That the theory of war, if it is to be and to continue a philosophical

study, finds itself here in a difficulty is clear. All that is

essentially inherent in the conception of war seems to fly from it, and

it is in danger of being left without any point of support. But the

natural outlet soon shows itself. According as a modifying principle

gains influence over the act of war, or rather, the weaker the motives

to action become, the more the action will glide into a passive

resistance, the less eventful it will become, and the less it will

require guiding principles. All military art then changes itself into

mere prudence, the principal object of which will be to prevent the

trembling balance from suddenly turning to our disadvantage, and the

half war from changing into a complete one.

B. War as an Instrument of Policy

Having made the requisite examination on both sides of that state of

antagonism in which the nature of war stands with relation to other

interests of men individually and of the bond of society, in order not

to neglect any of the opposing elements, an antagonism which is founded

in our own nature, and which, therefore, no philosophy can unravel, we

shall now look for that unity into which, in practical life, these

antagonistic elements combine themselves by partly neutralising each

other. We should have brought forward this unity at the very

commencement, if it had not been necessary to bring out this

contradiction very plainly, and also to look at the different elements

separately. Now, this unity is _the conception that war is only a part

of political intercourse, therefore by no means an independent thing in

itself_.

We know, certainly, that war is only called forth through the political

intercourse of Governments and nations; but in general it is supposed

that such intercourse is broken off by war, and that a totally

different state of things ensues, subject to no laws but its own.

We maintain, on the contrary: that war is nothing but a continuation of

political intercourse, with a mixture of other means. We say, mixed

with other means, in order thereby to maintain at the same time that

this political intercourse does not cease by the war itself, is not

changed into something quite different, but that, in its essence, it

continues to exist, whatever may be the form of the means which it

uses, and that the chief lines on which the events of the war progress,

and to which they are attached, are only the general features of policy

which run all through the war until peace takes place. And how can we

conceive it to be otherwise? Does the cessation of diplomatic notes

stop the political relations between different nations and Governments?

Is not war merely another kind of writing and language for political

thoughts? It has certainly a grammar of its own, but its logic is not

peculiar to itself.

Accordingly, war can never be separated from political intercourse, and

if, in the consideration of the matter, this is done in any way, all

the threads of the different relations are, to a certain extent,

broken, and we have before us a senseless thing without an object.

This kind of idea would be indispensable even if war was perfect war,

the perfectly unbridled element of hostility, for all the circumstances

on which it rests, and which determine its leading features, viz., our

own power, the enemy’s power, allies on both sides, the characteristics

of the people and their Governments respectively, etc., as enumerated

in the first chapter of the first book, are they not of a political

nature, and are they not so intimately connected with the whole

political intercourse that it is impossible to separate them? But this

view is doubly indispensable if we reflect that real war is no such

consistent effort tending to an extreme, as it should be according to

the abstract idea, but a half and half thing, a contradiction in

itself; that, as such, it cannot follow its own laws, but must be

looked upon as a part of another whole, and this whole is policy.

Policy in making use of war avoids all those rigorous conclusions which

proceed from its nature; it troubles itself little about final

possibilities, confining its attention to immediate probabilities. If

much uncertainty in the whole action ensues therefrom, if it thereby

becomes a sort of game, the policy of each cabinet places its

confidence in the belief that in this game it will surpass its

neighbour in skill and sharpsightedness.

Thus policy makes out of the all-overpowering element of war a mere

instrument, changes the tremendous battle-sword, which should be lifted

with both hands and the whole power of the body to strike once for all,

into a light handy weapon, which is even sometimes nothing more than a

rapier to exchange thrusts and feints and parries.

Thus the contradictions in which man, naturally timid, becomes involved

by war, may be solved, if we choose to accept this as a solution.

If war belongs to policy, it will naturally take its character from

thence. If policy is grand and powerful, so will also be the war, and

this may be carried to the point at which war attains to _its absolute

form_.

In this way of viewing the subject, therefore, we need not shut out of

sight the absolute form of war, we rather keep it continually in view

in the back ground.

Only through this kind of view, war recovers unity; only by it can we

see all wars as things of one kind; and it is only through it that the

judgment can obtain the true and perfect basis and point of view from

which great plans may be traced out and determined upon.

It is true the political element does not sink deep into the details of

war, Vedettes are not planted, patrols do not make their rounds from

political considerations, but small as is its influence in this

respect, it is great in the formation of a plan for a whole war, or a

campaign, and often even for a battle.

For this reason we were in no hurry to establish this view at the

commencement. While engaged with particulars, it would have given us

little help; and, on the other hand, would have distracted our

attention to a certain extent; in the plan of a war or campaign it is

indispensable.

There is, upon the whole, nothing more important in life than to find

out the right point of view from which things should be looked at and

judged of, and then to keep to that point; for we can only apprehend

the mass of events in their unity from one standpoint; and it is only

the keeping to one point of view that guards us from inconsistency.

If, therefore, in drawing up a plan of a war it is not allowable to

have a two-fold or three-fold point of view, from which things may be

looked at, now with the eye of a soldier, then with that of an

administrator, and then again with that of a politician, etc., then the

next question is, whether _policy_ is necessarily paramount, and

everything else subordinate to it.

That policy unites in itself, and reconciles all the interests of

internal administrations, even those of humanity, and whatever else are

rational subjects of consideration, is presupposed, for it is nothing

in itself, except a mere representative and exponent of all these

interests towards other States. That policy may take a false direction,

and may promote unfairly the ambitious ends, the private interests, the

vanity of rulers, does not concern us here; for, under no circumstances

can the art of war be regarded as its preceptor, and we can only look

at policy here as the representative of the interests generally of the

whole community.

The only question, therefore, is, whether in framing plans for a war

the political point of view should give way to the purely military (if

such a point is conceivable), that is to say, should disappear

altogether, or subordinate itself to it, or whether the political is to

remain the ruling point of view, and the military to be considered

subordinate to it.

That the political point of view should end completely when war begins,

is only conceivable in contests which are wars of life and death, from

pure hatred: as wars are in reality, they are as we before said, only

the expressions or manifestations of policy itself. The subordination

of the political point of view to the military would be contrary to

common sense, for policy has declared the war; it is the intelligent

faculty, war only the instrument, and not the reverse. The

subordination of the military point of view to the political is,

therefore, the only thing which is possible.

If we reflect on the nature of real war, and call to mind what has been

said in the third chapter of this book, _that every war should be

viewed above all things according to the probability of its character,

and its leading features as they are to be deduced from the political

forces and proportions_, and that often—indeed we may safely affirm, in

our days, _almost_ always—war is to be regarded as an organic whole,

from which the single branches are not to be separated, in which

therefore every individual activity flows into the whole, and also has

its origin in the idea of this whole, then it becomes certain and

palpable to us that the superior stand-point for the conduct of the

war, from which its leading lines must proceed, can be no other than

that of policy.

From this point of view the plans come, as it were, out of a cast; the

apprehension of them and the judgment upon them become easier and more

natural, our convictions respecting them gain in force, motives are

more satisfying, and history more intelligible.

At all events, from this point of view, there is no longer in the

nature of things a necessary conflict between the political and

military interests, and where it appears it is therefore to be regarded

as imperfect knowledge only. That policy makes demands on the war which

it cannot respond to, would be contrary to the supposition that it

knows the instrument which it is going to use, therefore, contrary to a

natural and indispensable supposition. But if it judges correctly of

the march of military events, it is entirely its affair, and can be its

only to determine what are the events and what the direction of events

most favourable to the ultimate and great end of the war.

In one word, the art of war in its highest point of view is policy,

but, no doubt, a policy which fights battles, instead of writing notes.

According to this view, to leave a great military enterprise, or the

plan for one, to a _purely military judgment and decision_, is a

distinction which cannot be allowed, and is even prejudicial; indeed,

it is an irrational proceeding to consult professional soldiers on the

plan of a war, that they may give a _purely military opinion_ upon what

the cabinet should do; but still more absurd is the demand of Theorists

that a statement of the available means of war should be laid before

the general, that he may draw out a purely military plan for the war or

for a campaign, in accordance with those means. Experience in general

also teaches us that notwithstanding the multifarious branches and

scientific character of military art in the present day, still the

leading outlines of a war are always determined by the cabinet, that

is, if we would use technical language, by a political not a military

functionary.

This is perfectly natural. None of the principal plans which are

required for a war can be made without an insight into the political

relations; and, in reality, when people speak, as they often do, of the

prejudicial influence of policy on the conduct of a war, they say in

reality something very different to what they intend. It is not this

influence but the policy itself which should be found fault with. If

policy is right, that is, if it succeeds in hitting the object, then it

can only act on the war in its sense, with advantage also; and if this

influence of policy causes a divergence from the object, the cause is

only to be looked for in a mistaken policy.

It is only when policy promises itself a wrong effect from certain

military means and measures, an effect opposed to their nature, that it

can exercise a prejudicial effect on war by the course it prescribes.

Just as a person in a language with which he is not conversant

sometimes says what he does not intend, so policy, when intending

right, may often order things which do not tally with its own views.

This has happened times without end, and it shows that a certain

knowledge of the nature of war is essential to the management of

political commerce.

But before going further, we must guard ourselves against a false

interpretation of which this is very susceptible. We are far from

holding the opinion that a war minister, smothered in official papers,

a scientific engineer, or even a soldier who has been well tried in the

field, would, any of them, necessarily make the best minister of State

where the sovereign does not act for himself; or in other words, we do

not mean to say that this acquaintance with the nature of war is the

principal qualification for a war minister; elevation, superiority of

mind, strength of character, these are the principal qualifications

which he must possess; a knowledge of war may be supplied in one way or

the other. France was never worse advised in its military and political

affairs than by the two Brothers Belleisle and the Duke of Choiseul,

although all three were good soldiers.

If war is to harmonise entirely with the political views and policy, to

accommodate itself to the means available for war, there is only one

alternative to be recommended when the statesman and soldier are not

combined in one person, which is, to make the chief commander a member

of the cabinet, that he may take part in its councils and decisions on

important occasions. But then again, this is only possible when the

cabinet, that is the government itself, is near the theatre of war, so

that things can be settled without a serious waste of time.

This is what the Emperor of Austria did in 1809, and the allied

sovereigns in 1813, 1814, 1815, and the arrangement proved completely

satisfactory.

The influence of any military man except the General-in Chief in the

cabinet, is extremely dangerous; it very seldom leads to able vigorous

action. The example of France in 1793, 1794, 1795, when Carnot, while

residing in Paris, managed the conduct of the war, is to be avoided, as

a system of terror is not at the command of any but a revolutionary

government.

We shall now conclude with some reflections derived from history.

In the last decennary of the past century, when that remarkable change

in the art of war in Europe took place by which the best armies found

that a part of their method of war had become utterly unserviceable,

and events were brought about of a magnitude far beyond what any one

had any previous conception of, it certainly appeared that a false

calculation of everything was to be laid to the charge of the art of

war. It was plain that while confined by habit within a narrow circle

of conceptions, she had been surprised by the force of a new state of

relations, lying, no doubt, outside that circle, but still not outside

the nature of things.

Those observers who took the most comprehensive view, ascribed the

circumstance to the general influence which policy had exercised for

centuries on the art of war, and undoubtedly to its very great

disadvantage, and by which it had sunk into a half-measure, often into

mere sham fighting. They were right as to fact, but they were wrong in

attributing it to something accidental, or which might have been

avoided.

Others thought that everything was to be explained by the momentary

influence of the particular policy of Austria, Prussia, England, etc.,

with regard to their own interests respectively.

But is it true that the real surprise by which men’s minds were seized,

was confined to the conduct of war, and did not rather relate to policy

itself? That is, as we should say: did the ill success proceed from the

influence of policy on the war, or from a wrong policy itself?

The prodigious effects of the French revolution abroad were evidently

brought about much less through new methods and views introduced by the

French in the conduct of war than through the changes which it wrought

in state-craft and civil administration, in the character of

governments, in the condition of the people, etc. That other

governments took a mistaken view of all these things; that they

endeavoured, with their ordinary means, to hold their own against

forces of a novel kind, and overwhelming in strength; all that was a

blunder in policy.

Would it have been possible to perceive and mend this error by a scheme

for the war from a purely military point of view? Impossible. For if

there had been, even in reality, a philosophical strategist, who merely

from the nature of the hostile elements, had foreseen all the

consequences, and prophesied remote possibilities, still it would have

been purely impossible to have turned such wisdom to account.

If policy had risen to a just appreciation of the forces which had

sprung up in France, and of the new relations in the political state of

Europe, it might have foreseen the consequences, which must follow in

respect to the great features of war, and it was only in this way that

it could arrive at a correct view of the extent of the means required

as well as of the best use to make of those means.

We may therefore say, that the twenty years’ victories of the

revolution are chiefly to be ascribed to the erroneous policy of the

governments by which it was opposed.

It is true these errors first displayed themselves in the war, and the

events of the war completely disappointed the expectations which policy

entertained. But this did not take place because policy neglected to

consult its military advisers. That art of war in which the politician

of the day could believe, namely, that derived from the reality of war

at that time, that which belonged to the policy of the day, that

familiar instrument which policy had hitherto used—_that_ art of war, I

say, was naturally involved in the error of policy, and therefore could

not teach it anything better. It is true that war itself underwent

important alterations both in its nature and forms, which brought it

nearer to its absolute form; but these changes were not brought about

because the French Government had, to a certain extent, delivered

itself from the leading-strings of policy; they arose from an altered

policy, produced by the French Revolution, not only in France, but over

the rest of Europe as well. This policy had called forth other means

and other powers, by which it became possible to conduct war with a

degree of energy which could not have been thought of otherwise.

Therefore, the actual changes in the art of war are a consequence of

alterations in policy; and, so far from being an argument for the

possible separation of the two, they are, on the contrary, very strong

evidence of the intimacy of their connexion.

Therefore, once more: war is an instrument of policy; it must

necessarily bear its character, it must measure with its scale: the

conduct of war, in its great features, is therefore policy itself,

which takes up the sword in place of the pen, but does not on that

account cease to think according to its own laws.

CHAPTER VII. Limited Object—Offensive War

Even if the complete overthrow of the enemy cannot be the object, there

may still be one which is directly positive, and this positive object

can be nothing else than the conquest of a part of the enemy’s country.

The use of such a conquest is this, that we weaken the enemy’s

resources generally, therefore, of course, his military power, while we

increase our own; that we therefore carry on the war, to a certain

extent, at his expense; further in this way, that in negotiations for

peace, the possession of the enemy’s provinces may be regarded as net

gain, because we can either keep them or exchange them for other

advantages.

This view of a conquest of the enemy’s provinces is very natural, and

would be open to no objection if it were not that the defensive

attitude, which must succeed the offensive, may often cause uneasiness.

In the chapter on the culminating point of victory we have sufficiently

explained the manner in which such an offensive weakens the combatant

force, and that it may be succeeded by a situation causing anxiety as

to the future.

This weakening of our combatant force by the conquest of part of the

enemy’s territory has its degrees, and these depend chiefly on the

geographical position of this portion of territory. The more it is an

annex of our own country, being contiguous to or embraced by it, the

more it is in the direction of our principal force, by so much the less

will it weaken our combatant force. In the Seven Years’ War, Saxony was

a natural complement of the Prussian theatre of war, and Frederick the

Great’s army, instead of being weakened, was strengthened by the

possession of that province, because it lies nearer to Silesia than to

the Mark, and at the same time covers the latter.

Even in 1740 and 1741, after Frederick the Great had once conquered

Silesia, it did not weaken his army in the field, because, owing to its

form and situation as well as the contour of its frontier line, it only

presented a narrow point to the Austrians, as long as they were not

masters of Saxony, and besides that, this small point of contact also

lay in the direction of the chief operations of the contending forces.

If, on the other hand, the conquered territory is a strip running up

between hostile provinces, has an eccentric position and unfavourable

configuration of ground, then the weakening increases so visibly that a

victorious battle becomes not only much easier for the enemy, but it

may even become unnecessary as well.

The Austrians have always been obliged to evacuate Provence without a

battle when they have made attempts on it from Italy. In the year 1744

the French were very well pleased even to get out of Bohemia without

having lost a battle. In 1758 Frederick the Great could not hold his

position in Bohemia and Moravia with the same force with which he had

obtained such brilliant successes in Silesia and Saxony in 1757.

Examples of armies not being able to keep possession of conquered

territory solely because their combatant force was so much weakened

thereby, are so common that it does not appear necessary to quote any

more of them.

Therefore, the question whether we should aim at such an object depends

on whether we can expect to hold possession of the conquest or whether

a temporary occupation (invasion, diversion) would repay the

expenditure of force required: especially, whether we have not to

apprehend such a vigorous counterstroke as will completely destroy the

balance of forces. In the chapter on the culmination point we have

treated of the consideration due to this question in each particular

case.

There is just one point which we have still to add.

An offensive of this kind will not always compensate us for what we

lose upon other points. Whilst we are engaged in making a partial

conquest, the enemy may be doing the same at other points, and if our

enterprise does not greatly preponderate in importance then it will not

compel the enemy to give up his. It is, therefore, a question for

serious consideration whether we may not lose more than we gain in a

case of this description.

Even if we suppose two provinces (one on each side) to be of equal

value, we shall always lose more by the one which the enemy takes from

us than we can gain by the one we take, because a number of our forces

become to a certain extent like _faux frais_, non-effective. But as the

same takes place on the enemy’s side also, one would suppose that in

reality there is no ground to attach more importance to the maintenance

of what is our own than to the conquest. But yet there is. The

maintenance of our own territory is always a matter which more deeply

concerns us, and the suffering inflicted on our own state can not be

outweighed, nor, to a certain extent, neutralised by what we gain in

return, unless the latter promises a high percentage, that is, is much

greater.

The consequence of all this is that a strategic attack directed against

only a moderate object involves a greater necessity for steps to defend

other points which it does not directly cover than one which is

directed against the centre of the enemy’s force; consequently, in such

an attack the concentration of forces in time and space cannot be

carried out to the same extent. In order that it may take place, at

least as regards time, it becomes necessary for the advance to be made

offensively from every point possible, and at the same moment exactly:

and therefore this attack loses the other advantage of being able to

make shift with a much smaller force by acting on the defensive at

particular points. In this way the effect of aiming at a minor object

is to bring all things more to a level: the whole act of the war cannot

now be concentrated into one principal affair which can be governed

according to leading points of view; it is more dispersed; the friction

becomes greater everywhere, and there is everywhere more room for

chance.

This is the natural tendency of the thing. The commanders weighed down

by it, finds himself more and more neutralised. The more he is

conscious of his own powers, the greater his resources subjectively,

and his power objectively, so much the more he will seek to liberate

himself from this tendency in order to give to some one point a

preponderating importance, even if that should only be possible by

running greater risks.

CHAPTER VIII. Limited Object—Defence

The ultimate aim of defensive war can never be an absolute negation, as

we have before observed. Even for the weakest there must be some point

in which the enemy may be made to feel, and which may be threatened.

Certainly we may say that this object is the exhaustion of the

adversary, for as he has a positive object, every one of his blows

which fails, if it has no other result than the loss of the force

applied, still may be considered a retrograde step _in reality_, whilst

the loss which the defensive suffers is not in vain, because his object

was keeping possession, and that he has effected. This would be

tantamount to saying that the defensive has his positive object in

merely keeping possession. Such reasoning might be good if it was

certain that the assailant after a certain number of fruitless attempts

must be worn out, and desist from further efforts. But just this

necessary consequence is wanting. If we look at the exhaustion of

forces, the defender is under a disadvantage. The assailant becomes

weaker, but only in the sense that it may reach a turning point; if we

set aside that supposition, the weakening goes on certainly more

rapidly on the defensive side than on that of the assailant: for in the

first place, he is the weaker, and, therefore, if the losses on both

sides are equal, he loses more actually than the other; in the next

place, he is deprived generally of a portion of territory and of his

resources. We have, therefore, here no ground on which to build the

expectation that the offensive will cease, and nothing remains but the

idea that if the assailant repeats his blows, while the defensive does

nothing but wait to ward them off, then the defender has no

counterpoise as a set off to the risk he runs of one of these attacks

succeeding sooner or later.

Although in reality the exhaustion, or rather the weakening of the

stronger, has brought about a peace in many instances that is to be

attributed to the indecision which is so general in war, but cannot be

imagined philosophically as the general and ultimate object of any

defensive war whatever, there is, therefore, no alternative but that

the defence should find its object in the idea of the “_waiting for_,”

which is besides its real character. This idea in itself includes that

of an alteration of circumstances, of an improvement of the situation,

which, therefore, when it cannot be brought about by internal means,

that is, by defensive pure in itself, can only be expected through

assistance coming from without. Now, this improvement from without can

proceed from nothing else than a change in political relations; either

new alliances spring up in favour of the defender, or old ones directed

against him fall to pieces.

Here, then, is the object for the defender, in case his weakness does

not permit him to think of any important counterstroke. But this is not

the nature of every defensive war, according to the conception which we

have given of its form. According to that conception it is the stronger

form of war, and on account of that strength it can also be applied

when a counterstroke more or less important is designed.

These two cases must be kept distinct from the very first, as they have

an influence on the defence.

In the first case, the defender’s object is to keep possession of his

own country intact as long as possible, because in that way he gains

most time; and gaining time is the only way to attain his object. The

positive object which he can in most cases attain, and which will give

him an opportunity of carrying out his object in the negotiations for

peace, he cannot yet include in his plan for the war. In this state of

strategic passiveness, the advantages which the defender can gain at

certain points consist in merely repelling partial attacks; the

preponderance gained at those points he tries to make of service to him

at others, for he is generally hard pressed at all points. If he has

not the opportunity of doing this, then there often only accrues to him

the small advantage that the enemy will leave him at rest for a time.

If the defender is not altogether too weak, small offensive operations

directed less towards permanent possession than a temporary advantage

to cover losses, which may be sustained afterwards, invasions,

diversions, or enterprises against a single fortress, may have a place

in this defensive system without altering its object or essence.

But in the second case, in which a positive object is already grafted

upon the defensive, the greater the counterstroke that is warranted by

circumstances the more the defensive imports into itself of positive

character. In other words, the more the defence has been adopted

voluntarily, in order to make the first blow surer, the bolder may be

the snares which the defender lays for his opponent. The boldest, and

if it succeeds, the most effectual, is the retreat into the interior of

the country; and this means is then at the same time that which differs

most widely from the other system.

Let us only think of the difference between the position in which

Frederick the Great was placed in the Seven Years’ War, and that of

Russia in 1812.

When the war began, Frederick, through his advanced state of

preparation for war, had a kind of superiority, this gave him the

advantage of being able to make himself master of Saxony, which was

besides such a natural complement of his theatre of war, that the

possession of it did not diminish, but increased, his combatant force.

At the opening of the campaign of 1757, the King endeavoured to proceed

with his strategic attack, which seemed not impossible as long as the

Russians and French had not yet reached the theatre of war in Silesia,

the Mark and Saxony. But the attack miscarried, and Frederick was

thrown back on the defensive for the rest of the campaign, was obliged

to evacuate Bohemia and to rescue his own theatre from the enemy, in

which he only succeeded by turning himself with one and the same army,

first upon the French, and then upon the Austrians. This advantage he

owed entirely to the defensive.

In the year 1758 when his enemies had drawn round him in a closer

circle, and his forces were dwindling down to a very disproportionate

relation, he determined on an offensive on a small scale in Moravia:

his plan was to take Olmütz before his enemies were prepared; not in

the expectation of keeping possession of, or of making it a base for

further advance, but to use it as a sort of advanced work, a

_counter-approach_ against the Austrians, who would be obliged to

devote the rest of the present campaign, and perhaps even a second, to

recover possession of it. This attack also miscarried. Frederick then

gave up all idea of a real offensive, as he saw that it only increased

the disproportion of his army. A compact position in the heart of his

own country in Saxony and Silesia, the use of short lines, that he

might be able rapidly to increase his forces at any point which might

be menaced, a battle when unavoidable, small incursions when

opportunity offered, and along with this a patient state of waiting-for

(expectation), a saving of his means for better times became now his

general plan. By degrees the execution of it became more and more

passive. As he saw that even a victory cost him too much, therefore he

tried to manage at still less expense; everything depended on gaining

time, and on keeping what he had got; he therefore became more

tenacious of yielding any ground, and did not hesitate to adopt a

perfect cordon system. The positions of Prince Henry in Saxony, as well

as those of the King in the Silesian mountains, may be so termed. In

his letters to the Marquis d’Argens, he manifests the impatience with

which he looks forward to winter quarters, and the satisfaction he felt

at being able to take them up again without having suffered any serious

loss.

Whoever blames Frederick for this, and looks upon it as a sign that his

spirit had sunk, would, we think, pass judgment without much

reflection.

If the entrenched camp at Bunzelwitz, the positions taken up by Prince

Henry in Saxony, and by the King in the Silesian mountains, do not

appear to us now as measures on which a General should place his

dependence in a last extremity because a Buonaparte would soon have

thrust his sword through such tactical cobwebs, we must not forget that

times have changed, that war has become a totally different thing, is

quickened with new energies, and that therefore positions might have

been excellent at that time, although they are not so now, and that in

addition to all, the character of the enemy deserves attention. Against

the army of the German States, against Daun and Butturlin, it might

have been the height of wisdom to employ means which Frederick would

have despised if used against himself.

The result justified this view: in the state of patient expectation,

Frederick attained his object, and got round difficulties in a

collision with which his forces would have been dashed to pieces.

The relation in point of numbers between the Russian and French armies

opposed to each other at the opening of the campaign in 1812 was still

more unfavourable to the former than that between Frederick and his

enemies in the Seven Years’ War. But the Russians looked forward to

being joined by large reinforcements in the course of the campaign. All

Europe was in secret hostility to Buonaparte, his power had been

screwed up to the highest point, a devouring war occupied him in Spain,

and the vast extent of Russia allowed of pushing the exhaustion of the

enemy’s military means to the utmost extremity by a retreat over a

hundred miles of country. Under circumstances on this grand scale, a

tremendous counterstroke was not only to be expected if the French

enterprise failed (and how could it succeed if the Russian Emperor

would not make peace, or his subjects did not rise in insurrection?)

but this counterstroke might also end in the complete destruction of

the enemy. The most profound sagacity could, therefore, not have

devised a better plan of campaign than that which the Russians followed

on the spur of the moment.

That this was not the opinion at the time, and that such a view would

then have been looked upon as preposterous, is no reason for our now

denying it to be the right one. If we are to learn from history, we

must look upon things which have actually happened as also possible in

the future, and that the series of great events which succeeded the

march upon Moscow is not a succession of mere accidents every one will

grant who can claim to give an opinion on such subjects. If it had been

possible for the Russians, with great efforts, to defend their

frontier, it is certainly probable that in such case also the French

power would have sunk, and that they would have at last suffered a

reverse of fortune; but the reaction then would certainly not have been

so violent and decisive. By sufferings and sacrifices (which certainly

in any other country would have been greater, and in most would have

been impossible) Russia purchased this enormous success.

Thus a great positive success can never be obtained except through

positive measures, planned not with a view to a mere state of

“waiting-for,” but with a view to a _decision_, in short, even on the

defensive, there is no great gain to be won except by a great stake.

CHAPTER IX. Plan of War when the Destruction of the Enemy is the Object

Having characterised in detail the different aims to which war may be

directed, we shall go through the organisation of war as a whole for

each of the three separate gradations corresponding to these aims.

In conformity with all that has been said on the subject up to the

present, two fundamental principles reign throughout the whole plan of

the war, and serve as a guide for everything else.

The first is: to reduce the weight of the enemy’s power into as few

centres of gravity as possible, into one if it can be done; again, to

confine the attack against these centres of force to as few principal

undertakings as possible, to one if possible; lastly, to keep all

secondary undertakings as subordinate as possible. In a word, the first

principle is, _to act concentrated as much as possible_.

The second principle runs thus _to act as swiftly as possible;_

therefore, to allow of no delay or detour without sufficient reason.

The reducing the enemy’s power to one central point depends

1. On the nature of its political connection. If it consists of armies

of one Power, there is generally no difficulty; if of allied armies, of

which one is acting simply as an ally without any interest of its own,

then the difficulty is not much greater; if of a coalition for a common

object, then it depends on the cordiality of the alliance; we have

already treated of this subject.

2. On the situation of the theatre of war upon which the different

hostile armies make their appearance.

If the enemy’s forces are collected in one army upon one theatre of

war, they constitute in reality a unity, and we need not inquire

further; if they are upon one theatre of war, but in separate armies,

which belong to different Powers, there is no longer absolute unity;

there is, however, a sufficient interdependence of parts for a decisive

blow upon one part to throw down the other in the concussion. If the

armies are posted in theatres of war adjoining each other, and not

separated by any great natural obstacles, then there is in such case

also a decided influence of the one upon the other; but if the theatres

of war are wide apart, if there is neutral territory, great mountains,

etc., intervening between them, then the influence is very doubtful and

improbable as well; if they are on quite opposite sides of the State

against which the war is made, so that operations directed against them

must diverge on eccentric lines, then almost every trace of connection

is at an end.

If Prussia was attacked by France and Russia at the same time, it would

be as respects the conduct of the war much the same as if there were

two separate wars; at the same time the unity would appear in the

negotiations.

Saxony and Austria, on the contrary, as military powers in the Seven

Years’ War, were to be regarded as one; what the one suffered the other

felt also, partly because the theatres of war lay in the same direction

for Frederick the Great, partly because Saxony had no political

independence.

Numerous as were the enemies of Buonaparte in Germany in 1813, still

they all stood very much in one direction in respect to him, and the

theatres of war for their armies were in close connection, and

reciprocally influenced each other very powerfully. If by a

concentration of all his forces he had been able to overpower the main

army, such a defeat would have had a decisive effect on all the parts.

If he had beaten the Bohemain grand army, and marched upon Vienna by

Prague, Blücher, however willing, could not have remained in Saxony,

because he would have been called upon to co-operate in Bohemia, and

the Crown Prince of Sweden as well would have been unwilling to remain

in the Mark.

On the other hand, Austria, if carrying on war against the French on

the Rhine and Italy at the same time, will always find it difficult to

give a decision upon one of those theatres by means of a successful

stroke on the other. Partly because Switzerland, with its mountains,

forms too strong a barrier between the two theatres, and partly because

the direction of the roads on each side is divergent. France, again,

can much sooner decide in the one by a successful result in the other,

because the direction of its forces in both converges upon Vienna, the

centre of the power of the whole Austrian empire; we may add further,

that a decisive blow in Italy will have more effect on the Rhine

theatre than a success on the Rhine would have in Italy, because the

blow from Italy strikes nearer to the centre, and that from the Rhine

more upon the flank, of the Austrian dominions.

It proceeds from what we have said that the conception of separated or

connected hostile power extends through all degrees of relationship,

and that therefore, in each case, the first thing is to discover the

influence which events in one theatre may have upon the other,

according to which we may then afterwards settle how far the different

forces of the enemy may be reduced into one centre of force.

There is only one exception to the principle of directing all our

strength against the centre of gravity of the enemy’s power, that is,

if ancillary expeditions promise _extraordinary advantages_, and still,

in this case, it is a condition assumed, that we have such a decisive

superiority as enables us to undertake such enterprises without

incurring too great risk at the point which forms our great object.

When General Bulow marched into Holland in 1814, it was to be foreseen

that the thirty thousand men composing his corps would not only

neutralise the same number of Frenchmen, but would, besides, give the

English and the Dutch an opportunity of entering the field with forces

which otherwise would never have been brought into activity.

Thus, therefore, the first consideration in the combination of a plan

for a war, is to determine the centres of gravity of the enemy’s power,

and, if possible, to reduce them to one. The second is to unite the

forces which are to be employed against the centre of force into one

great action.

Here now the following grounds for dividing our forces may present

themselves:

1. The original position of the military forces, therefore also the

situation of the States engaged in the offensive.

If the concentration of the forces would occasion detours and loss of

time, and the danger of advancing by separate lines is not too great,

then the same may be justifiable on those grounds; for to effect an

unnecessary concentration of forces, with great loss of time, by which

the freshness and rapidity of the first blow is diminished, would be

contrary to the second leading principle we have laid down. In all

cases in which there is a hope of surprising the enemy in some measure,

this deserves particular attention.

But the case becomes still more important if the attack is undertaken

by allied States which are not situated on a line directed towards the

State attacked not one behind the other but situated side by side. If

Prussia and Austria undertook a war against France, it would be a very

erroneous measure, a squandering of time and force if the armies of the

two powers were obliged to set out from the same point, as the natural

line for an army operating from Prussia against the heart of France is

from the Lower Rhine, and that of the Austrians is from the Upper

Rhine. Concentration, therefore, in this case, could only be effected

by a sacrifice; consequently in any particular instance, the question

to be decided would be, Is the necessity for concentration so great

that this sacrifice must be made?

2. The attack by separate lines may offer greater results.

As we are now speaking of advancing by separate lines against one

centre of force, we are, therefore, supposing an advance by _converging

lines_. A separate advance on parallel or eccentric lines belongs to

the rubric of _accessory undertakings_, of which we have already

spoken.

Now, every convergent attack in strategy, as well as in tactics, holds

out the prospect of great results; for if it succeeds, the consequence

is not simply a defeat, but more or less the cutting off of the enemy.

The concentric attack is, therefore, always that which may lead to the

greatest results; but on account of the separation of the parts of the

force, and the enlargement of the theatre of war, it involves also the

most risk; it is the same here as with attack and defence, the weaker

form holds out the greater results in prospect.

The question, therefore, is, whether the assailant feels strong enough

to try for this great result.

When Frederick the Great advanced upon Bohemia, in the year 1757, he

set out from Saxony and Silesia with his forces divided. The two

principal reasons for his doing so were, first, that his forces were so

cantoned in the winter that a concentration of them at one point would

have divested the attack of all the advantages of a surprise; and next,

that by this concentric advance, each of the two Austrian theatres of

war was threatened in the flanks and the rear. The danger to which

Frederick the Great exposed himself on that occasion was that one of

his two armies might have been completely defeated by superior forces;

should the Austrians _not see this_, then they would have to give

battle with their centre only, or run the risk of being thrown off

their line of communication, either on one side or the other, and

meeting with a catastrophe; this was the great result which the king

hoped for by this advance. The Austrians preferred the battle in the

centre, but Prague, where they took up their position, was in a

situation too much under the influence of the convergent attack, which,

as they remained perfectly passive in their position, had time to

develop its efficacy to the utmost. The consequence of this was that

when they lost the battle, it was a complete catastrophe; as is

manifest from the fact that two-thirds of the army with the

commander-in-chief were obliged to shut themselves up in Prague.

This brilliant success at the opening of the campaign was attained by

the bold stroke with a concentric attack. If Frederick considered the

precision of his own movements, the energy of his generals, the moral

superiority of his troops, on the one side, and the sluggishness of the

Austrians on the other, as sufficient to ensure the success of his

plan, who can blame him? But as we cannot leave these moral advantages

out of consideration, neither can we ascribe the success solely to the

mere geometrical form of the attack. Let us only think of the not less

brilliant campaign of Buonaparte’s, in the year 1796, when the

Austrians were so severely punished for their concentric march into

Italy. The means which the French general had at command on that

occasion, the Austrian general had also at his disposal in 1757 (with

the exception of the moral), indeed, he had rather more, for he was

not, like Buonaparte, weaker than his adversary. Therefore, when it is

to be apprehended that the advance on separate converging lines may

afford the enemy the means of counteracting the inequality of numerical

forces by using interior lines, such a form of attack is not advisable;

and if on account of the situation of the belligerents, it must be

resorted to, it can only be regarded as a necessary evil.

If, from this point of view, we cast our eyes on the plan which was

adopted for the invasion of France in 1814, it is impossible to give it

approval. The Russian, Austrian, and Prussian armies were concentrated

at a point near Frankfort on the Maine, on the most natural and most

direct line to the centre of the force of the French monarchy. These

armies were then separated, that one might penetrate into France from

Mayence, the other from Switzerland. As the enemy’s force was so

reduced that a defence of the frontier was out of the question, the

whole advantage to be expected from this concentric advance, if it

succeeded, was that while Lorraine and Alsace were conquered by one

army, Franche-Comte would be taken by the other. Was this trifling

advantage worth the trouble of marching into Switzerland? We know very

well that there were other (but just as insufficient) grounds which

caused this march; but we confine ourselves here to the point which we

are considering.

On the other side, Buonaparte was a man who thoroughly understood the

defensive to oppose to a concentric attack, as he had already shown in

his masterly campaign of 1796; and although the Allies were very

considerably superior in numbers, yet the preponderance due to his

superiority as a general was on all occasions acknowledged. He joined

his army too late near Chalons, and looked down rather too much,

generally, on his opponents, still he was very near hitting the two

armies separately; and what was the state he found them in at Brienne?

Blücher had only 27,000 of his 65,000 men with him, and the great army,

out of 200,000, had only 100,000 present. It was impossible to make a

better game for the adversary. And from the moment that active work

began, no greater want was felt than that of re-union.

After all these reflections, we think that although the concentric

attack is in itself a means of obtaining greater results, still it

should generally only proceed from a previous separation of the parts

composing the whole force, and that there are few cases in which we

should do right in giving up the shortest and most direct line of

operation for the sake of adopting that form.

3. The breadth of a theatre of war can be a motive for attacking on

separate lines.

If an army on the offensive in its advance from any point, penetrates

with success to some distance into the interior of the enemy’s country,

then, certainly, the space which it commands is not restricted exactly

to the line of road by which it marches, it will command a margin on

each side; still that will depend very much, if we may use the figure,

on the solidity and cohesion of the opposing State. If the State only

hangs loosely together, if its people are an effeminate race

unaccustomed to war, then, without our taking much trouble, a

considerable extent of country will open behind our victorious army;

but if we have to deal with a brave and loyal population, the space

behind our army will form a triangle, more or less acute.

In order to obviate this evil, the attacking force requires to regulate

its advance on a certain width of front. If the enemy’s force is

concentrated at a particular point, this breadth of front can only be

preserved so long as we are not in contact with the enemy, and must be

contracted as we approach his position: that is easy to understand.

But if the enemy himself has taken up a position with a certain extent

of front, then there is nothing absurd in a corresponding extension on

our part. We speak here of one theatre of war, or of several, if they

are quite close to each other. Obviously this is, therefore, the case

when, according to our view, the chief operation is, at the same time,

to be decisive on subordinate points

But now can we _always_ run the chance of this? And may we expose

ourselves to the danger which must arise if the influence of the chief

operation is not sufficient to decide at the minor points? Does not the

want of a certain breadth for a theatre of war deserve special

consideration?

Here as well as everywhere else it is impossible to exhaust the number

of combinations which _may take_ place; but we maintain that, with few

exceptions, the decision on the capital point will carry with it the

decision on all minor points. Therefore, the action should be regulated

in conformity with this principle, in all cases in which the contrary

is not evident.

When Buonaparte invaded Russia, he had good reason to believe that by

conquering the main body of the Russian army he would compel their

forces on the Upper Dwina to succumb. He left at first only the corps

of Oudinot to oppose them, but Wittgenstein assumed the offensive, and

Buonaparte was then obliged to send also the sixth corps to that

quarter.

On the other hand, at the beginning of the campaign, he directed a part

of his forces against Bagration; but that general was carried along by

the influence of the backward movement in the centre, and Buonaparte

was enabled then to recall that part of his forces. If Wittgenstein had

not had to cover the second capital, he would also have followed the

retreat of the great army under Barclay.

In the years 1805 and 1809, Buonaparte’s victories at Ulm and Ratisbon

decided matters in Italy and also in the Tyrol, although the first was

rather a distant theatre, and an independent one in itself. In the year

1806, his victories at Jena and Auerstadt were decisive in respect to

everything that might have been attempted against him in Westphalia and

Hesse, or on the Frankfort road.

Amongst the number of circumstances which may have an influence on the

resistance at secondary points, there are two which are the most

prominent.

The first is: that in a country of vast extent, and also relatively of

great power, like Russia, we can put off the decisive blow at the chief

point for some time, and are not obliged to do all in a hurry.

The second is: when a minor point (like Silesia in the year 1806),

through a great number of fortresses, possesses an extraordinary degree

of independent strength. And yet Buonaparte treated that point with

great contempt, inasmuch as, when he had to leave such a point

completely in his rear on the march to Warsaw, he only detached 20,000

men under his brother Jerome to that quarter.

If it happens that the blow at the capital point, in all probability,

will not shake such a secondary point, or has not done so, and if the

enemy has still forces at that point, then to these, as a necessary

evil, an adequate force must be opposed, because no one can absolutely

lay open his line of communication from the very commencement.

But prudence may go a step further; it may require that the advance

upon the chief point shall keep pace with that on the secondary points,

and consequently the principal undertaking must be delayed whenever the

secondary points will not succumb.

This principle does not directly contradict ours as to uniting all

action as far as possible in one great undertaking, but the spirit from

which it springs is diametrically opposed to the spirit in which ours

is conceived. By following such a principle there would be such a

measured pace in the movements, such a paralysation of the impulsive

force, such room for the freak of chance, and such a loss of time, as

would be practically perfectly inconsistent with an offensive directed

to the complete overthrow of the enemy.

The difficulty becomes still greater if the forces stationed at these

minor points can retire on divergent lines. What would then become of

the unity of our attack?

We must, therefore, declare ourselves completely opposed in principle

to the dependence of the chief attack on minor attacks, and we maintain

that an attack directed to the destruction of the enemy which has not

the boldness to shoot, like the point of an arrow, direct at the heart

of the enemy’s power, can never hit the mark.

4. Lastly, there is still a fourth ground for a separate advance in the

facility which it may afford for subsistence.

It is certainly much pleasanter to march with a small army through an

opulent country, than with a large army through a poor one; but by

suitable measures, and with an army accustomed to privations, the

latter is not impossible, and, therefore, the first should never have

such an influence on our plans as to lead us into a great danger.

We have now done justice to the grounds for a separation of forces

which divides the chief operation into several, and if the separation

takes place on any of these grounds, with a distinct conception of the

object, and after due consideration of the advantages and

disadvantages, we shall not venture to find fault.

But if, as usually happens, a plan is drawn out by a learned general

staff, merely according to routine; if different theatres of war, like

the squares on a chess board, must each have its piece first placed on

it before the moves begin, if these moves approach the aim in

complicated lines and relations by dint of an imaginary profundity in

the art of combination, if the armies are to separate to-day in order

to apply all their skill in reuniting at the greatest risk in fourteen

days then we have a perfect horror of this abandonment of the direct

simple common-sense road to rush intentionally into absolute confusion.

This folly happens more easily the less the general-in-chief directs

the war, and conducts it in the sense which we have pointed out in the

first chapter as an act of his individuality invested with

extraordinary powers; the more, therefore, the whole plan is

manufactured by an inexperienced staff, and from the ideas of a dozen

smatterers.

We have still now to consider the third part of our first principle;

that is, to keep the subordinate parts as much as possible in

subordination.

Whilst we endeavour to refer the whole of the operations of a war to

one single aim, and try to attain this as far as possible by _one great

effort_, we deprive the other points of contact of the States at war

with each other of a part of their independence; they become

subordinate actions. If we could concentrate everything absolutely into

one action, then those points of contact would be completely

neutralised; but this is seldom possible, and, therefore, what we have

to do is to keep them so far within bounds, that they shall not cause

the abstraction of too many forces from the main action.

Next, we maintain that the plan of the war itself should have this

tendency, even if it is not possible to reduce the whole of the enemy’s

resistance to one point; consequently, in case we are placed in the

position already mentioned, of carrying on two almost quite separate

wars at the same time, the one must always be looked upon as the

_principal affair_ to which our forces and activity are to be chiefly

devoted.

In this view, it is advisable only to proceed _offensively_ against

that one principal point, and to preserve the defensive upon all the

others. The attack there being only justifiable when invited by very

exceptional circumstances.

Further we are to carry on this defensive, which takes place at minor

points, with as few troops as possible, and to seek to avail ourselves

of every advantage which the defensive form can give.

This view applies with still more force to all theatres of war on which

armies come forward belonging to different powers really, but still

such as will be struck when the general centre of force is struck.

But against _the enemy_ at whom the great blow is aimed, there must be,

according to this, no defensive on minor theatres of war. The chief

attack itself, and the secondary attacks, which for other reasons are

combined with it, make up this blow, and make every defensive, on

points not directly covered by it, superfluous. All depends on this

principal attack; by it every loss will be compensated. If the forces

are sufficient to make it reasonable to seek for that great decision,

then the _possibility of failure_ can be no ground for guarding oneself

against injury at other points in any event; for just by _such a

course_ this failure will become more probable, and it therefore

constitutes here a contradiction in our action.

This same predominance of the principal action over the minor, must be

the principle observed in each of the separate branches of the attack.

But as there are generally ulterior motives which determine what forces

shall advance from one theatre of war, and what from another against

the common centre of the enemy’s power, we only mean here that there

must be an _effort to make the chief action over-ruling_, for

everything will become simpler and less subject to the influence of

chance events the nearer this state of preponderance can be attained.

The second principle concerns the rapid use of the forces.

Every unnecessary expenditure of time, every unnecessary detour, is a

waste of power, and therefore contrary to the principles of strategy.

It is most important to bear always in mind that almost the only

advantage which the offensive possesses, is the effect of surprise at

the opening of the scene. Suddenness and irresistible impetuosity are

its strongest pinions; and when the object is the complete overthrow of

the enemy, it can rarely dispense with them.

By this, therefore, theory demands the shortest way to the object, and

completely excludes from consideration endless discussions about right

and left here and there.

If we call to mind what was said in the chapter on the subject of the

strategic attack respecting the pit of the stomach in a state, and

further, what appears in the fourth chapter of this book, on the

influence of time, we believe no further argument is required to prove

that the influence which we claim for that principle really belongs to

it.

Buonaparte never acted otherwise. The shortest high road from army to

army, from one capital to another, was always the way he loved best.

And in what will now consist the principal action to which we have

referred everything, and for which we have demanded a swift and

straightforward execution?

In the fourth chapter we have explained as far as it is possible in a

general way what the total overthrow of the enemy means, and it is

unnecessary to repeat it. Whatever that may depend on at last in

particular cases, still the first step is always the same in all cases,

namely: _The destruction of the enemy’s combatant force_, that is, _a

great victory over the same and its dispersion_. The sooner, which

means the nearer our own frontiers, this victory is sought for, _the

easier_ it is; the later, that is, the further in the heart of the

enemy’s country it is gained, the more _decisive_ it is. Here, as well

as everywhere, the facility of success and its magnitude balance each

other.

If we are not so superior to the enemy that the victory is beyond

doubt, then we should, when possible, seek him out, that is his

principal force. We say _when possible_, for if this endeavour to find

him led to great detours, false directions, and a loss of time, it

might very likely turn out a mistake. If the enemy’s principal force is

not on our road, and our interests otherwise prevent our going in quest

of him, we may be sure we shall meet with him hereafter, for he will

not fail to place himself in our way. We shall then, as we have just

said, fight under less advantageous circumstances an evil to which we

must submit. However, if we gain the battle, it will be so much the

more decisive.

From this it follows that, in the case now assumed, it would be an

error to pass by the enemy’s principal force designedly, if it places

itself in our way, at least if we expect thereby to facilitate a

victory.

On the other hand, it follows from what precedes, that if we have a

decided superiority over the enemy’s principal force, we may designedly

pass it by in order at a future time to deliver a more decisive battle.

We have been speaking of a complete victory, therefore of a thorough

defeat of the enemy, and not of a mere battle gained. But such a

victory requires an enveloping attack, or a battle with an oblique

front, for these two forms always give the result a decisive character.

It is therefore an essential part of a plan of a war to make

arrangements for this movement, both as regards the mass of forces

required and the direction to be given them, of which more will be said

in the chapter on the plan of campaign.

It is certainly not impossible, that even Battles fought with parallel

fronts may lead to complete defeats, and cases in point are not wanting

in military history; but such an event is uncommon, and will be still

more so the more armies become on a par as regards discipline and

handiness in the field. We no longer take twenty-one battalions in a

village, as they did at Blenheim.

Once the great victory is gained, the next question is not about rest,

not about taking breath, not about considering, not about reorganising,

etc., etc., but only of pursuit of fresh blows wherever necessary, of

the capture of the enemy’s capital, of the attack of the armies of his

allies, or of whatever else appears to be a rallying point for the

enemy.

If the tide of victory carries us near the enemy’s fortresses, the

laying siege to them or not will depend on our means. If we have a

great superiority of force, it would be a loss of time not to take them

as soon as possible; but if we are not certain of the further events

before us, we must keep the fortresses in check with as few troops as

possible, which precludes any regular formal sieges. The moment that

the siege of a fortress compels us to suspend our strategic advance,

that advance, _as a rule_, has reached its culminating point. We

demand, therefore, that the main body should press forward rapidly in

pursuit without any rest; we have already condemned the idea of

allowing the advance towards the principal point being made dependent

on success at secondary points; the consequence of this is, that in all

ordinary cases, our chief army only keeps behind it a narrow strip of

territory which it can call its own, and which therefore constitutes

its theatre of war. How this weakens the momentum at the head, and the

dangers for the offensive arising therefrom, we have shown already.

Will not this difficulty, will not this intrinsic counterpoise come to

a point which impedes further advance? Certainly that may occur; but

just as we have already insisted that it would be a mistake to try to

avoid this contracted theatre of war at the commencement, and for the

sake of that object to rob the advance of its elasticity, so we also

now maintain, that as long as the commander has not yet overthrown his

opponent, as long as he considers himself strong enough to effect that

object, so long must he also pursue it. He does so perhaps at an

increased risk, but also with the prospect of a greater success. If he

reaches a point which he cannot venture to go beyond, where, in order

to protect his rear, he must extend himself right and left well, then,

this is most probably his culminating point. The power of flight is

spent, and if the enemy is not subdued, most probably he will not be

now.

All that the assailant now does to intensify his attack by conquest of

fortresses, defiles, provinces, is no doubt still a slow advance, but

it is only of a relative kind, it is no longer absolute. The enemy is

no longer in flight, he is perhaps preparing a renewed resistance, and

it is therefore already possible that, although the assailant still

advances intensively, the position of the defence is every day

improving. In short, we come back to this, that, as a rule, there is no

second spring after a halt has once been necessary.

Theory, therefore, only requires that, as long as there is an intention

of destroying the enemy, there must be no cessation in the advance of

the attack; if the commander gives up this object because it is

attended with too great a risk, he does right to stop and extend his

force. Theory only objects to this when he does it with a view to more

readily defeating the enemy.

We are not so foolish as to maintain that no instance can be found of

States having been _gradually_ reduced to the utmost extremity. In the

first place, the principle we now maintain is no absolute truth, to

which an exception is impossible, but one founded only on the ordinary

and probable result; next, we must make a distinction between cases in

which the downfall of a State has been effected by a slow gradual

process, and those in which the event was the result of a first

campaign. We are here only treating of the latter case, for it is only

in such that there is that tension of forces which either overcomes the

centre of gravity of the weight, or is in danger of being overcome by

it. If in the first year we gain a moderate advantage, to which in the

following we add another, and thus gradually advance towards our

object, there is nowhere very imminent danger, but it is distributed

over many points. Each pause between one result and another gives the

enemy fresh chances: the effects of the first results have very little

influence on those which follow, often none, often a negative only,

because the enemy recovers himself, or is perhaps excited to increased

resistance, or obtains foreign aid; whereas, when all is done in one

march, the success of yesterday brings on with itself that of to-day,

one brand lights itself from another. If there are cases in which

States have been overcome by successive blows in which, consequently,

_Time_, generally the patron of the defensive, has proved adverse how

infinitely more numerous are the instances in which the designs of the

aggressor have by that means utterly failed. Let us only think of the

result of the Seven Years’ War, in which the Austrians sought to attain

their object so comfortably, cautiously, and prudently, that they

completely missed it.

In this view, therefore, we cannot at all join in the opinion that the

care which belongs to the preparation of a theatre of war, and the

impulse which urges us onwards, are on a level in importance, and that

the former must, to a certain extent, be a counterpoise to the latter;

but we look upon any evil which springs out of the forward movement, as

an unavoidable evil which only deserves attention when there is no

longer hope for us a-head by the forward movement.

Buonaparte’s case in 1812, very far from shaking our opinion, has

rather confirmed us in it.

His campaign did not miscarry because he advanced too swiftly, or too

far, as is commonly believed, but because the only means of success

failed. The Russian Empire is no country which can be regularly

conquered, that is to say, which can be held in possession, at least

not by the forces of the present States of Europe, nor by the 500,000

men with which Buonaparte invaded the country. Such a country can only

be subdued by its own weakness, and by the effects of internal

dissension. In order to strike these vulnerable points in its political

existence, the country must be agitated to its very centre. It was only

by reaching Moscow with the force of his blow that Buonaparte could

hope to shake the courage of the Government, the loyalty and

steadfastness of the people. In Moscow he expected to find peace, and

this was the only rational object which he could set before himself in

undertaking such a war.

He therefore led his main body against that of the Russians, which fell

back before him, trudged past the camp at Drissa, and did not stop

until it reached Smolensk. He carried Bagration along in his movement,

beat the principal Russia army, and took Moscow.

He acted on this occasion as he had always done: it was only in that

way that he made himself the arbiter of Europe, and only in that way

was it possible for him to do so.

He, therefore, who admires Buonaparte in all his earlier campaigns as

the greatest of generals, ought not to censure him in this instance.

It is quite allowable to judge an event according to the result, as

that is the best criticism upon it (see fifth chapter, 2nd book), but

this judgment derived merely from the result, must not then be passed

off as evidence of superior understanding. To seek out the causes of

the failure of a campaign, is not going the length of making a

criticism upon it; it is only if we show that these causes should

neither have been overlooked nor disregarded that we make a criticism

and place ourselves above the General.

Now we maintain that any one who pronounces the campaign of 1812 an

absurdity merely on account of the tremendous reaction in it, and who,

if it had been successful, would look upon it as a most splendid

combination, shows an utter incapacity of judgment.

If Buonaparte had remained in Lithuania, as most of his critics think

he should, in order first to get possession of the fortresses, of

which, moreover, except Riga, situated quite at one side, there is

hardly one, because Bobruisk is a small insignificant place of arms, he

would have involved himself for the winter in a miserable defensive

system: then the same people would have been the first to exclaim, This

is not the old Buonaparte! How is it, he has not got even as far as a

first great battle? he who used to put the final seal to his conquests

on the last ramparts of the enemy’s states, by victories such as

Austerlitz and Friedland. Has his heart failed him that he has not

taken the enemy’s capital, the defenceless Moscow, ready to open its

gates, and thus left a nucleus round which new elements of resistance

may gather themselves? He had the singular luck to take this far-off

and enormous colossus by surprise, as easily as one would surprise a

neighbouring town, or as Frederick the Great entered the little state

of Silesia, lying at his door, and he makes no use of his good fortune,

halts in the middle of his victorious career, as if some evil spirit

laid at his heels! This is the way in which he would have been judged

of after the result, for this is the fashion of critics’ judgments in

general.

In opposition to this, we say, the campaign of 1812 did not succeed

because the government remained firm, the people loyal and steadfast,

because it therefore could not succeed. Buonaparte may have made a

mistake in undertaking such an expedition; at all events, the result

has shown that he deceived himself in his calculations, but we maintain

that, supposing it necessary to seek the attainment of this object, it

could not have been done in any other way upon the whole.

Instead of burthening himself with an interminable costly defensive war

in the east, such as he had on his hands in the west, Buonaparte

attempted the only means to gain his object: by one bold stroke to

extort a peace from his astonished adversary. The destruction of his

army was the danger to which he exposed himself in the venture; it was

the stake in the game, the price of great expectations. If this

destruction of his army was more complete than it need have been

through his own fault, this fault was not in his having penetrated too

far into the heart of the country, for that was his object, and

unavoidable; but in the late period at which the campaign opened, the

sacrifice of life occasioned by his tactics, the want of due care for

the supply of his army, and for his line of retreat, and lastly, in his

having too long delayed his march from Moscow.

That the Russians were able to reach the Beresina before him, intending

regularly to cut off his retreat, is no strong argument against us. For

in the first place, the failure of that attempt just shows how

difficult it is really to cut off an army, as the army which was

intercepted in this case under the most unfavourable circumstances that

can be conceived, still managed at last to cut its way through; and

although this act upon the whole contributed certainly to increase its

catastrophe, still it was not essentially the cause of it. Secondly, it

was only the very peculiar nature of the country which afforded the

means to carry things as far as the Russians did; for if it had not

been for the marshes of the Beresina, with its wooded impassable

borders lying across the great road, the cutting off would have been

still less possible. Thirdly, there is generally no means of guarding

against such an eventuality except by making the forward movement with

the front of the army of such a width as we have already disapproved;

for if we proceed on the plan of pushing on in advance with the centre

and covering the wings by armies detached right and left, then if

either of these detached armies meets with a check, we must fall back

with the centre, and then very little can be gained by the attack.

Moreover, it cannot be said that Buonaparte neglected his wings. A

superior force remained fronting Wittgenstein, a proportionate

siege-corps stood before Riga which at the same time was not needed

there, and in the south Schwarzenberg had 50,000 men with which he was

superior to Tormasoff and almost equal to Tschitschagow: in addition,

there were 30,000 men under Victor, covering the rear of the centre.

Even in the month of November, therefore, at the decisive moment when

the Russian armies had been reinforced, and the French were very much

reduced, the superiority of the Russians in rear of the Moscow army was

not so very extraordinary. Wittgenstein, Tschitschagow, and Sacken,

made up together a force of 100,000. Schwartzenberg, Regmer, Victor,

Oudinot, and St. Cyr, had still 80,000 effective. The most cautious

general in advancing would hardly devote a greater proportion of his

force to the protection of his flanks.

If out of the 600,000 men who crossed the Niemen in 1812, Buonaparte

had brought back 250,000 instead of the 50,000 who repassed it under

Schwartzenberg, Regmer, and Macdonald, which was possible, by avoiding

the mistakes with which he has been reproached, the campaign would

still have been an unfortunate one, but theory would have had nothing

to object to it, for the loss of half an army in such a case is not at

all unusual, and only appears so to us in this instance on account of

the enormous scale of the whole enterprize.

So much for the principal operation, its necessary tendency, and the

unavoidable risks. As regards the subordinate operations, there must

be, above all things, a common aim for all; but this aim must be so

situated as not to paralyse the action of any of the individual parts.

If we invade France from the upper and middle Rhine and Holland, with

the intention of uniting at Paris, neither of the armies employed to

risk anything on the advance, but to keep itself intact until the

concentration is effected, that is what we call a ruinous plan. There

must be necessarily a constant comparison of the state of this

threefold movement causing delay, indecision, and timidity in the

forward movement of each of the armies. It is better to assign to each

part its mission, and only to place the point of union wherever these

several activities become unity of themselves.

Therefore, when a military force advances to the attack on separate

theatres of war, to each army should be assigned an object against

which the force of its shock is to be directed. Here _the point_ is

that _these shocks_ should be given from all sides simultaneously, but

not that proportional advantages should result from all of them.

If the task assigned to one army is found too difficult because the

enemy has made a disposition of his force different to that which was

expected, if it sustains a defeat, this neither should, nor must have,

any influence on the action of the others, or we should turn the

probability of the general success against ourselves at the very

outset. It is only the unsuccessful issue of the majority of

enterprises or of the principal one, which can and must have an

influence upon the others: for then it comes under the head of a plan

which has miscarried.

This same rule applies to those armies and portions of them which have

originally acted on the defensive, and, owing to the successes gained,

have assumed the offensive, unless we prefer to attach such spare

forces to the principal offensive, a point which will chiefly depend on

the geographical situation of the theatre of war.

But under these circumstances, what becomes of the geometrical form and

unity of the whole attack, what of the flanks and rear of corps when

those corps next to them are beaten.

That is precisely what we wish chiefly to combat. This glueing down of

a great offensive plan of attack on a geometrical square, is losing

one’s way in the regions of fallacy.

In the fifteenth chapter of the Third Book we have shown that the

geometrical element has less influence in strategy than in tactics; and

we shall only here repeat the deduction there obtained, that in the

attack especially, the actual results at the various points throughout

deserve more attention than the geometrical figure, which may gradually

be formed through the diversity of results.

But in any case, it is quite certain, that looking to the vast spaces

with which strategy has to deal, the views and resolutions which the

geometrical situation of the parts may create, should be left to the

general-in-chief; that, therefore, no subordinate general has a right

to ask what his neighbour is doing or leaving undone, but each is to be

directed peremptorily to follow out his object. If any serious

incongruity really arises from this, a remedy can always be applied in

time by the supreme authority. Thus, then, may be obviated the chief

evil of this separate mode of action, which is, that in the place of

realities, a cloud of apprehensions and suppositions mix themselves up

in the progress of an operation, that every accident affects not only

the part it comes immediately in contact with, but also the whole, by

the communication of impressions, and that a wide field of action is

opened for the personal failings and personal animosities of

subordinate commanders.

We think that these views will only appear paradoxical to those who

have not studied military history long enough or with sufficient

attention, who do not distinguish the important from the unimportant,

nor make proper allowance for the influence of human weaknesses in

general.

If even in tactics there is a difficulty, which all experienced

soldiers admit there is, in succeeding in an attack in separate columns

where it depends on the perfect connection of the several columns, how

much more difficult, or rather how impossible, must this be in

strategy, where the separation is so much wider. Therefore, if a

constant connection of all parts was a necessary condition of success,

a strategic plan of attack of that nature must be at once given up. But

on the one hand, it is not left to our option to discard it completely,

because circumstances, which we cannot control, may determine in favour

of it; on the other hand, even in tactics, this constant close

conjunction of all parts at every moment of the execution, is not at

all necessary, and it is still less so in strategy. Therefore in

strategy we should pay the less attention to this point, and insist the

more upon a distinct piece of work being assigned to each part.

We have still to add one important observation: it relates to the

proper allotment of parts.

In the year 1793 and 1794 the principal Austrian army was in the

Netherlands, that of the Prussians, on the upper Rhine. The Austrians

marched from Vienna to Condé and Valenciennes, crossing the line of

march of the Prussians from Berlin to Landau. The Austrians had

certainly to defend their Belgian provinces in that quarter, and any

conquests made in French Flanders would have been acquisitions

conveniently situated for them, but that interest was not strong

enough. After the death of Prince Kaunitz, the Minister Thugut carried

a measure for giving up the Netherlands entirely, for the better

concentration of the Austrian forces. In fact, Austria is about twice

as far from Flanders as from Alsace; and at a time when military

resources were very limited, and everything had to be paid for in ready

money, that was no trifling consideration. Still, the Minister Thugut

had plainly something else in view; his object was, through the urgency

of the danger to compel Holland, England, and Prussia, the powers

interested in the defence of the Netherlands and Lower Rhine, to make

greater efforts. He certainly deceived himself in his calculations,

because nothing could be done with the Prussian cabinet at that time,

but this occurrence always shows the influence of political interests

on the course of a war.

Prussia had neither anything to conquer nor to defend in Alsace. In the

year 1792 it had undertaken the march through Lorraine into Champagne

in a sort of chivalrous spirit. But as that enterprise ended in

nothing, through the unfavourable course of circumstances, it continued

the war with a feeling of very little interest. If the Prussian troops

had been in the Netherlands, they would have been in direct

communication with Holland, which they might look upon almost as their

own country, having conquered it in the year 1787; they would then have

covered the Lower Rhine, and consequently that part of the Prussian

monarchy which lay next to the theatre of war. Prussia on account of

subsidies would also have had a closer alliance with England, which,

under these circumstances, would not so easily have degenerated into

the crooked policy of which the Prussian cabinet was guilty at that

time.

A much better result, therefore, might have been expected if the

Austrians had appeared with their principal force on the Upper Rhine,

the Prussians with their whole force in the Netherlands, and the

Austrians had left there only a corps of proportionate strength.

If, instead of the enterprising Blücher, General Barclay had been

placed at the head of the Silesian army in 1814, and Blücher and

Schwartzenberg had been kept with the grand army, the campaign would

perhaps have turned out a complete failure.

If the enterprising Laudon, instead of having his theatre of war at the

strongest point of the Prussian dominions, namely, in Silesia, had been

in the position of the German States’ army, perhaps the whole Seven

Years’ War would have had quite a different turn. In order to examine

this subject more narrowly, we must look at the cases according to

their chief distinctions.

The first is, if we carry on war in conjunction with other powers, who

not only take part as our allies, but also have an independent interest

as well.

The second is, if the army of the ally has come to our assistance.

The third is, when it is only a question with regard to the personal

characteristics of the General.

In the two first cases, the point may be raised, whether it is better

to mix up the troops of the different powers completely, so that each

separate army is composed of corps of different powers, as was done in

the wars 1813 and 1814, or to keep them separate as much as possible,

so that the army of each power may continue distinct and act

independently.

Plainly, the first is the most salutary plan; but it supposes a degree

of friendly feeling and community of interests which is seldom found.

When there is this close good fellowship between the troops, it is much

more difficult for the cabinets to separate their interests; and as

regards the prejudicial influence of the egotistical views of

commanders, it can only show itself under these circumstances amongst

the subordinate Generals, therefore, only in the province of tactics,

and even there not so freely or with such impunity as when there is a

complete separation. In the latter case, it affects the strategy, and

therefore, makes decided marks. But, as already observed, for the first

case there must be a rare spirit of conciliation on the part of the

Governments. In the year 1813, the exigencies of the time impelled all

Governments in that direction; and yet we cannot sufficiently praise

this in the Emperor of Russia, that although he entered the field with

the strongest army, and the change of fortune was chiefly brought about

by him, yet he set aside all pride about appearing at the head of a

separate and an independent Russian army, and placed his troops under

the Prussian and Austrian Commanders.

If such a fusion of armies cannot be effected, a complete separation of

them is certainly better than a half-and-half state of things; the

worst of all is when two independent Commanders of armies of different

powers find themselves on the same theatre of war, as frequently

happened in the Seven Years’ War with the armies of Russia, Austria,

and the German States. When there is a complete separation of forces,

the burdens which must be borne are also better divided, and each

suffers only from what is his own, consequently is more impelled to

activity by the force of circumstances; but if they find themselves in

close connection, or quite on the same theatre of war, this is not the

case, and besides that the ill will of one paralyses also the powers of

the other as well.

In the first of the three supposed cases, there will be no difficulty

in the complete separation, as the natural interest of each State

generally indicates to it a separate mode of employing its force; this

may not be so in the second case, and then, as a rule, there is nothing

to be done but to place oneself completely under the auxiliary army, if

its strength is in any way proportionate to that measure, as the

Austrians did in the latter part of the campaign of 1815, and the

Prussians in the campaign of 1807.

With regard to the personal qualifications of the General, everything

in this passes into what is particular and individual; but we must not

omit to make one general remark, which is, that we should not, as is

generally done, place at the head of subordinate armies the most

prudent and cautious Commanders, but the _most enterprising;_ for we

repeat that in strategic operations conducted separately, there is

nothing more important than that every part should develop its powers

to the full, in that way faults committed at one part may be

compensated for by successes at others. This complete activity at all

points, however, is only to be expected when the Commanders are

spirited, enterprising men, who are urged forwards by natural

impulsiveness by their own hearts, because a mere objective, coolly

reasoned out, conviction of the necessity of action seldom suffices.

Lastly, we have to remark that, if circumstances in other respects

permit, the troops and their commanders, as regards their destination,

should be employed in accordance with their qualities and the nature of

the country that is regular armies; good troops; numerous cavalry; old,

prudent, intelligent generals in an open country; Militia; national

levies; young enterprising commanders in wooded country, mountains and

defiles; auxiliary armies in rich provinces where they can make

themselves comfortable.

What we have now said upon a plan of a war in general, and in this

chapter upon those in particular which are directed to the destruction

of the enemy, is intended to give special prominence to the object of

the same, and next to indicate principles which may serve as guides in

the preparation of ways and means. Our desire has been in this way to

give a clear perception of what is to be, and should be, done in such a

war. We have tried to emphasise the necessary and general, and to leave

a margin for the play of the particular and accidental; but to exclude

all that is _arbitrary, unfounded, trifling, fantastical; or

sophistical_. If we have succeeded in this object, we look upon our

problem as solved.

Now, if any one wonders at finding nothing here about turning rivers,

about commanding mountains from their highest points, about avoiding

strong positions, and finding the keys of a country, he has not

understood us, neither does he as yet understand war in its general

relations according to our views.

In preceding books we have characterised these subjects in general, and

we there arrived at the conclusion, they are much more insignificant in

their nature than we should think from their high repute. Therefore, so

much the less can or ought they to play a great part, that is, so far

as to influence the whole plan of a war, when it is a war which has for

its object the destruction of the enemy.

At the end of the book we shall devote a chapter specially to the

consideration of the chief command; the present chapter we shall close

with an example.

If Austria, Prussia, the German Con-federation, the Netherlands and

England, determine on a war with France, but Russia remains neutral a

case which has frequently happened during the last one hundred and

fifty years they are able to carry on an offensive war, having for its

object the overthrow of the enemy. For powerful and great as France is,

it is still possible for it to see more than half its territory overrun

by the enemy, its capital occupied, and itself reduced in its means to

a state of complete inefficiency, without there being any power, except

Russia, which can give it effectual support. Spain is too distant and

too disadvantageously situated; the Italian States are at present too

brittle and powerless.

The countries we have named have, exclusive of their possessions out of

Europe, above 75,000,000 inhabitants,(*) whilst France has only

30,000,000; and the army which they could call out for a war against

France really meant in earnest, would be as follows, without

exaggeration:—

Austria .............250,000 Prussia .............200,000 The

rest of Germany. 150,000 Netherlands ..........75,000 England

..............50,000 ————— Total: ......725,000

(*) This chapter was probably written in 1828, since which time the

numerical relations have considerably changed. A. d. H.

Should this force be placed on a warfooting it would, in all

probability, very much exceed that which France could oppose; for under

Buonaparte the country never had an army of the like strength. Now, if

we take into account the deductions required as garrisons for

fortresses and depôts, to watch the coasts, etc., there can be no doubt

the allies would have a great superiority in the principal theatre of

war, and upon that the object or plan of overthrowing the enemy is

chiefly founded.

The centre of gravity of the French power lies in its military force

and in Paris. To defeat the former in one or more battles, to take

Paris and drive the wreck of the French across the Loire, must be the

object of the allies. The pit of the stomach of the French monarchy is

between Paris and Brussels, on that side the frontier is only thirty

miles from the capital. Part of the allies; the English, Netherlanders,

Prussian, and North German States have their natural point of assembly

in that direction, as these States lie partly in the immediate

vicinity, partly in a direct line behind it. Austria and South Germany

can only carry on their war conveniently from the upper Rhine. Their

natural direction is upon Troyes and Paris, or it may be Orleans. Both

shocks, therefore, that from the Netherlands and the other from the

upper Rhine, are quite direct and natural, short and powerful; and both

fall upon the centre of gravity of the enemy’s power. Between these two

points, therefore, the whole invading army should be divided.

But there are two considerations which interfere with the simplicity of

this plan.

The Austrians would not lay bare their Italian dominions, they would

wish to retain the mastery over events there, in any case, and

therefore would not incur the risk of making an attack on the heart of

France, by which they would leave Italy only indirectly covered.

Looking to the political state of the country, this collateral

consideration is not to be treated with contempt; but it would be a

decided mistake if the old and oft-tried plan of an attack from Italy,

directed against the South of France, was bound up with it, and if on

that account the force in Italy was increased to a size not required

for mere security against contingencies in the first campaign. Only the

number needed for that security should remain in Italy, only that

number should be withdrawn from the great undertaking, if we would not

be unfaithful to that first maxim, _Unity of plan, concentration of

force_. To think of conquering France by the Rhone, would be like

trying to lift a musket by the point of its bayonet; but also as an

auxiliary enterprise, an attack on the South of France is to be

condemned, for it only raises new forces against us. Whenever an attack

is made on distant provinces, interests and activities are roused,

which would otherwise have lain dormant. It would only be in case that

the forces left for the security of Italy were in excess of the number

required, and, therefore, to avoid leaving them unemployed, that there

would be any justification for an attack on the South of France from

that quarter.

We therefore repeat that the force left in Italy must be kept down as

low as circumstances will permit; and it will be quite large enough if

it will suffice to prevent the Austrians from losing the whole country

in one campaign. Let us suppose that number to be 50,000 men for the

purpose of our illustration.

Another consideration deserving attention, is the relation of France in

respect to its sea-coast. As England has the upper hand at sea, it

follows that France must, on that account, be very susceptible with

regard to the whole of her Atlantic coast; and, consequently, must

protect it with garrisons of greater or less strength. Now, however

weak this coast-defence may be, still the French frontiers are tripled

by it; and large drafts, on that account, cannot fail to be withdrawn

from the French army on the theatre of war. Twenty or thirty thousand

troops disposable to effect a landing, with which the English threaten

France, would probably absorb twice or three times the number of French

troops; and, further, we must think not only of troops, but also of

money, artillery, etc., etc., required for ships and coast batteries.

Let us suppose that the English devote 25,000 to this object.

Our plan of war would then consist simply in this:

1. That in the Netherlands:— 200,000 Prussians, 75,000

Netherlanders, 25,000 English, 50,000 North German Confederation,

————— Total: 350,000 be assembled,

of whom about 50,000 should be set aside to garrison frontier

fortresses, and the remaining 300,000 should advance against Paris, and

engage the French Army in a decisive battle.

2. That 200,000 Austrians and 100,000 South German troops should

assemble on the Upper Rhine to advance at the same time as the army of

the Netherlands, their direction being towards the Upper Seine, and

from thence towards the Loire, with a view, likewise, to a great

battle. These two attacks would, perhaps, unite in one on the Loire.

By this the chief point is determined. What we have to add is chiefly

intended to root out false conceptions, and is as follows:—

1. To seek for the great battle, as prescribed, and deliver it with

such a relation, in point of numerical strength and under such

circumstances, as promise a decisive victory, is the course for the

chief commanders to follow; to this object everything must be

sacrificed; and as few men as possible should be employed in sieges,

blockades, garrisons, etc. If, like Schwartzenberg in 1814, as soon as

they enter the enemy’s provinces they spread out in eccentric rays all

is lost. That this did not take place in 1814 the Allies may thank the

powerless state of France alone. The attack should be like a wedge well

driven home, not like a soap bubble, which distends itself till it

bursts.

2. Switzerland must be left to its own forces. If it remains neutral it

forms a good _point d’appui_ on the Upper Rhine; if it is attacked by

France, let her stand up for herself, which in more than one respect

she is very well able to do. Nothing is more absurd than to attribute

to Switzerland a predominant geographical influence upon events in war

because it is the highest land in Europe. Such an influence only exists

under certain very restricted conditions, which are not to be found

here. When the French are attacked in the heart of their country they

can undertake no offensive from Switzerland, either against Italy or

Swabia, and, least of all, can the elevated situation of the country

come into consideration as a decisive circumstance. The advantage of a

country which is dominating in a strategic sense, is, in the first

place, chiefly important in the defensive, and any importance which it

has in the offensive may manifest itself in a single encounter. Whoever

does not know this has not thought over the thing and arrived at a

clear perception of it, and in case that at any future council of

potentates and generals, some learned officer of the general staff

should be found, who, with an anxious brow, displays such wisdom, we

now declare it beforehand to be mere folly, and wish that in the same

council some true Blade, some child of sound common-sense may be

present who will stop his mouth.

3. The space between two attacks we think of very little consequence.

When 600,000 assemble thirty or forty miles from Paris to march against

the heart of France, would any one think of covering the middle Rhine

as well as Berlin, Dresden, Vienna, and Munich? There would be no sense

in such a thing. Are we to cover the communications? That would not be

unimportant; but then we might soon be led into giving this covering

the importance of an attack, and then, instead of advancing on two

lines, as the situation of the States positively requires, we should be

led to advance upon three, which is not required. These three would

then, perhaps, become five, or perhaps seven, and in that way the old

rigmarole would once more become the order of the day.

Our two attacks have each their object; the forces employed on them are

probably very superior to the enemy in numbers. If each pursues his

march with vigour, they cannot fail to react advantageously upon each

other. If one of the two attacks is unfortunate because the enemy has

not divided his force equally, we may fairly expect that the result of

the other will of itself repair this disaster, and this is the true

interdependence between the two. An interdependence extending to (so as

to be affected by) the events of each day is impossible on account of

the distance; neither is it necessary, and therefore the immediate, or,

rather the direct connection, is of no such great value.

Besides, the enemy attacked in the very centre of his dominions will

have no forces worth speaking of to employ in interrupting this

connection; all that is to be apprehended is that this interruption may

be attempted by a co-operation of the inhabitants with the partisans,

so that this object does not actually cost the enemy any troops. To

prevent that, it is sufficient to send a corps of 10,000 or 15,000 men,

particularly strong in cavalry, in the direction from Trèves to Rheims.

It will be able to drive every partisan before it, and keep in line

with the grand army. This corps should neither invest nor watch

fortresses, but march between them, depend on no fixed basis, but give

way before superior forces in any direction, no great misfortune could

happen to it, and if such did happen, it would again be no serious

misfortune for the whole. Under these circumstances, such a corps might

probably serve as an intermediate link between the two attacks.

4. The two subordinate undertakings, that is, the Austrian army in

Italy, and the English army for landing on the coast, might follow

their object as appeared best. If they do not remain idle, their

mission is fulfilled as regards the chief point, and on no account

should either of the two great attacks be made dependent in any way on

these minor ones.

We are quite convinced that in this way France may be overthrown and

chastised whenever it thinks fit to put on that insolent air with which

it has oppressed Europe for a hundred and fifty years. It is only on

the other side of Paris, on the Loire, that those conditions can be

obtained from it which are necessary for the peace of Europe. In this

way alone the natural relation between 30 millions of men and 75

millions will quickly make itself known, but not if the country from

Dunkirk to Genoa is to be surrounded in the way it has been for 150

years by a girdle of armies, whilst fifty different small objects are

aimed at, not one of which is powerful enough to overcome the inertia,

friction, and extraneous influences which spring up and reproduce

themselves everywhere, but more especially in allied armies.

How little the provisional organisation of the German federal armies is

adapted to such a disposition, will strike the reader. By that

organisation the federative part of Germany forms the nucleus of the

German power, and Prussia and Austria thus weakened, lose their natural

influence. But a federative state is a very brittle nucleus in war.

There is in it no unity, no energy, no rational choice of a commander,

no authority, no responsibility.

Austria and Prussia are the two natural centres of force of the German

empire; they form the pivot (or fulcrum), the forte of the sword; they

are monarchical states, used to war; they have well-defined interests,

independence of power; they are predominant over the others. The

organisation should follow these natural lineaments, and not a false

notion about unity, which is an impossibility in such a case; and he

who neglects the possible in quest of the impossible is a fool.