(*) See Chapters IV. and V.
The conqueror in a war is not always in a condition to subdue his
adversary completely. Often, in fact, almost universally, there is a
culminating point of victory. Experience shows this sufficiently; but
as the subject is one especially important for the theory of war, and
the pivot of almost all plans of campaigns, while, at the same time, on
its surface some apparent contradictions glitter, as in ever-changing
colours, we therefore wish to examine it more closely, and look for its
essential causes.
Victory, as a rule, springs from a preponderance of the sum of all the
physical and moral powers combined; undoubtedly it increases this
preponderance, or it would not be sought for and purchased at a great
sacrifice. Victory _itself_ does this unquestionably; also its
consequences have the same effect, but not to the utmost point
generally only up to a certain point. This point may be very near at
hand, and is sometimes so near that the whole of the results of a
victorious battle are confined to an increase of the moral superiority.
How this comes about we have now to examine.
In the progress of action in war, the combatant force is incessantly
meeting with elements which strengthen it, and others which weaken it.
Hence it is a question of superiority on one side or the other. As
every diminution of power on one side is to be regarded as an increase
on the opposite, it follows, of course, that this double current, this
ebb and flow, takes place whether troops are advancing or retiring.
It is therefore necessary to find out the principal cause of this
alteration in the one case to determine the other along with it.
In advancing, the most important causes of the _increase of strength_
which the assailant gains, are:
1. The loss which the enemy’s army suffers, because it is usually
greater than that of the assailant.
2. The loss which the enemy suffers in inert military means, such as
magazines, depôts, bridges, etc., and which the assailant does not
share with him.
3. That from the moment the assailant enters the enemy’s territory,
there is a loss of provinces to the defence, consequently of the
sources of new military forces.
4. That the advancing army gains a portion of those resources, in other
words, gains the advantage of living at the expense of the enemy.
5. The loss of internal organisation and of the regular action of
everything on the side of the enemy.
6. That the allies of the enemy secede from him, and others join the
conqueror.
7. Lastly, the discouragement of the enemy who lets the arms, in some
measure, drop out of his hands.
The causes of _decrease of strength_ in an army advancing, are:
1. That it is compelled to lay siege to the enemy’s fortresses, to
blockade them or observe them; or that the enemy, who did the same
before the victory, in his retreat draws in these corps on his main
body.
2. That from the moment the assailant enters the enemy’s territory, the
nature of the theatre of war is changed; it becomes hostile; we must
occupy it, for we cannot call any portion our own beyond what is in
actual occupation, and yet it everywhere presents difficulties to the
whole machine, which must necessarily tend to weaken its effects.
3. That we are removing further away from our resources, whilst the
enemy is drawing nearer to his; this causes a delay in the replacement
of expended power.
4. That the danger which threatens the state, rouses other powers to
its protection.
5. Lastly, the greater efforts of the adversary, in consequence of the
increased danger, on the other hand, a relaxation of effort on the side
of the victorious state.
All these advantages and disadvantages can exist together, meet each
other in a certain measure, and pursue their way in opposite
directions, except that the last meet as real opposites, cannot pass,
therefore mutually exclude each other. This alone shows how infinitely
different may be the effect of a victory according as it stuns the
vanquished or stimulates him to greater exertions.
We shall now try to characterise, in a few words, each of these points
singly.
1. The loss of the enemy when defeated, may be at the greatest in the
first moment of defeat, and then daily diminish in amount until it
arrives at a point where the balance is restored as regards our force;
but it may go on increasing every day in an ascending ratio. The
difference of situation and relations determines this. We can only say
that, in general, with a good army the first will be the case, with an
indifferent army the second; next to the spirit of the army, the spirit
of the Government is here the most important thing. It is of great
consequence in war to distinguish between the two cases in practice, in
order not to stop just at the point where we ought to begin in good
earnest, and _vice versâ_.
2. The loss which the enemy sustains in that part of the apparatus of
war which is inert, may ebb and flow just in the same manner, and this
will depend on the accidental position and nature of the depôts from
which supplies are drawn. This subject, however, in the present day,
cannot be compared with the others in point of importance.
3. The third advantage must necessarily increase as the army advances;
indeed, it may be said that it does not come into consideration until
an army has penetrated far into the enemy’s country; that is to say,
until a third or a fourth of the country has been left in rear. In
addition, the intrinsic value which a province has in connection with
the war comes also into consideration.
In the same way the fourth advantage should increase with the advance.
But with respect to these two last, it is also to be observed that
their influence on the combatant powers actually engaged in the
struggle, is seldom felt so immediately; they only work slowly and by a
circuitous course; therefore we should not bend the bow too much on
their account, that is to say, not place ourselves in any dangerous
position.
The fifth advantage, again, only comes into consideration if we have
made a considerable advance, and if by the form of the enemy’s country
some provinces can be detached from the principal mass, as these, like
limbs compressed by ligatures, usually soon die off.
As to six and seven, it is at least probable that they increase with
the advance; furthermore, we shall return to them hereafter. Let us now
pass on to the causes of weakness.
1. The besieging, blockade, and investment of fortresses, generally
increase as the army advances. This weakening influence alone acts so
powerfully on the _condition of the combatant force_, that it may soon
outweigh all the advantages gained. No doubt, in modern times, a system
has been introduced of blockading places with a small number of troops,
or of watching them with a still smaller number; and also the enemy
must keep garrisons in them. Nevertheless, they remain a great element
of security. The garrisons consist very often in half of people, who
have taken no part in the war previously. Before those places which are
situated near the line of communication, it is necessary for the
assailant to leave a force at least double the strength of the
garrison; and if it is desirable to lay formal siege to, or to starve
out, one single considerable place, a small army is required for the
purpose.
2. The second cause, the taking up a theatre of war in the enemy’s
country, increases necessarily with the advance, and if it does not
further weaken the condition of the combatant force at the moment, it
does so at all events in the long run.
We can only regard as our theatre of war, so much of the enemy’s
country as we actually possess; that is to say, where we either have
small corps in the field, or where we have left here and there strong
garrisons in large towns, or stations along the roads, etc.; now,
however small the garrisons may be which are detached, still they
weaken the combatant force considerably. But this is the smallest evil.
Every army has strategic flanks, that is, the country which borders
both sides of its lines of communications; the weakness of these parts
is not sensibly felt as long as the enemy is similarly situated with
respect to his. But that can only be the case as long as we are in our
own country; as soon as we get into the enemy’s country, the weakness
of these parts is felt very much, because the smallest enterprise
promises some result when directed against a long line only feebly, or
not all, covered; and these attacks may be made from any quarter in an
enemy’s country.
The further we advance, the longer these flanks become, and the danger
arising from them is enhanced in an increased ratio, for not only are
they difficult to cover, but the spirit of enterprise is also first
roused in the enemy, chiefly by long insecure lines of communication,
and the consequences which their loss may entail in case of a retreat
are matter of grave consideration.
All this contributes to place a fresh load on an advancing army at
every step of its progress; so that if it has not commenced with a more
than ordinary superiority, it will feel itself always more and more
cramped in its plans, gradually weakened in its impulsive force, and at
last in a state of uncertainty and anxiety as to its situation.
3. The third cause, the distance from the source from which the
incessantly diminishing combatant force is to be just as incessantly
filled up, increases with the advance. A conquering army is like the
light of a lamp in this respect; the more the oil which feeds it sinks
in the reservoir and recedes from the focus of light, the smaller the
light becomes, until at length it is quite extinguished.
The richness of the conquered provinces may certainly diminish this
evil very much, but can never entirely remove it, because there are
always a number of things which can only be supplied to the army from
its own country, men in particular; because the subsidies furnished by
the enemy's country are, in most cases, neither so promptly nor so
surely forthcoming as in our own country; because the means of meeting
any unexpected requirement cannot be so quickly procured; because
misunderstandings and mistakes of all kinds cannot so soon be
discovered and remedied.
If a prince does not lead his army in person, as became the custom in
the last wars, if he is not anywhere near it, then another and very
great inconvenience arises in the loss of time occasioned by
communications backwards and forwards; for the fullest powers conferred
on a commander of an army, are never sufficient to meet every case in
the wide expanse of his activity.
4. The change in political alliances. If these changes, produced by a
victory, should be such as are disadvantageous to the conqueror, they
will probably be so in a direct relation to his progress, just as is
the case if they are of an advantageous nature. This all depends on the
existing political alliances, interests, customs, and tendencies, on
princes, ministers, etc. In general, we can only say that when a great
state which has smaller allies is conquered, these usually secede very
soon from their alliance, so that the victor, in this respect, with
every blow becomes stronger; but if the conquered state is small,
protectors much sooner present themselves when his very existence is
threatened, and others, who have helped to place him in his present
embarrassment, will turn round to prevent his complete downfall.
5. The increased resistance on the part of the enemy which is called
forth. Sometimes the enemy drops his weapon out of his hands from
terror and stupefaction; sometimes an enthusiastic paroxysm seizes him,
every one runs to arms, and the resistance is much stronger after the
first defeat than it was before. The character of the people and of the
Government, the nature of the country and its political alliances, are
here the data from which the probable effect must be conjectured.
What countless differences these two last points alone make in the
plans which may and should be made in war in one case and another?
Whilst one, through an excess of caution, and what is called methodical
proceedings, fritters away his good fortune, another, from a want of
rational reflection, tumbles into destruction.
In addition, we must here call to mind the supineness, which not
unfrequently comes over the victorious side, when danger is removed;
whilst, on the contrary, renewed efforts are then required in order to
follow up the success. If we cast a general glance over these different
and antagonistic principles, the deduction, doubtless is, that the
profitable use of the onward march in a war of aggression, in the
generality of cases, diminishes the preponderance with which the
assailant set out, or which has been gained by victory.
Here the question must naturally strike us; if this be so, what is it
which impels the conqueror to follow up the career of victory to
continue the offensive? And can this really be called making further
use of the victory? Would it not be better to stop where as yet there
is hardly any diminution of the preponderance gained?
To this we must naturally answer: the preponderance of combatant forces
is only the means, not the end. The end or object is to subdue the
enemy, or at least to take from him part of his territory, in order
thus to put ourselves in a condition to realize the value of the
advantages we have gained when we conclude a peace. Even if our aim is
to conquer the enemy completely, we must be content that, perhaps,
every step we advance, reduces our preponderance, but it does not
necessarily follow from this that it will be nil before the fall of the
enemy: the fall of the enemy may take place before that, and if it is
to be obtained by the last minimum of preponderance, it would be an
error not to expend it for that purpose.
The preponderance which we have or acquire in war is, therefore, the
means, not the end, and it must be staked to gain the latter. But it is
necessary to know how far it will reach, in order not to go beyond that
point, and instead of fresh advantages, to reap disaster.
It is not necessary to introduce special examples from experience in
order to prove that this is the way in which the strategic
preponderance exhausts itself in the strategic attack; it is rather the
multitude of instances which has forced us to investigate the causes of
it. It is only since the appearance of Buonaparte that we have known
campaigns between civilized nations, in which the preponderance has
led, without interruption, to the fall of the enemy; before his time,
every campaign ended with the victorious army seeking to win a point
where it could simply maintain itself in a state of equilibrium. At
this point, the movement of victory stopped, even if a retreat did not
become necessary. Now, this culminating point of victory will also
appear in the future, in all wars in which the overthrow of the enemy
is not the military object of the war; and the generality of wars will
still be of this kind. The natural aim of all single plans of campaigns
is the point at which the offensive changes into the defensive.
But now, to overstep this point, is more than simply a _useless_
expenditure of power, yielding no further result, it is a _destructive_
step which causes reaction; and this re-action is, according to all
general experience, productive of most disproportionate effects. This
last fact is so common, and appears so natural and easy to understand
that we need not enter circumstantially into the causes. Want of
organisation in the conquered land, and the very opposite effect which
a serious loss instead of the looked-for fresh victory makes on the
feelings, are the chief causes in every case. The moral forces, courage
on the one side rising often to _audacity_, and extreme depression on
the other, now begin generally their active play. The losses on the
retreat are increased thereby, and the hitherto successful party now
generally thanks providence if he can escape with only the surrender of
all his gains, without losing some of his own territory.
We must now clear up an apparent contradiction.
It may be generally supposed that as long as progress in the attack
continues, there must still be a preponderance; and, that as the
defensive, which will commence at the end of the victorious career, is
a stronger form of war than the offensive, therefore, there is so much
the less danger of becoming unexpectedly the weaker party. But yet
there is, and keeping history in view, we must admit that the greatest
danger of a reverse is often just at the moment when the offensive
ceases and passes into the defensive. We shall try to find the cause of
this.
The superiority which we have attributed to the defensive form of war
consists:
1. In the use of ground.
2. In the possession of a prepared theatre of war.
3. In the support of the people.
4. In the advantage of the state of expectancy.
It must be evident that these principles cannot always be forthcoming
and active in a like degree; that, consequently, one defence is not
always like another; and therefore, also, that the defence will not
always have this same superiority over the offensive. This must be
particularly the case in a defensive, which commences after the
exhaustion of an offensive, and has its theatre of war usually situated
at the apex of an offensive triangle thrust far forward into the
country. Of the four principles above named, this defensive only enjoys
the first the use of the ground undiminished, the second generally
vanishes altogether, the third becomes negative, and the fourth is very
much reduced. A few more words, only by way of explanation, respecting
the last.
If the imagined equilibrium, under the influence of which whole
campaigns have often passed without any results, because the side which
should assume the initiative is wanting in the necessary resolution,
and just therein lies, as we conceive, the advantage of the state of
expectancy if this equilibrium is disturbed by an offensive act, the
enemy’s interests damaged, and his will stirred up to action, then the
probability of his remaining in a state of indolent irresolution is
much diminished. A defence, which is organised on conquered territory,
has a much more irritating character than one upon our own soil; the
offensive principle is engrafted on it in a certain measure, and its
nature is thereby weakened. The quiet which Daun allowed Frederick II.
in Silesia and Saxony, he would never have granted him in Bohemia.
Thus it is clear that the defensive, which is interwoven or mixed up
with an offensive undertaking, is weakened in all its chief principles;
and, therefore, will no longer have the preponderance which belongs to
it originally.
As no defensive campaign is composed of purely defensive elements, so
likewise no offensive campaign is made up entirely of offensive
elements; because, besides the short intervals in every campaign, in
which both armies are on the defensive, every attack which does not
lead to a peace, must necessarily end in a defensive.
In this manner it is the defensive itself which contributes to the
weakening of the offensive. This is so far from being an idle subtlety,
that on the contrary, we consider it a chief disadvantage of the attack
that we are afterwards reduced through it to a very disadvantageous
defensive.
And this explains how the difference which originally exists between
the strength of the offensive and defensive forms in war is gradually
reduced. We shall now show how it may completely disappear, and the
advantage for a short time may change into the reverse.
If we may be allowed to make use of an idea from nature, we shall be
able sooner to explain ourselves. It is the time which every force in
the material world requires to show its effect. A power, which if
applied slowly by degrees, would be sufficient to check a body in
motion, will be overcome by it if time fails. This law of the material
world is a striking illustration of many of the phenomena in our inner
life. If we are once roused to a certain train of thought, it is not
every motive sufficient in itself which can change or stop that current
of thought. Time, tranquillity and durable impressions on our senses
are required. So it is also in war. When once the mind has taken a
decided direction towards an object, or turned back towards a harbour
of refuge, it may easily happen that the motives which in the one base
naturally serve to restrain, and those which in the other as naturally
excite to enterprise, are not felt at once in their full force; and as
the progress of action in the mean time continues, one is carried along
by the stream of movement beyond the line of equilibrium, beyond the
culminating point, without being aware of it. Indeed, it may even
happen that, in spite of the exhaustion of force, the assailant,
supported by the moral forces which specially lie in the offensive,
like a horse drawing a load uphill, finds it less difficult to advance
than to stop. By this, we believe, we have now shown, without
contradiction in itself, how the assailant may pass that point, where,
if he had stopped at the right moment, he might still, through the
defensive, have had a result, that is equilibrium. Rightly to determine
this point is, therefore, important in framing a plan of a campaign, as
well for the offensive, that he may not undertake what is beyond his
powers (to a certain extent contract debts), as for the defensive, that
he may perceive and profit by this error if committed by the assailant.
If now we look back at all the points which the commander should bear
in mind in making his determination, and remember that he can only
estimate the tendency and value of the most important of them through
the consideration of many other near and distant relations, that he
must to a certain extent _guess_ at them guess whether the enemy’s
army, after the first blow, will show a stronger core and increasing
solidity, or like a Bologna phial, will turn into dust as soon as the
surface is injured; guess the extent of weakness and prostration which
the drying up of certain sources, the interruption of certain
communications will produce on the military state of the enemy; guess
whether the enemy, from the burning pain of the blow which has been
dealt him, will collapse powerless, or whether, like a wounded bull, he
will rise to a state of fury; lastly, guess whether other powers will
be dismayed or roused, what political alliances are likely to be
dissolved, and what are likely to be formed. When we say that he must
hit all this, and much more, with the tact of his judgment, as the
rifleman hits a mark, it must be admitted that such an act of the human
mind is no trifle. A thousand wrong roads running here and there,
present themselves to the judgment; and whatever the number, the
confusion and complexity of objects leaves undone, is completed by the
sense of danger and responsibility.
Thus it happens that the majority of generals prefer to fall short of
the mark rather than to approach too close; and thus it happens that a
fine courage and great spirit of enterprise often go beyond the point,
and therefore also fail to hit the mark. Only he that does great things
with small means has made a successful hit.
SKETCHES FOR BOOK VIII PLAN OF WAR
CHAPTER I. Introduction
In the chapter on the essence and object of war, we sketched, in a
certain measure, its general conception, and pointed out its relations
to surrounding circumstances, in order to commence with a sound
fundamental idea. We there cast a glance at the manifold difficulties
which the mind encounters in the consideration of this subject, whilst
we postponed the closer examination of them, and stopped at the
conclusion, that the overthrow of the enemy, consequently the
destruction of his combatant force, is the chief object of the whole of
the action of war. This put us in a position to show in the following
chapter, that the means which the act of war employs is the combat
alone. In this manner, we think, we have obtained at the outset a
correct point of view.
Having now gone through singly all the principal relations and forms
which appear in military action, but are extraneous to, or outside of,
the combat, in order that we might fix more distinctly their value,
partly through the nature of the thing, partly from the lessons of
experience which military history affords, purify them from, and root
out, those vague ambiguous ideas which are generally mixed up with
them, and also to put prominently forward the real object of the act of
war, the destruction of the enemy’s combatant force as the primary
object universally belonging to it; we now return to War as a whole, as
we propose to speak of the Plan of War, and of campaigns; and that
obliges us to revert to the ideas in our first book
In these chapters, which are to deal with the whole question, is
contained strategy, properly speaking, in its most comprehensive and
important features. We enter this innermost part of its domain, where
all other threads meet, not without a degree of diffidence, which,
indeed, is amply justified
If, on the one hand, we see how extremely simple the operations of war
appear; if we hear and read how the greatest generals speak of it, just
in the plainest and briefest manner, how the government and management
of this ponderous machine, with its hundred thousand limbs, is made no
more of in their lips than if they were only speaking of their own
persons, so that the whole tremendous act of war is individualised into
a kind of duel; if we find the motives also of their action brought
into connection sometimes with a few simple ideas, sometimes with some
excitement of feeling; if we see the easy, sure, we might almost say
light manner, in which they treat the subject and now see, on the other
hand, the immense number of circumstances which present themselves for
the consideration of the mind; the long, often indefinite, distances to
which the threads of the subject run out, and the number of
combinations which lie before us; if we reflect that it is the duty of
theory to embrace all this systematically, that is with clearness and
fullness, and always to refer the action to the necessity of a
sufficient cause, then comes upon us an overpowering dread of being
dragged down to a pedantic dogmatism, to crawl about in the lower
regions of heavy abstruse conceptions, where we shall never meet any
great captain, with his natural coup d’œil. If the result of an attempt
at theory is to be of this kind, it would have been as well, or rather,
it would have been better, not to have made the attempt; it could only
bring down on theory the contempt of genius, and the attempt itself
would soon be forgotten. And on the other hand, this facile coup d’œil
of the general, this simple art of forming notions, this
personification of the whole action of war, is so entirely and
completely the soul of the right method of conducting war, that in no
other but this broad way is it possible to conceive that freedom of the
mind which is indispensable if it is to dominate events, not to be
overpowered by them
With some fear we proceed again; we can only do so by pursuing the way
which we have prescribed for ourselves from the first. Theory ought to
throw a clear light on the mass of objects, that the mind may the
easier find its bearings; theory ought to pull up the weeds which error
has sown broadcast; it should show the relations of things to each
other, separate the important from the trifling. Where ideas resolve
themselves spontaneously into such a core of Truth as is called
Principle, when they of themselves keep such a line as forms a rule,
Theory should indicate the same
Whatever the mind seizes, the rays of light which are awakened in it by
this exploration amongst the fundamental notions of things, _that is
the assistance which Theory affords the mind_. Theory can give no
formulas with which to solve problems; it cannot confine the mind’s
course to the narrow line of necessity by Principles set up on both
sides. It lets the mind take a look at the mass of objects and their
relations, and then allows it to go free to the higher regions of
action, there to act according to the measure of its natural forces,
with the energy of the whole of those forces combined, and to grasp the
True and the Right, as one single clear idea, which shooting forth from
under the united pressure of all these forces, would seem to be rather
a product of feeling than of reflection.
CHAPTER II. Absolute and Real War
The Plan of the War comprehends the whole Military Act; through it that
Act becomes a whole, which must have one final determinate object, in
which all particular objects must become absorbed. No war is commenced,
or, at least, no war should be commenced, if people acted wisely,
without saying to themselves, What is to be attained by and in the
same; the first is the final object; the other is the intermediate aim.
By this chief consideration the whole course of the war is prescribed,
the extent of the means and the measure of energy are determined; its
influence manifests itself down to the smallest organ of action.
We said, in the first chapter, that the overthrow of the enemy is the
natural end of the act of War; and that if we would keep within the
strictly philosophical limits of the idea, there can be no other in
reality.
As this idea must apply to both the belligerent parties, it must
follow, that there can be no suspension in the Military Act, and peace
cannot take place until one or other of the parties concerned is
overthrown.
In the chapter on the suspension of the Belligerent Act, we have shown
how the simple principle of hostility applied to its embodiment, man,
and all circumstances out of which it makes a war, is subject to checks
and modifications from causes which are inherent in the apparatus of
war.
But this modification is not nearly sufficient to carry us from the
original conception of War to the concrete form in which it almost
everywhere appears. Most wars appear only as an angry feeling on both
sides, under the influence of which, each side takes up arms to protect
himself, and to put his adversary in fear, and—when opportunity offers,
to strike a blow. They are, therefore, not like mutually destructive
elements brought into collision, but like tensions of two elements
still apart which discharge themselves in small partial shocks.
But what is now the non-conducting medium which hinders the complete
discharge? Why is the philosophical conception not satisfied? That
medium consists in the number of interests, forces, and circumstances
of various kinds, in the existence of the State, which are affected by
the war, and through the infinite ramifications of which the logical
consequence cannot be carried out as it would on the simple threads of
a few conclusions; in this labyrinth it sticks fast, and man, who in
great things as well as in small, usually acts more on the impulse of
ideas and feelings, than according to strictly logical conclusions, is
hardly conscious of his confusion, unsteadiness of purpose, and
inconsistency.
But if the intelligence by which the war is decreed, could even go over
all these things relating to the war, without for a moment losing sight
of its aim, still all the other intelligences in the State which are
concerned may not be able to do the same; thus an opposition arises,
and with that comes the necessity for a force capable of overcoming the
inertia of the whole mass—a force which is seldom forthcoming to the
full.
This inconsistency takes place on one or other of the two sides, or it
may be on both sides, and becomes the cause of the war being something
quite different to what it should be, according to the conception of
it—a half and half production, a thing without a perfect inner
cohesion.
This is how we find it almost everywhere, and we might doubt whether
our notion of its absolute character or nature was founded in reality,
if we had not seen real warfare make its appearence in this absolute
completeness just in our own times. After a short introduction
performed by the French Revolution, the impetuous Buonaparte quickly
brought it to this point Under him it was carried on without slackening
for a moment until the enemy was prostrated, and the counter stroke
followed almost with as little remission. Is it not natural and
necessary that this phenomenon should lead us back to the original
conception of war with all its rigorous deductions?
Shall we now rest satisfied with this idea, and judge of all wars
according to it, however much they may differ from it,—deduce from it
all the requirements of theory?
We must decide upon this point, for we can say nothing trustworthy on
the Plan of War until we have made up our minds whether war should only
be of this kind, or whether it may be of another kind.
If we give an affirmative to the first, then our Theory will be, in all
respects, nearer to the necessary, it will be a clearer and more
settled thing. But what should we say then of all wars since those of
Alexander up to the time of Buonaparte, if we except some campaigns of
the Romans? We should have to reject them in a lump, and yet we cannot,
perhaps, do so without being ashamed of our presumption. But an
additional evil is, that we must say to ourselves, that in the next ten
years there may perhaps be a war of that same kind again, in spite of
our Theory; and that this Theory, with a rigorous logic, is still quite
powerless against the force of circumstances. We must, therefore,
decide to construe war as it is to be, and not from pure conception,
but by allowing room for everything of a foreign nature which mixes up
with it and fastens itself upon it—all the natural inertia and friction
of its parts, the whole of the inconsistency, the vagueness and
hesitation (or timidity) of the human mind: we shall have to grasp the
idea that war, and the form which we give it, proceeds from ideas,
feelings, and circumstances, which dominate for the moment; indeed, if
we would be perfectly candid we must admit that this has even been the
case where it has taken its absolute character, that is, under
Buonaparte.
If we must do so, if we must grant that war originates and takes its
form not from a final adjustment of the innumerable relations with
which it is connected, but from some amongst them which happen to
predominate; then it follows, as a matter of course, that it rests upon
a play of possibilities, probabilities, good fortune and bad, in which
rigorous logical deduction often gets lost, and in which it is in
general a useless, inconvenient instrument for the head; then it also
follows that war may be a thing which is sometimes war in a greater,
sometimes in a lesser degree.
All this, theory must admit, but it is its duty to give the foremost
place to the absolute form of war, and to use that form as a general
point of direction, that whoever wishes to learn something from theory,
may accustom himself never to lose sight of it, to regard it as the
natural measure of all his hopes and fears, in order to approach it
_where he can, or where he must_.
That a leading idea, which lies at the root of our thoughts and
actions, gives them a certain tone and character, even when the
immediately determining grounds come from totally different regions, is
just as certain as that the painter can give this or that tone to his
picture by the colours with which he lays on his ground.
Theory is indebted to the last wars for being able to do this
effectually now. Without these warning examples of the destructive
force of the element set free, she might have talked herself hoarse to
no purpose; no one would have believed possible what all have now lived
to see realised.
Would Prussia have ventured to penetrate into France in the year 1798
with 70,000 men, if she had foreseen that the reaction in case of
failure would be so strong as to overthrow the old balance of power in
Europe?
Would Prussia, in 1806, have made war with 100,000 against France, if
she had supposed that the first pistol shot would be a spark in the
heart of the mine, which would blow it into the air?
CHAPTER III. A. Interdependence of the Parts in War
According as we have in view the absolute form of war, or one of the
real forms deviating more or less from it, so likewise different
notions of its result will arise.
In the absolute form, where everything is the effect of its natural and
necessary cause, one thing follows another in rapid succession; there
is, if we may use the expression, no neutral space; there is on account
of the manifold reactionary effects which war contains in itself,(*1)
on account of the connection in which, strictly speaking, the whole
series of combats,(*2) follow one after another, on account of the
culminating point which every victory has, beyond which losses and
defeats commence(*3) on account of all these natural relations of war
there is, I say, only _one result_, to wit, the _final result_. Until
it takes place nothing is decided, nothing won, nothing lost. Here we
may say indeed: the end crowns the work. In this view, therefore, war
is an indivisible whole, the parts of which (the subordinate results)
have no value except in their relation to this whole. The conquest of
Moscow, and of half Russia in 1812, was of no value to Buonaparte
unless it obtained for him the peace which he desired. But it was only
a part of his Plan of campaign; to complete that Plan, one part was
still wanted, the destruction of the Russian army; if we suppose this,
added to the other success, then the peace was as certain as it is
possible for things of this kind to be. This second part Buonaparte
missed at the right time, and he could never afterwards attain it, and
so the whole of the first part was not only useless, but fatal to him.
(*1.) Book I., Chapter I.
(*2.) Book I., Chapter I.
(*3.) Book VII., Chapters IV. and V. (Culminating Point of Victory).
To this view of the relative connection of results in war, which may be
regarded as extreme, stands opposed another extreme, according to which
war is composed of single independent results, in which, as in any
number of games played, the preceding has no influence on the next
following; everything here, therefore, depends only on the sum total of
the results, and we can lay up each single one like a counter at play.
Just as the first kind of view derives its truth from the nature of
things, so we find that of the second in history. There are cases
without number in which a small moderate advantage might have been
gained without any very onerous condition being attached to it. The
more the element of war is modified the more common these cases become;
but as little as the first of the views now imagined was ever
completely realised in any war, just as little is there any war in
which the last suits in all respects, and the first can be dispensed
with.
If we keep to the first of these supposed views, we must perceive the
necessity of every war being looked upon as a whole from the very
commencement, and that at the very first step forwards, the commander
should have in his eye the object to which every line must converge.
If we admit the second view, then subordinate advantages may be pursued
on their own account, and the rest left to subsequent events.
As neither of these forms of conception is entirely without result,
therefore theory cannot dispense with either. But it makes this
difference in the use of them, that it requires the first to be laid as
a fundamental idea at the root of everything, and that the latter shall
only be used as a modification which is justified by circumstances.
If Frederick the Great in the years 1742, 1744, 1757, and 1758, thrust
out from Silesia and Saxony a fresh offensive point into the Austrian
Empire, which he knew very well could not lead to a new and durable
conquest like that of Silesia and Saxony, it was done not with a view
to the overthrow of the Austrian Empire, but from a lesser motive,
namely, to gain time and strength; and it was optional with him to
pursue that subordinate object without being afraid that he should
thereby risk his whole existence.(*) But if Prussia in 1806, and
Austria in 1805, 1809, proposed to themselves a still more moderate
object, that of driving the French over the Rhine, they would not have
acted in a reasonable manner if they had not first scanned in their
minds the whole series of events which either, in the case of success,
or of the reverse, would probably follow the first step, and lead up to
peace. This was quite indispensable, as well to enable them to
determine with themselves how far victory might be followed up without
danger, and how and where they would be in a condition to arrest the
course of victory on the enemy’s side.
(*) Had Frederick the Great gained the Battle of Kollen, and taken
prisoners the chief Austrian army with their two field marshals in
Prague, it would have been such a tremendous blow that he might then
have entertained the idea of marching to Vienna to make the Austrian
Court tremble, and gain a peace directly. This, in these times,
unparalleled result, which would have been quite like what we have seen
in our day, only still more wonderful and brilliant from the contest
being between a little David and a great Goliath, might very probably
have taken place after the gain of this one battle; but that does not
contradict the assertion above maintained, for it only refers to what
the king originally looked forward to from his offensive. The
surrounding and taking prisoners the enemy’s army was an event which
was beyond all calculation, and which the king never thought of, at
least not until the Austrians laid themselves open to it by the
unskilful position in which they placed themselves at Prague.
An attentive consideration of history shows wherein the difference of
the two cases consists. At the time of the Silesian War in the
eighteenth century, war was still a mere Cabinet affair, in which the
people only took part as a blind instrument; at the beginning of the
nineteenth century the people on each side weighed in the scale. The
commanders opposed to Frederick the Great were men who acted on
commission, and just on that account men in whom caution was a
predominant characteristic; the opponent of the Austrians and Prussians
may be described in a few words as the very god of war himself.
Must not these different circumstances give rise to quite different
considerations? Should they not in the year 1805, 1806, and 1809 have
pointed to the extremity of disaster as a very close possibility, nay,
even a very great probability, and should they not at the same time
have led to widely different plans and measures from any merely aimed
at the conquest of a couple of fortresses or a paltry province?
They did not do so in a degree commensurate with their importance,
although both Austria and Prussia, judging by their armaments, felt
that storms were brewing in the political atmosphere. They could not do
so because those relations at that time were not yet so plainly
developed as they have been since from history. It is just those very
campaigns of 1805, 1806, 1809, and following ones, which have made it
easier for us to form a conception of modern absolute war in its
destroying energy.
Theory demands, therefore, that at the commencement of every war its
character and main outline shall be defined according to what the
political conditions and relations lead us to anticipate as probable.
The more, that according to this probability its character approaches
the form of absolute war, the more its outline embraces the mass of the
belligerent states and draws them into the vortex, so much the more
complete will be the relation of events to one another and the whole,
but so much the more necessary it will also be not to take the first
step without thinking what may be the last.
B. On the Magnitude of the Object of the War, and the Efforts to be
Made.
The compulsion which we must use towards our enemy will be regulated by
the proportions of our own and his political demands. In so far as
these are mutually known they will give the measure of the mutual
efforts; but they are not always quite so evident, and this may be a
first ground of a difference in the means adopted by each.
The situation and relations of the states are not like each other; this
may become a second cause.
The strength of will, the character and capabilities of the governments
are as little like; this is a third cause.
These three elements cause an uncertainty in the calculation of the
amount of resistance to be expected, consequently an uncertainty as to
the amount of means to be applied and the object to be chosen.
As in war the want of sufficient exertion may result not only in
failure but in positive harm, therefore, the two sides respectively
seek to outstrip each other, which produces a reciprocal action.
This might lead to the utmost extremity of exertion, if it was possible
to define such a point. But then regard for the amount of the political
demands would be lost, the means would lose all relation to the end,
and in most cases this aim at an extreme effort would be wrecked by the
opposing weight of forces within itself.
In this manner, he who undertakes war is brought back again into a
middle course, in which he acts to a certain extent upon the principle
of only applying so much force and aiming at such an object in war as
are just sufficient for the attainment of its political object. To make
this principle practicable he must renounce every absolute necessity of
a result, and throw out of the calculation remote contingencies.
Here, therefore, the action of the mind leaves the province of science,
strictly speaking, of logic and mathematics, and becomes, in the widest
sense of the term, an art, that is, skill in discriminating, by the
tact of judgment among an infinite multitude of objects and relations,
that which is the most important and decisive. This tact of judgment
consists unquestionably more or less in some intuitive comparison of
things and relations by which the remote and unimportant are more
quickly set aside, and the more immediate and important are sooner
discovered than they could be by strictly logical deduction.
In order to ascertain the real scale of the means which we must put
forth for war, we must think over the political object both on our own
side and on the enemy’s side; we must consider the power and position
of the enemy’s state as well as of our own, the character of his
government and of his people, and the capacities of both, and all that
again on our own side, and the political connections of other states,
and the effect which the war will produce on those States. That the
determination of these diverse circumstances and their diverse
connections with each other is an immense problem, that it is the true
flash of genius which discovers here in a moment what is right, and
that it would be quite out of the question to become master of the
complexity merely by a methodical study, this it is easy to conceive.
In this sense Buonaparte was quite right when he said that it would be
a problem in algebra before which a Newton might stand aghast.
If the diversity and magnitude of the circumstances and the uncertainty
as to the right measure augment in a high degree the difficulty of
obtaining a right result, we must not overlook the fact that although
the incomparable _importance_ of the matter does not increase the
complexity and difficulty of the problem, still it very much increases
the merit of its solution. In men of an ordinary stamp freedom and
activity of mind are depressed not increased by the sense of danger and
responsibility: but where these things give wings to strengthen the
judgment, there undoubtedly must be unusual greatness of soul.
First of all, therefore, we must admit that the judgment on an
approaching war, on the end to which it should be directed, and on the
means which are required, can only be formed after a full consideration
of the whole of the circumstances in connection with it: with which
therefore must also be combined the most individual traits of the
moment; next, that this decision, like all in military life, cannot be
purely objective but must be determined by the mental and moral
qualities of princes, statesmen, and generals, whether they are united
in the person of one man or not.
The subject becomes general and more fit to be treated of in the
abstract if we look at the general relations in which States have been
placed by circumstances at different times. We must allow ourselves
here a passing glance at history.
Half-civilised Tartars, the Republics of ancient times, the feudal
lords and commercial cities of the Middle Ages, kings of the eighteenth
century, and, lastly, princes and people of the nineteenth century, all
carry on war in their own way, carry it on differently, with different
means, and for a different object.
The Tartars seek new abodes. They march out as a nation with their
wives and children, they are, therefore, greater than any other army in
point of numbers, and their object is to make the enemy submit or expel
him altogether. By these means they would soon overthrow everything
before them if a high degree of civilisation could be made compatible
with such a condition.
The old Republics with the exception of Rome were of small extent;
still smaller their armies, for they excluded the great mass of the
populace: they were too numerous and lay too close together not to find
an obstacle to great enterprises in the natural equilibrium in which
small separate parts always place themselves according to the general
law of nature: therefore their wars were confined to devastating the
open country and taking some towns in order to ensure to themselves in
these a certain degree of influence for the future.
Rome alone forms an exception, but not until the later period of its
history. For a long time, by means of small bands, it carried on the
usual warfare with its neighbours for booty and alliances. It became
great more through the alliances which it formed, and through which
neighbouring peoples by degrees became amalgamated with it into one
whole, than through actual conquests. It was only after having spread
itself in this manner all over Southern Italy, that it began to advance
as a really conquering power. Carthage fell, Spain and Gaul were
conquered, Greece subdued, and its dominion extended to Egypt and Asia.
At this period its military power was immense, without its efforts
being in the same proportion. These forces were kept up by its riches;
it no longer resembled the ancient republics, nor itself as it had
been; it stands alone.
Just as peculiar in their way are the wars of Alexander. With a small
army, but distinguished for its intrinsic perfection, he overthrew the
decayed fabric of the Asiatic States; without rest, and regardless of
risks, he traverses the breadth of Asia, and penetrates into India. No
republics could do this. Only a king, in a certain measure his own
condottiere, could get through so much so quickly.
The great and small monarchies of the middle ages carried on their wars
with feudal armies. Everything was then restricted to a short period of
time; whatever could not be done in that time was held to be
impracticable. The feudal force itself was raised through an
organisation of vassaldom; the bond which held it together was partly
legal obligation, partly a voluntary contract; the whole formed a real
confederation. The armament and tactics were based on the right of
might, on single combat, and therefore little suited to large bodies.
In fact, at no period has the union of States been so weak, and the
individual citizen so independent. All this influenced the character of
the wars at that period in the most distinct manner. They were
comparatively rapidly carried out, there was little time spent idly in
camps, but the object was generally only punishing, not subduing, the
enemy. They carried off his cattle, burnt his towns, and then returned
home again.
The great commercial towns and small republics brought forward the
condottieri. That was an expensive, and therefore, as far as visible
strength, a very limited military force; as for its intensive strength,
it was of still less value in that respect; so far from their showing
anything like extreme energy or impetuosity in the field, their combats
were generally only sham fights. In a word, hatred and enmity no longer
roused a state to personal activity, but had become articles of trade;
war lost great part of its danger, altered completely its nature, and
nothing we can say of the character it then assumed, would be
applicable to it in its reality.
The feudal system condensed itself by degrees into a decided
territorial supremacy; the ties binding the State together became
closer; obligations which concerned the person were made subject of
composition; by degrees gold became the substitute in most cases, and
the feudal armies were turned into mercenaries. The condottieri formed
the connecting link in the change, and were therefore, for a time, the
instrument of the more powerful States; but this had not lasted long,
when the soldier, hired for a limited term, was turned into a _standing
mercenary_, and the military force of States now became an army, having
its base in the public treasury.
It is only natural that the slow advance to this stage caused a
diversified interweaving of all three kinds of military force. Under
Henry IV. we find the feudal contingents, condottieri, and standing
army all employed together. The condottieri carried on their existence
up to the period of the Thirty Years’ War, indeed there are slight
traces of them even in the eighteenth century.
The other relations of the States of Europe at these different periods
were quite as peculiar as their military forces. Upon the whole, this
part of the world had split up into a mass of petty States, partly
republics in a state of internal dissension, partly small monarchies in
which the power of the government was very limited and insecure. A
State in either of these cases could not be considered as a real unity;
it was rather an agglomeration of loosely connected forces. Neither,
therefore, could such a State be considered an intelligent being,
acting in accordance with simple logical rules.
It is from this point of view we must look at the foreign politics and
wars of the Middle Ages. Let us only think of the continual expeditions
of the Emperors of Germany into Italy for five centuries, without any
substantial conquest of that country resulting from them, or even
having been so much as in view. It is easy to look upon this as a fault
repeated over and over again as a false view which had its root in the
nature of the times, but it is more in accordance with reason to regard
it as the consequence of a hundred important causes which we can
partially realise in idea, but the vital energy of which it is
impossible for us to understand so vividly as those who were brought
into actual conflict with them. As long as the great States which have
risen out of this chaos required time to consolidate and organise
themselves, their whole power and energy is chiefly directed to that
point; their foreign wars are few, and those that took place bear the
stamp of a State-unity not yet well cemented.
The wars between France and England are the first that appear, and yet
at that time France is not to be considered as really a monarchy, but
as an agglomeration of dukedoms and countships; England, although
bearing more the semblance of a unity, still fought with the feudal
organisation, and was hampered by serious domestic troubles.
Under Louis XI., France made its greatest step towards internal unity;
under Charles VIII. it appears in Italy as a power bent on conquest;
and under Louis XIV. it had brought its political state and its
standing army to the highest perfection.
Spain attains to unity under Ferdinand the Catholic; through accidental
marriage connections, under Charles V., suddenly arose the great
Spanish monarchy, composed of Spain, Burgundy, Germany, and Italy
united. What this colossus wanted in unity and internal political
cohesion, it made up for by gold, and its standing army came for the
first time into collision with the standing army of France. After
Charles’s abdication, the great Spanish colossus split into two parts,
Spain and Austria. The latter, strengthened by the acquisition of
Bohemia and Hungary, now appears on the scene as a great power, towing
the German Confederation like a small vessel behind her.
The end of the seventeenth century, the time of Louis XIV., is to be
regarded as the point in history at which the standing military power,
such as it existed in the eighteenth century, reached its zenith. That
military force was based on enlistment and money. States had organised
themselves into complete unities; and the governments, by commuting the
personal obligations of their subjects into a money payment, had
concentrated their whole power in their treasuries. Through the rapid
strides in social improvements, and a more enlightened system of
government, this power had become very great in comparison to what it
had been. France appeared in the field with a standing army of a couple
of hundred thousand men, and the other powers in proportion.
The other relations of States had likewise altered. Europe was divided
into a dozen kingdoms and two republics; it was now conceivable that
two of these powers might fight with each other without ten times as
many others being mixed up in the quarrel, as would certainly have been
the case formerly. The possible combinations in political relations
were still manifold, but they could be discerned and determined from
time to time according to probability.
Internal relations had almost everywhere settle down into a pure
monarchical form; the rights and influence of privileged bodies or
estates had gradually died away, and the cabinet had become a complete
unity, acting for the State in all its external relations. The time had
therefore come that a suitable instrument and a despotic will could
give war a form in accordance with the theoretical conception.
And at this epoch appeared three new Alexanders Gustavus Adolphus,
Charles XII., and Frederick the Great, whose aim was by small but
highly-disciplined armies, to raise little States to the rank of great
monarchies, and to throw down everything that opposed them. If they had
had only to deal with Asiatic States, they would have more closely
resembled Alexander in the parts they acted. In any case, we may look
upon them as the precursors of Buonaparte as respects that which may be
risked in war.
But what war gained on the one side in force and consistency was lost
again on the other side.
Armies were supported out of the treasury, which the sovereign regarded
partly as his private purse, or at least as a resource belonging to the
government, and not to the people. Relations with other states, except
with respect to a few commercial subjects, mostly concerned only the
interests of the treasury or of the government, not those of the
people; at least ideas tended everywhere in that way. The cabinets,
therefore, looked upon themselves as the owners and administrators of
large estates, which they were continually seeking to increase without
the tenants on these estates being particularly interested in this
improvement. The people, therefore, who in the Tartar invasions were
everything in war, who, in the old republics, and in the Middle Ages,
(if we restrict the idea to those possessing the rights of citizens,)
were of great consequence, were in the eighteenth century, absolutely
nothing directly, having only still an indirect influence on the war
through their virtues and faults.
In this manner, in proportion as the government separated itself from
the people, and regarded itself as the state, war became more
exclusively a business of the government, which it carried on by means
of the money in its coffers and the idle vagabonds it could pick up in
its own and neighbouring countries. The consequence of this was, that
the means which the government could command had tolerably well defined
limits, which could be mutually estimated, both as to their extent and
duration; this robbed war of its most dangerous feature: namely the
effort towards the extreme, and the hidden series of possibilities
connected therewith.
The financial means, the contents of the treasury, the state of credit
of the enemy, were approximately known as well as the size of his army.
Any large increase of these at the outbreak of a war was impossible.
Inasmuch as the limits of the enemy’s power could thus be judged of, a
State felt tolerably secure from complete subjugation, and as the State
was conscious at the same time of the limits of its own means, it saw
itself restricted to a moderate aim. Protected from an extreme, there
was no necessity to venture on an extreme. Necessity no longer giving
an impulse in that direction, that impulse could only now be given by
courage and ambition. But these found a powerful counterpoise in the
political relations. Even kings in command were obliged to use the
instrument of war with caution. If the army was dispersed, no new one
could be got, and except the army there was nothing. This imposed as a
necessity great prudence in all undertakings. It was only when a
decided advantage seemed to present itself that they made use of the
costly instrument; to bring about such an opportunity was a general’s
art; but until it was brought about they floated to a certain degree in
an absolute vacuum, there was no ground of action, and all forces, that
is all designs, seemed to rest. The original motive of the aggressor
faded away in prudence and circumspection.
Thus war, in reality, became a regular game, in which Time and Chance
shuffled the cards; but in its signification it was only diplomacy
somewhat intensified, a more vigorous way of negotiating, in which
battles and sieges were substituted for diplomatic notes. To obtain
some moderate advantage in order to make use of it in negotiations for
peace, was the aim even of the most ambitious.
This restricted, shrivelled-up form of war proceeded, as we have said,
from the narrow basis on which it was supported. But that excellent
generals and kings, like Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII., and Frederick
the Great, at the head of armies just as excellent, could not gain more
prominence in the general mass of phenomena that even these men were
obliged to be contented to remain at the ordinary level of moderate
results, is to be attributed to the balance of power in Europe. Now
that States had become greater, and their centres further apart from
each other, what had formerly been done through direct perfectly
natural interests, proximity, contact, family connections, personal
friendship, to prevent any one single State among the number from
becoming suddenly great was effected by a higher cultivation of the art
of diplomacy. Political interests, attractions and repulsions developed
into a very refined system, so that a cannon shot could not be fired in
Europe without all the cabinets having some interest in the occurrence.
A new Alexander must therefore try the use of a good pen as well as his
good sword; and yet he never went very far with his conquests.
But although Louis XIV. had in view to overthrow the balance of power
in Europe, and at the end of the seventeenth century had already got to
such a point as to trouble himself little about the general feeling of
animosity, he carried on war just as it had heretofore been conducted;
for while his army was certainly that of the greatest and richest
monarch in Europe, in its nature it was just like others.
Plundering and devastating the enemy’s country, which play such an
important part with Tartars, with ancient nations, and even in the
Middle Ages, were no longer in accordance with the spirit of the age.
They were justly looked upon as unnecessary barbarity, which might
easily be retaliated, and which did more injury to the enemy’s subjects
than the enemy’s government, therefore, produced no effect beyond
throwing the nation back many stages in all that relates to peaceful
arts and civilisation. War, therefore, confined itself more and more
both as regards means and end, to the army itself. The army with its
fortresses, and some prepared positions, constituted a State in a
State, within which the element of war slowly consumed itself. All
Europe rejoiced at its taking this direction, and held it to be the
necessary consequence of the spirit of progress. Although there lay in
this an error, inasmuch as the progress of the human mind can never
lead to what is absurd, can never make five out of twice two, as we
have already said, and must again repeat, still upon the whole this
change had a beneficial effect for the people; only it is not to be
denied that it had a tendency to make war still more an affair of the
State, and to separate it still more from the interests of the people.
The plan of a war on the part of the state assuming the offensive in
those times consisted generally in the conquest of one or other of the
enemy’s provinces; the plan of the defender was to prevent this; the
particular plan of campaign was to take one or other of the enemy’s
fortresses, or to prevent one of our own from being taken; it was only
when a battle became unavoidable for this purpose that it was sought
for and fought. Whoever fought a battle without this unavoidable
necessity, from mere innate desire of gaining a victory, was reckoned a
general with too much daring. Generally the campaign passed over with
one siege, or if it was a very active one, with two sieges, and winter
quarters, which were regarded as a necessity, and during which, the
faulty arrangements of the one could never be taken advantage of by the
other, and in which the mutual relations of the two parties almost
entirely ceased, formed a distinct limit to the activity which was
considered to belong to one campaign.
If the forces opposed were too much on an equality, or if the aggressor
was decidedly the weaker of the two, then neither battle nor siege took
place, and the whole of the operations of the campaign pivoted on the
maintenance of certain positions and magazines, and the regular
exhaustion of particular districts of country.
As long as war was universally conducted in this manner, and the
natural limits of its force were so close and obvious, so far from
anything absurd being perceived in it, all was considered to be in the
most regular order; and criticism, which in the eighteenth century
began to turn its attention to the field of art in war, addressed
itself to details without troubling itself much about the beginning and
the end. Thus there was eminence and perfection of every kind, and even
Field Marshal Daun, to whom it was chiefly owing that Frederick the
Great completely attained his object, and that Maria Theresa completely
failed in hers, notwithstanding that could still pass for a great
General. Only now and again a more penetrating judgment made its
appearance, that is, sound common sense acknowledged that with superior
numbers something positive should be attained or war is badly
conducted, whatever art may be displayed.
Thus matters stood when the French Revolution broke out; Austria and
Prussia tried their diplomatic art of war; this very soon proved
insufficient. Whilst, according to the usual way of seeing things, all
hopes were placed on a very limited military force in 1793, such a
force as no one had any conception of, made its appearance. War had
suddenly become again an affair of the people, and that of a people
numbering thirty millions, every one of whom regarded himself as a
citizen of the State. Without entering here into the details of
circumstances with which this great phenomenon was attended, we shall
confine ourselves to the results which interest us at present. By this
participation of the people in the war instead of a cabinet and an
army, a whole nation with its natural weight came into the scale.
Henceforward, the means available the efforts which might be called
forth had no longer any definite limits; the energy with which the war
itself might be conducted had no longer any counterpoise, and
consequently the danger for the adversary had risen to the extreme.
If the whole war of the revolution passed over without all this making
itself felt in its full force and becoming quite evident; if the
generals of the revolution did not persistently press on to the final
extreme, and did not overthrow the monarchies in Europe; if the German
armies now and again had the opportunity of resisting with success, and
checking for a time the torrent of victory, the cause lay in reality in
that technical incompleteness with which the French had to contend,
which showed itself first amongst the common soldiers, then in the
generals, lastly, at the time of the Directory, in the Government
itself.
After all this was perfected by the hand of Buonaparte, this military
power, based on the strength of the whole nation, marched over Europe,
smashing everything in pieces so surely and certainly, that where it
only encountered the old fashioned armies the result was not doubtful
for a moment. A re-action, however, awoke in due time. In Spain, the
war became of itself an affair of the people. In Austria, in the year
1809, the Government commenced extraordinary efforts, by means of
Reserves and Landwehr, which were nearer to the true object, and far
surpassed in degree what this State had hitherto conceived possible, In
Russia, in 1812, the example of Spain and Austria was taken as a
pattern, the enormous dimensions of that empire on the one hand allowed
the preparations, although too long deferred, still to produce effect;
and, on the other hand, intensified the effect produced. The result was
brilliant. In Germany, Prussia rose up the first, made the war a
national cause, and without either money or credit, and with a
population reduced one half, took the field with an army twice as
strong as that of 1806. The rest of Germany followed the example of
Prussia sooner or later, and Austria, although less energetic than in
1809, still also came forward with more than its usual strength. Thus
it was that Germany and Russia in the years 1813 and 1814, including
all who took an active part in, or were absorbed in these two
campaigns, appeared against France with about a million of men.
Under these circumstances, the energy thrown into the conduct of the
war was quite different; and, although not quite on a level with that
of the French, although at some points timidity was still to be
observed, the course of the campaigns, upon the whole, may be said to
have been in the new, not in the old, style. In eight months the
theatre of war was removed from the Oder to the Seine. Proud Paris had
to bow its head for the first time; and the redoubtable Buonaparte lay
fettered on the ground.
Therefore, since the time of Buonaparte, war, through being first on
one side, then again on the other, an affair of the whole nation, has
assumed quite a new nature, or rather it has approached much nearer to
its real nature, to its absolute perfection. The means then called
forth had no visible limit, the limit losing itself in the energy and
enthusiasm of the Government and its subjects. By the extent of the
means, and the wide field of possible results, as well as by the
powerful excitement of feeling which prevailed, energy in the conduct
of war was immensely increased; the object of its action was the
downfall of the foe; and not until the enemy lay powerless on the
ground was it supposed to be possible to stop or to come to any
understanding with respect to the mutual objects of the contest.
Thus, therefore, the element of war, freed from all conventional
restrictions, broke loose, with all its natural force. The cause was
the participation of the people in this great _affair of State_, and
this participation arose partly from the effects of the French
Revolution on the internal affairs of countries, partly from the
threatening attitude of the French towards all nations.
Now, whether this will be the case always in future, whether all wars
hereafter in Europe will be carried on with the whole power of the
States, and, consequently, will only take place on account of great
interests closely affecting the people, or whether a separation of the
interests of the Government from those of the people will gradually
again arise, would be a difficult point to settle; and, least of all,
shall we take upon us to settle it. But every one will agree with us,
that bounds, which to a certain extent existed only in an
unconsciousness of what is possible, when once thrown down, are not
easily built up again; and that, at least, whenever great interests are
in dispute, mutual hostility will discharge itself in the same manner
as it has done in our times.
We here bring our historical survey to a close, for it was not our
design to give at a gallop some of the principles on which war has been
carried on in each age, but only to show how each period has had its
own peculiar forms of war, its own restrictive conditions, and its own
prejudices. Each period would, therefore, also keep its own theory of
war, even if every where, in early times, as well as in later, the task
had been undertaken of working out a theory on philosophical
principles. The events in each age must, therefore, be judged of in
connection with the peculiarities of the time, and only he who, less
through an anxious study of minute details than through an accurate
glance at the whole, can transfer himself into each particular age, is
fit to understand and appreciate its generals.
But this conduct of war, conditioned by the peculiar relations of
States, and of the military force employed, must still always contain
in itself something more general, or rather something quite general,
with which, above everything, theory is concerned.
The latest period of past time, in which war reached its absolute
strength, contains most of what is of general application and
necessary. But it is just as improbable that wars henceforth will all
have this grand character as that the wide barriers which have been
opened to them will ever be completely closed again. Therefore, by a
theory which only dwells upon this absolute war, all cases in which
external influences alter the nature of war would be excluded or
condemned as false. This cannot be the object of theory, which ought to
be the science of war, not under ideal but under real circumstances.
Theory, therefore, whilst casting a searching, discriminating and
classifying glance at objects, should always have in view the manifold
diversity of causes from which war may proceed, and should, therefore,
so trace out its great features as to leave room for what is required
by the exigencies of time and the moment.
Accordingly, we must add that the object which every one who undertakes
war proposes to himself, and the means which he calls forth, are
determined entirely according to the particular details of his
position; and on that very account they will also bear in themselves
the character of the time and of the general relations; lastly, _that
they are always subject to the general conclusions to be deduced from
the nature of war_.
CHAPTER IV. Ends in War More Precisely Defined
Overthrow of the Enemy
The aim of war in conception must always be the overthrow of the enemy;
this is the fundamental idea from which we set out.
Now, what is this overthrow? It does not always imply as necessary the
complete conquest of the enemy’s country. If the Germans had reached
Paris, in 1792, there—in all human probability—the war with the
Revolutionary party would have been brought to an end at once for a
season; it was not at all necessary at that time to beat their armies
beforehand, for those armies were not yet to be looked upon as potent
powers in themselves singly. On the other hand, in 1814, the allies
would not have gained everything by taking Paris if Buonaparte had
still remained at the head of a considerable army; but as his army had
nearly melted away, therefore, also in the year 1814 and 1815 the
taking of Paris decided all. If Buonaparte in the year 1812, either
before or after taking Moscow, had been able to give the Russian army
of 120,000 on the Kaluga road, a complete defeat, such as he gave the
Austrians in 1805, and the Prussian army, 1806, then the possession of
that capital would most probably have brought about a peace, although
an enormous tract of country still remained to be conquered. In the
year 1805 it was the battle of Austerlitz that was decisive; and,
therefore, the previous possession of Vienna and two-thirds of the
Austrian States, was not of sufficient weight to gain for Buonaparte a
peace; but, on the other hand also, after that battle of Austerlitz,
the integrity of Hungary, still intact, was not of sufficient weight to
prevent the conclusion of peace. In the Russian campaign, the complete
defeat of the Russian army was the last blow required: the Emperor
Alexander had no other army at hand, and, therefore, peace was the
certain consequence of victory. If the Russian army had been on the
Danube along with the Austrian, and had shared in its defeat, then
probably the conquest of Vienna would not have been necessary, and
peace would have been concluded in Linz.
In other cases, the complete conquest of a country has not been
sufficient, as in the year 1807, in Prussia, when the blow levelled
against the Russian auxiliary army, in the doubtful battle of Eylau,
was not decisive enough, and the undoubted victory of Friedland was
required as a finishing blow, like the victory of Austerlitz in the
preceding year.
We see that here, also, the result cannot be determined from general
grounds; the individual causes, which no one knows who is not on the
spot, and many of a moral nature which are never heard of, even the
smallest traits and accidents, which only appear in history as
anecdotes, are often decisive. All that theory can here say is as
follows:—That the great point is to keep the overruling relations of
both parties in view. Out of them a certain centre of gravity, a centre
of power and movement, will form itself, on which everything depends;
and against this centre of gravity of the enemy, the concentrated blow
of all the forces must be directed.
The little always depends on the great, the unimportant on the
important, and the accidental on the essential. This must guide our
view.
Alexander had his centre of gravity in his army, so had Gustavus
Adolphus, Charles XII., and Frederick the Great, and the career of any
one of them would soon have been brought to a close by the destruction
of his army: in States torn by internal dissensions, this centre
generally lies in the capital; in small states dependent on greater
ones, it lies generally in the army of these allies; in a confederacy,
it lies in the unity of interests; in a national insurrection, in the
person of the chief leader, and in public opinion; against these points
the blow must be directed. If the enemy by this loses his balance, no
time must be allowed for him to recover it; the blow must be
persistently repeated in the same direction, or, in other words, the
conqueror must always direct his blows upon the mass, but not against a
fraction of the enemy. It is not by conquering one of the enemy’s
provinces, with little trouble and superior numbers, and preferring the
more secure possession of this unimportant conquest to great results,
but by seeking out constantly the heart of the hostile power, and
staking everything in order to gain all, that we can effectually strike
the enemy to the ground.
But whatever may be the central point of the enemy’s power against
which we are to direct our operations, still the conquest and
destruction of his army is the surest commencement, and in all cases,
the most essential.
Hence we think that, according to the majority of ascertained facts,
the following circumstances chiefly bring about the overthrow of the
enemy.
1. Dispersion of his army if it forms, in some degree, a potential
force.
2. Capture of the enemy’s capital city, if it is both the centre of the
power of the State and the seat of political assemblies and actions.
3. An effectual blow against the principal ally, if he is more powerful
than the enemy himself.
We have always hitherto supposed the enemy in war as a unity, which is
allowable for considerations of a very general nature. But having said
that the subjugation of the enemy lies in the overcoming his
resistance, concentrated in the centre of gravity, we must lay aside
this supposition and introduce the case, in which we have to deal with
more than one opponent.
If two or more States combine against a third, that combination
constitutes, in a political aspect, only _one_ war, at the same time
this political union has also its degrees.
The question is whether each State in the coalition possesses an
independent interest in, and an independent force with which to
prosecute, the war; or whether there is one amongst them on whose
interests and forces those of the others lean for support. The more
that the last is the case, the easier it is to look upon the different
enemies as one alone, and the more readily we can simplify our
principal enterprise to one great blow; and as long as this is in any
way possible, it is the most thorough and complete means of success.
We may, therefore, establish it as a principle, that if we can conquer
all our enemies by conquering one of them, the defeat of that one must
be the aim of the war, because in that one we hit the common centre of
gravity of the whole war.
There are very few cases in which this kind of conception is not
admissible, and where this reduction of several centres of gravity to
one cannot be made. But if this cannot be done, then indeed there is no
alternative but to look upon the war as two or more separate wars, each
of which has its own aim. As this case supposes the substantive
independence of several enemies, consequently a great superiority of
the whole, therefore in this case the overthrow of the enemy cannot, in
general, come into question.
We now turn more particularly to the question, When is such an object
possible and advisable?
In the first place, our forces must be sufficient,—
1. To gain a decisive victory over those of the enemy.
2. To make the expenditure of force which may be necessary to follow up
the victory to a point at which it will no longer be possible for the
enemy to regain his balance.
Next, we must feel sure that in our political situation, such a result
will not excite against us new enemies, who may compel us on the spot
to set free our first enemy.
France, in the year 1806, was able completely to conquer Prussia,
although in doing so it brought down upon itself the whole military
power of Russia, because it was in a condition to cope with the
Russians in Prussia.
France might have done the same in Spain in 1808 as far as regards
England, but not as regards Austria. It was compelled to weaken itself
materially in Spain in 1809, and must have quite given up the contest
in that country if it had not had otherwise great superiority both
physically and morally, over Austria.
These three cases should therefore be carefully studied, that we may
not lose in the last the cause which we have gained in the former ones,
and be condemned in costs.
In estimating the strength of forces, and that which may be effected by
them, the idea very often suggests itself to look upon time by a
dynamic analogy as a factor of forces, and to assume accordingly that
half efforts, or half the number of forces would accomplish in two
years what could only be effected in one year by the whole force
united. This view which lies at the bottom of military schemes,
sometimes clearly, sometimes less plainly, is completely wrong.
An operation in war, like everything else upon earth, requires its
time; as a matter of course we cannot walk from Wilna to Moscow in
eight days; but there is no trace to be found in war of any reciprocal
action between time and force, such as takes place in dynamics.
Time is necessary to both belligerents, and the only question is: which
of the two, judging by his position, has most reason to expect _special
advantages_ from time? Now (exclusive of peculiarities in the situation
on one side or the other) the _vanquished_ has plainly the most reason,
at the same time certainly not by dynamic, but by psychological laws.
Envy, jealousy, anxiety for self, as well as now and again magnanimity,
are the natural intercessors for the unfortunate; they raise up for him
on the one hand friends, and on the other hand weaken and dissolve the
coalition amongst his enemies. Therefore, by delay something
advantageous is more likely to happen for the conquered than for the
conqueror. Further, we must recollect that to make right use of a first
victory, as we have already shown, a great expenditure of force is
necessary; this is not a mere outlay once for all, but has to be kept
up like housekeeping, on a great scale; the forces which have been
sufficient to give us possession of a province, are not always
sufficient to meet this additional outlay; by degrees the strain upon
our resources becomes greater, until at last it becomes insupportable;
time, therefore, of itself may bring about a change.
Could the contributions which Buonaparte levied from the Russians and
Poles, in money and in other ways, in 1812, have procured the hundreds
of thousands of men that he must have sent to Moscow in order to retain
his position there?
But if the conquered provinces are sufficiently important, if there are
in them points which are essential to the well-being of those parts
which are not conquered, so that the evil, like a cancer, is
perpetually of itself gnawing further into the system, then it is
possible that the conqueror, although nothing further is done, may gain
more than he loses. Now in this state of circumstances, if no help
comes from without, then time may complete the work thus commenced;
what still remains unconquered will, perhaps, fall of itself.
Therefore, thus time may also become a factor of his forces, but this
can only take place if a return blow from the conquered is no longer
possible, a change of fortune in his favour no longer conceivable, when
therefore this factor of his forces is no longer of any value to the
conqueror; for he has accomplished the chief object, the danger of the
culminating point is past, in short, the enemy is already subdued.
Our object in the above reasoning has been to show clearly that no
conquest can be finished too soon, that spreading it over a _greater
space of time_ than is absolutely necessary for its completion, instead
of _facilitating_ it, makes it more _difficult_. If this assertion is
true, it is further true also that if we are strong enough to effect a
certain conquest, we must also be strong enough to do it in one march
without intermediate stations. Of course we do not mean by this without
short halts, in order to concentrate the forces, and make other
indispensable arrangements.
By this view, which makes the character of a speedy and persistent
effort towards a decision essential to offensive war, we think we have
completely set aside all grounds for _that_ theory which in place of
the irresistible continued following up of victory, would substitute a
slow methodical system as being more sure and prudent. But even for
those who have readily followed us so far, our assertion has, perhaps
after all, so much the appearance of a paradox, is at first sight so
much opposed and offensive to an opinion which, like an old prejudice,
has taken deep root, and has been repeated a thousand times in books,
that we considered it advisable to examine more closely the foundation
of those plausible arguments which may be advanced.
It is certainly easier to reach an object near us than one at a
distance, but when the nearest one does not suit our purpose it does
not follow that dividing the work, that a resting point, will enable us
to get over the second half of the road easier. A small jump is easier
than a large one, but no one on that account, wishing to cross a wide
ditch, would jump half of it first.
If we look closely into the foundation of the conception of the
so-called methodical offensive war, we shall find it generally consists
of the following things:—
1. Conquest of those fortresses belonging to the enemy which we meet
with.
2. Laying in the necessary supplies.
3. Fortifying important points, as, _magazines, bridges, positions_,
etc.
4. Resting the troops in quarters during winter, or when they require
to be recruited in health and refreshed.
5. Waiting for the reinforcements of the ensuing year.
If for the attainment of all these objects we make a formal division in
the course of the offensive action, a resting point in the movement, it
is supposed that we gain a new base and renewed force, as if our own
State was following up in the rear of the army, and that the latter
laid in renewed vigour for every fresh campaign.
All these praiseworthy motives may make the offensive war more
convenient, but they do not make its results surer, and are generally
only make-believes to cover certain counteracting forces, such as the
feelings of the commander or irresolution in the cabinet. We shall try
to roll them up from the left flank.
1. The waiting for reinforcements suits the enemy just as well, and is,
we may say, more to his advantage. Besides, it lies in the nature of
the thing that a State can place in line nearly as many combatant
forces in one year as in two; for all the actual increase of combatant
force in the second year is but trifling in relation to the whole.
2. The enemy rests himself at the same time that we do.
3. The fortification of towns and positions is not the work of the
army, and therefore no ground for any delay.
4. According to the present system of subsisting armies, magazines are
more necessary when the army is in cantonments, than when it is
advancing. As long as we advance with success, we continually fall into
possession of some of the enemy’s provision depots, which assist us
when the country itself is poor.
5. The taking of the enemy’s fortresses cannot be regarded as a
suspension of the attack: it is an intensified progress, and therefore
the seeming suspension which is caused thereby is not properly a case
such as we allude to, it is neither a suspension nor a modifying of the
use of force. But whether a regular siege, a blockade, or a mere
observation of one or other is most to the purpose, is a question which
can only be decided according to particular circumstances. We can only
say this in general, that in answering this question another must be
clearly decided, which is, whether the risk will not be too great if,
while only blockading, we at the same time make a further advance.
Where this is not the case, and when there is ample room to extend our
forces, it is better to postpone the formal siege till the termination
of the whole offensive movement. We must therefore take care not to be
led into the error of neglecting the essential, through the idea of
immediately making secure that which is conquered.
No doubt it seems as if, by thus advancing, we at once hazard the loss
of what has been already gained. Our opinion, however, is that no
division of action, no resting point, no intermediate stations are in
accordance with the nature of offensive war, and that when the same are
unavoidable, they are to be regarded as an evil which makes the result
not more certain, but, on the contrary, more uncertain; and further,
that, strictly speaking, if from weakness or any cause we have been
obliged to stop, a second spring at the object we have in view is, as a
rule, impossible; but if such a second spring is possible, then the
stoppage at the intermediate station was unnecessary, and that when an
object at the very commencement is beyond our strength, it will always
remain so.
We say, this appears to be the general truth, by which we only wish to
set aside the idea that time of itself can do something for the
advantage of the assailant. But as the political relations may change
from year to year, therefore, on that account alone, many cases may
happen which are exceptions to this general truth.
It may appear perhaps as if we had left our general point of view, and
had nothing in our eye except offensive war; but it is not so by any
means. Certainly, he who can set before himself the complete overthrow
of the enemy as his object, will not easily be reduced to take refuge
in the defensive, the immediate object of which is only to keep
possession; but as we stand by the declaration throughout, that a
defensive without any positive principle is a contradiction in strategy
as well as in tactics, and therefore always come back to the fact that
every defensive, according to its strength, will seek to change to the
attack as soon as it has exhausted the advantages of the defensive, so
therefore, however great or small the defence may be, we still also
include in it contingently the overthrow of the enemy as an object
which this attack may have, and which is to be considered as the proper
object of the defensive, and we say that there may be cases in which
the assailant, notwithstanding he has in view such a great object, may
still prefer at first to make use of the defensive form. That this idea
is founded in reality is easily shown by the campaign of 1812. The
Emperor Alexander in engaging in the war did not perhaps think of
ruining his enemy completely, as was done in the sequel; but is there
anything which makes such an idea impossible? And yet, if so, would it
not still remain very natural that the Russians began the war on the
defensive?
CHAPTER V. Ends in War More Precisely Defined (_continued_) Limited
Object
In the preceding chapter we have said that, under the expression
“overthrow of the enemy,” we understand the real absolute aim of the
“act of war;” now we shall see what remains to be done when the
conditions under which this object might be attained do not exist.
These conditions presuppose a great physical or moral superiority, or a
great spirit of enterprise, an innate propensity to extreme hazards.
Now where all this is not forthcoming, the aim in the act of war can
only be of two kinds; either the conquest of some small or moderate
portion of the enemy’s country, or the defence of our own until better
times; this last is the usual case in defensive war.
Whether the one or the other of these aims is of the right kind, can
always be settled by calling to mind the expression used in reference
to the last. _The waiting till more favourable times_ implies that we
have reason to expect such times hereafter, and this waiting for, that
is, defensive war, is always based on this prospect; on the other hand,
offensive war, that is, the taking advantage of the present moment, is
always commanded when the future holds out a better prospect, not to
ourselves, but to our adversary.
The third case, which is probably the most common, is when neither
party has anything definite to look for from the future, when therefore
it furnishes no motive for decision. In this case, the offensive war is
plainly imperative upon him who is politically the aggressor, that is,
who has the positive motive; for he has taken up arms with that object,
and every moment of time which is lost without any good reason, is so
much lost time _for him_.
We have here decided for offensive or defensive war on grounds which
have nothing to do with the relative forces of the combatants
respectively, and yet it may appear that it would be nearer right to
make the choice of the offensive or defensive chiefly dependent on the
mutual relations of combatants in point of military strength; our
opinion is, that in doing so we should just leave the right road. The
logical correctness of our simple argument no one will dispute; we
shall now see whether in the concrete case it leads to the contrary.
Let us suppose a small State which is involved in a contest with a very
superior power, and foresees that with each year its position will
become worse: should it not, if war is inevitable, make use of the time
when its situation is furthest from the worst? Then it must attack, not
because the attack in _itself_ ensures any advantages—it will rather
increase the disparity of forces—but because this State is under the
necessity of either bringing the matter completely to an issue before
the worst time arrives, or of gaining, at least, in the mean time, some
advantages which it may hereafter turn to account. This theory cannot
appear absurd. But if this small State is quite certain that the enemy
will advance against it, then, certainly, it can and may make use of
the defensive against its enemy to procure a first advantage; there is
then at any rate no danger of losing time.
If, again, we suppose a small State engaged in war with a greater, and
that the future has no influence on their decisions, still, if the
small State is politically the assailant, we demand of it also that it
should go forward to its object.
If it has had the audacity to propose to itself a positive end in the
face of superior numbers, then it must also act, that is, attack the
foe, if the latter does not save it the trouble. Waiting would be an
absurdity; unless at the moment of execution it has altered its
political resolution, a case which very frequently occurs, and
contributes in no small degree to give wars an indefinite character.
These considerations on the limited object apply to its connection both
with offensive war and defensive war; we shall consider both in
separate chapters. But we shall first turn our attention to another
phase.
Hitherto we have deduced the modifications in the object of war solely
from intrinsic reasons. The nature of the political view (or design) we
have only taken into consideration in so far as it is or is not
directed at something positive. Everything else in the political design
is in reality something extraneous to war; but in the second chapter of
the first book (End and Means in War) we have already admitted that the
nature of the political object, the extent of our own or the enemy’s
demand, and our whole political relation practically have a most
decisive influence on the conduct of the war, and we shall therefore
devote the following chapter to that subject specially.
CHAPTER VI. A. Influence of the Political Object on the Military Object
We never find that a State joining in the cause of another State, takes
it up with the same earnestness as its own. An auxiliary army of
moderate strength is sent; if it is not successful, then the ally looks
upon the affair as in a manner ended, and tries to get out of it on the
cheapest terms possible.
In European politics it has been usual for States to pledge themselves
to mutual assistance by an alliance offensive and defensive, not so far
that the one takes part in the interests and quarrels of the other, but
only so far as to promise one another beforehand the assistance of a
fixed, generally very moderate, contingent of troops, without regard to
the object of the war, or the scale on which it is about to be carried
on by the principals. In a treaty of alliance of this kind, the ally
does not look upon himself as engaged with the enemy in a war properly
speaking, which should necessarily begin with a declaration of war, and
end with a treaty of peace. Still, this idea also is nowhere fixed with
any distinctness, and usage varies one way and another.
The thing would have a kind of consistency, and it would be less
embarrassing to the theory of war if this promised contingent of ten,
twenty, or thirty thousand men was handed over entirely to the state
engaged in war, so that it could be used as required; it might then be
regarded as a subsidised force. But the usual practice is widely
different. Generally the auxiliary force has its own commander, who
depends only on his own government, and to whom they prescribe an
object such as best suits the shilly-shally measures they have in view.
But even if two States go to war with a third, they do not always both
look in like measure upon this common enemy as one that they must
destroy or be destroyed by themselves, the business is often settled
like a commercial transaction; each, according to the amount of the
risk he incurs or the advantage to be expected, takes shares in the
concern to the extent of 30,000 or 40,000 men, and acts as if he could
not lose more than the amount of his investment.
Not only is this the point of view taken when a State comes to the
assistance of another in a cause in which it has in a manner, little
concern, but even when both allies have a common and very considerable
interest at stake, nothing can be done except under diplomatic
reservation, and the contracting parties usually only agree to furnish
a small stipulated contingent, in order to employ the rest of the
forces according to the special ends to which policy may happen to lead
them.
This way of regarding wars entered into by reason of alliances was
quite general, and was only obliged to give place to the natural way in
quite modern times, when the extremity of danger drove men’s minds into
the natural direction (as in the wars _against_ Buonaparte), and when
the most boundless power compelled them to it (as _under_ Buonaparte).
It was an abnormal thing, an anomaly, for war and peace are ideas which
in their foundation can have no gradations; nevertheless it was no mere
diplomatic offspring which the reason could look down upon, but deeply
rooted in the natural limitedness and weakness of human nature.
Lastly, even in wars carried on without allies, the political cause of
a war has a great influence on the method in which it is conducted.
If we only require from the enemy a small sacrifice, then we content
ourselves with aiming at a small equivalent by the war, and we expect
to attain that by moderate efforts. The enemy reasons in very much the
same way. Now, if one or the other finds that he has erred in his
reckoning that in place of being slightly superior to the enemy, as he
supposed, he is, if anything, rather weaker, still, at that moment,
money and all other means, as well as sufficient moral impulse for
greater exertions are very often deficient: in such a case he just does
what is called “the best he can;” hopes better things in the future,
although he has not the slightest foundation for such hope, and the
war, in the mean time drags itself feebly along, like a body worn out
with sickness.
Thus it comes to pass that the reciprocal action, the rivalry, the
violence and impetuosity of war lose themselves in the stagnation of
weak motives, and that both parties move with a certain kind of
security in very circumscribed spheres.
If this influence of the political object is once permitted, as it then
must be, there is no longer any limit, and we must be pleased to come
down to such warfare as consists in a _mere threatening of the enemy_
and in _negotiating_.