things; neither do we forget
that a battle may be given beyond the fortresses in a well chosen
position, whilst inside them the battle in most cases must be an
offensive one, particularly if the enemy is laying siege to a fortress
which is in danger of being lost; but what signify these nice shades of
distinction, as compared to the advantage that, in the decisive battle,
we meet the enemy weakened by a fourth or a third of his force, perhaps
one half if there are many fortresses?
We think, therefore, that in all cases of _an inevitable decision_,
whether sought for by the offensive or the defensive, and that the
latter is not tolerably sure of a victory, or if the nature of the
country does not offer some most decisive reason to give battle in a
position further forward—in all these cases we say when a fortress is
situated near at hand and capable of defence, the defender should by
all means withdraw at once behind it, and let the decision take place
on this side, consequently with its co-operation. If he takes up his
position so close to the fortress that the assailant can neither form
the siege of nor blockade the place without first driving him off, he
places the assailant under the necessity of attacking him, the
defender, in his position. To us, therefore, of all defensive measures
in a critical situation, none appears so simple and efficacious as the
choice of a good position near to and behind a strong fortress.
At the same time, the question would wear a different aspect if the
fortress was situated far back; for then it would be necessary to
abandon a considerable part of our theatre of war, a sacrifice which,
as we know, should not be made unless in a case of great urgency. In
such a case the measure would bear more resemblance to a retreat into
the interior of the country.
Another condition is, the fitness of the place for defence. It is well
known that there are fortified places, especially large ones, which are
not fit to be brought into contact with an enemy’s army, because they
could not resist the sudden assault of a powerful force. In this case,
our position must at all events be so close behind that we could
support the garrison.
Lastly, the retreat into the interior of the country is only a natural
resource under the following circumstances:—
_a_, when owing to the physical and moral relation in which we stand as
respects the enemy, the idea of a successful resistance on the frontier
or near it cannot be entertained.
_b_, when it is a principal object to gain time.
_c_, when there are peculiarities in the country which are favourable
to the measure, a subject on which we have already treated in the
twenty-fifth chapter.
We thus close the chapter on the defence of a theatre of war if a
decisive solution is sought for by one or other party, and is therefore
inevitable. But it must be particularly borne in mind, that events in
war do not exhibit themselves in such a pure abstract form, and that
therefore, if our maxims and arguments should be used in reasoning on
actual war, our thirtieth chapter should also be kept in view, and we
must suppose the general, in the majority of cases, as placed between
two tendencies, urged _more_ towards one or the other, according to
circumstances.
CHAPTER XXIX. Defence of a Theatre of War (_continued_) Successive
Resistance.
We have proved, in the twelfth and thirteenth chapters, that in
strategy a successive resistance is inconsistent with the nature of the
thing, and that all forces available should be used simultaneously.
As regards forces which are moveable, this requires no further
demonstration; but when we look at the seat of war itself, with its
fortresses, the natural divisions of the ground, and even the extent of
its surface as being also elements of war, then, these being immovable,
we can only either bring them gradually into use, or we must at once
place ourselves so far back, that all agencies of this kind which are
to be brought into activity are in our front. Then everything which can
contribute to weaken the enemy in the territory which he has occupied,
comes at once into activity, for the assailant must at least blockade
the defender’s fortresses, he must keep the country in subjection by
garrisons and other posts, he has long marches to make, and everything
he requires must be brought from a distance, etc. All these agencies
commence to work, whether the assailant makes _his advance before or
after_ a decision, but in the former case their influence is somewhat
greater. From this, therefore, it follows, that if the defender chooses
to transfer his decision to a point further back, he has thus the means
of bringing at once into play all these immovable elements of military
force.
On the other hand, it is clear that this _transfer of the solution_ (on
the part of the defender) does not alter the extent of the influence of
a victory which the assailant gains. In treating of the attack, we
shall examine more closely the extent of the influence of a victory;
here we shall only observe that it reaches to the exhaustion of the
superiority, that is, the resultant of the physical and moral
relations. Now this superiority exhausts itself in the first place by
the duties required from the forces on the theatre of war, and secondly
by losses in combats; the diminution of force arising from these two
causes cannot be essentially altered, whether the combats take place at
the commencement or at the end, near the frontier, or further towards
the interior of the country (vom oder hinten). We think, for example,
that a victory gained by Buonaparte over the Russians at Wilna, 1812,
would have carried him just as far as that of Borodino—assuming that it
was equally great—and that a victory at Moscow would not have carried
him any further; Moscow was, in either case, the limit of this sphere
of victory. Indeed, it cannot be doubted for a moment that a decisive
battle on the frontier (for other reasons) would have produced much
greater results through victory, and then, perhaps, the sphere of its
influence would have been wider. Therefore, in this view, also, the
transfer of the decision to a point further back is not necessary for
the defence.
In the chapter on the various means of resistance, that method of
delaying the decision, which may be regarded as an extreme form, was
brought before us under the name of _retreat into the interior_, and as
a particular method of defence, in which the object is rather that the
assailant should wear himself out, than that he should be destroyed by
the sword on the field of battle. But it is only when such an intention
predominates that the delaying of the decisive battle can be regarded
as a _peculiar method of resistance;_ for otherwise it is evident that
an infinite number of gradations may be conceived in this method, and
that these may be combined with all other means of defence. We
therefore look upon the greater or less co-operation of the theatre of
war, not as a special form of defence, but as nothing more than a
discretionary introduction into the defence of the immovable means of
resistance, just according as circumstances and the nature of the
situation may appear to require.
But now, if the defender does not think he requires any assistance from
these immovable forces for his purposed decision, or if the further
sacrifice connected with the use of them is too great, then they are
kept in reserve for the future, and form a sort of succession of
reinforcements, which perhaps ensure the possibility of keeping the
moveable forces in such a condition that they will be able to follow up
the first favourable decision with a second, or perhaps in the same
manner even with a third, that is to say, in this manner a _successive_
application of his forces becomes possible.
If the defender loses a battle on the frontier, which does not amount
to a complete defeat, we may very well imagine that, by placing himself
behind the nearest fortress, he will then be in a condition to accept
battle again; indeed, if he is only dealing with an opponent who has
not much resolution, then, perhaps, some considerable obstacle of
ground will be quite sufficient as a means of stopping the enemy.
There is, therefore, in strategy, in the use of the theatre of war as
well as in everything else, _an economy of force;_ the less one can
make suffice the better: but there must be sufficient, and here, as
well as in commerce, there is something to be thought of besides mere
niggardliness.
But in order to prevent a great misconception, we must draw attention
to this, that the subject of our present consideration is not how much
resistance an army can offer, or the enterprises which it can undertake
after a lost battle, but only the result which we can promise ourselves
_beforehand_ from this second act in our defence; consequently, how
high we can estimate it in our plan. Here there is only one point
almost which the defender has to look to, which is the character and
the situation of his opponent. An adversary weak in character, with
little self-confidence, without noble ambition, placed under great
restrictions, will content himself, in case he is successful, with a
moderate advantage, and timidly hold back at every fresh offer of a
decision which the defender ventures to make. In this case the defender
may count upon the beneficial use of all the means of resistance of his
theatre of war in succession, in constantly fresh, although in
themselves small, combats, in which the prospect always brightens of an
ultimate decision in his favour.
But who does not feel that we are now on the road to campaigns devoid
of decision, which are much more the field of a successive application
of force. Of these we shall speak in the following chapter.
CHAPTER XXX. Defence of a Theatre of War (_continued_) When no Decision
is Sought for.
Whether and how far a war is possible in which neither party acts on
the offensive, therefore in which neither combatant has a _positive
aim_, we shall consider in the last book; here it is not necessary for
us to occupy ourselves with the contradiction which this presents,
because on a single theatre of war we can easily suppose reasons for
such a defensive on both sides, consequent on the relations of each of
these parts to a whole.
But in addition to the examples which history furnishes of particular
campaigns that have taken place without the focus of a necessary
solution, history also tells us of many others in which there was no
want of an assailant, consequently no want of a _positive will_ on one
side, but in which that will was so weak that instead of striving to
attain the object at any price, and forcing the _necessary_ decision,
it contented itself with such advantages as arose in a manner
spontaneously out of circumstances. Or the assailant pursued _no_
self-selected end _at all_, but made his object depend on
circumstances, in the meanwhile gathering such fruits as presented
themselves from time to time.
Although such an offensive which deviates very much from the strict
logical necessity of a direct march towards the object, and which,
almost like a lounger sauntering through the campaign, looking out
right and left for the cheap fruits of opportunity, differs very little
from the defensive itself, which allows the general to pick up what he
can in this way, still we shall give the closer philosophical
consideration of this kind of warfare a place in the book on the
attack. Here we shall confine ourselves to the conclusion that in such
a campaign the settlement of the whole question is not looked for by
either assailant or defender through a decisive battle, that,
therefore, the great battle is no longer the key-stone of the arch,
towards which all the lines of the strategic superstructure are
directed. Campaigns of this kind (as the history of all times and all
countries shows us) are not only numerous, but form such an
overwhelming majority, that the remainder only appear as exceptions.
Even if this proportion should alter in the future, still it is certain
that there will always be many such campaigns; and, therefore, in
studying the theory of the defence of a theatre of war, they must be
brought into consideration. We shall endeavour to describe the
peculiarities by which they are characterised. Real war will generally
be in a medium between the two different tendencies, sometimes
approaching nearer to one, sometimes to the other, and we can,
therefore, only see the practical effect of these peculiarities in the
modification which is produced, in the _absolute form_ of war by their
counteraction. We have already said in the third chapter of this book,
that the _state of expectation_ is one of the greatest advantages which
the defensive has over the offensive; as a general rule, it seldom
happens in life, and least of all in war, that _all_ that circumstances
would lead us to expect does actually take place. The imperfection of
human insight, the fear of evil results, accidents which derange the
development of designs in their execution, are causes through which
many of the transactions enjoined by circumstances are never realised
in the execution. In war where insufficiency of knowledge, the danger
of a catastrophe, the number of accidents are incomparably greater than
in any other branch of human activity, the number of shortcomings, if
we may so call them, must necessarily also be much greater. This is
then the rich field where the defensive gathers fruits which grow for
it spontaneously. If we add to this result of experience the
substantial importance of the possession of the surface of the ground
in war, then that maxim which has become a proverb, _beati sunt
possidentes_, holds good here as well as in peace. It is _this maxim_
which here takes the place of the decision, that focus of all action in
every war directed to _mutual destruction_. It is fruitful beyond
measure, not in actions which it calls forth, but in motives for not
acting, and for all that action which is done in the interest of
inaction. When no decision is to be sought for or expected, there is no
reason for giving up anything, for that could only be done to gain
thereby some advantage in the decision. The consequence is that the
defender keeps all, or at least as much as he can (that is as much as
he can cover), and the assailant takes possession of so much as he can
without involving himself in a decision, (that is, he will extend
himself laterally as much as possible). We have only to deal with the
first in this place.
Wherever the defender is not present with his military forces, the
assailant can take possession, and then the advantage of the state of
expectation is on _his side;_ hence the endeavour to cover the country
everywhere directly, and to take the chance of the assailant attacking
the troops posted for this purpose.
Before we go further into the special properties of the defence, we
must extract from the book on the attack those objects which the
assailant usually aims at when the decision (by battle) is not sought.
They are as follows:—
1. The seizure of a considerable strip of territory, as far as that can
be done without a decisive engagement.
2. The capture of an important magazine under the same condition.
3. The capture of a fortress not covered. No doubt a siege is more or
less a great operation, often requiring great labour; but it is an
undertaking which does not contain the elements of a catastrophe. If it
comes to the worst, the siege can be raised without thereby suffering a
great positive loss.
4. Lastly, a successful combat of some importance, but in which there
is not much risked, and consequently not much to be gained; a combat
which takes place not as the cardinal knot of a whole strategic bond,
but on its own account for the sake of trophies or honour of the
troops. For such an object, of course, a combat is not fought _at any
price;_ we either wait for the chance of a favourable opportunity, or
seek to bring one about by skill.
These four objects of attack give rise to the following efforts on the
part of the defence:—
1. To cover the fortresses by keeping them behind us.
2. To cover the country by extending the troops over it.
3. Where the extension is not sufficient, to throw the army rapidly in
front of the enemy by a flank march.
4. To guard against disadvantageous combats.
It is clear that the object of the first three measures is to force on
the enemy the initiative, and to derive the utmost advantage from the
state of expectation, and this object is so deeply rooted in the nature
of the thing that it would be great folly to despise it _prima facie_.
It must necessarily occupy a higher place the less a decision is
expected, and it is the ruling principle in all such campaigns, even
although, apparently, a considerable degree of activity may be
manifested in small actions of an indecisive character.
Hannibal as well as Fabius, and both Frederick the Great and Daun, have
done homage to this principle whenever they did not either seek for or
expect a decision. The fourth effort serves as a corrective to the
three others, it is their conditio _sine quâ non_.
We shall now proceed to examine these subjects a little more closely.
At first sight it appears somewhat preposterous to protect a fortress
from the enemy’s attack by placing an army in _front of it;_ such a
measure looks like a kind of pleonasm, as fortifications are built to
resist a hostile attack of themselves. Yet it is a measure which we see
resorted to thousands and thousands of times. But thus it is in the
conduct of war; the most common things often seem the most
incomprehensible. Who would presume to pronounce these thousands of
instances to be so many blunders on the ground of this seeming
inconsistency? The constant repetition of the measure shows that it
must proceed from some deep-seated motive. This reason is, however, no
other than that pointed out above, emanating from moral sluggishness
and inactivity.
If the defender places himself in front of his fortress, the enemy
cannot attack it unless he first beats the army in front of it; but a
battle is a decision; if that is _not_ the enemy’s object then there
will be no battle, and the defender will remain in possession of his
fortress without striking a blow; consequently, whenever we do not
believe the enemy intends to fight a battle, we should venture on the
chance of his not making up his mind to do so, especially as in most
cases we still retain the power of withdrawing behind the fortress in a
moment, if, contrary to our expectation, the enemy should march to
attack us; the position before the fortress is in this way free from
danger, and the probability of maintaining the _status quo_ without any
sacrifice, is not even attended with the _slightest_ risk.
If the defender places himself behind the fortress, he offers the
assailant an object which is exactly suited to the circumstances in
which the latter is placed. If the fortress is not of great strength,
and he is not quite unprepared, he will commence the siege: in order
that this may not end in the fall of the place, the defender must march
to its relief. The positive action, the initiative, is now laid on him,
and the adversary who by his siege is to be regarded as advancing
towards his object, is in the situation of occupier.
Experience teaches that the matter always takes this turn, and it does
so naturally. A catastrophe, as we have before said, is not necessarily
bound up with a siege. Even a general, devoid of either the spirit of
enterprise or energy, who would never make up his mind to a battle,
will proceed to undertake a siege with perhaps nothing but field
artillery, when he can approach a fortress without risk. At the worst
he can abandon his undertaking without any positive loss. There always
remains to be considered the danger to which most fortresses are more
or less exposed, that of being taken by assault, or in some other
irregular manner, and this circumstance should certainly not be
overlooked by the defender in his calculation of probabilities.
In weighing and considering the different chances, it seems natural
that the defender should look upon the probability of not having to
fight at all as more for his advantage than the probability of fighting
even under _favourable circumstances_. And thus it appears to us that
the practice of placing an army in the field before its fortress, is
both natural and fully explained. Frederick the Great, for instance, at
Glogau, against the Russians, at Schwednitz, Neiss, and Dresden,
against the Austrians, almost always adopted it. This measure, however,
brought misfortune on the Duke of Bevern at Breslau; _behind_ Breslau
he could not have been attacked; the superiority of the Austrians in
the king’s absence would soon cease, as he was approaching; and
therefore, by a position _behind_ Breslau, a battle might have been
avoided until Frederick’s arrival. No doubt the Duke would have
preferred that course if it had not been that it would have exposed
that important place to a bombardment, at which the king, who was
anything but tolerant on such occasions, would have been highly
displeased. _The attempt made_ by the Duke to protect Breslau by an
entrenched position taken up for the purpose, cannot after all be
disapproved, for it was very possible that Prince Charles of Lorraine,
contented with the capture of Schwednitz, and threatened by the march
of the king, would, by that position, have been prevented from
advancing farther. The best thing he could have done would have been to
refuse the battle at the last by withdrawing through Breslau at the
moment that the Austrians advanced to the attack; in this way he would
have got all the advantages of the state of expectation without paying
for them by a great danger.
If we have here traced the position _before_ a fortress to reasons of a
superior and absolute order, and defended its adoption on those
grounds, we have still to observe that there is a motive of a secondary
class which, though a more obvious one, is not sufficient of itself
alone, not being absolute; we refer to the use which is made by armies
of the nearest fortress as a depôt of provisions and munitions of war.
This is so convenient, and presents so many advantages, that a general
will not easily make up his mind to draw his supplies of all kinds from
more distant places, or to lodge them in open towns. But if a fortress
is the great magazine of an army, then the position before it is
frequently a matter of absolute necessity, and in most cases is very
natural. But it is easy to see that this obvious motive, which is
easily over-valued by those who are not in the habit of looking far
before them, is neither sufficient to explain all cases, nor are the
circumstances connected with it of sufficient importance to entitle it
to give a final decision.
The capture of one or more fortresses without risking a battle, is such
a very natural object of all attacks which do not aim at a decision on
the field of battle, that the defender makes it his principal business
to thwart this design. Thus it is that on theatres of war, containing a
number of fortresses, we find these places made the pivots of almost
all the movements; we find the assailant seeking to approach one of
them unexpectedly, and employing various feints to aid his purpose, and
the defender immediately seeking to stop him by well-prepared
movements. Such is the general character of almost all the campaigns of
Louis XIV. in the Netherlands up to the time of Marshal Saxe.
So much for the covering of fortresses.
The covering of a country by an extended disposition of forces, is only
conceivable in combination with very considerable obstacles of ground.
The great and small posts which must be formed for the purpose, can
only get a certain capability of resistance through strength of
position; and as natural obstacles are seldom found sufficient,
therefore field fortification is made use of as an assistance. But now
it is to be observed that, the power of resistance which is thus
obtained at any one point, is always only _relative_ (see the chapter
on the signification of the combat), and never to be regarded as
_absolute_. It may certainly happen that one such post may remain proof
against all attacks made upon it, and that therefore in a single
instance there may be an absolute result; but from the great number of
posts, any single one, in comparison to the whole, appears weak, and
exposed to the possible attack of an overwhelming force, and
consequently it would be unreasonable to place one’s dependence for
safety on the resistance of any one single post. In such an extended
position, we can therefore only count on a resistance of relative
length, and not upon a victory, properly speaking. This value of single
posts, at the same time, is also sufficient for the object, and for a
general calculation. In campaigns in which no great decision, no
irresistible march, towards the complete subjugation of the whole force
is to be feared, there is little risk in a combat of posts, even if it
ends in the loss of a post. There is seldom any further result in
connection with it than the loss of the post and a few trophies; the
influence of victory penetrates no further into the situation of
affairs, it does not tear down any part of the foundation to be
followed by a mass of building in ruin. In the worst case, if, for
instance, the whole defensive system is disorganised by the loss of a
single post, the defender has always time to concentrate his corps, and
with his whole force to _offer battle_, which the assailant, according
to our supposition, does not desire. Therefore also it usually happens
that with this concentration of force the act closes, and the further
advance of the assailant is stopped. A strip of land, a few men and
guns, are the losses of the defender, and with these results the
assailant is satisfied.
To such a risk we say the defender may very well expose himself, if he
has, on the other hand, the possibility, or rather the probability, in
his favour, that the assailant from excessive caution will halt before
his posts without attacking them. Only in regard to this we must not
lose sight of the fact, that we are now supposing an assailant who will
not venture upon any great stroke, a moderate sized, but strong post
will very well serve to stop such an adversary, for although he can
undoubtedly make himself master of it, still the question arises as to
the price it will cost, and whether that price is not too high for any
use that he can make of the victory.
In this way we may see how the powerful relative resistance which the
defender can obtain from an extended disposition, consisting of a
number of posts in juxtaposition with each other, may constitute a
satisfactory result in the calculation of his whole campaign. In order
to direct at once to the right point the glance which the reader, with
his mind’s eye, will here cast upon military history, we must observe
that these extended positions appear most frequently in the latter half
of a campaign, because by that time the defender has become thoroughly
acquainted with his adversary, with his projects, and his situation;
and the little quantity of the spirit of enterprise with which the
assailant started, is usually exhausted.
In this defensive, in an extended position by which the _country_, the
_supplies_, the _fortresses_ are to be covered, all great natural
obstacles, such as streams, rivers, mountains, woods, morasses, must
naturally play a great part, and acquire a predominant importance. Upon
their use we refer to what has been already said on these subjects.
It is through this predominant importance of the topographical element
that the knowledge and activity which are looked upon as the speciality
of the general staff of an army are more particularly called into
requisition. Now, as the staff of the army is usually that branch which
writes and publishes most, it follows that these parts of campaigns are
recorded more fully in history; and then again from that there follows
a not unnatural tendency to systematise them, and to frame out of the
historical solution of one case a general solution for all succeeding
cases. But this endeavour is futile, and therefore erroneous. Besides,
in this more passive kind of war, in this form of it which is tied to
localities, each case is different to another, and must be differently
treated. The ablest memoirs of a critical character respecting these
subjects are therefore only suited to make one acquainted with facts,
but never to serve as dictates.
Natural, and at the same time meritorious, as is this industry which,
according to the general view, we have attributed to the staff in
particular, still we must raise a warning voice against usurpations
which often spring from it to the prejudice of the whole. The authority
acquired by those who are at the head of, and best acquainted with,
this branch of military service, gives them often a sort of general
dominion over people’s minds, beginning with the general himself, and
from this then springs a routine of ideas which causes an undue bias of
the mind. At last the general sees nothing but mountains and passes,
and that which should be a measure of free choice guided by
circumstances becomes mannerism, becomes second nature.
Thus in the year 1793 and 1794, Colonel Grawert of the Prussian army,
who was the animating spirit of the staff at that time, and well known
as a regular man for mountains and passes, persuaded two generals of
the most opposite personal characteristics, the Duke of Brunswick and
General Mollendorf, into exactly the same method of carrying on war.
That a defensive line parallel to the course of a formidable natural
obstacle may lead to a cordon war is quite plain. It must, in most
cases, necessarily lead to that if really the whole extent of the
theatre of war could be directly covered in that manner. But most
theatres of war have such an extent, that the normal tactical
disposition of the troops destined for its defence would be by no means
commensurate with that object; at the same time as the assailant, by
his own dispositions and other circumstances, is confined to certain
principal directions and great roads, and any great deviations from
these directions, even if he is only opposed to a very inactive
defender, would be attended with great embarrassment and disadvantage,
therefore generally all that the defender has to do is to cover the
country for a certain number of miles or marches right and left of
these principal lines of direction of his adversary. But again to
effect this covering, we may be contented with defensive posts on the
principal roads and means of approach, and merely watch the country
between by small posts of observation. The consequence of this is
certainly that the assailant may then pass a column between two of
these posts, and thus make the attack, which he has in view, upon one
post from several quarters at once. Now, these posts are in some
measure arranged to meet this, partly by their having supports for
their flanks, partly by the formation of flank defences (called
crochets), partly by their being able to receive assistance from a
reserve posted in rear, or by troops detached from adjoining posts. In
this manner the number of posts is reduced still more, and the result
is that an army engaged in a defence of this kind, usually divides
itself into four or five principal posts.
For important points of approach, beyond a certain distance, and yet in
some measure threatened, special central points are established which,
in a certain measure, form small theatres of war within the principal
one. In this manner the Austrians, during the Seven Years’ War,
generally placed the main body of their army, in four or five posts in
the mountains of Lower Silesia; whilst a small almost independent corps
organised for itself a similar system of defence in Upper Silesia.
Now, the further such a defensive system diverges from direct covering,
the more it must call to its assistance—mobility (active defence), and
even offensive means. Certain corps are considered reserves; besides
which, one post hastens to send to the help of another all the troops
it can spare. This assistance may be rendered either by hastening up
directly from the rear to reinforce and re-establish the passive
defence, or by attacking the enemy in flank, or even by menacing his
line of retreat. If the assailant threatens the flank of a post not
with direct attack, but only by a position through which he can act
upon the communications of this post, then either the corps which has
been advanced for this purpose must be attacked in earnest, or the way
of reprisal must be resorted to by acting in turn on the enemy’s
communications.
We see, therefore, that however passive this defence is in the leading
ideas on which it is based, still it must comprise many active means,
and in its organisation may be forearmed in many ways against
complicated events. Usually those defences pass for the best which make
the most use of active or even offensive means; but this depends in
great part on the nature of the country, the characteristics of the
troops, and even on the talent of the general; partly we are also very
prone in general to expect too much from movement, and other auxiliary
measures of an active nature, and to place too little reliance on the
local defence of a formidable natural obstacle. We think we have thus
sufficiently explained what we understand by an extended line of
defence, and we now turn to the third auxiliary means, the placing
ourselves in front of the enemy by a rapid march to a flank.
This means is necessarily one of those provided for that defence of a
country which we are now considering. In the first place the defender,
even with the most extended position, often cannot guard all the
approaches to his country which are menaced; next, in many cases, he
must be ready to repair with the bulk of his forces to any posts upon
which the bulk of the enemy’s force is about to be thrown, as otherwise
those posts would be too easily overpowered; lastly, a general who has
an aversion to confining his army to a passive resistance in an
extended position, must seek to attain his object, the protection of
the country, by rapid, well-planned, and well-conducted movements. The
greater the spaces which he leaves exposed, the greater the talent
required in planning the movements, in order to arrive anywhere at the
right moment of time.
The natural consequence of striving to do this is, that in such a case,
positions which afford sufficient advantages to make an enemy give up
all idea of an attack as soon as our army, or only a portion of it,
reaches them, are sought for and prepared in all directions. As these
positions are again and again occupied, and all depends on reaching the
same in right time, they are in a certain measure the vowels of all
this method of carrying on war, which on that account has been termed a
_war of posts_.
Just as an extended position, and the relative resistance in a war
_without great decisions_, do not present the dangers which are
inherent in its original nature, so in the same manner the intercepting
the enemy in front by a march to a flank is not so hazardous as it
would be in the immediate expectation of a great decision. To attempt
at the last moment in greatest haste (by a lateral movement) to thrust
in an army in front of an adversary of determined character, who is
both able and willing to deal heavy blows, and has no scruples about an
expenditure of forces, would be half way to a most decisive disaster;
for against an unhesitating blow delivered with the enemy’s whole
strength, such running and stumbling into a position would not do. But
against an opponent who, instead of taking up his work with his whole
hand, uses only the tips of his fingers, who does not know how to make
use of a great result, or rather of the opening for one, who only seeks
a trifling advantage but at small expense, against such an opponent
this kind of resistance certainly may be applied with effect.
A natural consequence is, that this means also in general occurs
oftener in the last half of a campaign than at its commencement.
Here, also, the general staff has an opportunity of displaying its
topographical knowledge in framing a system of combined measures,
connected with the choice and preparation of the positions and the
roads leading to them.
When the whole object of one party is to gain in the end a certain
point, and the whole object of his adversary, on the other hand, is to
prevent his doing so, then both parties are often obliged to make their
movements under the eyes of each other; for this reason, these
movements must be made with a degree of precaution and precision not
otherwise required. Formerly, before the mass of an army was formed of
independent divisions, and even on the march was always regarded as an
indivisible whole, this precaution and precision was attended with much
more formality, and with the copious use of tactical skill. On these
occasions, certainly, single brigades were often obliged to leave the
general line of battle to secure particular points, and act an
independent part until the army arrived: but these were, and continued,
_anomalous proceedings;_ and the aim in the order of march generally
was to move the army from one point to another as a whole, preserving
its normal formation, and avoiding such exceptional proceedings as the
above as far as possible. Now that the parts of the main body of an
army are subdivided again into independent bodies, and those bodies can
venture to enter into an engagement with the mass of the enemy’s army,
provided the rest of the force of which it is a member is sufficiently
near to carry it on and finish it,—now such a flank march is attended
with less difficulty even under the eye of the enemy. What formerly
could only be effected through the actual mechanism of the order of
march, can now be done by starting single divisions at an earlier hour,
by hastening the march of others, and by the greater freedom in the
employment of the whole.
By the means of defence just considered, the assailant can be prevented
from taking any fortress, from occupying any important extent of
country, or capturing magazines; and he will be prevented, if in every
direction combats are offered to him in which he can see little
probability of success, or too great danger of a reaction in case of
failure, or in general, an expenditure of force too great for his
object and existing relations.
If now the defender succeeds in this triumph of his art and skill, and
the assailant, wherever he turns his eyes, sees prudent preparations
through which he is cut off from any prospect of attaining his modest
wishes: then the offensive principle often seeks to escape from the
difficulty in the satisfaction of the mere honour of its arms. The gain
of some combat of respectable importance, gives the arms of the victor
a semblance of superiority, appeases the vanity of the general, of the
court, of the army, and the people, and thus satisfies, to a certain
extent, the expectations which are naturally always raised when the
offensive is assumed.
An advantageous combat of some importance merely for the sake of the
victory and some trophies, becomes, therefore, the last hope of the
assailant. No one must suppose that we here involve ourselves in a
contradiction, for we contend that we still continue within our _own
supposition_, that the good measures of the defender have deprived the
assailant of all expectation of attaining any one of those other
objects by means of a _successful combat!_ To warrant that expectation,
two conditions are required, that is, a _favourable termination to the
combat_, and next, _that the result shall lead really to the attainment
of one of those objects_.
The first may very well take place without the second, and therefore
the defenders’ corps and posts singly are much more frequently in
danger of getting involved in disadvantageous combats if the assailant
merely aims at the _honour of the battle field_, than if he connects
with that a view to further advantages as well.
If we place ourselves in Daun’s situation, and with his way of
thinking, then his venturing on the surprise of Hochkirch does not
appear inconsistent with his character, as long as we suppose him
aiming at nothing more than the trophies of the day. But a victory rich
in results, which would have compelled the king to abandon Dresden and
Neisse, appears an entirely different problem, one with which he would
not have been inclined to meddle.
Let it not be imagined that these are trifling or idle distinctions; we
have, on the contrary, now before us one of the deepest-rooted, leading
principles of war. The signification of a combat is its very soul in
strategy, and we cannot too often repeat, that in strategy the leading
events always proceed from the ultimate views of the two parties, as it
were, from a conclusion of the whole train of ideas. This is why there
may be such a difference strategically between one battle and another,
that they can hardly be looked upon as the same means.
Now, although the fruitless victory of the assailant can hardly be
considered any serious injury to the defence, still as the defender
will not willingly concede even _this_ advantage, particularly as we
never know what accident may also be connected with it, therefore the
defender requires to keep an incessant watch upon the situation of all
his corps and posts. No doubt here all greatly depends on the leaders
of those corps making suitable dispositions; but any one of them may be
led into an unavoidable catastrophe by injudicious orders imposed on
him by the general-in-chief. Who is not reminded here of Fouqué’s corps
at Landshut and of Fink’s at Maxen?
In both cases Frederick the Great reckoned too much on customary ideas.
It was impossible that he could suppose 10,000 men capable of
successfully resisting 30,000 in the position of Landshut, or that Fink
could resist a superior force pouring in and overwhelming him on all
sides; but he thought the strength of the position of Landshut would be
accepted, like a bill of exchange, as heretofore, and that Daun would
see in the demonstration against his flank sufficient reason to
exchange his uncomfortable position in Saxony for the more comfortable
one in Bohemia. He misjudged Laudon in one case and Daun in the other,
and therein lies the error in these measures.
But irrespective of such errors, into which even generals may fall who
are not so proud, daring, and obstinate as Frederick the Great in some
of his proceedings may certainly be termed, there is always, in respect
to the subject we are now considering, a great difficulty in this way,
that the general-in-chief cannot always expect all he desires from the
sagacity, good-will, courage and firmness of character of his
corps-commanders. He cannot, therefore, leave everything to their good
judgment; he must prescribe rules on many points by which their course
of action, being restricted, may easily become inconsistent with the
circumstances of the moment. This is, however, an unavoidable
inconvenience. Without an imperious commanding will, the influence of
which penetrates through the whole army, war cannot be well conducted;
and whoever would follow the practice of always expecting the best from
his subordinates, would from that very reason be quite unfit for a good
Commander of an army.
Therefore the situation of every corps and post must be for ever kept
clearly in view, to prevent any of them being unexpectedly drawn into a
catastrophe.
The aim of all these efforts is to preserve the _status quo_. The more
fortunate and successful these efforts are, the longer will the war
last at the same point; but the longer war continues at one point, the
greater become the cares for subsistence.
In place of collections and contributions from the country, a system of
subsistence from magazines commences at once, or in a very short time;
in place of country waggons being collected upon each occasion, the
formation, more or less, of a regular transport takes place, composed
either of carriages of the country, or of those belonging to the army;
in short, there arises an approach to that regular system of feeding
troops from magazines, of which we have already treated in the
fourteenth chapter (On Subsistence).
At the same time, it is not this which exercises a great influence on
this mode of conducting war, for as this mode, by its object and
character, is in fact already tied down to a limited space, therefore
the question of subsistence may very well have a part in determining
its action—and will do so in most cases—without altering the general
character of the war. On the other hand, the action of the belligerents
mutually against the lines of communications gains a much greater
importance for two reasons. Firstly, because in such campaigns, there
being no measures of a great and comprehensive kind, generals must
apply their energies to those of an inferior order; and secondly,
because here there is time enough to wait for the effect of this means.
The security of his line of communications is therefore specially
important to the defender, for although it is true that its
interruption cannot be an object of the hostile operations which take
place, yet it might compel him to retreat, and thus to leave other
objects open to attack.
All the measures having for their object the protection of the area of
the theatre of war itself, must naturally also have the effect of
covering the lines of communication; their security is therefore in
part provided for in that way, and we have only to observe that it is a
principal condition in fixing upon a position.
A _special_ means of security consists in the bodies of troops, both
small and large, escorting convoys. First, the most extended positions
are not sufficient to secure the lines of communication, and next, such
an escort is particularly necessary when the general wishes to avoid a
very extended position. Therefore, we find, in Tempelhof’s History of
the Seven Years’ War, instances without end in which Frederick the
Great caused his bread and flour waggons to be escorted by single
regiments of infantry or cavalry, sometimes also by whole brigades. On
the Austrian side we nowhere find mention of the same thing, which
certainly may be partly accounted for in this way, that they had no
such circumstantial historian on their side, but in part it is also to
be ascribed just to this, that they always took up much more extended
positions.
Having now touched upon the four efforts which form the foundation of a
defensive _that does not aim at a decision_, and which are at the same
time, altogether free upon the whole from all offensive elements, we
must now say something of the offensive means with which they may
become more or less mixed up, in a certain measure flavoured. These
offensive means are chiefly:—
1. Operating against the enemy’s communications, under which we
likewise include enterprises against his places of supply.
2. Diversions and incursions within the enemy’s territory.
3. Attacks on the enemy’s corps and posts, and even upon his main body,
under favourable circumstances, or the threat only of such intention.
The first of these means is incessantly in action in all campaigns of
this kind, but in a certain measure quite quietly without actually
making its appearance. Every suitable position for the defender derives
a great part of its efficacy from the disquietude which it causes the
assailant in connection with his communications; and as the question of
subsistence in such warfare becomes, as we have already observed, one
of vital importance, affecting the assailant equally, therefore,
through this apprehension of offensive action, possibly resulting from
the enemy’s position, a great part of the strategic web is determined,
as we shall again find in treating of the attack.
Not only this general influence, proceeding from the choice of
positions, which, like pressure in mechanics, produces an effect
_invisibly_, but also an actual offensive movement with part of the
army against the enemy’s lines of communication, comes within the
compass of such a defensive. But that it may be done with effect, _the
situation of the lines of communication, the nature of the country, and
the peculiar qualities of the troops_ must be specially propitious to
the undertaking.
Incursions into the enemy’s country which have as their object
reprisals or levying contributions, cannot properly be regarded as
defensive means, they are rather true offensive means; but they are
usually combined with the object of a real diversion, which may be
regarded as a real defensive measure, as it is intended to weaken the
enemy’s force opposed to us. But as the above means may be used just as
well by the assailant, and in itself is a real attack, we therefore
think more suitable to leave its further examination for the next book.
Accordingly we shall only count it in here, in order to render a full
account of the arsenal of small offensive arms belonging to the
defender of a theatre of war, and for the present merely add that in
extent and importance it may attain to such a point, as to give the
whole war the _appearance_, and along with that the honour, of the
offensive. Of this nature are Frederick the Great’s enterprises in
Poland, Bohemia and Franconia, before the campaign of 1759. His
campaign itself is plainly a pure defence; these incursions into the
enemy’s territory, however, gave it the appearance of an aggression,
which perhaps had a special value on account of the moral effect.
An attack on one of the enemy’s corps or on his main body must always
be kept in view as a necessary complement of the whole defence whenever
the aggressor takes the matter too easily, and on that account shows
himself very defenceless at particular points. Under this silent
condition the whole action takes place. But here also the defender, in
the same way as in operating against the communications of the enemy,
may go a step further in the province of the offensive, and just as
well as his adversary may make it his business to lie in wait _for a
favourable stroke_. In order to ensure a result in this field, he must
either be very decidedly superior in force to his opponent—which
certainly is inconsistent with the defensive in general, but still may
happen—or he must have a method and the talent of keeping his forces
more concentrated, and make up by activity and mobility for the danger
which he incurs in other respects.
The first was Daun’s case in the Seven Years’ War; the latter, the case
of Frederick the Great. Still we hardly ever see Daun’s offensive make
its appearance except when Frederick the Great invited it by excessive
boldness and a display of contempt for him (Hochkirch, Maxen,
Landshut). On the other hand, we see Frederick the Great almost
constantly on the move in order to beat one or other of Daun’s corps
with his main body. He certainly seldom succeeded, at least, the
results were never great, because Daun, in addition to his great
superiority in numbers, had also a rare degree of prudence and caution;
but we must not suppose that, therefore, the king’s attempts were
altogether fruitless. In these attempts lay rather a very effectual
resistance; for the care and fatigue, which his adversary had to
undergo in order to avoid fighting at a disadvantage, neutralised those
forces which would otherwise have aided in advancing the offensive
action. Let us only call to mind the campaign of 1760, in Silesia,
where Daun and the Russians, out of sheer apprehension of being
attacked and beaten by the king, first here and then there, never could
succeed in making one step in advance.
We believe we have now gone through all the subjects which form the
predominant ideas, the principal aims, and therefore the main stay, of
the whole action in the defence of a theatre of war when no idea of
decision is entertained. Our chief, and, indeed, sole object in
bringing them all close together, was to let the organism of the whole
strategic action be seen in one view; the particular measures by means
of which those subjects come to life, marches, positions, etc., etc.,
we have already considered in detail.
By now casting a glance once more at the whole of our subject, the idea
must strike us forcibly, that with such a weak offensive principle,
with so little desire for a decision on either side, with so little
positive motive, with so many counteracting influences of a subjective
nature, which stop us and hold us back, the essential difference
between attack and defence must always tend more to disappear. At the
opening of a campaign, certainly one party will enter the other’s
theatre of war, and in that manner, to a certain extent, such party
puts on the form of offensive. But it may very well take place, and
happens frequently that he must soon enough apply all his powers to
defend his own country on the enemy’s territory. Then both stand, in
reality, opposite one another in a state of mutual observation. Both
intent on losing nothing, perhaps both alike intent also on obtaining a
positive advantage. Indeed it may happen, as with Frederick the Great,
that the real defender aims higher in that way than his adversary.
Now the more the assailant gives up the position of an enemy making
progress, the less the defender is menaced by him, and confined to a
strictly defensive attitude by the pressing claims of a regard for mere
safety, so much the more a similarity in the relations of the parties
is produced in which then the activity of both will be directed towards
gaining an advantage over his opponent, and protecting himself against
any disadvantage, therefore to a true strategic _manœuvring;_ and
indeed this is the character into which all campaigns resolve
themselves more or less, when the situation of the combatants or
political views do not allow of any great decision.
In the following book we have allotted a chapter specially to the
subject of strategic manœuvres; but as this equipoised play of forces
has frequently been invested in theory with an importance to which it
is not entitled, we find ourselves under the necessity of examining the
subject more closely while we are treating of the defence, as it is in
that form of warfare more particularly that this false importance is
ascribed to strategic manœuvres.
We call it an _equipoised play of forces_, for when there is no
movement of the whole body there is a state of equilibrium; where no
great object impels, there is no movement of the whole; therefore, in
such a case, the two parties, however unequal they may be, are still to
be regarded as in a state of equilibrium. From this state of
equilibrium of the whole now come forth the particular motives to
actions of a minor class and secondary objects. They can here develop
themselves, because they are no longer kept down by the pressure of a
great decision and great danger. Therefore, what can be lost or won
upon the whole is changed into small counters, and the action of the
war, as a whole, is broken up into smaller transactions. With these
smaller operations for smaller gains, a contest of skill now takes
place between the two generals; but as it is impossible in war to shut
out chance, and consequently good luck, therefore this contest will
never be otherwise than a _game_. In the meantime, here arise two other
questions, that is, whether in this manœuvring, chance will not have a
smaller, and superior intelligence a greater, share in the decision,
than where all concentrates itself into one single great act. The last
of these questions we must answer in the affirmative. The more complete
the organisation of the whole, the oftener time and space come into
consideration—the former by single moments, the latter at particular
points—so much the greater, plainly, will be the field for calculation,
therefore the greater the sway exercised by superior intelligence. What
the superior understanding gains is abstracted in part from chance, but
not necessarily altogether, and therefore we are not obliged to answer
the first question affirmatively. Moreover, we must not forget that a
superior understanding is not the only mental quality of a general;
courage, energy, resolution, presence of mind, etc., are qualities
which rise again to a higher value when all depends on one single great
decision; they will, therefore, have somewhat less weight when there is
an equipoised play of forces, and the predominating ascendancy of
sagacious calculation increases not only at the expense of chance, but
also at the expense of these qualities. On the other hand, these
brilliant qualities, at the moment of a great decision, may rob chance
of a great part of its power, and therefore, to a certain extent,
secure that which calculating intelligence in such cases would be
obliged to leave to chance. We see by this that here a conflict takes
place between several forces, and that we cannot positively assert that
there is a greater field left open to chance in the case of a great
decision, than in the total result when that equipoised play of forces
takes place. If we, therefore, see more particularly in this play of
forces a contest of mutual skill, that must only be taken to refer to
skill in sagacious calculation, and not to the sum total of military
genius.
Now it is just from this aspect of strategic manœuvring that the whole
has obtained that false importance of which we have spoken above. In
the first place, in this skilfulness the whole genius of a general has
been supposed to consist; but this is a great mistake, for it is, as
already said, not to be denied that in moments of great decisions other
moral qualities of a general may have power to control the force of
events. If this power proceeds more from the impulse of noble feelings
and those sparks of genius which start up almost unconsciously, and
therefore does not proceed from long chains of thought, still it is not
the less a free citizen of the art of war, for that art is neither a
mere act of the understanding, nor are the activities of the
intellectual faculties its principal ones. Further, it has been
supposed that every active campaign without results must be owing to
that sort of skill on the part of one, or even of both generals, while
in reality it has always had its general and principal foundation just
in the general relations which have turned war into such a game.
As most wars between civilised states have had for their object rather
the observation of the enemy than his destruction, therefore it was
only natural that the greater number of the campaigns should bear the
character of strategic manœuvring. Those amongst them which did not
bring into notice any renowned generals, attracted no attention; but
where there was a great commander on whom all eyes were fixed, or two
opposed to each other, like Turenne and Montecuculi, there the seal of
perfection has been stamped upon this whole art of manœuvring through
the names of these generals. A further consequence has then been that
this game has been looked upon as the summit of the art, as the
manifestation of its highest perfection, and consequently also as the
source at which the art of war must chiefly be studied.
This view prevailed almost universally in the theoretical world before
the wars of the French Revolution. But when these wars at one stroke
opened to view a quite different world of phenomena in war, at first
somewhat rough and wild, but which afterwards, under Buonaparte
systematised into a method on a grand scale, produced results which
created astonishment amongst old and young, then people set themselves
free from the old models, and believed that all the changes they saw
resulted from modern discoveries, magnificent ideas, etc.; but also at
the same time, certainly from the changes in the state of society. It
was now thought that what was old would never more be required, and
would never even reappear. But as in such revolutions in opinions two
parties are always formed, so it was also in this instance, and the old
views found their champions, who looked upon the new phenomena as rude
blows of brute force, as a general decadence of the art; and held the
opinion that, in the evenly-balanced, nugatory, fruitless war game, the
perfection of the art is realised. There lies at the bottom of this
last view such a want of logic and philosophy, that it can only be
termed a hopeless, distressing confusion of ideas. But at the same time
the opposite opinion, that nothing like the past will ever reappear, is
very irrational. Of the novel appearances manifested in the domain of
the art of war, very few indeed are to be ascribed to new discoveries,
or to a change in the direction of ideas; they are chiefly attributable
to the alterations in the social state and its relations. But as these
took place just at the crisis of a state of fermentation, they must not
be taken as a norm; and we cannot, therefore, doubt that a great part
of the former manifestations of war, will again make their appearance.
This is not the place to enter further into these matters; it is enough
for us that by directing attention to the relation which this
even-balanced play of forces occupies in the whole conduct of a war,
and to its signification and connection with other objects, we have
shown that it is always produced by constraint laid on both parties
engaged in the contest, and by a military element greatly attenuated.
In this game one general may show himself more skilful than his
opponent; and therefore, if the strength of his army is equal, he may
also gain many advantages over him; or if his force is inferior, he
may, by his superior talent, keep the contest evenly balanced; but it
is completely contradictory to the nature of the thing to look here for
the highest honour and glory of a general; such a campaign is always
rather a certain sign that neither of the generals has any great
military talent, or that he who has talent is prevented by the force of
circumstances from venturing on a great decision; but when this is the
case, there is no scope afforded for the display of the highest
military genius.
We have hitherto been engaged with the general character of strategic
manœuvring; we must now proceed to a special influence which it has on
the conduct of war, namely this, that it frequently leads the
combatants away from the principal roads and places into unfrequented,
or at least unimportant localities. When trifling interests, which
exist for a moment and then disappear, are paramount, the great
features of a country have less influence on the conduct of the war. We
therefore often find that bodies of troops move to points where we
should never look for them, judging only by the great and simple
requirements of the war; and that consequently, also, the changefulness
and diversity in the details of the contest as it progresses, are much
greater here than in wars directed to a great decision. Let us only
look how in the last five campaigns of the Seven Years’ War, in spite
of the relations in general remaining unchanged in themselves, each of
these campaigns took a different form, and, closely examined, no single
measure ever appears twice; and yet in these campaigns the offensive
principle manifests itself on the side of the allied army much more
decidedly than in most other earlier wars.
In this chapter on the defence of a theatre of war, if no great
decision is proposed, we have only shown the tendencies of the action,
together with its combination, and the relations and character of the
same; the particular measures of which it is composed have been
described in detail in a former part of our work. Now the question
arises whether for these different tendencies of action no thoroughly
general comprehensive principles, rules, or methods can be given. To
this we reply that, as far as history is concerned, we have decidedly
not been led to any deductions of that kind through constantly
recurring forms; and at the same time, for a subject so diversified and
changeful in its general nature, we could hardly admit any theoretical
rule, except one founded on experience. A war directed to great
decisions is not only much simpler, but also much more in accordance
with nature; is more free from inconsistencies, more objective, more
restricted by a law of inherent necessity; hence the mind can prescribe
forms and laws for it; but for a war without a decision for its object,
this appears to us to be much more difficult. Even the two fundamental
principles of the earliest theories of strategy published in our times,
the _Breadth of the Base_, in Bulow, and the _Position on Interior
Lines_, in Jomini, if applied to the defence of a theatre of war, have
in no instance shown themselves absolute and effective. But being mere
forms, this is just where they should show themselves most efficacious,
because forms are always more efficacious, always acquire a
preponderance over other factors of the product, the more the action
extends over time and space. Notwithstanding this, we find that they
are nothing more than particular parts of the subject, and certainly
anything but decisive advantages. It is very clear that the peculiar
nature of the means and the relations must always from the first have a
great influence adverse to all general principles. What Daun did by the
extent and provident choice of positions, the king did by keeping his
army always concentrated, always hugging the enemy close, and by being
always ready to act extemporally with his whole army. The method of
each general proceeded not only from the nature of the army he
commanded, but also from the circumstances in which he was placed. To
extemporise movements is always much easier for a king than for any
commander who acts under responsibility. We shall here once more point
out particularly that the critic has no right to look upon the
different manners and methods which may make their appearance as
different degrees on the road to perfection, the one inferior to the
other; they are entitled to be treated as on an equality, and it must
rest with the judgment to estimate their relative fitness for use in
each particular case.
To enumerate these different manners which may spring from the
particular nature of an army, of a country, or of circumstances, is not
our object here; the influence of these things generally we have
already noticed.
We acknowledge, therefore, that in this chapter we are unable to give
any maxims, rules, or methods, because history does not furnish the
means; and on the contrary, at almost every moment, we there meet with
peculiarities such as are often quite inexplicable, and often also
surprise us by their singularity. But it is not on that account
unprofitable to study history in connection with this subject also.
Where neither system nor any dogmatic apparatus can be found, there may
still be truth, and this truth will then, in most cases, only be
discovered by a practised judgment and the tact of long experience.
Therefore, even if history does not here furnish any formula, we may be
certain that here as well as everywhere else, it will give us _exercise
for the judgment_.
We shall only set up one comprehensive general principle, or rather we
shall reproduce, and present to view more vividly, in the form of a
separate principle, the natural presupposition of all that has now been
said.
All the means which have been here set forth have only a _relative_
value; they are all placed under the legal ban of a certain disability
on both sides; above this region a higher law prevails, and there is a
totally different world of phenomena. The general must never forget
this; he must never move in imaginary security within the narrower
sphere, as if he were in an _absolute_ medium; never look upon the
means which he employs here as the _necessary_ or as the _only means,
and still adhere to them, even when he himself already trembles at
their insufficiency_.
From the point of view at which we have here placed ourselves, such an
error may appear to be almost impossible; but it is not impossible in
the real world, because there things do not appear in such sharp
contrast.
We must just again remind our readers that, for the sake of giving
clearness, distinctness, and force to our ideas, we have always taken
as the subject of our consideration only the complete antithesis, that
is the two extremes of the question, but that the concrete case in war
generally lies between these two extremes, and is only influenced by
either of these extremes according to the degree in which it approaches
nearer towards it.
Therefore, quite commonly, everything depends on the general making up
his own mind before all things as to whether his adversary has the
inclination and the means of outbidding him by the use of greater and
more decisive measures. As soon as he has reason to apprehend this, he
must give up small measures intended to ward off small disadvantages;
and the course which remains for him then is to put himself in a better
situation, by a voluntary sacrifice, in order to make himself equal to
a greater solution. In other words, the first requisite is that the
general should take the right scale in laying out his work.
In order to give these ideas still more distinctness through the help
of real experience, we shall briefly notice a string of cases in which,
according to our opinion, a false criterion was made use of, that is,
in which one of the generals in the calculation of his operations very
much underestimated the decisive action intended by his adversary. We
begin with the opening of the campaign of 1757, in which the Austrians
showed by the disposition of their forces that they had not counted
upon so thorough an offensive as that adopted by Frederick the Great;
even the delay of Piccolomini’s corps on the Silesian frontier while
Duke Charles of Lorraine was in danger of having to surrender with his
whole army, is a similar case of complete misconception of the
situation.
In 1758, the French were in the first place completely taken in as to
the effects of the convention of Kloster Seeven (a fact, certainly,
with which we have nothing to do here), and two months afterwards they
were completely mistaken in their judgment of what their opponent might
undertake, which, very shortly after, cost them the country between the
Weser and the Rhine. That Frederick the Great, in 1759, at Maxen, and
in 1760, at Landshut, completely misjudged his enemies in not supposing
them capable of such decisive measures has been already mentioned.
But in all history we can hardly find a greater error in the criterion
than that in 1792. It was then imagined possible to turn the tide in a
national war by a moderate sized auxiliary army, which brought down on
those who attempted it the enormous weight of the whole French people,
at that time completely unhinged by political fanaticism. We only call
this error a great one because it has proved so since, and not because
it would have been easy to avoid it. As far as regards the conduct of
the war itself, it cannot be denied that the foundation of all the
disastrous years which followed was laid in the campaign of 1794. On
the side of the allies in that campaign, even the powerful nature of
the enemy’s system of attack was quite misunderstood, by opposing to it
a pitiful system of extended positions and strategic manœuvres; and
further in the want of unanimity between Prussia and Austria
politically, and the foolish abandonment of Belgium and the
Netherlands, we may also see how little presentiment the cabinets of
that day had of the force of the torrent which had just broken loose.
In the year 1796, the partial acts of resistance offered at Montenotte,
Lodi, etc., etc., show sufficiently how little the Austrians understood
the main point when confronted by a Buonaparte.
In the year 1800 it was not by the direct effect of the surprise, but
by the false view which Melas took of the possible consequences of this
surprise, that his catastrophe was brought about.
Ulm, in the year 1805, was the last knot of a loose network of
scientific but extremely feeble strategic combinations, good enough to
stop a Daun or a Lascy but not a Buonaparte, the Revolution’s Emperor.
The indecision and embarrassment of the Prussians in 1806, proceeded
from antiquated, pitiful, impracticable views and measures being mixed
up with some lucid ideas and a true feeling of the immense importance
of the moment. If there had been a distinct consciousness and a
complete appreciation of the position of the country, how could they
have left 30,000 men in Prussia, and then entertained the idea of
forming a special theatre of war in Westphalia, and of gaining any
results from a trivial offensive such as that for which Ruchel’s and
the Weimar corps were intended? and how could they have talked of
danger to magazines and loss of this or that strip of territory in the
last moments left for deliberation?
Even in 1812, in that grandest of all campaigns, there was no want at
first of unsound purposes proceeding from the use of an erroneous
standard Scale. In the head quarters at Wilna there was a party of men
of high mark who insisted on a battle on the frontier, in order that no
hostile foot should tread on Russian ground with impunity. That this
battle on the frontier _might_ be lost, nay, that it _would_ be lost,
these men certainly admitted; for although they did not know that there
would be 300,000 French to meet 80,000 Russians, still they knew that
the enemy was considerably superior in numbers. The chief error was in
the value which they ascribed to this battle; they thought it would be
a lost battle, like many other lost battles, whereas it may with
certainty be asserted that this great battle on the frontier would have
produced a succession of events completely different to those which
actually took place. Even the camp at Drissa was a measure at the root
of which there lay a completely erroneous standard with regard to the
enemy. If the Russian army had been obliged to remain there they would
have been completely isolated and cut off from every quarter, and then
the French army would not have been at a loss for means to compel the
Russians to lay down their arms. The designer of that camp never
thought of power and will on such a scale as that.
But even Buonaparte sometimes used a false standard. After the
armistice of 1813 he thought to hold in check the subordinate armies of
the allies under Blücher and the Crown Prince of Sweden by corps which
were certainly not able to offer any effectual resistance, but which
might impose sufficiently on the cautious to prevent their risking
anything, as had so often been done in preceding wars. He did not
reflect sufficiently on the reaction proceeding from the deep-rooted
resentment with which both Blücher and Bulow were animated, and from
the imminent danger in which they were placed.
In general, he under-estimated the enterprising spirit of old Blücher.
At Leipsic Blücher alone wrested from him the victory; at Laon Blücher
might have entirely ruined him, and if he did not do so the cause lay
in circumstances completely out of the calculation of Buonaparte;
lastly, at Belle-Alliance, the penalty of this mistake reached him like
a thunderbolt.
SKETCHES FOR BOOK VII THE ATTACK
CHAPTER I. The Attack in Relation to the Defence
If two ideas form an exact logical antithesis, that is to say if the
one is the complement of the other, then, in fact, each one is implied
in the other; and when the limited power of our mind is insufficient to
apprehend both at once, and, by the mere antithesis, to recognise in
the one perfect conception the totality of the other also, still, at
all events, the one always throws on the other a strong, and in many
parts a sufficient light Thus we think the first chapter on the defence
throws a sufficient light on all the points of the attack which it
touches upon. But it is not so throughout in respect of every point;
the train of thought could nowhere be carried to a finality; it is,
therefore, natural that where the opposition of ideas does not lie so
immediately at the root of the conception as in the first chapters, all
that can be said about the attack does not follow directly from what
has been said on the defence. An alteration of our point of view brings
us nearer to the subject, and it is natural for us to observe, at this
closer point of view, that which escaped observation at our former
standpoint. What is thus perceived will, therefore, be the complement
of our former train of thought; and it will not unfrequently happen
that what is said on the attack will throw a new light on the defence.
In treating of the attack we shall, of course, very frequently have the
same subjects before us with which our attention has been occupied in
the defence. But we have no intention, nor would it be consistent with
the nature of the thing, to adopt the usual plan of works on
engineering, and in treating of the attack, to circumvent or upset all
that we have found of positive value in the defence, by showing that
against every means of defence, there is an infallible method of
attack. The defence has its strong points and weak ones; if the first
are even not unsurmountable, still they can only be overcome at a
disproportionate price, and that must remain true from whatever point
of view we look at it, or we get involved in a contradiction. Further,
it is not our intention thoroughly to review the reciprocal action of
the means; each means of defence suggests a means of attack; but this
is often so evident, that there is no occasion to transfer oneself from
our standpoint in treating of the defence to a fresh one for the
attack, in order to perceive it; the one issues from the other of
itself. Our object is, in each subject, to set forth the peculiar
relations of the attack, so far as they do not directly come out of the
defence, and this mode of treatment must necessarily lead us to many
chapters to which there are no corresponding ones in the defence.