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ON WAR

CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ∗

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NEW AND REVISED EDITION WITHAN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BYCOLONEL F.N. MAUDE C.B. (LATE R.E.)

EIGHTH IMPRESSION IN THREE VOL-UMES

VOLUME I

∗PDF created by pdfbooks.co.za

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analysis of ”War” by Clausewitz.It reveals ”War,” stripped of all acces-

sories, as the exercise of force for the attain-ment of a political object, unrestrained byany law save that of expediency, and thusgives the key to the interpretation of Ger-man political aims, past, present, and fu-ture, which is unconditionally necessary forevery student of the modern conditions of

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same law in each case, viz., ”The survivalof the fittest”–the ”fittest,” as Huxley longsince pointed out, not being necessarily syn-onymous with the ethically ”best.” Neitherof these thinkers was concerned with theethics of the struggle which each studied soexhaustively, but to both men the phase orcondition presented itself neither as moralnor immoral, any more than are famine, dis-

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ease, or other natural phenomena, but asemanating from a force inherent in all liv-ing organisms which can only be masteredby understanding its nature. It is in thatspirit that, one after the other, all the Na-tions of the Continent, taught by such dras-tic lessons as Koniggr¡a:¿tz and Sedan, haveaccepted the lesson, with the result that to-day Europe is an armed camp, and peace

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is maintained by the equilibrium of forces,and will continue just as long as this equi-librium exists, and no longer.

Whether this state of equilibrium is initself a good or desirable thing may be opento argument. I have discussed it at lengthin my ”War and the World’s Life”; but Iventure to suggest that to no one would arenewal of the era of warfare be a change

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for the better, as far as existing humanityis concerned. Meanwhile, however, with ev-ery year that elapses the forces at presentin equilibrium are changing in magnitude–the pressure of populations which have tobe fed is rising, and an explosion along theline of least resistance is, sooner or later,inevitable.

As I read the teaching of the recent Hague9



Conference, no responsible Government onthe Continent is anxious to form in them-selves that line of least resistance; they knowonly too well what War would mean; and wealone, absolutely unconscious of the trendof the dominant thought of Europe, are pullingdown the dam which may at any momentlet in on us the flood of invasion.

Now no responsible man in Europe, per-10



the Nations they govern analogous to the”critical temperature of water heated aboveboiling-point under pressure,” which mayat any moment bring about an explosionwhich they will be powerless to control.

The case is identical with that of an or-dinary steam boiler, delivering so and somany pounds of steam to its engines as longas the envelope can contain the pressure;

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but let a breach in its continuity arise–relievingthe boiling water of all restraint–and in amoment the whole mass flashes into vapour,developing a power no work of man can op-pose.

The ultimate consequences of defeat noman can foretell. The only way to avertthem is to ensure victory; and, again follow-ing out the principles of Clausewitz, victory

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can only be ensured by the creation in peaceof an organisation which will bring everyavailable man, horse, and gun (or ship andgun, if the war be on the sea) in the short-est possible time, and with the utmost pos-sible momentum, upon the decisive field of action– which in turn leads to the final doc-trine formulated by Von der Goltz in excusefor the action of the late President Kruger

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in 1899:”The Statesman who, knowing his in-

strument to be ready, and seeing War in-evitable, hesitates to strike first is guilty of a crime against his country.”

It is because this sequence of cause andeffect is absolutely unknown to our Mem-bers of Parliament, elected by popular rep-resentation, that all our efforts to ensure

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a lasting peace by securing efficiency witheconomy in our National Defences have beenrendered nugatory.

This estimate of the influence of Clause-witz’s sentiments on contemporary thoughtin Continental Europe may appear exag-gerated to those who have not familiarisedthemselves with M. Gustav de Bon’s expo-sition of the laws governing the formation

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male population of every Continental Na-tion has been subjected for two to threeyears of their lives, which has tuned theirminds to vibrate in harmony with his pre-cepts, and those who know and appreciatethis fact at its true value have only to strikethe necessary chords in order to evoke aresponse sufficient to overpower any otherethical conception which those who have

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not organised their forces beforehand canappeal to.

The recent set-back experienced by theSocialists in Germany is an illustration of my position. The Socialist leaders of thatcountry are far behind the responsible Gov-ernors in their knowledge of the manage-ment of crowds. The latter had long before(in 1893, in fact) made their arrangements

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to prevent the spread of Socialistic propa-ganda beyond certain useful limits. As longas the Socialists only threatened capital theywere not seriously interfered with, for theGovernment knew quite well that the undis-puted sway of the employer was not for theultimate good of the State. The standardof comfort must not be pitched too low if men are to he ready to die for their coun-

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her neighbours with such rapidity that thevery first collision must suffice to ensure ul-timate success–a success by no means cer-tain if the enemy, whoever he may be, isallowed breathing-time in which to set hishouse in order.

An example will make this clearer. In1887 Germany was on the very verge of Warwith France and Russia. At that moment

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her superior efficiency, the consequence of this inborn sense of duty–surely one of thehighest qualities of humanity–was so greatthat it is more than probable that less thansix weeks would have sufficed to bring theFrench to their knees. Indeed, after the firstfortnight it would have been possible to be-gin transferring troops from the Rhine tothe Niemen; and the same case may arise

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Nation to sacrifice the enormous advantagethey have prepared by a whole century of self- sacrifice and practical patriotism byan appeal to a Court of Arbitration, andthe further delays which must arise by go-ing through the medieaeval formalities of recalling Ambassadors and exchanging ul-timatums.

Most of our present-day politicians have28



spirit which gave life to the form; and notwith-standingthe variations in application whichhave resulted from the progress of inven-tion in every field of national activity (notin the technical improvements in armamentalone), this spirit still remains the essen-tial factor in the whole matter. Indeed, if anything, modern appliances have intensi-fied its importance, for though, with equal

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armaments on both sides, the form of bat-tles must always remain the same, the facil-ity and certainty of combination which bet-ter methods of communicating orders andintelligence have conferred upon the Com-manders has rendered the control of greatmasses immeasurably more certain than itwas in the past.

Men kill each other at greater distances,33



it is true– but killing is a constant factor inall battles. The difference between ”nowand then” lies in this, that, thanks to theenormous increase in range (the essentialfeature in modern armaments), it is possibleto concentrate by surprise, on any chosenspot, a man-killing power fully twentyfoldgreater than was conceivable in the days of Waterloo; and whereas in Napoleon’s time

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this concentration of man-killing power (whichin his hands took the form of the great case-shot attack) depended almost entirely onthe shape and condition of the ground, whichmight or might not be favourable, nowadayssuch concentration of fire-power is almostindependent of the country altogether.

Thus, at Waterloo, Napoleon was com-pelled to wait till the ground became firm

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enough for his guns to gallop over; nowa-days every gun at his disposal, and five timesthat number had he possessed them, mighthave opened on any point in the British po-sition he had selected, as soon as it becamelight enough to see.

Or, to take a more modern instance,viz., the battle of St. Privat-Gravelotte,August 18, 1870, where the Germans were

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like water from a fire-engine hose, if the oc-casion demanded such concentration.

But these alterations in method makeno difference in the truth of the picture of War which Clausewitz presents, with whichevery soldier, and above all every Leader,should be saturated.

Death, wounds, suffering, and privationremain the same, whatever the weapons em-

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ployed, and their reaction on the ultimatenature of man is the same now as in thestruggle a century ago. It is this reactionthat the Great Commander has to under-stand and prepare himself to control; andthe task becomes ever greater as, fortunatelyfor humanity, the opportunities for gather-ing experience become more rare.

In the end, and with every improvement39



a Kshittriya– If, knowing thy duty and thytask, thou bidd’st Duty and task go by–thatshall be sin! And those to come shall speakthee infamy From age to age. But infamy isworse For men of noble blood to bear thandeath! . . . . . . Therefore arise, thouSon of Kunti! Brace Thine arm for conflict;nerve thy heart to meet, As things alike tothee, pleasure or pain, Profit or ruin, vic-

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MEANS IN WAR 27 III THE GENIUS FORWAR 46 IV OF DANGER IN WAR 71 VOF BODILY EXERTION IN WAR 73 VIINFORMATION IN WAR 75 VII FRIC-TION IN WAR 77 VIII CONCLUDING RE-MARKS 81

BOOK II ON THE THEORY OF WARI BRANCHES OF THE ART OF WAR 84II ON THE THEORY OF WAR 95 III ART

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ANCE 191 VIII SUPERIORITY OF NUM-BERS 192 IX THE SURPRISE 199 X STRATAGEM205 XI ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN SPACE207 XII ASSEMBLY OF FORCES IN TIME208 XIII STRATEGIC RESERVE 217 XIVECONOMY OF FORCES 221 XV GEO-METRICAL ELEMENT 222 XVI ON THESUSPENSION OF THE ACT IN WAR page224 XVII ON THE CHARACTER OF MOD-

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BAT 256 VII DECISION OF THE COM-BAT 257 VIII MUTUAL UNDERSTAND-ING AS TO A BATTLE 266 IX THE BAT-TLE 270 X EFFECTS OF VICTORY 277XI THE USE OF THE BATTLE 284 XIISTRATEGIC MEANS OF UTILISING VIC-TORY 292 XIII RETREAT AFTER A LOSTBATTLE 305 XIV NIGHT FIGHTING 308

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION48



IT will naturally excite surprise that apreface by a female hand should accompanya work on such a subject as the present. Formy friends no explanation of the circum-stance is required; but I hope by a simplerelation of the cause to clear myself of theappearance of presumption in the eyes alsoof those to whom I am not known.

The work to which these lines serve as49



a preface occupied almost entirely the lasttwelve years of the life of my inexpressiblybeloved husband, who has unfortunately beentorn too soon from myself and his country.To complete it was his most earnest desire;but it was not his intention that it shouldbe published during his life; and if I tried topersuade him to alter that intention, he of-ten answered, half in jest, but also, perhaps,

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difference of opinion on this point, still Iam sure there will be no mistake as to thefeeling which has prompted me to overcomethe timidity which makes any such appear-ance, even in a subordinate part, so difficultfor a woman.

It will be understood, as a matter of course, that I cannot have the most remoteintention of considering myself as the real

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editress of a work which is far above thescope of my capacity: I only stand at itsside as an affectionate companion on its en-trance into the world. This position I maywell claim, as a similar one was allowed meduring its formation and progress. Thosewho are acquainted with our happy marriedlife, and know how we shared everythingwith each other–not only joy and sorrow,

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but also every occupation, every interest of daily life–will understand that my belovedhusband could not be occupied on a workof this kind without its being known to me.Therefore, no one can like me bear testi-mony to the zeal, to the love with whichhe laboured on it, to the hopes which hebound up with it, as well as the mannerand time of its elaboration. His richly gifted

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seems to belong to those early days.”In the principles here committed to pa-

per, in my opinion, the chief things whichcompose Strategy, as it is called, are touchedupon. I looked upon them only as materi-als, and had just got to such a length to-wards the moulding them into a whole.

”These materials have been amassed with-out any regularly preconceived plan. My

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tention of the intelligent just as much bythat which was to be developed from them,as by that which they contained in them-selves. I had, therefore, before me in idea,intelligent readers already acquainted withthe subject. But my nature, which alwaysimpels me to development and systematis-ing, at last worked its way out also in thisinstance. For some time I was able to con-

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two or three years, and which any one in-terested in the subject would at all eventstake up more than once.”

In Coblentz, where he was much occu-pied with duty, he could only give occa-sional hours to his private studies. It wasnot until 1818, after his appointment as Di-rector of the General Academy of War atBerlin, that he had the leisure to expand

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his work, and enrich it from the history of modern wars. This leisure also reconciledhim to his new avocation, which, in otherrespects, was not satisfactory to him, as, ac-cording to the existing organisation of theAcademy, the scientific part of the course isnot under the Director, but conducted by aBoard of Studies. Free as he was from allpetty vanity, from every feeling of restless,

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dation of by his work was the object of hislife. That, notwithstanding this, the reso-lution not to let the work appear until af-ter his death became more confirmed is thebest proof that no vain, paltry longing forpraise and distinction, no particle of egotis-tical views, was mixed up with this nobleaspiration for great and lasting usefulness.

Thus he worked diligently on, until, in67



the spring of 1830, he was appointed to theartillery, and his energies were called intoactivity in such a different sphere, and tosuch a high degree, that he was obliged, forthe moment at least, to give up all liter-ary work. He then put his papers in or-der, sealed up the separate packets, labelledthem, and took sorrowful leave of this em-ployment which he loved so much. He was

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sent to Breslau in August of the same year,as Chief of the Second Artillery District,but in December recalled to Berlin, and ap-pointed Chief of the Staff to Field-MarshalCount Gneisenau (for the term of his com-mand). In March 1831, he accompanied hisrevered Commander to Posen. When he re-turned from there to Breslau in Novemberafter the melancholy event which had taken

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as the preparation of the maps to accom-pany the historical parts of the work. Imust also mention my much-loved brother,who was my support in the hour of mymisfortune, and who has also done muchfor me in respect of these papers; amongstother things, by carefully examining andputting them in order, he found the com-mencement of the revision which my dear

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ble loss, by the treasure of my recollectionsand of my hopes, by the rich legacy of sym-pathy and friendship which I owe the beloveddeparted, by the elevating feeling which Iexperience at seeing his rare worth so gen-erally and honourably acknowledged.

The trust confided to me by a RoyalCouple is a fresh benefit for which I haveto thank the Almighty, as it opens to me

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in view, by which all ideas will acquire aclearer meaning, a more precise direction,and a closer application. The two kinds of War are, first, those in which the objectis the OVERTHROW OF THE ENEMY,whether it be that we aim at his destruc-tion, politically, or merely at disarming himand forcing him to conclude peace on ourterms; and next, those in which our ob-

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ject is MERELY TO MAKE SOME CON-QUESTS ON THE FRONTIERS OF HISCOUNTRY, either for the purpose of re-taining them permanently, or of turning themto account as matter of exchange in the set-tlement of a peace. Transition from onekind to the other must certainly continue toexist, but the completely different nature of the tendencies of the two must everywhere

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appear, and must separate from each otherthings which are incompatible.

Besides establishing this real differencein Wars, another practically necessary pointof view must at the same time be estab-lished, which is, that WAR IS ONLY ACONTINUATION OF STATE POLICY BYOTHER MEANS. This point of view be-ing adhered to everywhere, will introduce

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will get rid of a good deal of dross, manyrents and chasms will be closed up, andmuch that is of a general nature will betransformed into distinct conceptions andforms.

The seventh book–on attack–for the dif-ferent chapters of which sketches are alreadymade, is to be considered as a reflection of the sixth, and must be completed at once,

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according to the above-mentioned more dis-tinct points of view, so that it will requireno fresh revision, but rather may serve as amodel in the revision of the first six books.

For the eighth book–on the Plan of aWar, that is, of the organisation of a wholeWar in general–several chapters are designed,but they are not at all to be regarded as realmaterials, they are merely a track, roughly

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cleared, as it were, through the mass, in or-der by that means to ascertain the points of most importance. They have answered thisobject, and I propose, on finishing the sev-enth book, to proceed at once to the work-ing out of the eighth, where the two pointsof view above mentioned will be chiefly af-firmed, by which everything will be sim-plified, and at the same time have a spirit

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breathed into it. I hope in this book to ironout many creases in the heads of strategistsand statesmen, and at least to show the object of action, and the real point to be con-sidered in War.

Now, when I have brought my ideas clearlyout by finishing this eighth book, and haveproperly established the leading features of War, it will be easier for me to carry the

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spirit of these ideas in to the first six books,and to make these same features show them-selves everywhere. Therefore I shall defertill then the revision of the first six books.

Should the work be interrupted by mydeath, then what is found can only be calleda mass of conceptions not brought into form;but as these are open to endless misconcep-tions, they will doubtless give rise to a num-

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ber of crude criticisms: for in these things,every one thinks, when he takes up his pen,that whatever comes into his head is worthsaying and printing, and quite as incontro-vertible as that twice two make four. If sucha one would take the pains, as I have done,to think over the subject, for years, and tocompare his ideas with military history, hewould certainly be a little more guarded in

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his criticism.Still, notwithstanding this imperfect form,

I believe that an impartial reader thirstingfor truth and conviction will rightly appre-ciate in the first six books the fruits of sev-eral years’ reflection and a diligent study of War, and that, perhaps, he will find in themsome leading ideas which may bring abouta revolution in the theory of War.

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and human aspects.The first chapter of the first book is the

only one which I consider as completed; itwill at least serve to show the manner inwhich I proposed to treat the subject through-out.

The theory of the Grande Guerre, orStrategy, as it is called, is beset with ex-traordinary difficulties, and we may affirm

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that very few men have clear conceptions of the separate subjects, that is, conceptionscarried up to their full logical conclusions.In real action most men are guided merelyby the tact of judgment which hits the object more or less accurately, according asthey possess more or less genius.

This is the way in which all great Gener-als have acted, and therein partly lay their

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greatness and their genius, that they alwayshit upon what was right by this tact. Thusalso it will always be in action, and so farthis tact is amply sufficient. But when it isa question, not of acting oneself, but of con-vincing others in a consultation, then all de-pends on clear conceptions and demonstra-tion of the inherent relations, and so littleprogress has been made in this respect that

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Leipsic Campaign 1813.Clear ideas on these matters are there-

fore not wholly useless; besides, the humanmind has a general tendency to clearness,and always wants to be consistent with thenecessary order of things.

Owing to the great difficulties attend-ing a philosophical construction of the Artof War, and the many attempts at it that

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have failed, most people have come to theconclusion that such a theory is impossible,because it concerns things which no stand-ing law can embrace. We should also joinin this opinion and give up any attempt ata theory, were it not that a great number of propositions make themselves evident with-out any difficulty, as, for instance, that thedefensive form, with a negative object, is

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the stronger form, the attack, with the pos-itive object, the weaker–that great resultscarry the little ones with them–that, there-fore, strategic effects may be referred to cer-tain centres of gravity–that a demonstra-tion is a weaker application of force thana real attack, that, therefore, there mustbe some special reason for resorting to theformer–that victory consists not merely in

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nature of the things of which they are com-posed. Nowhere has the philosophical ar-gument been evaded, but where it runs outinto too thin a thread the Author has pre-ferred to cut it short, and fall back uponthe corresponding results of experience; forin the same way as many plants only bearfruit when they do not shoot too high, so inthe practical arts the theoretical leaves and

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of many military writers especially of thosewho have aimed at treating of War itself in a scientific manner, is shown in manyinstances, in which by their reasoning, thepro and contra swallow each other up soeffectually that there is no vestige of thetails even which were left in the case of thetwo lions.

It is, perhaps, not impossible to write a105



regulations in case of fire.If a house takes fire, we must seek, above

all things, to protect the right side of thehouse standing on the left, and, on the otherhand, the left side of the house on the right;for if we, for example, should protect theleft side of the house on the left, then theright side of the house lies to the right of theleft, and consequently as the fire lies to the

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right of this side, and of the right side (forwe have assumed that the house is situatedto the left of the fire), therefore the rightside is situated nearer to the fire than theleft, and the right side of the house mightcatch fire if it was not protected before itcame to the left, which is protected. Con-sequently, something might be burnt that isnot protected, and that sooner than some-

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the notice of General Scharnhorst, then atthe head of the establishment; and the pa-tronage of this distinguished officer had im-mense influence on his future career, and wemay gather from his writings that he everafterwards continued to entertain a high es-teem for Scharnhorst. In the campaign of 1806 he served as Aide-de-camp to PrinceAugustus of Prussia; and being wounded

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and taken prisoner, he was sent into Franceuntil the close of that war. On his return, hewas placed on General Scharnhorst’s Staff,and employed in the work then going on forthe reorganisation of the Army. He was alsoat this time selected as military instructorto the late King of Prussia, then CrownPrince. In 1812 Clausewitz, with severalother Prussian officers, having entered the

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from the French); the other was an inter-cepted letter from Macdonald to the Dukeof Bassano. With regard to the former of these, the Author says, ”it would not havehad weight with a man like York, but for amilitary justification, if the Prussian Courtshould require one as against the French, itwas important.”

The second letter was calculated at the117



least to call up in General York’s mind allthe feelings of bitterness which perhaps forsome days past bad been diminished by theconsciousness of his own behaviour towardsthe writer.

As the Author entered General York’schamber, the latter called out to him, ”Keepoff from me; I will have nothing more to dowith you; your d—-d Cossacks have let a

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for a candle, as he had letters to show theGeneral, and, as the latter seemed still tohesitate, the Author added, ”Your Excel-lency will not surely place me in the embar-rassment of departing without having ex-ecuted my commission.” The General or-dered candles, and called in Colonel vonRoeder, the chief of his staff, from the ante-chamber. The letters were read. After a

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General Walmoden’s Russo-German Corps,which formed part of the Army of the Northunder Bernadotte. His name is frequentlymentioned with distinction in that campaign,particularly in connection with the affair of Goehrde.

Clausewitz re-entered the Prussian ser-vice in 1815, and served as Chief of theStaff to Thielman’s corps, which was en-

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the table of Marshal Gneisenau, at Posen.Amongst other anecdotes, General Brandt

relates that, upon one occasion, the conver-sation at the Marshal’s table turned upon asermon preached by a priest, in which somegreat absurdities were introduced, and a dis-cussion arose as to whether the Bishop shouldnot be made responsible for what the priesthad said. This led to the topic of theology

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Kiesewetter’s, who had indoctrinated himin the philosophy of Kant, certainly diluted–I might even say in homoeopathic doses.”This anecdote is only interesting as the men-tion of Kiesewetter points to a circumstancein the life of Clausewitz that may have hadan influence in forming those habits of thoughtwhich distinguish his writings.

”The way,” says General Brandt, ”in131



which General Clausewitz judged of things,drew conclusions from movements and marches,calculated the times of the marches, andthe points where decisions would take place,was extremely interesting. Fate has un-fortunately denied him an opportunity of showing his talents in high command, but Ihave a firm persuasion that as a strategisthe would have greatly distinguished him-

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self. As a leader on the field of battle, onthe other hand, he would not have beenso much in his right place, from a manqued’habitude du commandement, he wantedthe art d’enlever les troupes.”

After the Prussian Army of Observationwas dissolved, Clausewitz returned to Bres-lau, and a few days after his arrival wasseized with cholera, the seeds of which he

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CHAPTER I. WHAT IS WAR?

1. INTRODUCTION.WE propose to consider first the single

elements of our subject, then each branchor part, and, last of all, the whole, in all

its relations–therefore to advance from thesimple to the complex. But it is necessaryfor us to commence with a glance at the

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nature of the whole, because it is particu-larly necessary that in the consideration of any of the parts their relation to the wholeshould be kept constantly in view.

2. DEFINITION.We shall not enter into any of the ab-

struse definitions of War used by publicists.We shall keep to the element of the thing it-self, to a duel. War is nothing but a duel on

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VIOLENCE INTENDED TO COMPEL OUROPPONENT TO FULFIL OUR WILL.

Violence arms itself with the inventionsof Art and Science in order to contend againstviolence. Self- imposed restrictions, almostimperceptible and hardly worth mention-ing, termed usages of International Law,accompany it without essentially impairingits power. Violence, that is to say, physical

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as something we can eliminate from our cal-culations.

3. UTMOST USE OF FORCE.Now, philanthropists may easily imag-

ine there is a skilful method of disarmingand overcoming an enemy withoutgreat blood-shed, and that this is the proper tendencyof the Art of War. However plausible thismay appear, still it is an error which must

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be extirpated; for in such dangerous thingsas War, the errors which proceed from aspirit of benevolence are the worst. As theuse of physical power to the utmost extentby no means excludes the co-operation of the intelligence, it follows that he who usesforce unsparingly, without reference to thebloodshed involved, must obtain a superi-ority if his adversary uses less vigour in its

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application. The former then dictates thelaw to the latter, and both proceed to ex-tremities to which the only limitations arethose imposed by the amount of counter-acting force on each side.

This is the way in which the matter mustbe viewed and it is to no purpose, it is evenagainst one’s own interest, to turn awayfrom the consideration of the real nature of

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the affair because the horror of its elementsexcites repugnance.

If the Wars of civilised people are lesscruel and destructive than those of savages,the difference arises from the social condi-tion both of States in themselves and intheir relations to each other. Out of this so-cial condition and its relations War arises,and by it War is subjected to conditions, is

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controlled and modified. But these thingsdo not belong to War itself; they are onlygiven conditions; and to introduce into thephilosophy of War itself a principle of mod-eration would be an absurdity.

Two motives lead men to War: instinc-tive hostility and hostile intention. In ourdefinition of War, we have chosen as itscharacteristic the latter of these elements,

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amongst civilised nations those emanatingfrom the understanding, have the predom-inance; but this difference arises from atten-dant circumstances, existing institutions, &c.,and, therefore, is not to be found necessar-ily in all cases, although it prevails in themajority. In short, even the most civilisednations may burn with passionate hatred of each other.

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We may see from this what a fallacyit would be to refer the War of a civilisednation entirely to an intelligent act on thepart of the Government, and to imagine itas continually freeing itself more and morefrom all feeling of passion in such a waythat at last the physical masses of combat-ants would no longer be required; in reality,their mere relations would suffice–a kind of

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[] Clausewitz alludes here to the ”Warsof Liberation,” 1813,14,15.

Therefore, if we find civilised nations donot put their prisoners to death, do notdevastate towns and countries, this is be-cause their intelligence exercises greater in-fluence on their mode of carrying on War,and has taught them more effectual meansof applying force than these rude acts of

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mere instinct. The invention of gunpow-der, the constant progress of improvementsin the construction of firearms, are suffi-cient proofs that the tendency to destroythe adversary which lies at the bottom of the conception of War is in no way changedor modified through the progress of civili-sation.

We therefore repeat our proposition, that152



We have already said that the aim of allaction in War is to disarm the enemy, andwe shall now show that this, theoreticallyat least, is indispensable.

If our opponent is to be made to complywith our will, we must place him in a situ-ation which is more oppressive to him thanthe sacrifice which we demand; but the dis-advantages of this position must naturally

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the enemy is to be reduced to submissionby an act of War, he must either be posi-tively disarmed or placed in such a positionthat he is threatened with it. From this itfollows that the disarming or overthrow of the enemy, whichever we call it, must al-ways be the aim of Warfare. Now War isalways the shock of two hostile bodies incollision, not the action of a living power

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the second reciprocal action, and leads to asecond extreme (SECOND RECIPROCALACTION).

5. UTMOST EXERTION OF POW-ERS.

If we desire to defeat the enemy, we mustproportion our efforts to his powers of re-sistance. This is expressed by the prod-uct of two factors which cannot be sepa-

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rated, namely, the sum of available meansand the strength of the Will. The sum of the available means may be estimated in ameasure, as it depends (although not en-tirely) upon numbers; but the strength of volition is more difficult to determine, andcan only be estimated to a certain extentby the strength of the motives. Grantedwe have obtained in this way an approxi-

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mation to the strength of the power to becontended with, we can then take of ourown means, and either increase them so asto obtain a preponderance, or, in case wehave not the resources to effect this, then doour best by increasing our means as far aspossible. But the adversary does the same;therefore, there is a new mutual enhance-ment, which, in pure conception, must cre-

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ate a fresh effort towards an extreme. Thisis the third case of reciprocal action, and athird extreme with which we meet (THIRDRECIPROCAL ACTION).

6. MODIFICATION IN THE REAL-ITY.

Thus reasoning in the abstract, the mindcannot stop short of an extreme, because ithas to deal with an extreme, with a conflict

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of forces left to themselves, and obeying noother but their own inner laws. If we shouldseek to deduce from the pure conception of War an absolute point for the aim which weshall propose and for the means which weshall apply, this constant reciprocal actionwould involve us in extremes, which wouldbe nothing but a play of ideas producedby an almost invisible train of logical sub-

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tleties. If, adhering closely to the absolute,we try to avoid all difficulties by a strokeof the pen, and insist with logical strictnessthat in every case the extreme must be theobject, and the utmost effort must be ex-erted in that direction, such a stroke of thepen would be a mere paper law, not by anymeans adapted to the real world.

Even supposing this extreme tension of 163



forces was an absolute which could easilybe ascertained, still we must admit that thehuman mind would hardly submit itself tothis kind of logical chimera. There wouldbe in many cases an unnecessary waste of power, which would be in opposition to otherprinciples of statecraft; an effort of Willwould be required disproportioned to theproposed object, which therefore it would

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be impossible to realise, for the human willdoes not derive its impulse from logical sub-tleties.

But everything takes a different shapewhen we pass from abstractions to reality.In the former, everything must be subjectto optimism, and we must imagine the oneside as well as the other striving after per-fection and even attaining it. Will this ever

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take place in reality? It will if,(1) War becomes a completely isolated

act, which arises suddenly, and is in no wayconnected with the previous history of thecombatant States.

(2) If it is limited to a single solution, orto several simultaneous solutions.

(3) If it contains within itself the solu-tion perfect and complete, free from any

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reaction upon it, through a calculation be-forehand of the political situation which willfollow from it.

7. WAR IS NEVER AN ISOLATEDACT.

With regard to the first point, neitherof the two opponents is an abstract personto the other, not even as regards that fac-tor in the sum of resistance which does not

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depend on objective things, viz., the Will.This Will is not an entirely unknown quan-tity; it indicates what it will be to-morrowby what it is to-day. War does not springup quite suddenly, it does not spread tothe full in a moment; each of the two op-ponents can, therefore, form an opinion of the other, in a great measure, from whathe is and what he does, instead of judging

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of him according to what he, strictly speak-ing, should be or should do. But, now, manwith his incomplete organisation is alwaysbelow the line of absolute perfection, andthus these deficiencies, having an influenceon both sides, become a modifying princi-ple.

8. WAR DOES NOT CONSIST OF ASINGLE INSTANTANEOUS BLOW.

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The second point gives rise to the fol-lowing considerations:–

If War ended in a single solution, or anumber of simultaneous ones, then natu-rally all the preparations for the same wouldhave a tendency to the extreme, for an omis-sion could not in any way be repaired; theutmost, then, that the world of reality couldfurnish as a guide for us would be the prepa-

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wards the extreme.Yet every War would necessarily resolve

itself into a single solution, or a sum of simultaneous results, if all the means re-quired for the struggle were raised at once,or could be at once raised; for as one ad-verse result necessarily diminishes the means,then if all the means have been applied inthe first, a second cannot properly be sup-

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posed. All hostile acts which might followwould belong essentially to the first, andform, in reality only its duration.

But we have already seen that even inthe preparation for War the real world stepsinto the place of mere abstract conception–a material standard into the place of thehypotheses of an extreme: that therefore inthat way both parties, by the influence of

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the mutual reaction, remain below the lineof extreme effort, and therefore all forcesare not at once brought forward.

It lies also in the nature of these forcesand their application that they cannot allbe brought into activity at the same time.These forces are THE ARMIES ACTUALLYON FOOT, THE COUNTRY, with its su-perficial extent and its population, AND

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THE ALLIES.In point of fact, the country, with its

superficial area and the population, besidesbeing the source of all military force, con-stitutes in itself an integral part of the effi-cient quantities in War, providing either thetheatre of war or exercising a considerableinfluence on the same.

Now, it is possible to bring all the mov-175



force of the first decision, will be more fullyshown hereafter. Here it is sufficient to showthat a complete concentration of all avail-able means in a moment of time is contra-dictory to the nature of War.

Now this, in itself, furnishes no groundfor relaxing our efforts to accumulate strengthto gain the first result, because an unfavourableissue is always a disadvantage to which no

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one would purposely expose himself, andalso because the first decision, although notthe only one, still will have the more influ-ence on subsequent events, the greater it isin itself.

But the possibility of gaining a later re-sult causes men to take refuge in that expec-tation, owing to the repugnance in the hu-man mind to making excessive efforts; and

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therefore forces are not concentrated andmeasures are not taken for the first decisionwith that energy which would otherwise beused. Whatever one belligerent omits fromweakness, becomes to the other a real objective ground for limiting his own efforts,and thus again, through this reciprocal ac-tion, extreme tendencies are brought downto efforts on a limited scale.

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9. THE RESULT IN WAR IS NEVERABSOLUTE.

Lastly, even the final decision of a wholeWar is not always to be regarded as abso-lute. The conquered State often sees in itonly a passing evil, which may be repairedin after times by means of political combi-nations. How much this must modify thedegree of tension, and the vigour of the ef-

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forts made, is evident in itself.10. THE PROBABILITIES OF REAL

LIFE TAKE THE PLACE OF THE CON-CEPTIONS OF THE EXTREME AND THEABSOLUTE.

In this manner, the whole act of War isremoved from the rigorous law of forces ex-erted to the utmost. If the extreme is nolonger to be apprehended, and no longer to

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be sought for, it is left to the judgment todetermine the limits for the efforts to bemade in place of it, and this can only bedone on the data furnished by the facts of the real world by the LAWS OF PROBA-BILITY. Once the belligerents are no longermere conceptions, but individual States andGovernments, once the War is no longeran ideal, but a definite substantial proce-

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dure, then the reality will furnish the datato compute the unknown quantities whichare required to be found.

From the character, the measures, thesituation of the adversary, and the relationswith which he is surrounded, each side willdraw conclusions by the law of probabilityas to the designs of the other, and act ac-cordingly.

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11. THE POLITICAL OBJECT NOWREAPPEARS.

Here the question which we had laid asideforces itself again into consideration (see No.2), viz., the political object of the War. Thelaw of the extreme, the view to disarm theadversary, to overthrow him, has hithertoto a certain extent usurped the place of this end or object. Just as this law loses

185



its force, the political must again come for-ward. If the whole consideration is a calcu-lation of probability based on definite per-sons and relations, then the political object,being the original motive, must be an essen-tial factor in the product. The smaller thesacrifice we demand from our, the smaller,it may be expected, will be the means of resistance which he will employ; but the

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smaller his preparation, the smaller will oursrequire to be. Further, the smaller our po-litical object, the less value shall we setupon it, and the more easily shall we beinduced to give it up altogether.

Thus, therefore, the political object, asthe original motive of the War, will be thestandard for determining both the aim of the military force and also the amount of ef-

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fort to be made. This it cannot be in itself,but it is so in relation to both the belligerentStates, because we are concerned with real-ities, not with mere abstractions. One andthe same political object may produce to-tally different effects upon different people,or even upon the same people at differenttimes; we can, therefore, only admit the po-litical object as the measure, by considering

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it in its effects upon those masses which itis to move, and consequently the nature of those masses also comes into consideration.It is easy to see that thus the result maybe very different according as these massesare animated with a spirit which will infusevigour into the action or otherwise. It isquite possible for such a state of feeling toexist between two States that a very tri-

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fling political motive for War may producean effect quite disproportionate–in fact, aperfect explosion.

This applies to the efforts which the po-litical object will call forth in the two States,and to the aim which the military actionshall prescribe for itself. At times it mayitself be that aim, as, for example, the con-quest of a province. At other times the po-

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litical object itself is not suitable for the aimof military action; then such a one must bechosen as will be an equivalent for it, andstand in its place as regards the conclusionof peace. But also, in this, due attentionto the peculiar character of the States con-cerned is always supposed. There are cir-cumstances in which the equivalent mustbe much greater than the political object,

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in order to secure the latter. The politicalobject will be so much the more the stan-dard of aim and effort, and have more in-fluence in itself, the more the masses areindifferent, the less that any mutual feelingof hostility prevails in the two States fromother causes, and therefore there are caseswhere the political object almost alone willbe decisive.

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If the aim of the military action is anequivalent for the political object, that ac-tion will in general diminish as the politicalobject diminishes, and in a greater degreethe more the political object dominates. Thusit is explained how, without any contradic-tion in itself, there may be Wars of all de-grees of importance and energy, from a Warof extermination down to the mere use of an

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army of observation. This, however, leadsto a question of another kind which we havehereafter to develop and answer.

12. A SUSPENSION IN THE ACTIONOF WAR UNEXPLAINED BY ANYTHINGSAID AS YET.

However insignificant the political claimsmutually advanced, however weak the meansput forth, however small the aim to which

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military action is directed, can this actionbe suspended even for a moment? This isa question which penetrates deeply into thenature of the subject.

Every transaction requires for its accom-plishment a certain time which we call itsduration. This may be longer or shorter,according as the person acting throws moreor less despatch into his movements.

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About this more or less we shall nottrouble ourselves here. Each person acts inhis own fashion; but the slow person doesnot protract the thing because he wishes tospend more time about it, but because byhis nature he requires more time, and if hemade more haste would not do the thing sowell. This time, therefore, depends on subjective causes, and belongs to the length, so

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nents, but of the general progress of thewhole action of the War.

13. THERE IS ONLY ONE CAUSEWHICH CAN SUSPEND THE ACTION,AND THIS SEEMS TO BE ONLY POSSI-BLE ON ONE SIDE IN ANY CASE.

If two parties have armed themselves forstrife, then a feeling of animosity must havemoved them to it; as long now as they con-

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tinue armed, that is, do not come to termsof peace, this feeling must exist; and it canonly be brought to a standstill by either sideby one single motive alone, which is, THATHE WAITS FOR A MORE FAVOURABLEMOMENT FOR ACTION. Now, at firstsight, it appears that this motive can neverexist except on one side, because it, eo ipso,must be prejudicial to the other. If the one

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has an interest in acting, then the othermust have an interest in waiting.

A complete equilibrium of forces can neverproduce a suspension of action, for duringthis suspension he who has the positive object (that is, the assailant) must continueprogressing; for if we should imagine an equi-librium in this way, that he who has thepositive object, therefore the strongest mo-

200



tive, can at the same time only commandthe lesser means, so that the equation ismade up by the product of the motive andthe power, then we must say, if no alterationin this condition of equilibrium is to be ex-pected, the two parties must make peace;but if an alteration is to be expected, thenit can only be favourable to one side, andtherefore the other has a manifest interest

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to act without delay. We see that the con-ception of an equilibrium cannot explaina suspension of arms, but that it ends inthe question of the EXPECTATION OF AMORE FAVOURABLE MOMENT.

Let us suppose, therefore, that one of two States has a positive object, as, for in-stance, the conquest of one of the enemy’sprovinces–which is to be utilised in the set-

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tlement of peace. After this conquest, hispolitical object is accomplished, the neces-sity for action ceases, and for him a pauseensues. If the adversary is also contentedwith this solution, he will make peace; if not, he must act. Now, if we suppose thatin four weeks he will be in a better condi-tion to act, then he has sufficient groundsfor putting off the time of action.

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But from that moment the logical coursefor the enemy appears to be to act that hemay not give the conquered party THE DE-SIRED time. Of course, in this mode of reasoning a complete insight into the stateof circumstances on both sides is supposed.

14. THUS A CONTINUANCE OF AC-TION WILL ENSUE WHICH WILL AD-VANCE TOWARDS A CLIMAX.

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If this unbroken continuity of hostile op-erations really existed, the effect would bethat everything would again be driven to-wards the extreme; for, irrespective of theeffect of such incessant activity in inflamingthe feelings, and infusing into the whole agreater degree of passion, a greater elemen-tary force, there would also follow from thiscontinuance of action a stricter continuity, a

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closer connection between cause and effect,and thus every single action would becomeof more importance, and consequently morereplete with danger.

But we know that the course of actionin War has seldom or never this unbrokencontinuity, and that there have been manyWars in which action occupied by far thesmallest portion of time employed, the whole

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of the rest being consumed in inaction. Itis impossible that this should be always ananomaly; suspension of action in War musttherefore be possible, that is no contradic-tion in itself. We now proceed to show howthis is.

15. HERE, THEREFORE, THE PRIN-CIPLE OF POLARITY IS BROUGHT INTOREQUISITION.

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As we have supposed the interests of one Commander to be always antagonisticto those of the other, we have assumed atrue POLARITY. We reserve a fuller expla-nation of this for another chapter, merelymaking the following observation on it atpresent.

The principle of polarity is only validwhen it can be conceived in one and the

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same thing, where the positive and its op-posite the negative completely destroy eachother. In a battle both sides strive to con-quer; that is true polarity, for the victory of the one side destroys that of the other. Butwhen we speak of two different things whichhave a common relation external to them-selves, then it is not the things but theirrelations which have the polarity.

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16. ATTACK AND DEFENCE ARETHINGS DIFFERING IN KIND AND OFUNEQUAL FORCE. POLARITY IS, THERE-FORE, NOT APPLICABLE TO THEM.

If there was only one form of War, towit, the attack of the enemy, therefore nodefence; or, in other words, if the attackwas distinguished from the defence merelyby the positive motive, which the one has

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and the other has not, but the methods of each were precisely one and the same: thenin this sort of fight every advantage gainedon the one side would be a correspondingdisadvantage on the other, and true polar-ity would exist.

But action in War is divided into twoforms, attack and defence, which, as we shallhereafter explain more particularly, are very

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different and of unequal strength. Polaritytherefore lies in that to which both bear arelation, in the decision, but not in the at-tack or defence itself.

If the one Commander wishes the solu-tion put off, the other must wish to hastenit, but only by the same form of action. If it is A’s interest not to attack his enemyat present, but four weeks hence, then it is

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B’s interest to be attacked, not four weekshence, but at the present moment. This isthe direct antagonism of interests, but it byno means follows that it would be for B’s in-terest to attack A at once. That is plainlysomething totally different.

17. THE EFFECT OF POLARITY ISOFTEN DESTROYED BY THE SUPERI-ORITY OF THE DEFENCE OVER THE

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ATTACK, AND THUS THE SUSPENSIONOF ACTION IN WAR IS EXPLAINED.

If the form of defence is stronger thanthat of offence, as we shall hereafter show,the question arises, Is the advantage of adeferred decision as great on the one sideas the advantage of the defensive form onthe other? If it is not, then it cannot byits counter-weight over- balance the latter,

214



and thus influence the progress of the ac-tion of the War. We see, therefore, that theimpulsive force existing in the polarity of interests may be lost in the difference be-tween the strength of the offensive and thedefensive, and thereby become ineffectual.

If, therefore, that side for which the presentis favourable, is too weak to be able to dis-pense with the advantage of the defensive,

215



he must put up with the unfavourable prospectswhich the future holds out; for it may stillbe better to fight a defensive battle in theunpromising future than to assume the of-fensive or make peace at present. Now, be-ing convinced that the superiority of thedefensive[] (rightly understood) is very great,and much greater than may appear at firstsight, we conceive that the greater number

216



of those periods of inaction which occur inwar are thus explained without involvingany contradiction. The weaker the motivesto action are, the more will those motivesbe absorbed and neutralised by this differ-ence between attack and defence, the morefrequently, therefore, will action in warfarebe stopped, as indeed experience teaches.

[] It must be remembered that all this217



antedates by some years the introductionof long-range weapons.

18 A SECOND GROUND CONSISTSIN THE IMPERFECT KNOWLEDGE OFCIRCUMSTANCES.

But there is still another cause whichmay stop action in War, viz., an incompleteview of the situation. Each Commandercan only fully know his own position; that of

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his opponent can only be known to him byreports, which are uncertain; he may, there-fore, form a wrong judgment with respectto it upon data of this description, and, inconsequence of that error, he may supposethat the power of taking the initiative restswith his adversary when it lies really withhimself. This want of perfect insight mightcertainly just as often occasion an untimely

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action as untimely inaction, and hence itwould in itself no more contribute to delaythan to accelerate action in War. Still, itmust always be regarded as one of the nat-ural causes which may bring action in Warto a standstill without involving a contra-diction. But if we reflect how much morewe are inclined and induced to estimate thepower of our opponents too high than too

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low, because it lies in human nature to doso, we shall admit that our imperfect insightinto facts in general must contribute verymuch to delay action in War, and to mod-ify the application of the principles pendingour conduct.

The possibility of a standstill brings intothe action of War a new modification, inas-much as it dilutes that action with the ele-

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ment of time, checks the influence or senseof danger in its course, and increases themeans of reinstating a lost balance of force.The greater the tension of feelings from whichthe War springs, the greater therefore theenergy with which it is carried on, so muchthe shorter will be the periods of inaction;on the other hand, the weaker the principleof warlike activity, the longer will be these

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periods: for powerful motives increase theforce of the will, and this, as we know, isalways a factor in the product of force.

19. FREQUENT PERIODS OF INAC-TION IN WAR REMOVE IT FURTHERFROM THE ABSOLUTE, AND MAKE ITSTILL MORE A CALCULATION OF PROB-ABILITIES.

But the slower the action proceeds in223



War, the more frequent and longer the peri-ods of inaction, so much the more easily canan error be repaired; therefore, so much thebolder a General will be in his calculations,so much the more readily will he keep thembelow the line of the absolute, and build ev-erything upon probabilities and conjecture.Thus, according as the course of the Waris more or less slow, more or less time will

224



We see from the foregoing how much theobjective nature of War makes it a calcula-tion of probabilities; now there is only onesingle element still wanting to make it agame, and that element it certainly is notwithout: it is chance. There is no human af-fair which stands so constantly and so gen-erally in close connection with chance asWar. But together with chance, the acci-

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dental, and along with it good luck, occupya great place in War.

21. WAR IS A GAME BOTH OBJEC-TIVELY AND SUBJECTIVELY.

If we now take a look at the subjectivenature of War, that is to say, at those con-ditions under which it is carried on, it willappear to us still more like a game. Primar-ily the element in which the operations of

227



War are carried on is danger; but which of all the moral qualities is the first in danger?COURAGE. Now certainly courage is quitecompatible with prudent calculation, butstill they are things of quite a different kind,essentially different qualities of the mind;on the other hand, daring reliance on goodfortune, boldness, rashness, are only expres-sions of courage, and all these propensities

228



of the mind look for the fortuitous (or acci-dental), because it is their element.

We see, therefore, how, from the com-mencement, the absolute, the mathematicalas it is called, nowhere finds any sure basisin the calculations in the Art of War; andthat from the outset there is a play of pos-sibilities, probabilities, good and bad luck,which spreads about with all the coarse and

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fine threads of its web, and makes War of all branches of human activity the most likea gambling game.

22. HOW THIS ACCORDS BEST WITHTHE HUMAN MIND IN GENERAL.

Although our intellect always feels itself urged towards clearness and certainty, stillour mind often feels itself attracted by un-certainty. Instead of threading its way with

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the understanding along the narrow pathof philosophical investigations and logicalconclusions, in order, almost unconsciousof itself, to arrive in spaces where it feelsitself a stranger, and where it seems to partfrom all well-known objects, it prefers toremain with the imagination in the realmsof chance and luck. Instead of living yon-der on poor necessity, it revels here in the

231



element; it must accord a place to courage,to boldness, even to rashness. The Art of War has to deal with living and with moralforces, the consequence of which is that itcan never attain the absolute and positive.There is therefore everywhere a margin forthe accidental, and just as much in the great-est things as in the smallest. As there isroom for this accidental on the one hand,

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so on the other there must be courage andself-reliance in proportion to the room avail-able. If these qualities are forthcoming ina high degree, the margin left may like-wise be great. Courage and self-relianceare, therefore, principles quite essential toWar; consequently, theory must only set upsuch rules as allow ample scope for all de-grees and varieties of these necessary and

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noblest of military virtues. In daring theremay still be wisdom, and prudence as well,only they are estimated by a different stan-dard of value.

23. WAR IS ALWAYS A SERIOUS MEANSFOR A SERIOUS OBJECT. ITS MOREPARTICULAR DEFINITION.

Such is War; such the Commander whoconducts it; such the theory which rules it.

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But War is no pastime; no mere passion forventuring and winning; no work of a free en-thusiasm: it is a serious means for a seriousobject. All that appearance which it wearsfrom the varying hues of fortune, all that itassimilates into itself of the oscillations of passion, of courage, of imagination, of en-thusiasm, are only particular properties of this means.

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The War of a community–of whole Na-tions, and particularly of civilised Nations–always starts from a political condition, andis called forth by a political motive. It is,therefore, a political act. Now if it was aperfect, unrestrained, and absolute expres-sion of force, as we had to deduct it fromits mere conception, then the moment itis called forth by policy it would step into

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the place of policy, and as something quiteindependent of it would set it aside, andonly follow its own laws, just as a mine atthe moment of explosion cannot be guidedinto any other direction than that which hasbeen given to it by preparatory arrange-ments. This is how the thing has reallybeen viewed hitherto, whenever a want of harmony between policy and the conduct

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of a War has led to theoretical distinctionsof the kind. But it is not so, and the idea isradically false. War in the real world, as wehave already seen, is not an extreme thingwhich expends itself at one single discharge;it is the operation of powers which do notdevelop themselves completely in the samemanner and in the same measure, but whichat one time expand sufficiently to overcome

239



the resistance opposed by inertia or friction,while at another they are too weak to pro-duce an effect; it is therefore, in a certainmeasure, a pulsation of violent force moreor less vehement, consequently making itsdischarges and exhausting its powers moreor less quickly–in other words, conductingmore or less quickly to the aim, but alwayslasting long enough to admit of influence

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being exerted on it in its course, so as togive it this or that direction, in short, tobe subject to the will of a guiding intelli-gence., if we reflect that War has its root ina political object, then naturally this orig-inal motive which called it into existenceshould also continue the first and highestconsideration in its conduct. Still, the po-litical object is no despotic lawgiver on that

241



account; it must accommodate itself to thenature of the means, and though changesin these means may involve modification inthe political objective, the latter always re-tains a prior right to consideration. Policy,therefore, is interwoven with the whole ac-tion of War, and must exercise a continuousinfluence upon it, as far as the nature of theforces liberated by it will permit.

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24. WAR IS A MERE CONTINUA-TION OF POLICY BY OTHER MEANS.

We see, therefore, that War is not merelya political act, but also a real political in-strument, a continuation of political com-merce, a carrying out of the same by othermeans. All beyond this which is strictly pe-culiar to War relates merely to the peculiarnature of the means which it uses. That the

243



tendencies and views of policy shall not beincompatible with these means, the Art of War in general and the Commander in eachparticular case may demand, and this claimis truly not a trifling one. But however pow-erfully this may react on political views inparticular cases, still it must always be re-garded as only a modification of them; forthe political view is the object, War is the

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means, and the means must always includethe object in our conception.

25. DIVERSITY IN THE NATURE OFWARS.

The greater and the more powerful themotives of a War, the more it affects thewhole existence of a people. The more vio-lent the excitement which precedes the War,by so much the nearer will the War ap-

245



proach to its abstract form, so much themore will it be directed to the destruction of the enemy, so much the nearer will the mil-itary and political ends coincide, so muchthe more purely military and less politicalthe War appears to be; but the weaker themotives and the tensions, so much the lesswill the natural direction of the militaryelement– that is, force–be coincident with

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the direction which the political element in-dicates; so much the more must, therefore,the War become diverted from its naturaldirection, the political object diverge fromthe aim of an ideal War, and the War ap-pear to become political.

But, that the reader may not form anyfalse conceptions, we must here observe thatby this natural tendency of War we only

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mean the philosophical, the strictly logical,and by no means the tendency of forces ac-tually engaged in conflict, by which wouldbe supposed to be included all the emo-tions and passions of the combatants. Nodoubt in some cases these also might be ex-cited to such a degree as to be with diffi-culty restrained and confined to the politi-cal road; but in most cases such a contradic-

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tion will not arise, because by the existenceof such strenuous exertions a great plan inharmony therewith would be implied. If the plan is directed only upon a small object, then the impulses of feeling amongstthe masses will be also so weak that thesemasses will require to be stimulated ratherthan repressed.

26. THEY MAY ALL BE REGARDED249



AS POLITICAL ACTS.Returning now to the main subject, al-

though it is true that in one kind of War thepolitical element seems almost to disappear,whilst in another kind it occupies a veryprominent place, we may still affirm thatthe one is as political as the other; for if weregard the State policy as the intelligenceof the personified State, then amongst all

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the constellations in the political sky whosemovements it has to compute, those mustbe included which arise when the natureof its relations imposes the necessity of agreat War. It is only if we understand bypolicy not a true appreciation of affairs ingeneral, but the conventional conception of a cautious, subtle, also dishonest craftiness,averse from violence, that the latter kind of

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War may belong more to policy than thefirst.

27. INFLUENCE OF THIS VIEW ONTHE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF MIL-ITARY HISTORY, AND ON THE FOUN-DATIONS OF THEORY.

We see, therefore, in the first place, thatunder all circumstances War is to be re-garded not as an independent thing, but

252



as a political instrument; and it is only bytaking this point of view that we can avoidfinding ourselves in opposition to all mili-tary history. This is the only means of un-locking the great book and making it intel-ligible. Secondly, this view shows us howWars must differ in character according tothe nature of the motives and circumstancesfrom which they proceed.

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Now, the first, the grandest, and mostdecisive act of judgment which the States-man and General exercises is rightly to un-derstand in this respect the War in whichhe engages, not to take it for something, orto wish to make of it something, which bythe nature of its relations it is impossiblefor it to be. This is, therefore, the first, themost comprehensive, of all strategical ques-

254



tions. We shall enter into this more fully intreating of the plan of a War.

For the present we content ourselves withhaving brought the subject up to this point,and having thereby fixed the chief point of view from which War and its theory are tobe studied.

28. RESULT FOR THEORY.War is, therefore, not only chameleon-

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like in character, because it changes its colourin some degree in each particular case, butit is also, as a whole, in relation to the pre-dominant tendencies which are in it, a won-derful trinity, composed of the original vio-lence of its elements, hatred and animosity,which may be looked upon as blind instinct;of the play of probabilities and chance, whichmake it a free activity of the soul; and of

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the subordinate nature of a political instru-ment, by which it belongs purely to the rea-son.

The first of these three phases concernsmore the people the second, more the Gen-eral and his Army; the third, more the Gov-ernment. The passions which break forth inWar must already have a latent existence inthe peoples. The range which the display of

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courage and talents shall get in the realmof probabilities and of chance depends onthe particular characteristics of the Generaland his Army, but the political objects be-long to the Government alone.

These three tendencies, which appearlike so many different law-givers, are deeplyrooted in the nature of the subject, and atthe same time variable in degree. A the-

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ory which would leave any one of them outof account, or set up any arbitrary relationbetween them, would immediately becomeinvolved in such a contradiction with the re-ality, that it might be regarded as destroyedat once by that alone.

The problem is, therefore, that theoryshall keep itself poised in a manner betweenthese three tendencies, as between three points

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of attraction.The way in which alone this difficult prob-

lem can be solved we shall examine in thebook on the ”Theory of War.” In every casethe conception of War, as here defined, willbe the first ray of light which shows us thetrue foundation of theory, and which firstseparates the great masses and allows us todistinguish them from one another.

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CHAPTER II. END ANDMEANS IN WAR

HAVING in the foregoing chapter ascertainedthe complicated and variable nature of War,

we shall now occupy ourselves in examin-ing into the influence which this nature hasupon the end and means in War.

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If we ask, first of all, for the object uponwhich the whole effort of War is to be di-rected, in order that it may suffice for theattainment of the political object, we shallfind that it is just as variable as are thepolitical object and the particular circum-stances of the War.

If, in the next place, we keep once moreto the pure conception of War, then we must

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say that the political object properly liesout of its province, for if War is an act of violence to compel the enemy to fulfil ourwill, then in every case all depends on ouroverthrowing the enemy, that is, disarminghim, and on that alone. This object, devel-oped from abstract conceptions, but whichis also the one aimed at in a great manycases in reality, we shall, in the first place,

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examine in this reality.In connection with the plan of a cam-

paign we shall hereafter examine more closelyinto the meaning of disarming a nation, buthere we must at once draw a distinction be-tween three things, which, as three generalobjects, comprise everything else within them.They are the MILITARY POWER, THECOUNTRY, and THE WILL OF THE EN-

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EMY.The military power must be destroyed,

that is, reduced to such a state as not to beable to prosecute the War. This is the sensein which we wish to be understood here-after, whenever we use the expression ”de-struction of the enemy’s military power.”

The country must be conquered, for outof the country a new military force may be

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formed.But even when both these things are

done, still the War, that is, the hostile feel-ing and action of hostile agencies, cannotbe considered as at an end as long as thewill of the enemy is not subdued also; thatis, its Government and its Allies must beforced into signing a peace, or the peopleinto submission; for whilst we are in full oc-

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cupation of the country, the War may breakout afresh, either in the interior or throughassistance given by Allies. No doubt, thismay also take place after a peace, but thatshows nothing more than that every Wardoes not carry in itself the elements for acomplete decision and final settlement.

But even if this is the case, still withthe conclusion of peace a number of sparks

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are always extinguished which would havesmouldered on quietly, and the excitementof the passions abates, because all thosewhose minds are disposed to peace, of whichin all nations and under all circumstancesthere is always a great number, turn them-selves away completely from the road to re-sistance. Whatever may take place subse-quently, we must always look upon the ob-

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ject as attained, and the business of War asended, by a peace.

As protection of the country is the pri-mary object for which the military force ex-ists, therefore the natural order is, that firstof all this force should be destroyed, thenthe country subdued; and through the effectof these two results, as well as the positionwe then hold, the enemy should be forced

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to make peace. Generally the destruction of the enemy’s force is done by degrees, and in just the same measure the conquest of thecountry follows immediately. The two like-wise usually react upon each other, becausethe loss of provinces occasions a diminu-tion of military force. But this order is byno means necessary, and on that account italso does not always take place. The en-

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emy’s Army, before it is sensibly weakened,may retreat to the opposite side of the coun-try, or even quite outside of it. In this case,therefore, the greater part or the whole of the country is conquered.

But this object of War in the abstract,this final means of attaining the politicalobject in which all others are combined, theDISARMING THE ENEMY, is rarely at-

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tained in practice and is not a conditionnecessary to peace. Therefore it can in nowise be set up in theory as a law. There areinnumerable instances of treaties in whichpeace has been settled before either partycould be looked upon as disarmed; indeed,even before the balance of power had un-dergone any sensible alteration. Nay, fur-ther, if we look at the case in the concrete,

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then we must say that in a whole class of cases, the idea of a complete defeat of theenemy would be a mere imaginative flight,especially when the enemy is considerablysuperior.

The reason why the object deduced fromthe conception of War is not adapted in gen-eral to real War lies in the difference be-tween the two, which is discussed in the

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preceding chapter. If it was as pure the-ory gives it, then a War between two Statesof very unequal military strength would ap-pear an absurdity; therefore impossible. Atmost, the inequality between the physicalforces might be such that it could be bal-anced by the moral forces, and that wouldnot go far with our present social conditionin Europe. Therefore, if we have seen Wars

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take place between States of very unequalpower, that has been the case because thereis a wide difference between War in realityand its original conception.

There are two considerations which asmotives may practically take the place of inability to continue the contest. The firstis the improbability, the second is the ex-cessive price, of success.

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According to what we have seen in theforegoing chapter, War must always set it-self free from the strict law of logical ne-cessity, and seek aid from the calculationof probabilities; and as this is so much themore the case, the more the War has a biasthat way, from the circumstances out of whichit has arisen–the smaller its motives are,and the excitement it has raised–so it is

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also conceivable how out of this calcula-tion of probabilities even motives to peacemay arise. War does not, therefore, alwaysrequire to be fought out until one partyis overthrown; and we may suppose that,when the motives and passions are slight,a weak probability will suffice to move thatside to which it is unfavourable to give way.Now, were the other side convinced of this

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beforehand, it is natural that he would strivefor this probability only, instead of first wast-ing time and effort in the attempt to achievethe total destruction of the enemy’s Army.

Still more general in its influence on theresolution to peace is the consideration of the expenditure of force already made, andfurther required. As War is no act of blindpassion, but is dominated by the political

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object, therefore the value of that objectdetermines the measure of the sacrifices bywhich it is to be purchased. This will be thecase, not only as regards extent, but also asregards duration. As soon, therefore, as therequired outlay becomes so great that thepolitical object is no longer equal in value,the object must be given up, and peace willbe the result.

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We see, therefore, that in Wars whereone side cannot completely disarm the other,the motives to peace on both sides will riseor fall on each side according to the prob-ability of future success and the requiredoutlay. If these motives were equally strongon both sides, they would meet in the cen-tre of their political difference. Where theyare strong on one side, they might be weak

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on the other. If their amount is only suf-ficient, peace will follow, but naturally tothe advantage of that side which has theweakest motive for its conclusion. We pur-posely pass over here the difference whichthe POSITIVE and NEGATIVE characterof the political end must necessarily pro-duce practically; for although that is, aswe shall hereafter show, of the highest im-

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portance, still we are obliged to keep hereto a more general point of view, becausethe original political views in the courseof the War change very much, and at lastmay become totally different, JUST BE-CAUSE THEY ARE DETERMINED BYRESULTS AND PROBABLE EVENTS.

Now comes the question how to influ-ence the probability of success. In the first

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place, naturally by the same means whichwe use when the object is the subjugationof the enemy, by the destruction of his mili-tary force and the conquest of his provinces;but these two means are not exactly of thesame import here as they would be in ref-erence to that object. If we attack the en-emy’s Army, it is a very different thing whetherwe intend to follow up the first blow with

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a succession of others, until the whole forceis destroyed, or whether we mean to con-tent ourselves with a victory to shake theenemy’s feeling of security, to convince himof our superiority, and to instil into him afeeling of apprehension about the future. If this is our object, we only go so far in thedestruction of his forces as is sufficient. Inlike manner, the conquest, of the enemy’s

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provinces is quite a different measure if theobject is not the destruction of the enemy’sArmy. In the latter case the destruction of the Army is the real effectual action, andthe taking of the provinces only a conse-quence of it; to take them before the Armyhad been defeated would always be lookedupon only as a necessary evil. On the otherhand, if our views are not directed upon the

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complete destruction of the enemy’s force,and if we are sure that the enemy does notseek but fears to bring matters to a bloodydecision, the taking possession of a weakor defenceless province is an advantage initself, and if this advantage is of sufficientimportance to make the enemy apprehen-sive about the general result, then it mayalso be regarded as a shorter road to peace.

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But now we come upon a peculiar meansof influencing the probability of the resultwithout destroying the enemy’s Army, namely,upon the expeditions which have a directconnection with political views. If there areany enterprises which are particularly likelyto break up the enemy’s alliances or makethem inoperative, to gain new alliances forourselves, to raise political powers in our

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own favour, &c. &c., then it is easy toconceive how much these may increase theprobability of success, and become a shorterway towards our object than the routing of the enemy’s forces.

The second question is how to act uponthe enemy’s expenditure in strength, thatis, to raise the price of success.

The enemy’s outlay in strength lies in288



the WEAR AND TEAR of his forces, conse-quently in the DESTRUCTION of them onour part, and in the LOSS of PROVINCES,consequently the CONQUEST of them byus.

Here, again, on account of the varioussignifications of these means, so likewise itwill be found that neither of them will beidentical in its signification in all cases if

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the objects are different. The smallness ingeneral of this difference must not cause usperplexity, for in reality the weakest mo-tives, the finest shades of difference, oftendecide in favour of this or that method of applying force. Our only business here isto show that, certain conditions being sup-posed, the possibility of attaining our pur-pose in different ways is no contradiction,

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absurdity, nor even error.Besides these two means, there are three

other peculiar ways of directly increasingthe waste of the enemy’s force. The firstis INVASION, that is THE OCCUPATIONOF THE ENEMY’S TERRITORY, NOTWITH A VIEW TO KEEPING IT, but inorder to levy contributions upon it, or todevastate it.

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The immediate object here is neither theconquest of the enemy’s territory nor thedefeat of his armed force, but merely to DOHIM DAMAGE IN A GENERAL WAY.The second way is to select for the object of our enterprises those points at which we cando the enemy most harm. Nothing is easierto conceive than two different directions inwhich our force may be employed, the first

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of which is to be preferred if our object is todefeat the enemy’s Army, while the other ismore advantageous if the defeat of the en-emy is out of the question. According tothe usual mode of speaking, we should saythat the first is primarily military, the othermore political. But if we take our view fromthe highest point, both are equally military,and neither the one nor the other can be eli-

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gible unless it suits the circumstances of thecase. The third, by far the most important,from the great number of cases which it em-braces, is the WEARING OUT of the en-emy. We choose this expression not only toexplain our meaning in few words, but be-cause it represents the thing exactly, and isnot so figurative as may at first appear. Theidea of wearing out in a struggle amounts in

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practice to A GRADUAL EXHAUSTIONOF THE PHYSICAL POWERS AND OFTHE WILL BY THE LONG CONTINU-ANCE OF EXERTION.

Now, if we want to overcome the enemyby the duration of the contest, we must con-tent ourselves with as small objects as pos-sible, for it is in the nature of the thing thata great end requires a greater expenditure

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of force than a small one; but the small-est object that we can propose to ourselvesis simple passive resistance, that is a com-bat without any positive view. In this way,therefore, our means attain their greatestrelative value, and therefore the result isbest secured. How far now can this negativemode of proceeding be carried? Plainly notto absolute passivity, for mere endurance

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would not be fighting; and the defensive isan activity by which so much of the enemy’spower must be destroyed that he must giveup his object. That alone is what we aim atin each single act, and therein consists thenegative nature of our object.

No doubt this negative object in its sin-gle act is not so effective as the positive object in the same direction would be, suppos-

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ing it successful; but there is this differencein its favour, that it succeeds more easilythan the positive, and therefore it holds outgreater certainty of success; what is want-ing in the efficacy of its single act mustbe gained through time, that is, throughthe duration of the contest, and thereforethis negative intention, which constitutesthe principle of the pure defensive, is also

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duced all the advantages and all the strongerforms of combat which are on the side of theDefensive, and in which that philosophical-dynamic law which exists between the great-ness and the certainty of success is realised.We shall resume the consideration of all thishereafter.

If then the negative purpose, that is theconcentration of all the means into a state

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of pure resistance, affords a superiority inthe contest, and if this advantage is suffi-cient to BALANCE whatever superiority innumbers the adversary may have, then themere DURATION of the contest will sufficegradually to bring the loss of force on thepart of the adversary to a point at which thepolitical object can no longer be an equiv-alent, a point at which, therefore, he must

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to succumb himself. But after his skilful ap-plication of the system of husbanding his re-sources had shown the powers allied againsthim, through a seven years’ struggle, thatthe actual expenditure of strength far ex-ceeded what they had at first anticipated,they made peace.

We see then that there are many waysto one’s object in War; that the complete

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subjugation of the enemy is not essentialin every case; that the destruction of theenemy’s military force, the conquest of theenemy’s provinces, the mere occupation of them, the mere invasion of them–enterpriseswhich are aimed directly at political objects–lastly, a passive expectation of the enemy’sblow, are all means which, each in itself,may be used to force the enemy’s will ac-

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ations? And least of all can they fail toappear in War, where the personal charac-ter of the combatants plays such an impor-tant part, both in the cabinet and in thefield. We limit ourselves to pointing thisout, as it would be pedantry to attempt toreduce such influences into classes. Includ-ing these, we may say that the number of possible ways of reaching the object rises to

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a death struggle for political existence anda War which a forced or tottering alliancemakes a matter of disagreeable duty. Be-tween the two innumerable gradations oc-cur in practice. If we reject one of thesegradations in theory, we might with equalright reject the whole, which would be tan-tamount to shutting the real world com-pletely out of sight.

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These are the circumstances in generalconnected with the aim which we have topursue in War; let us now turn to the means.

There is only one single means, it is theFIGHT. However diversified this may be inform, however widely it may differ from arough vent of hatred and animosity in ahand-to-hand encounter, whatever numberof things may introduce themselves which

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are not actual fighting, still it is always im-plied in the conception of War that all theeffects manifested have their roots in thecombat.

That this must always be so in the great-est diversity and complication of the real-ity is proved in a very simple manner. Allthat takes place in War takes place througharmed forces, but where the forces of War,

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i.e., armed men, are applied, there the ideaof fighting must of necessity be at the foun-dation.

All, therefore, that relates to forces of War–all that is connected with their cre-ation, maintenance, and application– be-longs to military activity.

Creation and maintenance are obviouslyonly the means, whilst application is the

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object.The contest in War is not a contest of

individual against individual, but an organ-ised whole, consisting of manifold parts; inthis great whole we may distinguish units of two kinds, the one determined by the subject, the other by the object. In an Armythe mass of combatants ranges itself alwaysinto an order of new units, which again form

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members of a higher order. The combatof each of these members forms, therefore,also a more or less distinct unit. Further,the motive of the fight; therefore its objectforms its unit.

Now, to each of these units which we dis-tinguish in the contest we attach the nameof combat.

If the idea of combat lies at the founda-313



tion of every application of armed power,then also the application of armed force ingeneral is nothing more than the determin-ing and arranging a certain number of com-bats.

Every activity in War, therefore, neces-sarily relates to the combat either directlyor indirectly. The soldier is levied, clothed,armed, exercised, he sleeps, eats, drinks,

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and marches, all MERELY TO FIGHT ATTHE RIGHT TIME AND PLACE.

If, therefore, all the threads of militaryactivity terminate in the combat, we shallgrasp them all when we settle the orderof the combats. Only from this order andits execution proceed the effects, never di-rectly from the conditions preceding them.Now, in the combat all the action is directed

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to the DESTRUCTION of the enemy, orrather of HIS FIGHTING POWERS, forthis lies in the conception of combat. Thedestruction of the enemy’s fighting poweris, therefore, always the means to attain theobject of the combat.

This object may likewise be the meredestruction of the enemy’s armed force; butthat is not by any means necessary, and it

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may be something quite different. When-ever, for instance, as we have shown, thedefeat of the enemy is not the only means toattain the political object, whenever thereare other objects which may be pursued asthe aim in a War, then it follows of itself that such other objects may become the object of particular acts of Warfare, and there-fore also the object of combats.

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But even those combats which, as sub-ordinate acts, are in the strict sense devotedto the destruction of the enemy’s fightingforce need not have that destruction itself as their first object.

If we think of the manifold parts of agreat armed force, of the number of circum-stances which come into activity when it isemployed, then it is clear that the combat

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of such a force must also require a mani-fold organisation, a subordinating of partsand formation. There may and must nat-urally arise for particular parts a numberof objects which are not themselves the de-struction of the enemy’s armed force, andwhich, while they certainly contribute toincrease that destruction, do so only in anindirect manner. If a battalion is ordered

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to drive the enemy from a rising ground,or a bridge, &c., then properly the occupa-tion of any such locality is the real object,the destruction of the enemy’s armed forcewhich takes place only the means or sec-ondary matter. If the enemy can be drivenaway merely by a demonstration, the object is attained all the same; but this hill orbridge is, in point of fact, only required as

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a means of increasing the gross amount of loss inflicted on the enemy’s armed force.It is the case on the field of battle, muchmore must it be so on the whole theatre of war, where not only one Army is opposedto another, but one State, one Nation, onewhole country to another. Here the num-ber of possible relations, and consequentlypossible combinations, is much greater, the

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diversity of measures increased, and by thegradation of objects, each subordinate toanother the first means employed is furtherapart from the ultimate object.

It is therefore for many reasons possi-ble that the object of a combat is not thedestruction of the enemy’s force, that is, of the force immediately opposed to us, butthat this only appears as a means. But in

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all such cases it is no longer a question of complete destruction, for the combat is herenothing else but a measure of strength–hasin itself no value except only that of thepresent result, that is, of its decision.

But a measuring of strength may be ef-fected in cases where the opposing sides arevery unequal by a mere comparative esti-mate. In such cases no fighting will take

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place, and the weaker will immediately giveway.

If the object of a combat is not alwaysthe destruction of the enemy’s forces thereinengaged–and if its object can often be at-tained as well without the combat takingplace at all, by merely making a resolve tofight, and by the circumstances to whichthis resolution gives rise– then that explains

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how a whole campaign may be carried onwith great activity without the actual com-bat playing any notable part in it.

That this may be so military historyproves by a hundred examples. How manyof those cases can be justified, that is, with-out involving a contradiction and whethersome of the celebrities who rose out of themwould stand criticism, we shall leave unde-

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cided, for all we have to do with the matteris to show the possibility of such a courseof events in War.

We have only one means in War–the bat-tle; but this means, by the infinite variety of paths in which it may be applied, leads usinto all the different ways which the multi-plicity of objects allows of, so that we seemto have gained nothing; but that is not the

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case, for from this unity of means proceedsa thread which assists the study of the subject, as it runs through the whole web of military activity and holds it together.

But we have considered the destructionof the enemy’s force as one of the objectswhich maybe pursued in War, and left un-decided what relative importance should begiven to it amongst other objects. In cer-

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tain cases it will depend on circumstances,and as a general question we have left itsvalue undetermined. We are once more broughtback upon it, and we shall be able to get aninsight into the value which must necessar-ily be accorded to it.

The combat is the single activity in War;in the combat the destruction of the enemyopposed to us is the means to the end; it

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is so even when the combat does not actu-ally take place, because in that case therelies at the root of the decision the suppo-sition at all events that this destruction isto be regarded as beyond doubt. It follows,therefore, that the destruction of the en-emy’s military force is the foundation-stoneof all action in War, the great support of allcombinations, which rest upon it like the

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arch on its abutments. All action, there-fore, takes place on the supposition that if the solution by force of arms which lies atits foundation should be realised, it will bea favourable one. The decision by arms is,for all operations in War, great and small,what cash payment is in bill transactions.However remote from each other these re-lations, however seldom the realisation may

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take place, still it can never entirely fail tooccur.

If the decision by arms lies at the foun-dation of all combinations, then it followsthat the enemy can defeat each of them bygaining a victory on the field, not merely inthe one on which our combination directlydepends, but also in any other encounter, if it is only important enough; for every im-

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portant decision by arms –that is, destruc-tion of the enemy’s forces–reacts upon allpreceding it, because, like a liquid element,they tend to bring themselves to a level.

Thus, the destruction of the enemy’s armedforce appears, therefore, always as the su-perior and more effectual means, to whichall others must give way.

It is, however, only when there is a sup-332



posed equality in all other conditions thatwe can ascribe to the destruction of the en-emy’s armed force the greater efficacy. Itwould, therefore, be a great mistake to drawthe conclusion that a blind dash must al-ways gain the victory over skill and cau-tion. An unskilful attack would lead to thedestruction of our own and not of the en-emy’s force, and therefore is not what is

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here meant. The superior efficacy belongsnot to the MEANS but to the END, and weare only comparing the effect of one realisedpurpose with the other.

If we speak of the destruction of the en-emy’s armed force, we must expressly pointout that nothing obliges us to confine thisidea to the mere physical force; on the con-trary, the moral is necessarily implied as

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well, because both in fact are interwovenwith each other, even in the most minutedetails, and therefore cannot be separated.But it is just in connection with the in-evitable effect which has been referred to, of a great act of destruction (a great victory)upon all other decisions by arms, that thismoral element is most fluid, if we may usethat expression, and therefore distributes

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itself the most easily through all the parts.Against the far superior worth which the

destruction of the enemy’s armed force hasover all other means stands the expense andrisk of this means, and it is only to avoidthese that any other means are taken. Thatthese must be costly stands to reason, forthe waste of our own military forces must,ceteris paribus, always be greater the more

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our aim is directed upon the destruction of the enemy’s power.

The danger lies in this, that the greaterefficacy which we seek recoils on ourselves,and therefore has worse consequences in casewe fail of success.

Other methods are, therefore, less costlywhen they succeed, less dangerous when theyfail; but in this is necessarily lodged the

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condition that they are only opposed to sim-ilar ones, that is, that the enemy acts onthe same principle; for if the enemy shouldchoose the way of a great decision by arms,OUR MEANS MUST ON THAT ACCOUNTBE CHANGED AGAINST OUR WILL, INORDER TO CORRESPOND WITH HIS.Then all depends on the issue of the act of destruction; but of course it is evident that,

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ceteris paribus, in this act we must be ata disadvantage in all respects because ourviews and our means had been directed inpart upon other objects, which is not thecase with the enemy. Two different objectsof which one is not partthe other excludeeach other, and therefore a force which maybe applicable for the one may not serve forthe other. If, therefore, one of two belliger-

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great decision by arms.But what we have here said of another

direction of views and forces relates onlyto other POSITIVE OBJECTS, which wemay propose to ourselves in War, besidesthe destruction of the enemy’s force, not byany means to the pure defensive, which maybe adopted with a view thereby to exhaustthe enemy’s forces. In the pure defensive

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the positive object is wanting, and there-fore, while on the defensive, our forces can-not at the same time be directed on otherobjects; they can only be employed to de-feat the intentions of the enemy.

We have now to consider the opposite of the destruction of the enemy’s armed force,that is to say, the preservation of our own.These two efforts always go together, as

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they mutually act and react on each other;they are integral parts of one and the sameview, and we have only to ascertain whateffect is produced when one or the otherhas the predominance. The endeavour todestroy the enemy’s force has a positive object, and leads to positive results, of whichthe final aim is the conquest of the enemy.The preservation of our own forces has a

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negative object, leads therefore to the de-feat of the enemy’s intentions, that is topure resistance, of which the final aim canbe nothing more than to prolong the dura-tion of the contest, so that the enemy shallexhaust himself in it.

The effort with a positive object callsinto existence the act of destruction; theeffort with the negative object awaits it.

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How far this state of expectation shouldand may be carried we shall enter into moreparticularly in the theory of attack and de-fence, at the origin of which we again findourselves. Here we shall content ourselveswith saying that the awaiting must be noabsolute endurance, and that in the actionbound up with it the destruction of the en-emy’s armed force engaged in this conflict

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may be the aim just as well as anythingelse. It would therefore be a great error inthe fundamental idea to suppose that theconsequence of the negative course is thatwe are precluded from choosing the destruc-tion of the enemy’s military force as ourobject, and must prefer a bloodless solu-tion. The advantage which the negative ef-fort gives may certainly lead to that, but

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only at the risk of its not being the most ad-visable method, as that question is depen-dent on totally different conditions, restingnot with ourselves but with our opponents.This other bloodless way cannot, therefore,be looked upon at all as the natural meansof satisfying our great anxiety to spare ourforces; on the contrary, when circumstancesare not favourable, it would be the means of

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completely ruining them. Very many Gen-erals have fallen into this error, and beenruined by it. The only necessary effect re-sulting from the superiority of the negativeeffort is the delay of the decision, so thatthe party acting takes refuge in that way,as it were, in the expectation of the de-cisive moment. The consequence of thatis generally THE POSTPONEMENT OF

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THE ACTION as much as possible in time,and also in space, in so far as space is inconnection with it. If the moment has ar-rived in which this can no longer be donewithout ruinous disadvantage, then the ad-vantage of the negative must be consideredas exhausted, and then comes forward un-changed the effort for the destruction of theenemy’s force, which was kept back by a

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counterpoise, but never discarded.We have seen, therefore, in the forego-

ing reflections, that there are many ways tothe aim, that is, to the attainment of thepolitical object; but that the only means isthe combat, and that consequently every-thing is subject to a supreme law: whichis the DECISION BY ARMS; that wherethis is really demanded by one, it is a re-

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dress which cannot be refused by the other;that, therefore, a belligerent who takes anyother way must make sure that his oppo-nent will not take this means of redress, orhis cause may be lost in that supreme court;hence therefore the destruction of the en-emy’s armed force, amongst all the objectswhich can be pursued in War, appears al-ways as the one which overrules all others.

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What may be achieved by combinationsof another kind in War we shall only learnin the sequel, and naturally only by degrees.We content ourselves here with acknowledg-ing in general their possibility, as somethingpointing to the difference between the real-ity and the conception, and to the influ-ence of particular circumstances. But wecould not avoid showing at once that the

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BLOODY SOLUTION OF THE CRISIS,the effort for the destruction of the enemy’sforce, is the firstborn son of War. If whenpolitical objects are unimportant, motivesweak, the excitement of forces small, a cau-tious commander tries in all kinds of ways,without great crises and bloody solutions,to twist himself skilfully into a peace throughthe characteristic weaknesses of his enemy

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in the field and in the Cabinet, we have noright to find fault with him, if the premiseson which he acts are well founded and justi-fied by success; still we must require him toremember that he only travels on forbiddentracks, where the God of War may surprisehim; that he ought always to keep his eyeon the enemy, in order that he may not haveto defend himself with a dress rapier if the

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enemy takes up a sharp sword.The consequences of the nature of War,

how ends and means act in it, how in themodifications of reality it deviates some-times more, sometimes less, from its strictoriginal conception, fluctuating backwardsand forwards, yet always remaining underthat strict conception as under a supremelaw: all this we must retain before us, and

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bear constantly in mind in the considera-tion of each of the succeeding subjects, if we would rightly comprehend their true re-lations and proper importance, and not be-come involved incessantly in the most glar-ing contradictions with the reality, and atlast with our own selves.

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CHAPTER III. THE GE-NIUS FOR WAR

EVERY special calling in life, if it is tobe followed with success, requires peculiar

qualifications of understanding and soul. Wherethese are of a high order, and manifest them-selves by extraordinary achievements, the

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mind to which they belong is termed GE-NIUS.

We know very well that this word is usedin many significations which are very dif-ferent both in extent and nature, and thatwith many of these significations it is a verydifficult task to define the essence of Ge-nius; but as we neither profess to be philoso-pher nor grammarian, we must be allowed

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to keep to the meaning usual in ordinarylanguage, and to understand by ”genius” avery high mental capacity for certain em-ployments.

We wish to stop for a moment over thisfaculty and dignity of the mind, in orderto vindicate its title, and to explain morefully the meaning of the conception. Butwe shall not dwell on that (genius) which

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has obtained its title through a very greattalent, on genius properly so called, thatis a conception which has no defined lim-its. What we have to do is to bring un-der consideration every common tendencyof the powers of the mind and soul towardsthe business of War, the whole of whichcommon tendencies we may look upon asthe ESSENCE OF MILITARY GENIUS.

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We say ”common,” for just therein consistsmilitary genius, that it is not one singlequality bearing upon War, as, for instance,courage, while other qualities of mind andsoul are wanting or have a direction whichis unserviceable for War, but that it is ANHARMONIOUS ASSOCIATION OF POW-ERS, in which one or other may predomi-nate, but none must be in opposition.

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If every combatant required to be moreor less endowed with military genius, thenour armies would be very weak; for as it im-plies a peculiar bent of the intelligent pow-ers, therefore it can only rarely be foundwhere the mental powers of a people arecalled into requisition and trained in manydifferent ways. The fewer the employmentsfollowed by a Nation, the more that of arms

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predominates, so much the more prevalentwill military genius also be found. But thismerely applies to its prevalence, by no meansto its degree, for that depends on the gen-eral state of intellectual culture in the coun-try. If we look at a wild, warlike race, thenwe find a warlike spirit in individuals muchmore common than in a civilised people; forin the former almost every warrior possesses

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it, whilst in the civilised whole, masses areonly carried away by it from necessity, neverby inclination. But amongst uncivilised peo-ple we never find a really great General, andvery seldom what we can properly call amilitary genius, because that requires a de-velopment of the intelligent powers whichcannot be found in an uncivilised state. Thata civilised people may also have a warlike

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tendency and development is a matter of course; and the more this is general, themore frequently also will military spirit befound in individuals in their armies. Now asthis coincides in such case with the higherdegree of civilisation, therefore from suchnations have issued forth the most brilliantmilitary exploits, as the Romans and theFrench have exemplified. The greatest names

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in these and in all other nations that havebeen renowned in War belong strictly toepochs of higher culture.

From this we may infer how great a sharethe intelligent powers have in superior mili-tary genius. We shall now look more closelyinto this point.

War is the province of danger, and there-fore courage above all things is the first

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quality of a warrior.Courage is of two kinds: first, physi-

cal courage, or courage in presence of dan-ger to the person; and next, moral courage,or courage before responsibility, whether itbe before the judgment-seat of external au-thority, or of the inner power, the conscience.We only speak here of the first.

Courage before danger to the person,367



again, is of two kinds. First, it may be indif-ference to danger, whether proceeding fromthe organism of the individual, contempt of death, or habit: in any of these cases it isto be regarded as a permanent condition.

Secondly, courage may proceed from pos-itive motives, such as personal pride, patri-otism, enthusiasm of any kind. In this casecourage is not so much a normal condition

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as an impulse.We may conceive that the two kinds act

differently. The first kind is more certain,because it has become a second nature, neverforsakes the man; the second often leadshim farther. In the first there is more of firmness, in the second, of boldness. Thefirst leaves the judgment cooler, the secondraises its power at times, but often bewil-

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ders it. The two combined make up themost perfect kind of courage.

War is the province of physical exertionand suffering. In order not to be completelyovercome by them, a certain strength of body and mind is required, which, eithernatural or acquired, produces indifferenceto them. With these qualifications, underthe guidance of simply a sound understand-

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ing, a man is at once a proper instrumentfor War; and these are the qualifications sogenerally to be met with amongst wild andhalf-civilised tribes. If we go further in thedemands which War makes on it, then wefind the powers of the understanding pre-dominating. War is the province of uncer-tainty: three-fourths of those things uponwhich action in War must be calculated, are

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hidden more or less in the clouds of greatuncertainty. Here, then, above all a fine andpenetrating mind is called for, to search outthe truth by the tact of its judgment.

An average intellect may, at one time,perhaps hit upon this truth by accident;an extraordinary courage, at another, maycompensate for the want of this tact; butin the majority of cases the average result

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will always bring to light the deficient un-derstanding.

War is the province of chance. In nosphere of human activity is such a marginto be left for this intruder, because none isso much in constant contact with him on allsides. He increases the uncertainty of everycircumstance, and deranges the course of events.

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From this uncertainty of all intelligenceand suppositions, this continual interposi-tion of chance, the actor in War constantlyfinds things different from his expectations;and this cannot fail to have an influence onhis plans, or at least on the presumptionsconnected with these plans. If this influenceis so great as to render the pre-determinedplan completely nugatory, then, as a rule,

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a new one must be substituted in its place;but at the moment the necessary data areoften wanting for this, because in the courseof action circumstances press for immediatedecision, and allow no time to look aboutfor fresh data, often not enough for matureconsideration.

But it more often happens that the cor-rection of one premise, and the knowledge

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of chance events which have arisen, are notsufficient to overthrow our plans completely,but only suffice to produce hesitation. Ourknowledge of circumstances has increased,but our uncertainty, instead of having di-minished, has only increased. The reasonof this is, that we do not gain all our expe-rience at once, but by degrees; thus our de-terminations continue to be assailed inces-

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santly by fresh experience; and the mind,if we may use the expression, must alwaysbe ”under arms.”

Now, if it is to get safely through thisperpetual conflict with the unexpected, twoqualities are indispensable: in the first placean intellect which, even in the midst of thisintense obscurity, is not without some tracesof inner light, which lead to the truth, and

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then the courage to follow this faint light.The first is figuratively expressed by theFrench phrase coup d’oeil. The other is res-olution. As the battle is the feature in Warto which attention was originally chiefly di-rected, and as time and space are importantelements in it, more particularly when cav-alry with their rapid decisions were the chief arm, the idea of rapid and correct decision

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related in the first instance to the estima-tion of these two elements, and to denotethe idea an expression was adopted whichactually only points to a correct judgmentby eye. Many teachers of the Art of Warthen gave this limited signification as thedefinition of coup d’oeil. But it is undeni-able that all able decisions formed in themoment of action soon came to be under-

379



stood by the expression, as, for instance,the hitting upon the right point of attack,&c. It is, therefore, not only the physical,but more frequently the mental eye whichis meant in coup d’oeil. Naturally, the ex-pression, like the thing, is always more inits place in the field of tactics: still, it mustnot be wanting in strategy, inasmuch as init rapid decisions are often necessary. If we

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strip this conception of that which the ex-pression has given it of the over-figurativeand restricted, then it amounts simply tothe rapid discovery of a truth which to theordinary mind is either not visible at all oronly becomes so after long examination andreflection.

Resolution is an act of courage in singleinstances, and if it becomes a characteris-

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tic trait, it is a habit of the mind. Buthere we do not mean courage in face of bodily danger, but in face of responsibility,therefore, to a certain extent against moraldanger. This has been often called couraged’esprit, on the ground that it springs fromthe understanding; nevertheless, it is no actof the understanding on that account; it isan act of feeling. Mere intelligence is still

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not courage, for we often see the clever-est people devoid of resolution. The mindmust, therefore, first awaken the feeling of courage, and then be guided and supportedby it, because in momentary emergenciesthe man is swayed more by his feelings thanhis thoughts.

We have assigned to resolution the of-fice of removing the torments of doubt, and

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the dangers of delay, when there are no suf-ficient motives for guidance. Through theunscrupulous use of language which is preva-lent, this term is often applied to the merepropensity to daring, to bravery, boldness,or temerity. But, when there are SUFFI-CIENT MOTIVES in the man, let thembe objective or subjective, true or false, wehave no right to speak of his resolution; for,

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when we do so, we put ourselves in his place,and we throw into the scale doubts whichdid not exist with him.

Here there is no question of anythingbut of strength and weakness. We are notpedantic enough to dispute with the useof language about this little misapplication,our observation is only intended to removewrong objections.

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This resolution now, which overcomesthe state of doubting, can only be calledforth by the intellect, and, in fact, by apeculiar tendency of the same. We main-tain that the mere union of a superior un-derstanding and the necessary feelings arenot sufficient to make up resolution. Thereare persons who possess the keenest percep-tion for the most difficult problems, who

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are also not fearful of responsibility, andyet in cases of difficulty cannot come to aresolution. Their courage and their sagac-ity operate independently of each other, donot give each other a hand, and on thataccount do not produce resolution as a re-sult. The forerunner of resolution is an actof the mind making evident the necessityof venturing, and thus influencing the will.

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This quite peculiar direction of the mind,which conquers every other fear in man bythe fear of wavering or doubting, is whatmakes up resolution in strong minds; there-fore, in our opinion, men who have little in-telligence can never be resolute. They mayact without hesitation under perplexing cir-cumstances, but then they act without re-flection. Now, of course, when a man acts

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without reflection he cannot be at variancewith himself by doubts, and such a mode of action may now and then lead to the rightpoint; but we say now as before, it is theaverage result which indicates the existenceof military genius. Should our assertion ap-pear extraordinary to any one, because heknows many a resolute hussar officer who isno deep thinker, we must remind him that

389



many instances of men who have shown thegreatest resolution in an inferior rank, andhave lost it in a higher position. While,on the one hand, they are obliged to re-solve, on the other they see the dangers of awrong decision, and as they are surroundedwith things new to them, their understand-ing loses its original force, and they becomeonly the more timid the more they become

391



aware of the danger of the irresolution intowhich they have fallen, and the more theyhave formerly been in the habit of acting onthe spur of the moment.

From the coup d’oeil and resolution weare naturally to speak of its kindred qual-ity, PRESENCE OF MIND, which in a re-gion of the unexpected like War must acta great part, for it is indeed nothing but

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a great conquest over the unexpected. Aswe admire presence of mind in a pithy an-swer to anything said unexpectedly, so weadmire it in a ready expedient on suddendanger. Neither the answer nor the expe-dient need be in themselves extraordinary,if they only hit the point; for that whichas the result of mature reflection would benothing unusual, therefore insignificant in

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its impression on us, may as an instanta-neous act of the mind produce a pleasingimpression. The expression ”presence of mind” certainly denotes very fitly the readi-ness and rapidity of the help rendered bythe mind.

Whether this noble quality of a man isto be ascribed more to the peculiarity of hismind or to the equanimity of his feelings,

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depends on the nature of the case, althoughneither of the two can be entirely wanting.A telling repartee bespeaks rather a readywit, a ready expedient on sudden dangerimplies more particularly a well-balancedmind.

If we take a general view of the four ele-ments composing the atmosphere in whichWar moves, of DANGER, PHYSICAL EF-

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FORT, UNCERTAINTY, and CHANCE, itis easy to conceive that a great force of mind and understanding is requisite to beable to make way with safety and successamongst such opposing elements, a forcewhich, according to the different modifica-tions arising out of circumstances, we findtermed by military writers and annalists asENERGY, FIRMNESS, STAUNCHNESS,

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STRENGTH OF MIND AND CHARAC-TER. All these manifestations of the heroicnature might be regarded as one and thesame power of volition, modified accord-ing to circumstances; but nearly related asthese things are to each other, still they arenot one and the same, and it is desirable forus to distinguish here a little more closelyat least the action of the powers of the soul

397



in relation to them.In the first place, to make the concep-

tion clear, it is essential to observe that theweight, burden, resistance, or whatever itmay be called, by which that force of thesoul in the General is brought to light, isonly in a very small measure the enemy’sactivity, the enemy’s resistance, the enemy’saction directly. The enemy’s activity only

398



affects the General directly in the first placein relation to his person, without disturb-ing his action as Commander. If the en-emy, instead of two hours, resists for four,the Commander instead of two hours is fourhours in danger; this is a quantity whichplainly diminishes the higher the rank of the Commander. What is it for one in thepost of Commander-in-Chief? It is nothing.

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Secondly, although the opposition offeredby the enemy has a direct effect on the Com-mander through the loss of means arisingfrom prolonged resistance, and the respon-sibility connected with that loss, and hisforce of will is first tested and called forth bythese anxious considerations, still we main-tain that this is not the heaviest burden byfar which he has to bear, because he has

400



only himself to settle with. All the othereffects of the enemy’s resistance act directlyupon the combatants under his command,and through them react upon him.

As long as his men full of good couragefight with zeal and spirit, it is seldom nec-essary for the Chief to show great energy of purpose in the pursuit of his object. Butas soon as difficulties arise–and that must

401



always happen when great results are atstake–then things no longer move on of them-selves like a well-oiled machine, the machineitself then begins to offer resistance, and toovercome this the Commander must havea great force of will. By this resistancewe must not exactly suppose disobedienceand murmurs, although these are frequentenough with particular individuals; it is the

402



whole feeling of the dissolution of all physi-cal and moral power, it is the heartrendingsight of the bloody sacrifice which the Com-mander has to contend with in himself, andthen in all others who directly or indirectlytransfer to him their impressions, feelings,anxieties, and desires. As the forces in oneindividual after another become prostrated,and can no longer be excited and supported

403



no longer strong enough to revive the spiritof all others, the masses drawing him downwith them sink into the lower region of ani-mal nature, which shrinks from danger andknows not shame. These are the weightswhich the courage and intelligent facultiesof the military Commander have to over-come if he is to make his name illustrious.They increase with the masses, and there-

405



Of all the noble feelings which fill thehuman heart in the exciting tumult of bat-tle, none, we must admit, are so powerfuland constant as the soul’s thirst for hon-our and renown, which the German lan-guage treats so unfairly and tends to de-preciate by the unworthy associations in thewords Ehrgeiz (greed of honour) and Ruhm-sucht (hankering after glory). No doubt

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it is just in War that the abuse of theseproud aspirations of the soul must bringupon the human race the most shockingoutrages, but by their origin they are cer-tainly to be counted amongst the noblestfeelings which belong to human nature, andin War they are the vivifying principle whichgives the enormous body a spirit. Althoughother feelings may be more general in their

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influence, and many of them–such as loveof country, fanaticism, revenge, enthusiasmof every kind–may seem to stand higher,the thirst for honour and renown still re-mains indispensable. Those other feelingsmay rouse the great masses in general, andexcite them more powerfully, but they donot give the Leader a desire to will morethan others, which is an essential requisite

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in his position if he is to make himself dis-tinguished in it. They do not, like a thirstfor honour, make the military act speciallythe property of the Leader, which he strivesto turn to the best account; where he ploughswith toil, sows with care, that he may reapplentifully. It is through these aspirationswe have been speaking of in Commanders,from the highest to the lowest, this sort of

410



energy, this spirit of emulation, these in-centives, that the action of armies is chieflyanimated and made successful. And now asto that which specially concerns the headof all, we ask, Has there ever been a greatCommander destitute of the love of honour,or is such a character even conceivable?

FIRMNESS denotes the resistance of thewill in relation to the force of a single blow,

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STAUNCHNESS in relation to a continu-ance of blows. Close as is the analogy be-tween the two, and often as the one is usedin place of the other, still there is a no-table difference between them which cannotbe mistaken, inasmuch as firmness againsta single powerful impression may have itsroot in the mere strength of a feeling, butstaunchness must be supported rather by

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the understanding, for the greater the dura-tion of an action the more systematic delib-eration is connected with it, and from thisstaunchness partly derives its power.

If we now turn to STRENGTH OF MINDOR SOUL, then the first question is, Whatare we to understand thereby?

Plainly it is not vehement expressions of feeling, nor easily excited passions, for that

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would be contrary to all the usage of lan-guage, but the power of listening to reasonin the midst of the most intense excitement,in the storm of the most violent passions.Should this power depend on strength of understanding alone? We doubt it. Thefact that there are men of the greatest intel-lect who cannot command themselves cer-tainly proves nothing to the contrary, for we

414



might say that it perhaps requires an under-standing of a powerful rather than of a com-prehensive nature; but we believe we shallbe nearer the truth if we assume that thepower of submitting oneself to the control of the understanding, even in moments of themost violent excitement of the feelings, thatpower which we call SELF-COMMAND, hasits root in the heart itself. It is, in point of

415



fact, another feeling, which in strong mindsbalances the excited passions without de-stroying them; and it is only through thisequilibrium that the mastery of the under-standing is secured. This counterpoise isnothing but a sense of the dignity of man,that noblest pride, that deeply- seated de-sire of the soul always to act as a being en-dued with understanding and reason. We

416



may therefore say that a strong mind is onewhich does not lose its balance even underthe most violent excitement.

If we cast a glance at the variety to beobserved in the human character in respectto feeling, we find, first, some people whohave very little excitability, who are calledphlegmatic or indolent.

Secondly, some very excitable, but whose417



feelings still never overstep certain limits,and who are therefore known as men full of feeling, but sober-minded.

Thirdly, those who are very easily roused,whose feelings blaze up quickly and violentlylike gunpowder, but do not last.

Fourthly, and lastly, those who cannotbe moved by slight causes, and who gen-erally are not to be roused suddenly, but

418



only gradually; but whose feelings becomevery powerful and are much more lasting.These are men with strong passions, lyingdeep and latent.

This difference of character lies proba-bly close on the confines of the physicalpowers which move the human organism,and belongs to that amphibious organisa-tion which we call the nervous system, which

419



appears to be partly material, partly spir-itual. With our weak philosophy, we shallnot proceed further in this mysterious field.But it is important for us to spend a mo-ment over the effects which these differentnatures have on, action in War, and to seehow far a great strength of mind is to beexpected from them.

Indolent men cannot easily be thrown420



out of their equanimity, but we cannot cer-tainly say there is strength of mind wherethere is a want of all manifestation of power.

At the same time, it is not to be de-nied that such men have a certain pecu-liar aptitude for War, on account of theirconstant equanimity. They often want thepositive motive to action, impulse, and con-sequently activity, but they are not apt to

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throw things into disorder.The peculiarity of the second class is

that they are easily excited to act on tri-fling grounds, but in great matters they areeasily overwhelmed. Men of this kind showgreat activity in helping an unfortunate in-dividual, but by the distress of a whole Na-tion they are only inclined to despond, notroused to action.

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Such people are not deficient in eitheractivity or equanimity in War; but theywill never accomplish anything great unlessa great intellectual force furnishes the mo-tive, and it is very seldom that a strong,independent mind is combined with such acharacter.

Excitable, inflammable feelings are inthemselves little suited for practical life, and

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therefore they are not very fit for War. Theyhave certainly the advantage of strong im-pulses, but that cannot long sustain them.At the same time, if the excitability in suchmen takes the direction of courage, or asense of honour, they may often be very use-ful in inferior positions in War, because theaction in War over which commanders ininferior positions have control is generally

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of shorter duration. Here one courageousresolution, one effervescence of the forcesof the soul, will often suffice. A brave at-tack, a soul-stirring hurrah, is the work of a few moments, whilst a brave contest onthe battle-field is the work of a day, and acampaign the work of a year.

Owing to the rapid movement of theirfeelings, it is doubly difficult for men of this

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description to preserve equilibrium of themind; therefore they frequently lose head,and that is the worst phase in their na-ture as respects the conduct of War. Butit would be contrary to experience to main-tain that very excitable spirits can neverpreserve a steady equilibrium–that is to say,that they cannot do so even under the strongestexcitement. Why should they not have the

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sentiment of self-respect, for, as a rule, theyare men of a noble nature? This feeling isseldom wanting in them, but it has not timeto produce an effect. After an outburst theysuffer most from a feeling of inward humilia-tion. If through education, self-observance,and experience of life, they have learned,sooner or later, the means of being on theirguard, so that at the moment of power-

427



ful excitement they are conscious betimesof the counteracting force within their ownbreasts, then even such men may have greatstrength of mind.

Lastly, those who are difficult to move,but on that account susceptible of very deepfeelings, men who stand in the same rela-tion to the preceding as red heat to a flame,are the best adapted by means of their Ti-

428



tanic strength to roll away the enormousmasses by which we may figuratively repre-sent the difficulties which beset commandin War. The effect of their feelings is likethe movement of a great body, slower, butmore irresistible.

Although such men are not so likely tobe suddenly surprised by their feelings andcarried away so as to be afterwards ashamed

429



of themselves, like the preceding, still it wouldbe contrary to experience to believe thatthey can never lose their equanimity, or beovercome by blind passion; on the contrary,this must always happen whenever the no-ble pride of self-control is wanting, or asoften as it has not sufficient weight. Wesee examples of this most frequently in menof noble minds belonging to savage nations,

430



where the low degree of mental cultivationfavours always the dominance of the pas-sions. But even amongst the most civilisedclasses in civilised States, life is full of exam-ples of this kind–of men carried away by theviolence of their passions, like the poacherof old chained to the stag in the forest.

We therefore say once more a strong mindis not one that is merely susceptible of strong

431



excitement, but one which can maintain itsserenity under the most powerful excitement,so that, in spite of the storm in the breast,the perception and judgment can act withperfect freedom, like the needle of the com-pass in the storm-tossed ship.

By the term STRENGTH OF CHAR-ACTER, or simply CHARACTER, is de-noted tenacity of conviction, let it be the

432



result of our own or of others’ views, andwhether they are principles, opinions, mo-mentary inspirations, or any kind of ema-nations of the understanding; but this kindof firmness certainly cannot manifest itself if the views themselves are subject to fre-quent change. This frequent change neednot be the consequence of external influ-ences; it may proceed from the continuous

433



activity of our own mind, in which caseit indicates a characteristic unsteadiness of mind. Evidently we should not say of a manwho changes his views every moment, how-ever much the motives of change may orig-inate with himself, that he has character.Only those men, therefore, can be said tohave this quality whose conviction is veryconstant, either because it is deeply rooted

434



and clear in itself, little liable to alteration,or because, as in the case of indolent men,there is a want of mental activity, and there-fore a want of motives to change; or lastly,because an explicit act of the will, derivedfrom an imperative maxim of the under-standing, refuses any change of opinion upto a certain point.

Now in War, owing to the many and435



derstanding; and in the twilight which sur-rounds everything a deep clear view is sodifficult that a change of opinion is moreconceivable and more pardonable. It is, atall times, only conjecture or guesses at truthwhich we have to act upon. This is why dif-ferences of opinion are nowhere so great asin War, and the stream of impressions act-ing counter to one’s own convictions never

437



ceases to flow. Even the greatest impassibil-ity of mind is hardly proof against them, be-cause the impressions are powerful in theirnature, and always act at the same timeupon the feelings.

When the discernment is clear and deep,none but general principles and views of action from a high standpoint can be theresult; and on these principles the opin-

438



and where a certain faith in self is necessaryand a certain amount of scepticism is ser-viceable. Here often nothing else will helpus but an imperative maxim which, inde-pendent of reflection, at once controls it:that maxim is, in all doubtful cases to ad-here to the first opinion, and not to giveit up until a clear conviction forces us todo so. We must firmly believe in the su-

440



perior authority of well-tried maxims, andunder the dazzling influence of momentaryevents not forget that their value is of aninferior stamp. By this preference which indoubtful cases we give to first convictions,by adherence to the same our actions ac-quire that stability and consistency whichmake up what is called character.

It is easy to see how essential a well-441



balanced mind is to strength of character;therefore men of strong minds generally havea great deal of character.

Force of character leads us to a spuriousvariety of it –OBSTINACY.

It is often very difficult in concrete casesto say where the one ends and the otherbegins; on the other hand, it does not seemdifficult to determine the difference in idea.

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Obstinacy is no fault of the understand-ing; we use the term as denoting a resis-tance against our better judgment, and itwould be inconsistent to charge that to theunderstanding, as the understanding is thepower of judgment. Obstinacy is A FAULTOF THE FEELINGS or heart. This inflex-ibility of will, this impatience of contradic-tion, have their origin only in a particu-

443



lar kind of egotism, which sets above ev-ery other pleasure that of governing bothself and others by its own mind alone. Weshould call it a kind of vanity, were it notdecidedly something better. Vanity is sat-isfied with mere show, but obstinacy restsupon the enjoyment of the thing.

We say, therefore, force of character de-generates into obstinacy whenever the resis-

444



tance to opposing judgments proceeds notfrom better convictions or a reliance upona trustworthy maxim, but from a feeling of opposition. If this definition, as we have al-ready admitted, is of little assistance prac-tically, still it will prevent obstinacy frombeing considered merely force of characterintensified, whilst it is something essentiallydifferent–something which certainly lies close

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to it and is cognate to it, but is at the sametime so little an intensification of it thatthere are very obstinate men who from wantof understanding have very little force of character.

Having in these high attributes of a greatmilitary Commander made ourselves acquaintedwith those qualities in which heart and headco-operate, we now come to a speciality of

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military activity which perhaps may be lookedupon as the most marked if it is not themost important, and which only makes ademand on the power of the mind withoutregard to the forces of feelings. It is theconnection which exists between War andcountry or ground.

This connection is, in the first place, apermanent condition of War, for it is im-

447



possible to imagine our organised Armieseffecting any operation otherwise than insome given space; it is, secondly, of themost decisive importance, because it mod-ifies, at times completely alters, the actionof all forces; thirdly, while on the one handit often concerns the most minute featuresof locality, on the other it may apply to im-mense tracts of country.

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exactness. But the Commander in War mustcommit the business he has in hand to acorresponding space which his eye cannotsurvey, which the keenest zeal cannot al-ways explore, and with which, owing to theconstant changes taking place, he can alsoseldom become properly acquainted. Cer-tainly the enemy generally is in the samesituation; still, in the first place, the diffi-

450



culty, although common to both, is not theless a difficulty, and he who by talent andpractice overcomes it will have a great ad-vantage on his side; secondly, this equalityof the difficulty on both sides is merely anabstract supposition which is rarely realisedin the particular case, as one of the two op-ponents (the defensive) usually knows muchmore of the locality than his adversary.

451



This very peculiar difficulty must be over-come by a natural mental gift of a specialkind which is known by the–too restricted–term of Orisinn sense of locality. It is thepower of quickly forming a correct geomet-rical idea of any portion of country, andconsequently of being able to find one’s placein it exactly at any time. This is plainlyan act of the imagination. The perception

452



no doubt is formed partly by means of thephysical eye, partly by the mind, which fillsup what is wanting with ideas derived fromknowledge and experience, and out of thefragments visible to the physical eye formsa whole; but that this whole should presentitself vividly to the reason, should becomea picture, a mentally drawn map, that thispicture should be fixed, that the details should

453



never again separate themselves–all that canonly be effected by the mental faculty whichwe call imagination. If some great poetor painter should feel hurt that we requirefrom his goddess such an office; if he shrugshis shoulders at the notion that a sharpgamekeeper must necessarily excel in imagi-nation, we readily grant that we only speakhere of imagination in a limited sense, of

454



its service in a really menial capacity. But,however slight this service, still it must bethe work of that natural gift, for if that giftis wanting, it would be difficult to imaginethings plainly in all the completeness of thevisible. That a good memory is a great as-sistance we freely allow, but whether mem-ory is to be considered as an independentfaculty of the mind in this case, or whether

455



it is just that power of imagination whichhere fixes these things better on the mem-ory, we leave undecided, as in many respectsit seems difficult upon the whole to conceivethese two mental powers apart from eachother.

That practice and mental acuteness havemuch to do with it is not to be denied. Puy-segur, the celebrated Quartermaster-General

456



of the famous Luxemburg, used to say thathe had very little confidence in himself inthis respect at first, because if he had tofetch the parole from a distance he alwayslost his way.

It is natural that scope for the exerciseof this talent should increase along withrank. If the hussar and rifleman in com-mand of a patrol must know well all the

457



highways and byways, and if for that a fewmarks, a few limited powers of observation,are sufficient, the Chief of an Army mustmake himself familiar with the general ge-ographical features of a province and of acountry; must always have vividly beforehis eyes the direction of the roads, rivers,and hills, without at the same time beingable to dispense with the narrower ”sense

458



of locality” Orisinn. No doubt, informationof various kinds as to objects in general,maps, books, memoirs, and for details theassistance of his Staff, are a great help tohim; but it is nevertheless certain that if he has himself a talent for forming an idealpicture of a country quickly and distinctly,it lends to his action an easier and firmerstep, saves him from a certain mental help-

459



and soul which military activity requiresfrom human nature. Everywhere intellectappears as an essential co-operative force;and thus we can understand how the workof War, although so plain and simple in itseffects, can never be conducted with distin-guished success by people without distin-guished powers of the understanding.

When we have reached this view, then461



we need no longer look upon such a natu-ral idea as the turning an enemy’s position,which has been done a thousand times, anda hundred other similar conceptions, as theresult of a great effort of genius.

Certainly one is accustomed to regardthe plain honest soldier as the very oppositeof the man of reflection, full of inventionsand ideas, or of the brilliant spirit shining in

462



the ornaments of refined education of everykind. This antithesis is also by no meansdevoid of truth; but it does not show thatthe efficiency of the soldier consists only inhis courage, and that there is no particularenergy and capacity of the brain requiredin addition to make a man merely what iscalled a true soldier. We must again repeatthat there is nothing more common than

463



to hear of men losing their energy on beingraised to a higher position, to which theydo not feel themselves equal; but we mustalso remind our readers that we are speak-ing of pre-eminent services, of such as giverenown in the branch of activity to whichthey belong. Each grade of command inWar therefore forms its own stratum of req-uisite capacity of fame and honour.

464



An immense space lies between a General–that is, one at the head of a whole War, or of a theatre of War–and his Second in Com-mand, for the simple reason that the lat-ter is in more immediate subordination toa superior authority and supervision, conse-quently is restricted to a more limited sphereof independent thought. This is why com-mon opinion sees no room for the exercise of

465



high talent except in high places, and looksupon an ordinary capacity as sufficient forall beneath: this is why people are ratherinclined to look upon a subordinate Generalgrown grey in the service, and in whom con-stant discharge of routine duties has pro-duced a decided poverty of mind, as a manof failing intellect, and, with all respect forhis bravery, to laugh at his simplicity. It is

466



not our object to gain for these brave mena better lot–that would contribute nothingto their efficiency, and little to their hap-piness; we only wish to represent things asthey are, and to expose the error of believ-ing that a mere bravo without intellect canmake himself distinguished in War.

As we consider distinguished talents req-uisite for those who are to attain distinc-

467



tion, even in inferior positions, it naturallyfollows that we think highly of those whofill with renown the place of Second in Com-mand of an Army; and their seeming sim-plicity of character as compared with a poly-histor, with ready men of business, or withcouncillors of state, must not lead us astrayas to the superior nature of their intellec-tual activity. It happens sometimes that

468



estimate being formed of the characteristicsrequired to shine in certain situations.

For each station, from the lowest up-wards, to render distinguished services inWar, there must be a particular genius. Butthe title of genius, history and the judgmentof posterity only confer, in general, on thoseminds which have shone in the highest rank,that of Commanders- in-Chief. The reason

470



is that here, in point of fact, the demand onthe reasoning and intellectual powers gen-erally is much greater.

To conduct a whole War, or its greatacts, which we call campaigns, to a success-ful termination, there must be an intimateknowledge of State policy in its higher rela-tions. The conduct of the War and the pol-icy of the State here coincide, and the Gen-

471



eral becomes at the same time the States-man.

We do not give Charles XII. the nameof a great genius, because he could not makethe power of his sword subservient to a higher judgment and philosophy–could not attainby it to a glorious object. We do not givethat title to Henry IV. (of France), becausehe did not live long enough to set at rest

472



the relations of different States by his mil-itary activity, and to occupy himself in thathigher field where noble feelings and a chival-rous disposition have less to do in masteringthe enemy than in overcoming internal dis-sension.

In order that the reader may appreciateall that must be comprehended and judgedof correctly at a glance by a General, we

473



refer to the first chapter. We say the Gen-eral becomes a Statesman, but he must notcease to be the General. He takes into viewall the relations of the State on the onehand; on the other, he must know exactlywhat he can do with the means at his dis-posal.

As the diversity, and undefined limits,of all the circumstances bring a great num-

474



ber of factors into consideration in War, asthe most of these factors can only be esti-mated according to probability, therefore, if the Chief of an Army does not bring to bearupon them a mind with an intuitive per-ception of the truth, a confusion of ideasand views must take place, in the midstof which the judgment will become bewil-dered. In this sense, Buonaparte was right

475



when he said that many of the questionswhich come before a General for decisionwould make problems for a mathematicalcalculation not unworthy of the powers of Newton or Euler.

What is here required from the higherpowers of the mind is a sense of unity, anda judgment raised to such a compass as togive the mind an extraordinary faculty of

476



vision which in its range allays and setsaside a thousand dim notions which an or-dinary understanding could only bring tolight with great effort, and over which itwould exhaust itself. But this higher ac-tivity of the mind, this glance of genius,would still not become matter of history if the qualities of temperament and charac-ter of which we have treated did not give it

477



their support.Truth alone is but a weak motive of ac-

tion with men, and hence there is alwaysa great difference between knowing and ac-tion, between science and art. The man re-ceives the strongest impulse to action throughthe feelings, and the most powerful succour,if we may use the expression, through thosefaculties of heart and mind which we have

478



considered under the terms of resolution,firmness, perseverance, and force of char-acter.

If, however, this elevated condition of heart and mind in the General did not man-ifest itself in the general effects resultingfrom it, and could only be accepted on trustand faith, then it would rarely become mat-ter of history.

479



All that becomes known of the courseof events in War is usually very simple, andhas a great sameness in appearance; no oneon the mere relation of such events per-ceives the difficulties connected with themwhich had to be overcome. It is only nowand again, in the memoirs of Generals orof those in their confidence, or by reason of some special historical inquiry directed to

480



a particular circumstance, that a portion of the many threads composing the whole webis brought to light. The reflections, mentaldoubts, and conflicts which precede the exe-cution of great acts are purposely concealedbecause they affect political interests, or therecollection of them is accidentally lost be-cause they have been looked upon as merescaffolding which had to be removed on the

481



completion of the building.If, now, in conclusion, without ventur-

ing upon a closer definition of the higherpowers of the soul, we should admit a dis-tinction in the intelligent faculties them-selves according to the common ideas estab-lished by language, and ask ourselves whatkind of mind comes closest to military ge-nius, then a look at the subject as well as at

482



experience will tell us that searching ratherthan inventive minds, comprehensive mindsrather than such as have a special bent, coolrather than fiery heads, are those to whichin time of War we should prefer to trustthe welfare of our women and children, thehonour and the safety of our fatherland.

483



CHAPTER IV. OF DAN-GER IN WAR

USUALLY before we have learnt what dan-ger really is, we form an idea of it which is

rather attractive than repulsive. In the in-toxication of enthusiasm, to fall upon theenemy at the charge–who cares then about

484



bullets and men falling? To throw one-self, blinded by excitement for a moment,against cold death, uncertain whether weor another shall escape him, and all thisclose to the golden gate of victory, close tothe rich fruit which ambition thirsts for–can this be difficult? It will not be diffi-cult, and still less will it appear so. Butsuch moments, which, however, are not the

485



work of a single pulse-beat, as is supposed,but rather like doctors’ draughts, must betaken diluted and spoilt by mixture withtime–such moments, we say, are but few.

Let us accompany the novice to the battle-field. As we approach, the thunder of thecannon becoming plainer and plainer is soonfollowed by the howling of shot, which at-tracts the attention of the inexperienced.

486



Balls begin to strike the ground close to us,before and behind. We hasten to the hillwhere stands the General and his numerousStaff. Here the close striking of the cannonballs and the bursting of shells is so frequentthat the seriousness of life makes itself vis-ible through the youthful picture of imag-ination. Suddenly some one known to usfalls–a shell strikes amongst the crowd and

487



causes some involuntary movements–we be-gin to feel that we are no longer perfectlyat ease and collected; even the bravest is atleast to some degree confused. Now, a stepfarther into the battle which is raging beforeus like a scene in a theatre, we get to thenearest General of Division; here ball fol-lows ball, and the noise of our own guns in-creases the confusion. From the General of

488



Division to the Brigadier. He, a man of ac-knowledged bravery, keeps carefully behinda rising ground, a house, or a tree–a suresign of increasing danger. Grape rattles onthe roofs of the houses and in the fields; can-non balls howl over us, and plough the air inall directions, and soon there is a frequentwhistling of musket balls. A step farthertowards the troops, to that sturdy infantry

489



which for hours has maintained its firmnessunder this heavy fire; here the air is filledwith the hissing of balls which announcetheir proximity by a short sharp noise asthey pass within an inch of the ear, thehead, or the breast.

To add to all this, compassion strikesthe beating heart with pity at the sight of the maimed and fallen. The young soldier

490



cannot reach any of these different strata of danger without feeling that the light of rea-son does not move here in the same medium,that it is not refracted in the same manneras in speculative contemplation. Indeed, hemust be a very extraordinary man who, un-der these impressions for the first time, doesnot lose the power of making any instanta-neous decisions. It is true that habit soon

491



blunts such impressions; in half in hour webegin to be more or less indifferent to allthat is going on around us: but an ordi-nary character never attains to completecoolness and the natural elasticity of mind;and so we perceive that here again ordinaryqualities will not suffice–a thing which gainstruth, the wider the sphere of activity whichis to be filled. Enthusiastic, stoical, natu-

492



ral bravery, great ambition, or also long fa-miliarity with danger–much of all this theremust be if all the effects produced in this re-sistant medium are not to fall far short of that which in the student’s chamber mayappear only the ordinary standard.

Danger in War belongs to its friction;a correct idea of its influence is necessaryfor truth of perception, and therefore it is

493



brought under notice here.

CHAPTER V. OF BOD-ILY EXERTION IN WAR

IF no one were allowed to pass an opin-ion on the events of War, except at a mo-ment when he is benumbed by frost, sinking

494



from heat and thirst, or dying with hungerand fatigue, we should certainly have fewer judgments correct objectively; but they wouldbe so, SUBJECTIVELY, at least; that is,they would contain in themselves the ex-act relation between the person giving the judgment and the object. We can perceivethis by observing how modestly subdued,even spiritless and desponding, is the opin-

495



ion passed upon the results of untoward eventsby those who have been eye-witnesses, butespecially if they have been parties concerned.This is, according to our view, a criterionof the influence which bodily fatigue exer-cises, and of the allowance to be made forit in matters of opinion.

Amongst the many things in War forwhich no tariff can be fixed, bodily effort

496



may be specially reckoned. Provided thereis no waste, it is a coefficient of all theforces, and no one can tell exactly to whatextent it may be carried. But what is re-markable is, that just as only a strong armenables the archer to stretch the bowstringto the utmost extent, so also in War it isonly by means of a great directing spiritthat we can expect the full power latent

497



in the troops to be developed. For it isone thing if an Army, in consequence of great misfortunes, surrounded with danger,falls all to pieces like a wall that has beenthrown down, and can only find safety inthe utmost exertion of its bodily strength;it is another thing entirely when a victori-ous Army, drawn on by proud feelings only,is conducted at the will of its Chief. The

498



same effort which in the one case might atmost excite our pity must in the other callforth our admiration, because it is muchmore difficult to sustain.

By this comes to light for the inexpe-rienced eye one of those things which putfetters in the dark, as it were, on the ac-tion of the mind, and wear out in secret thepowers of the soul.

499



Although here the question is strictlyonly respecting the extreme effort requiredby a Commander from his Army, by a leaderfrom his followers, therefore of the spiritto demand it and of the art of getting it,still the personal physical exertion of Gen-erals and of the Chief Commander must notbe overlooked. Having brought the analy-sis of War conscientiously up to this point,

500



we could not but take account also of theweight of this small remaining residue.

We have spoken here of bodily effort,chiefly because, like danger, it belongs tothe fundamental causes of friction, and be-cause its indefinite quantity makes it likean elastic body, the friction of which is wellknown to be difficult to calculate.

To check the abuse of these considera-501



tions, of such a survey of things which ag-gravate the difficulties of War, nature hasgiven our judgment a guide in our sensibil-ities. just as an individual cannot with ad-vantage refer to his personal deficiencies if he is insulted and ill-treated, but may welldo so if he has successfully repelled the af-front, or has fully revenged it, so no Com-mander or Army will lessen the impression

502



of a disgraceful defeat by depicting the dan-ger, the distress, the exertions, things whichwould immensely enhance the glory of a vic-tory. Thus our feeling, which after all isonly a higher kind of judgment, forbids usto do what seems an act of justice to whichour judgment would be inclined.

503



CHAPTER VI. INFORMA-TION IN WAR

By the word ”information” we denote allthe knowledge which we have of the enemy

and his country; therefore, in fact, the foun-dation of all our ideas and actions. Let us just consider the nature of this foundation,

504



its want of trustworthiness, its changeful-ness, and we shall soon feel what a danger-ous edifice War is, how easily it may fallto pieces and bury us in its ruins. For al-though it is a maxim in all books that weshould trust only certain information, thatwe must be always suspicious, that is only amiserable book comfort, belonging to thatdescription of knowledge in which writers of

505



systems and compendiums take refuge forwant of anything better to say.

Great part of the information obtainedin War is contradictory, a still greater partis false, and by far the greatest part is of adoubtful character. What is required of anofficer is a certain power of discrimination,which only knowledge of men and thingsand good judgment can give. The law of

506



probability must be his guide. This is not atrifling difficulty even in respect of the firstplans, which can be formed in the cham-ber outside the real sphere of War, but itis enormously increased when in the thickof War itself one report follows hard uponthe heels of another; it is then fortunateif these reports in contradicting each othershow a certain balance of probability, and

507



thus themselves call forth a scrutiny. Itis much worse for the inexperienced whenaccident does not render him this service,but one report supports another, confirmsit, magnifies it, finishes off the picture withfresh touches of colour, until necessity in ur-gent haste forces from us a resolution whichwill soon be discovered to be folly, all thosereports having been lies, exaggerations, er-

508



rors, &c. &c. In a few words, most re-ports are false, and the timidity of men actsas a multiplier of lies and untruths. Asa general rule, every one is more inclinedto lend credence to the bad than the good.Every one is inclined to magnify the badin some measure, and although the alarmswhich are thus propagated like the wavesof the sea subside into themselves, still, like

509



them, without any apparent cause they riseagain. Firm in reliance on his own bet-ter convictions, the Chief must stand likea rock against which the sea breaks its furyin vain. The role is not easy; he who isnot by nature of a buoyant disposition, ortrained by experience in War, and maturedin judgment, may let it be his rule to doviolence to his own natural conviction by

510



inclining from the side of fear to that of hope; only by that means will he be ableto preserve his balance. This difficulty of seeing things correctly, which is one of thegreatest sources of friction in War, makesthings appear quite different from what wasexpected. The impression of the senses isstronger than the force of the ideas resultingfrom methodical reflection, and this goes

511



so far that no important undertaking wasever yet carried out without the Comman-der having to subdue new doubts in him-self at the time of commencing the execu-tion of his work. Ordinary men who followthe suggestions of others become, therefore,generally undecided on the spot; they thinkthat they have found circumstances differ-ent from what they had expected, and this

512



view gains strength by their again yieldingto the suggestions of others. But even theman who has made his own plans, when hecomes to see things with his own eyes willoften think he has done wrong. Firm re-liance on self must make him proof againstthe seeming pressure of the moment; hisfirst conviction will in the end prove true,when the foreground scenery which fate has

513



pushed on to the stage of War, with its ac-companiments of terrific objects, is drawnaside and the horizon extended. This is oneof the great chasms which separate CON-CEPTION from EXECUTION.

514



CHAPTER VII. FRICTIONIN WAR

As long as we have no personal knowledgeof War, we cannot conceive where those dif-

ficulties lie of which so much is said, andwhat that genius and those extraordinarymental powers required in a General have

515



really to do. All appears so simple, all therequisite branches of knowledge appear soplain, all the combinations so unimportant,that in comparison with them the easiestproblem in higher mathematics impressesus with a certain scientific dignity. But if we have seen War, all becomes intelligible;and still, after all, it is extremely difficult todescribe what it is which brings about this

516



change, to specify this invisible and com-pletely efficient factor.

Everything is very simple in War, butthe simplest thing is difficult. These diffi-culties accumulate and produce a frictionwhich no man can imagine exactly who hasnot seen War, Suppose now a traveller, whotowards evening expects to accomplish thetwo stages at the end of his day’s journey,

517



four or five leagues, with post-horses, onthe high road–it is nothing. He arrives nowat the last station but one, finds no horses,or very bad ones; then a hilly country, badroads; it is a dark night, and he is gladwhen, after a great deal of trouble, he reachesthe next station, and finds there some mis-erable accommodation. So in War, throughthe influence of an infinity of petty circum-

518



stances, which cannot properly be describedon paper, things disappoint us, and we fallshort of the mark. A powerful iron willovercomes this friction; it crushes the obsta-cles, but certainly the machine along withthem. We shall often meet with this result.Like an obelisk towards which the principalstreets of a town converge, the strong will of a proud spirit stands prominent and com-

519



manding in the middle of the Art of War.Friction is the only conception which in

a general way corresponds to that whichdistinguishes real War from War on paper.The military machine, the Army and all be-longing to it, is in fact simple, and appearson this account easy to manage. But let usreflect that no part of it is in one piece, thatit is composed entirely of individuals, each

520



of which keeps up its own friction in all di-rections. Theoretically all sounds very well:the commander of a battalion is responsiblefor the execution of the order given; and asthe battalion by its discipline is glued to-gether into one piece, and the chief mustbe a man of acknowledged zeal, the beamturns on an iron pin with little friction. Butit is not so in reality, and all that is exag-

521



gerated and false in such a conception man-ifests itself at once in War. The battalionalways remains composed of a number of men, of whom, if chance so wills, the mostinsignificant is able to occasion delay andeven irregularity. The danger which Warbrings with it, the bodily exertions whichit requires, augment this evil so much thatthey may be regarded as the greatest causes

522



of it.This enormous friction, which is not con-

centrated, as in mechanics, at a few points,is therefore everywhere brought into con-tact with chance, and thus incidents takeplace upon which it was impossible to cal-culate, their chief origin being chance. Asan instance of one such chancethe weather.Here the fog prevents the enemy from be-

523



ing discovered in time, a battery from firingat the right moment, a report from reach-ing the General; there the rain prevents abattalion from arriving at the right time,because instead of for three it had to marchperhaps eight hours; the cavalry from charg-ing effectively because it is stuck fast inheavy ground.

These are only a few incidents of de-524



us to add a few more.

Activity in War is move-ment in a resistant medium.

Just as a man immersed in water is un-able to perform with ease and regularitythe most natural and simplest movement,

526



that of walking, so in War, with ordinarypowers, one cannot keep even the line of mediocrity. This is the reason that the cor-rect theorist is like a swimming master, whoteaches on dry land movements which arerequired in the water, which must appeargrotesque and ludicrous to those who forgetabout the water. This is also why theorists,who have never plunged in themselves, or

527



who cannot deduce any generalities fromtheir experience, are unpractical and evenabsurd, because they only teach what everyone knows–how to walk.

Further, every War is rich in particularfacts, while at the same time each is an un-explored sea, full of rocks which the Generalmay have a suspicion of, but which he hasnever seen with his eye, and round which,

528



moreover, he must steer in the night. If acontrary wind also springs up, that is, if anygreat accidental event declares itself adverseto him, then the most consummate skill,presence of mind, and energy are required,whilst to those who only look on from a dis-tance all seems to proceed with the utmostease. The knowledge of this friction is achief part of that so often talked of, expe-

529



rience in War, which is required in a goodGeneral. Certainly he is not the best Gen-eral in whose mind it assumes the greatestdimensions, who is the most over-awed byit (this includes that class of over-anxiousGenerals, of whom there are so many amongstthe experienced); but a General must beaware of it that he may overcome it, wherethat is possible, and that he may not ex-

530



pect a degree of precision in results which isimpossible on account of this very friction.Besides, it can never be learnt theoretically;and if it could, there would still be wantingthat experience of judgment which is calledtact, and which is always more necessaryin a field full of innumerable small and di-versified objects than in great and decisivecases, when one’s own judgment may be

531



aided by consultation with others. Just asthe man of the world, through tact of judg-ment which has become habit, speaks, acts,and moves only as suits the occasion, so theofficer experienced in War will always, ingreat and small matters, at every pulsationof War as we may say, decide and determinesuitably to the occasion. Through this ex-perience and practice the idea comes to his

532



mind of itself that so and so will not suit.And thus he will not easily place himself in a position by which he is compromised,which, if it often occurs in War, shakes allthe foundations of confidence and becomesextremely dangerous.

It is therefore this friction, or what is sotermed here, which makes that which ap-pears easy in War difficult in reality. As

533



we proceed, we shall often meet with thissubject again, and it will hereafter becomeplain that besides experience and a strongwill, there are still many other rare quali-ties of the mind required to make a man aconsummate General.

534



CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUD-ING REMARKS, BOOK I

THOSE things which as elements meet to-gether in the atmosphere of War and make

it a resistant medium for every activity wehave designated under the terms danger,bodily effort (exertion), information, and

535



friction. In their impedient effects they maytherefore be comprehended again in the col-lective notion of a general friction. Now isthere, then, no kind of oil which is capableof diminishing this friction? Only one, andthat one is not always available at the willof the Commander or his Army. It is thehabituation of an Army to War.

Habit gives strength to the body in great536



exertion, to the mind in great danger, to the judgment against first impressions. By it avaluable circumspection is generally gainedthroughout every rank, from the hussar andrifleman up to the General of Division, whichfacilitates the work of the Chief Comman-der.

As the human eye in a dark room di-lates its pupil, draws in the little light that

537



there is, partially distinguishes objects bydegrees, and at last knows them quite well,so it is in War with the experienced soldier,whilst the novice is only met by pitch darknight.

Habituation to War no General can givehis Army at once, and the camps of ma-noeuvre (peace exercises) furnish but a weaksubstitute for it, weak in comparison with

538



real experience in War, but not weak in re-lation to other Armies in which the train-ing is limited to mere mechanical exercisesof routine. So to regulate the exercises inpeace time as to include some of these causesof friction, that the judgment, circumspec-tion, even resolution of the separate leadersmay be brought into exercise, is of muchgreater consequence than those believe who

539



do not know the thing by experience. Itis of immense importance that the soldier,high or low, whatever rank he has, shouldnot have to encounter in War those thingswhich, when seen for the first time, set himin astonishment and perplexity; if he hasonly met with them one single time before,even by that he is half acquainted with them.This relates even to bodily fatigues. They

540



should be practised less to accustom thebody to them than the mind. In War theyoung soldier is very apt to regard unusualfatigues as the consequence of faults, mis-takes, and embarrassment in the conductof the whole, and to become distressed anddespondent as a consequence. This wouldnot happen if he had been prepared for thisbeforehand by exercises in peace.

541



Another less comprehensive but still veryimportant means of gaining habituation toWar in time of peace is to invite into theservice officers of foreign armies who havehad experience in War. Peace seldom reignsover all Europe, and never in all quarters of the world. A State which has been longat peace should, therefore, always seek toprocure some officers who have done good

542



service at the different scenes of Warfare,or to send there some of its own, that theymay get a lesson in War.

However small the number of officers of this description may appear in proportionto the mass, still their influence is very sen-sibly felt.[] Their experience, the bent of their genius, the stamp of their character,influence their subordinates and comrades;

543



and besides that, if they cannot be placedin positions of superior command, they mayalways be regarded as men acquainted withthe country, who may be questioned on manyspecial occasions.

[] The War of 1870 furnishes a markedillustration. Von Moltke and von Goeben,not to mention many others, had both seenservice in this manner, the former in Turkey

544



and Syria, the latter in Spain– EDITOR.BOOK II. ON THE THEORY OF WAR

CHAPTER I. BRANCHES

OF THE ART OF WARWAR in its literal meaning is fighting, forfighting alone is the efficient principle in

545



the manifold activity which in a wide senseis called War. But fighting is a trial of strength of the moral and physical forcesby means of the latter. That the moral can-not be omitted is evident of itself, for thecondition of the mind has always the mostdecisive influence on the forces employed inWar.

The necessity of fighting very soon led546



men to special inventions to turn the ad-vantage in it in their own favour: in con-sequence of these the mode of fighting hasundergone great alterations; but in what-ever way it is conducted its conception re-mains unaltered, and fighting is that whichconstitutes War.

The inventions have been from the firstweapons and equipments for the individual

547



combatants. These have to be provided andthe use of them learnt before the War be-gins. They are made suitable to the natureof the fighting, consequently are ruled byit; but plainly the activity engaged in theseappliances is a different thing from the fightitself; it is only the preparation for the com-bat, not the conduct of the same. Thatarming and equipping are not essential to

548



the conception of fighting is plain, becausemere wrestling is also fighting.

Fighting has determined everything ap-pertaining to arms and equipment, and thesein turn modify the mode of fighting; thereis, therefore, a reciprocity of action betweenthe two.

Nevertheless, the fight itself remains stillan entirely special activity, more particu-

549



other.It is also in no way difficult to separate

in idea the one activity from the other, if welook at the combatant forces fully armedand equipped as a given means, the prof-itable use of which requires nothing morethan a knowledge of their general results.

The Art of War is therefore, in its propersense, the art of making use of the given

551



means in fighting, and we cannot give it abetter name than the ”Conduct of War.”On the other hand, in a wider sense all ac-tivities which have their existence on ac-count of War, therefore the whole creationof troops, that is levying them, arming, equip-ping, and exercising them, belong to theArt of War.

To make a sound theory it is most es-552



sential to separate these two activities, forit is easy to see that if every act of Waris to begin with the preparation of militaryforces, and to presuppose forces so organ-ised as a primary condition for conductingWar, that theory will only be applicable inthe few cases to which the force availablehappens to be exactly suited. If, on theother hand, we wish to have a theory which

553



shall suit most cases, and will not be whollyuseless in any case, it must be founded onthose means which are in most general use,and in respect to these only on the actualresults springing from them.

The conduct of War is, therefore, theformation and conduct of the fighting. If this fighting was a single act, there wouldbe no necessity for any further subdivision,

554



but the fight is composed of a greater or lessnumber of single acts, complete in them-selves, which we call combats, as we haveshown in the first chapter of the first book,and which form new units. From this arisesthe totally different activities, that of theFORMATION and CONDUCT of these sin-gle combats in themselves, and the COMBI-NATION of them with one another, with a

555



view to the ultimate object of the War. Thefirst is called TACTICS, the other STRAT-EGY.

This division into tactics and strategyis now in almost general use, and every oneknows tolerably well under which head toplace any single fact, without knowing verydistinctly the grounds on which the clas-sification is founded. But when such di-

556



visions are blindly adhered to in practice,they must have some deep root. We havesearched for this root, and we might saythat it is just the usage of the majoritywhich has brought us to it. On the otherhand, we look upon the arbitrary, unnatu-ral definitions of these conceptions soughtto be established by some writers as not inaccordance with the general usage of the

557



terms.According to our classification, there-

fore, tactics IS THE THEORY OF THEUSE OF MILITARY FORCES IN COM-BAT. Strategy IS THE THEORY OF THEUSE OF COMBATS FOR THE OBJECTOF THE WAR.

The way in which the conception of asingle, or independent combat, is more closely

558



determined, the conditions to which thisunit is attached, we shall only be able to ex-plain clearly when we consider the combat;we must content ourselves for the presentwith saying that in relation to space, there-fore in combats taking place at the sametime, the unit reaches just as far as PER-SONAL COMMAND reaches; but in regardto time, and therefore in relation to com-

559



bats which follow each other in close suc-cession, it reaches to the moment when thecrisis which takes place in every combat isentirely passed.

That doubtful cases may occur, cases,for instance, in which several combats mayperhaps be regarded also as a single one,will not overthrow the ground of distinc-tion we have adopted, for the same is the

560



case with all grounds of distinction of realthings which are differentiated by a grad-ually diminishing scale. There may, there-fore, certainly be acts of activity in Warwhich, without any alteration in the pointof view, may just as well be counted strate-gic as tactical; for example, very extendedpositions resembling a chain of posts, thepreparations for the passage of a river at

561



several points, &c.Our classification reaches and covers only

the USE OF THE MILITARY FORCE. Butnow there are in War a number of activi-ties which are subservient to it, and still arequite different from it; sometimes closely al-lied, sometimes less near in their affinity.All these activities relate to the MAINTE-NANCE OF THE MILITARY FORCE. In

562



the same way as its creation and trainingprecede its use, so its maintenance is alwaysa necessary condition. But, strictly viewed,all activities thus connected with it are al-ways to be regarded only as preparationsfor fighting; they are certainly nothing morethan activities which are very close to theaction, so that they run through the hostileact alternate in importance with the use of

563



the forces. We have therefore a right toexclude them as well as the other prepara-tory activities from the Art of War in itsrestricted sense, from the conduct of Warproperly so called; and we are obliged to doso if we would comply with the first princi-ple of all theory, the elimination of all het-erogeneous elements. Who would include inthe real ”conduct of War” the whole litany

564



of subsistence and administration, becauseit is admitted to stand in constant recipro-cal action with the use of the troops, but issomething essentially different from it?

We have said, in the third chapter of ourfirst book, that as the fight or combat is theonly directly effective activity, therefore thethreads of all others, as they end in it, areincluded in it. By this we meant to say

565



that to all others an object was thereby ap-pointed which, in accordance with the lawspeculiar to themselves, they must seek toattain. Here we must go a little closer intothis subject.

The subjects which constitute the ac-tivities outside of the combat are of variouskinds.

The one part belongs, in one respect, to566



the combat itself, is identical with it, whilstit serves in another respect for the mainte-nance of the military force. The other partbelongs purely to the subsistence, and hasonly, in consequence of the reciprocal ac-tion, a limited influence on the combats byits results. The subjects which in one re-spect belong to the fighting itself are MARCHES,CAMPS, and CANTONMENTS, for they

567



suppose so many different situations of troops,and where troops are supposed there theidea of the combat must always be present.

The other subjects, which only belongto the maintenance, are SUBSISTENCE,CARE OF THE SICK, the SUPPLY ANDREPAIR OF ARMS AND EQUIPMENT.

Marches are quite identical with the useof the troops. The act of marching in the

568



combat, generally called manoeuvring, cer-tainly does not necessarily include the useof weapons, but it is so completely and nec-essarily combined with it that it forms anintegral part of that which we call a com-bat. But the march outside the combatis nothing but the execution of a strate-gic measure. By the strategic plan is set-tled WHEN, WHERE, and WITH WHAT

569



FORCES a battle is to be delivered–and tocarry that into execution the march is theonly means.

The march outside of the combat is there-fore an instrument of strategy, but not onthat account exclusively a subject of strat-egy, for as the armed force which executesit may be involved in a possible combat atany moment, therefore its execution stands

570



also under tactical as well as strategic rules.If we prescribe to a column its route on aparticular side of a river or of a branch of amountain, then that is a strategic measure,for it contains the intention of fighting onthat particular side of the hill or river inpreference to the other, in case a combatshould be necessary during the march.

But if a column, instead of following the571



road through a valley, marches along theparallel ridge of heights, or for the conve-nience of marching divides itself into severalcolumns, then these are tactical arrange-ments, for they relate to the manner in whichwe shall use the troops in the anticipatedcombat.

The particular order of march is in con-stant relation with readiness for combat, is

572



therefore tactical in its nature, for it is noth-ing more than the first or preliminary dis-position for the battle which may possiblytake place.

As the march is the instrument by whichstrategy apportions its active elements, thecombats, but these last often only appearby their results and not in the details of their real course, it could not fail to hap-

573



pen that in theory the instrument has oftenbeen substituted for the efficient principle.Thus we hear of a decisive skilful march, al-lusion being thereby made to those combat-combinations to which these marches led.This substitution of ideas is too natural andconciseness of expression too desirable tocall for alteration, but still it is only a con-densed chain of ideas in regard to which we

574



must never omit to bear in mind the fullmeaning, if we would avoid falling into er-ror.

We fall into an error of this descriptionif we attribute to strategical combinationsa power independent of tactical results. Weread of marches and manoeuvres combined,the object attained, and at the same timenot a word about combat, from which the

575



conclusion is drawn that there are means inWar of conquering an enemy without fight-ing. The prolific nature of this error wecannot show until hereafter.

But although a march can be regardedabsolutely as an integral part of the combat,still there are in it certain relations whichdo not belong to the combat, and thereforeare neither tactical nor strategic. To these

576



belong all arrangements which concern onlythe accommodation of the troops, the con-struction of bridges, roads, &c. These areonly conditions; under many circumstancesthey are in very close connection, and mayalmost identify themselves with the troops,as in building a bridge in presence of the en-emy; but in themselves they are always ac-tivities, the theory of which does not form

577



part of the theory of the conduct of War.Camps, by which we mean every dispo-

sition of troops in concentrated, thereforein battle order, in contradistinction to can-tonments or quarters, are a state of rest,therefore of restoration; but they are at thesame time also the strategic appointmentof a battle on the spot, chosen; and by themanner in which they are taken up they

578



contain the fundamental lines of the battle,a condition from which every defensive bat-tle starts; they are therefore essential partsof both strategy and tactics.

Cantonments take the place of campsfor the better refreshment of the troops.They are therefore, like camps, strategicsubjects as regards position and extent; tac-tical subjects as regards internal organisa-

579



tion, with a view to readiness to fight.The occupation of camps and canton-

ments no doubt usually combines with therecuperation of the troops another objectalso, for example, the covering a district of country, the holding a position; but it canvery well be only the first. We remind ourreaders that strategy may follow a great di-versity of objects, for everything which ap-

580



pears an advantage may be the object of acombat, and the preservation of the instru-ment with which War is made must neces-sarily very often become the object of itspartial combinations.

If, therefore, in such a case strategy min-isters only to the maintenance of the troops,we are not on that account out of the fieldof strategy, for we are still engaged with

581



the use of the military force, because ev-ery disposition of that force upon any pointWhatever of the theatre of War is such ause.

But if the maintenance of the troops incamp or quarters calls forth activities whichare no employment of the armed force, suchas the construction of huts, pitching of tents,subsistence and sanitary services in camps

582



or quarters, then such belong neither to strat-egy nor tactics.

Even entrenchments, the site and prepa-ration of which are plainly part of the orderof battle, therefore tactical subjects, do notbelong to the theory of the conduct of Warso far as respects the execution of their con-struction the knowledge and skill requiredfor such work being, in point of fact, qual-

583



ities inherent in the nature of an organisedArmy; the theory of the combat takes themfor granted.

Amongst the subjects which belong tothe mere keeping up of an armed force, be-cause none of the parts are identified withthe combat, the victualling of the troopsthemselves comes first, as it must be donealmost daily and for each individual. Thus

584



it is that it completely permeates militaryaction in the parts constituting strategy–we say parts constituting strategy, becauseduring a battle the subsistence of troopswill rarely have any influence in modify-ing the plan, although the thing is conceiv-able enough. The care for the subsistenceof the troops comes therefore into recipro-cal action chiefly with strategy, and there is

585



nothing more common than for the leadingstrategic features of a campaign and War tobe traced out in connection with a view tothis supply. But however frequent and how-ever important these views of supply maybe, the subsistence of the troops always re-mains a completely different activity fromthe use of the troops, and the former hasonly an influence on the latter by its results.

586



The other branches of administrative ac-tivity which we have mentioned stand muchfarther apart from the use of the troops.The care of sick and wounded, highly im-portant as it is for the good of an Army,directly affects it only in a small portion of the individuals composing it, and thereforehas only a weak and indirect influence uponthe use of the rest. The completing and re-

587



placing articles of arms and equipment, ex-cept so far as by the organism of the forcesit constitutes a continuous activity inherentin them–takes place only periodically, andtherefore seldom affects strategic plans.

We must, however, here guard ourselvesagainst a mistake. In certain cases thesesubjects may be really of decisive impor-tance. The distance of hospitals and depot̂s

588



of munitions may very easily be imagined asthe sole cause of very important strategicdecisions. We do not wish either to contestthat point or to throw it into the shade. Butwe are at present occupied not with the par-ticular facts of a concrete case, but with ab-stract theory; and our assertion therefore isthat such an influence is too rare to give thetheory of sanitary measures and the supply

589



of munitions and arms an importance inthe-ory of the conduct of War such as to makeit worth while to include in the theory of the conduct of War the consideration of thedifferent ways and systems which the abovetheories may furnish, in the same way as iscertainly necessary in regard to victuallingtroops.

If we have clearly understood the results590



of our reflections, then the activities belong-ing to War divide themselves into two prin-cipal classes, into such as are only ”prepa-rations for War” and into the ”War itself.”This division must therefore also be madein theory.

The knowledge and applications of skillin the preparations for War are engaged inthe creation, discipline, and maintenance of

591



all the military forces; what general namesshould be given to them we do not enterinto, but we see that artillery, fortification,elementary tactics, as they are called, thewhole organisation and administration of the various armed forces, and all such thingsare included. But the theory of War itself occupies itself with the use of these pre-pared means for the object of the war. It

592



needs of the first only the results, that is,the knowledge of the principal properties of the means taken in hand for use. This wecall ”The Art of War” in a limited sense, or”Theory of the Conduct of War,” or ”The-ory of the Employment of Armed Forces,”all of them denoting for us the same thing.

The present theory will therefore treatthe combat as the real contest, marches,

593



camps, and cantonments as circumstanceswhich are more or less identical with it. Thesubsistence of the troops will only come intoconsideration like OTHER GIVEN CIRCUM-STANCES in respect of its results, not asan activity belonging to the combat.

The Art of War thus viewed in its lim-ited sense divides itself again into tacticsand strategy. The former occupies itself

594



with the form of the separate combat, thelatter with its use. Both connect themselveswith the circumstances of marches, camps,cantonments only through the combat, andthese circumstances are tactical or strategicaccording as they relate to the form or tothe signification of the battle.

No doubt there will be many readerswho will consider superfluous this careful

595



separation of two things lying so close to-gether as tactics and strategy, because ithas no direct effect on the conduct itself of War. We admit, certainly that it wouldbe pedantry to look for direct effects on thefield of battle from a theoretical distinction.

But the first business of every theoryis to clear up conceptions and ideas whichhave been jumbled together, and, we may

596



say, entangled and confused; and only whena right understanding is established, as tonames and conceptions, can we hope to progresswith clearness and facility, and be certainthat author and reader will always see thingsfrom the same point of view. Tactics andstrategy are two activities mutually perme-ating each other in time and space, at thesame time essentially different activities, the

597



inner laws and mutual relations of whichcannot be intelligible at all to the mind un-til a clear conception of the nature of eachactivity is established.

He to whom all this is nothing, must ei-ther repudiate all theoretical consideration,OR HIS UNDERSTANDING HAS NOT ASYET BEEN PAINED by the confused andperplexing ideas resting on no fixed point

598



of view, leading to no satisfactory result,sometimes dull, sometimes fantastic, some-times floating in vague generalities, whichwe are often obliged to hear and read onthe conduct of War, owing to the spirit of scientific investigation having hitherto beenlittle directed to these subjects.

599



CHAPTER II. ON THE THE-ORY OF WAR

1. THE FIRST CONCEPTION OF THE”ART OF WAR” WAS MERELY THE PREPA-

RATION OF THE ARMED FORCES.FORMERLY by the term ”Art of War,”or ”Science of War,” nothing was under-

600



stood but the totality of those branches of knowledge and those appliances of skill oc-cupied with material things. The patternand preparation and the mode of using arms,the construction of fortifications and entrench-ments, the organism of an army and themechanism of its movements, were the sub- jectthese branches of knowledge and skillabove referred to, and the end and aim of

601



them all was the establishment of an armedforce fit for use in War. All this concernedmerely things belonging to the material worldand a one- sided activity only, and it was infact nothing but an activity advancing bygradations from the lower occupations to afiner kind of mechanical art. The relationof all this to War itself was very much thesame as the relation of the art of the sword

602



cutler to the art of using the sword. Theemployment in the moment of danger andin a state of constant reciprocal action of the particular energies of mind and spiritin the direction proposed to them was notyet even mooted.

2. TRUE WAR FIRST APPEARS INTHE ART OF SIEGES.

In the art of sieges we first perceive a603



certain degree of guidance of the combat,something of the action of the intellectualfaculties upon the material forces placed un-der their control, but generally only so farthat it very soon embodied itself again innew material forms, such as approaches, trenches,counter-approaches, batteries, &c., and ev-ery step which this action of the higher fac-ulties took was marked by some such result;

604



it was only the thread that was required onwhich to string these material inventions inorder. As the intellect can hardly manifestitself in this kind of War, except in suchthings, so therefore nearly all that was nec-essary was done in that way.

3. THEN TACTICS TRIED TO FINDITS WAY IN THE SAME DIRECTION.

Afterwards tactics attempted to give to605



the mechanism of its joints the characterof a general disposition, built upon the pe-culiar properties of the instrument, whichcharacter leads indeed to the battle-field,but instead of leading to the free activity of mind, leads to an Army made like an au-tomaton by its rigid formations and ordersof battle, which, movable only by the wordof command, is intended to unwind its ac-

606



tivities like a piece of clockwork.4. THE REAL CONDUCT OF WAR

ONLY MADE ITS APPEARANCE INCI-DENTALLY AND INCOGNITO.

The conduct of War properly so called,that is, a use of the prepared means adaptedto the most special requirements, was notconsidered as any suitable subject for the-ory, but one which should be left to natural

607



talents alone. By degrees, as War passedfrom the hand-to-hand encounters of themiddle ages into a more regular and sys-tematic form, stray reflections on this pointalso forced themselves into men’s minds,but they mostly appeared only incidentallyin memoirs and narratives, and in a certainmeasure incognito.

5. REFLECTIONS ON MILITARY EVENTS608



BROUGHT ABOUT THE WANT OF ATHEORY.

As contemplation on War continually in-creased, and its history every day assumedmore of a critical character, the urgent wantappeared of the support of fixed maximsand rules, in order that in the controversiesnaturally arising about military events thewar of opinions might be brought to some

609



one point. This whirl of opinions, whichneither revolved on any central pivot nor ac-cording to any appreciable laws, could notbut be very distasteful to people’s minds.

6. ENDEAVOURS TO ESTABLISH APOSITIVE THEORY.

There arose, therefore, an endeavour toestablish maxims, rules, and even systemsfor the conduct of War. By this the at-

610



tainment of a positive object was proposed,without taking into view the endless diffi-culties which the conduct of War presentsin that respect. The conduct of War, aswe have shown, has no definite limits inany direction, while every system has thecircumscribing nature of a synthesis, fromwhich results an irreconcileable oppositionbetween such a theory and practice.

611



7. LIMITATION TO MATERIAL OB-JECTS.

Writers on theory felt the difficulty of the subject soon enough, and thought them-selves entitled to get rid of it by directingtheir maxims and systems only upon mate-rial things and a one-sided activity. Theiraim was to reach results, as in the sciencefor the preparation for War, entirely certain

612



and positive, and therefore only to take intoconsideration that which could be made mat-ter of calculation.

8. SUPERIORITY OF NUMBERS.The superiority in numbers being a ma-

terial condition, it was chosen from amongstall the factors required to produce victory,because it could be brought under mathe-matical laws through combinations of time

613



and space. It was thought possible to leaveout of sight all other circumstances, by sup-posing them to be equal on each side, andtherefore to neutralise one another. Thiswould have been very well if it had beendone to gain a preliminary knowledge of this one factor, according to its relations,but to make it a rule for ever to considersuperiority of numbers as the sole law; to

614



see the whole secret of the Art of War inthe formula, IN A CERTAIN TIME, AT ACERTAIN POINT, TO BRING UP SUPE-RIOR MASSES–was a restriction overruledby the force of realities.

9. VICTUALLING OF TROOPS.By one theoretical school an attempt

was made to systematise another materialelement also, by making the subsistence of

615



troops, according to a previously establishedorganism of the Army, the supreme legisla-tor in the higher conduct of War. In thisway certainly they arrived at definite fig-ures, but at figures which rested on a num-ber of arbitrary calculations, and which there-fore could not stand the test of practicalapplication.

10. BASE.616



An ingenious author tried to concentratein a single conception, that of a BASE, awhole host of objects amongst which sundryrelations even with immaterial forces foundtheir way in as well. The list comprised thesubsistence of the troops, the keeping themcomplete in numbers and equipment, thesecurity of communications with the homecountry, lastly, the security of retreat in

617



case it became necessary; and, first of all,he proposed to substitute this conceptionof a base for all these things; then for thebase itself to substitute its own length (ex-tent); and, last of all, to substitute the an-gle formed by the army with this base: allthis was done to obtain a pure geometri-cal result utterly useless. This last is, infact, unavoidable, if we reflect that none of

618



these substitutions could be made withoutviolating truth and leaving out some of thethings contained in the original conception.The idea of a base is a real necessity forstrategy, and to have conceived it is mer-itorious; but to make such a use of it aswe have depicted is completely inadmissi-ble, and could not but lead to partial con-clusions which have forced these theorists

619



into a direction opposed to common sense,namely, to a belief in the decisive effect of the enveloping form of attack.

11. INTERIOR LINES.As a reaction against this false direction,

another geometrical principle, that of theso-called interior lines, was then elevated tothe throne. Although this principle rests ona sound foundation, on the truth that the

620



combat is the only effectual means in War,still it is, just on account of its purely ge-ometrical nature, nothing but another caseof one-sided theory which can never gainascendency in the real world.

12. ALL THESE ATTEMPTS ARE OPENTO OBJECTION.

All these attempts at theory are onlyto be considered in their analytical part as

621



tion is penetrated throughout by intelligentforces and their effects.

They only pay regard to activity on oneside, whilst War is a constant state of re-ciprocal action, the effects of which are mu-tual.

13. AS A RULE THEY EXCLUDE GE-NIUS.

All that was not attainable by such mis-623



erable philosophy, the offspring of partialviews, lay outside the precincts of science–and was the field of genius, which RAISESITSELF ABOVE RULES.

Pity the warrior who is contented to crawlabout in this beggardom of rules, which aretoo bad for genius, over which it can set it-self superior, over which it can perchancemake merry! What genius does must be

624



the best of all rules, and theory cannot dobetter than to show how and why it is so.

Pity the theory which sets itself in op-position to the mind! It cannot repair thiscontradiction by any humility, and the hum-bler it is so much the sooner will ridiculeand contempt drive it out of real life.

14. THE DIFFICULTY OF THEORYAS SOON AS MORAL QUANTITIES COME

625



INTO CONSIDERATION.Every theory becomes infinitely more dif-

ficult from the moment that it touches onthe province of moral quantities. Archi-tecture and painting know quite well whatthey are about as long as they have only todo with matter; there is no dispute aboutmechanical or optical construction. But assoon as the moral activities begin their work,

626



as soon as moral impressions and feelingsare produced, the whole set of rules dis-solves into vague ideas.

The science of medicine is chiefly en-gaged with bodily phenomena only; its busi-ness is with the animal organism, which, li-able to perpetual change, is never exactlythe same for two moments. This makes itspractice very difficult, and places the judg-

627



ment of the physician above his science; buthow much more difficult is the case if amoral effect is added, and how much highermust we place the physician of the mind?

15. THE MORAL QUANTITIES MUSTNOT BE EXCLUDED IN WAR.

But now the activity in War is never di-rected solely against matter; it is always atthe same time directed against the intelli-

628



gent force which gives life to this matter,and to separate the two from each other isimpossible.

But the intelligent forces are only visi-ble to the inner eye, and this is different ineach person, and often different in the sameperson at different times.

As danger is the general element in whicheverything moves in War, it is also chiefly

629



by courage, the feeling of one’s own power,that the judgment is differently influenced.It is to a certain extent the crystalline lensthrough which all appearances pass beforereaching the understanding.

And yet we cannot doubt that these thingsacquire a certain ob jective value simply throughexperience.

Every one knows the moral effect of a630



surprise, of an attack in flank or rear. Ev-ery one thinks less of the enemy’s courageas soon as he turns his back, and venturesmuch more in pursuit than when pursued.Every one judges of the enemy’s Generalby his reputed talents, by his age and ex-perience, and shapes his course accordingly.Every one casts a scrutinising glance at thespirit and feeling of his own and the enemy’s

631



troops. All these and similar effects in theprovince of the moral nature of man haveestablished themselves by experience, areperpetually recurring, and therefore war-rant our reckoning them as real quantitiesof their kind. What could we do with anytheory which should leave them out of con-sideration?

Certainly experience is an indispensable632



title for these truths. With psychologicaland philosophical sophistries no theory, noGeneral, should meddle.

16. PRINCIPAL DIFFICULTY OF ATHEORY FOR THE CONDUCT OF WAR.

In order to comprehend clearly the diffi-culty of the proposition which is containedin a theory for the conduct of War, andthence to deduce the necessary characteris-

633



tics of such a theory, we must take a closerview of the chief particulars which make upthe nature of activity in War.

17. FIRST SPECIALITY.–MORAL FORCESAND THEIR EFFECTS. (HOSTILE FEEL-ING.)

The first of these specialities consists inthe moral forces and effects.

The combat is, in its origin, the expres-634



sion of HOSTILE FEELING, but in ourgreat combats, which we call Wars, the hos-tile feeling frequently resolves itself into merelya hostile VIEW, and there is usually noinnate hostile feeling residing in individualagainst individual. Nevertheless, the com-bat never passes off without such feelingsbeing brought into activity. National ha-tred, which is seldom wanting in our Wars,

635



is a substitute for personal hostility in thebreast of individual opposed to individual.But where this also is wanting, and at firstno animosity of feeling subsists, a hostilefeeling is kindled by the combat itself; foran act of violence which any one commitsupon us by order of his superior, will excitein us a desire to retaliate and be revengedon him, sooner than on the superior power

636



at whose command the act was done. Thisis human, or animal if we will; still it isso. We are very apt to regard the combatin theory as an abstract trial of strength,without any participation on the part of thefeelings, and that is one of the thousanderrors which theorists deliberately commit,because they do not see its consequences.

Besides that excitation of feelings nat-637



urally arising from the combat itself, thereare others also which do not essentially be-long to it, but which, on account of theirrelationship, easily unite with it–ambition,love of power, enthusiasm of every kind, &c.&c.

18. THE IMPRESSIONS OF DANGER.(COURAGE.)

Finally, the combat begets the element638



of danger, in which all the activities of Warmust live and move, like the bird in the airor the fish in the water. But the influencesof danger all pass into the feelings, eitherdirectly–that is, instinctively–or through themedium of the understanding. The effectin the first case would be a desire to es-cape from the danger, and, if that cannot bedone, fright and anxiety. If this effect does

639



not take place, then it is COURAGE, whichis a counterpoise to that instinct. Courageis, however, by no means an act of the un-derstanding, but likewise a feeling, like fear;the latter looks to the physical preservation,courage to the moral preservation. Courage,then, is a nobler instinct. But because it isso, it will not allow itself to be used as alifeless instrument, which produces its ef-

640



fects exactly according to prescribed mea-sure. Courage is therefore no mere counter-poise to danger in order to neutralise thelatter in its effects, but a peculiar power initself.

19. EXTENT OF THE INFLUENCEOF DANGER.

But to estimate exactly the influence of danger upon the principal actors in War,

641



we must not limit its sphere to the physicaldanger of the moment. It dominates overthe actor, not only by threatening him, butalso by threatening all entrusted to him, notonly at the moment in which it is actuallypresent, but also through the imaginationat all other moments, which have a con-nection with the present; lastly, not onlydirectly by itself, but also indirectly by the

642



responsibility which makes it bear with ten-fold weight on the mind of the chief actor.Who could advise, or resolve upon a greatbattle, without feeling his mind more or lesswrought up, or perplexed by, the dangerand responsibility which such a great actof decision carries in itself? We may saythat action in War, in so far as it is realaction, not a mere condition, is never out

643



of the sphere of danger.20. OTHER POWERS OF FEELING.If we look upon these affections which

are excited by hostility and danger as pecu-liarly belonging to War, we do not, there-fore, exclude from it all others accompa-nying man in his life’s journey. They willalso find room here frequently enough. Cer-tainly we may say that many a petty ac-

644



tion of the passions is silenced in this se-rious business of life; but that holds goodonly in respect to those acting in a lowersphere, who, hurried on from one state of danger and exertion to another, lose sightof the rest of the things of life, BECOMEUNUSED TO DECEIT, because it is of noavail with death, and so attain to that sol-dierly simplicity of character which has al-

645



ways been the best representative of themilitary profession. In higher regions it isotherwise, for the higher a man’s rank, themore he must look around him; then ariseinterests on every side, and a manifold ac-tivity of the passions of good and bad. Envyand generosity, pride and humility, fierce-ness and tenderness, all may appear as ac-tive powers in this great drama.

646



21. PECULIARITY OF MIND.The peculiar characteristics of mind in

the chief actor have, as well as those of thefeelings, a high importance. From an imagi-native, flighty, inexperienced head, and froma calm, sagacious understanding, differentthings are to be expected.

22. FROM THE DIVERSITY IN MEN-TAL INDIVIDUALITIES ARISES THE DI-

647



VERSITY OF WAYS LEADING TO THEEND.

It is this great diversity in mental in-dividuality, the influence of which is to besupposed as chiefly felt in the higher ranks,because it increases as we progress upwards,which chiefly produces the diversity of waysleading to the end noticed by us in the firstbook, and which gives, to the play of prob-

648



abilities and chance, such an unequal sharein determining the course of events.

23. SECOND PECULIARITY.–LIVINGREACTION.

The second peculiarity in War is the liv-ing reaction, and the reciprocal action re-sulting therefrom. We do not here speakof the difficulty of estimating that reaction,for that is included in the difficulty before

649



mentioned, of treating the moral powers asquantities; but of this, that reciprocal ac-tion, by its nature, opposes anything like aregular plan. The effect which any measureproduces upon the enemy is the most dis-tinct of all the data which action affords;but every theory must keep to classes (orgroups) of phenomena, and can never takeup the really individual case in itself: that

650



must everywhere be left to judgment andtalent. It is therefore natural that in a busi-ness such as War, which in its plan–builtupon general circumstances–is so often thwartedby unexpected and singular accidents, moremust generally be left to talent; and less usecan be made of a THEORETICAL GUIDEthan in any other.

24. THIRD PECULIARITY.–UNCERTAINTY651



OF ALL DATA.Lastly, the great uncertainty of all data

in War is a peculiar difficulty, because allaction must, to a certain extent, be plannedin a mere twilight, which in addition notunfrequently–like the effect of a fog or moonshine–gives to things exaggerated dimensions andan unnatural appearance.

What this feeble light leaves indistinct652



to the sight talent must discover, or mustbe left to chance. It is therefore again tal-ent, or the favour of fortune, on which re-liance must be placed, for want of objectiveknowledge.

25. POSITIVE THEORY IS IMPOSSI-BLE.

With materials of this kind we can onlysay to ourselves that it is a sheer impossibil-

653



ity to construct for the Art of War a theorywhich, like a scaffolding, shall ensure to thechief actor an external support on all sides.In all those cases in which he is thrownupon his talent he would find himself awayfrom this scaffolding of theory and in op-position to it, and, however many-sided itmight be framed, the same result would en-sue of which we spoke when we said that

654



talent and genius act beyond the law, andtheory is in opposition to reality.

26. MEANS LEFT BY WHICH A THE-ORY IS POSSIBLE (THE DIFFICULTIESARE NOT EVERYWHERE EQUALLY GREAT).

Two means present themselves of get-ting out of this difficulty. In the first place,what we have said of the nature of militaryaction in general does not apply in the same

655



manner to the action of every one, whatevermay be his standing. In the lower ranksthe spirit of self-sacrifice is called more intorequest, but the difficulties which the un-derstanding and judgment meet with areinfinitely less. The field of occurrences ismore confined. Ends and means are fewerin number. Data more distinct; mostly alsocontained in the actually visible. But the

656



higher we ascend the more the difficultiesincrease, until in the Commander-in-Chief they reach their climax, so that with himalmost everything must be left to genius.

Further, according to a division of thesubject in AGREEMENT WITH ITS NA-TURE, the difficulties are not everywherethe same, but diminish the more resultsmanifest themselves in the material world,

657



and increase the more they pass into themoral, and become motives which influencethe will. Therefore it is easier to determine,by theoretical rules, the order and conductof a battle, than the use to be made of the battle itself. Yonder physical weaponsclash with each other, and although mind isnot wanting therein, matter must have itsrights. But in the effects to be produced by

658



battles when the material results becomemotives, we have only to do with the moralnature. In a word, it is easier to make a the-ory for TACTICS than for STRATEGY.

27. THEORY MUST BE OF THE NA-TURE OF OBSERVATIONS NOT OF DOC-TRINE.

The second opening for the possibilityof a theory lies in the point of view that it

659



does not necessarily require to be a DIREC-TION for action. As a general rule, when-ever an ACTIVITY is for the most partoccupied with the same objects over andover again, with the same ends and means,although there may be trifling alterationsand a corresponding number of varieties of combination, such things are capable of be-coming a subject of study for the reason-

660



ing faculties. But such study is just themost essential part of every THEORY, andhas a peculiar title to that name. It is ananalytical investigation of the subject thatleads to an exact knowledge; and if broughtto bear on the results of experience, whichin our case would be military history, toa thorough familiarity with it. The nearertheory attains the latter object, so much

661



the more it passes over from the objectiveform of knowledge into the subjective oneof skill in action; and so much the more,therefore, it will prove itself effective whencircumstances allow of no other decision butthat of personal talents; it will show its ef-fects in that talent itself. If theory inves-tigates the subjects which constitute War;if it separates more distinctly that which

662



at first sight seems amalgamated; if it ex-plains fully the properties of the means; if it shows their probable effects; if it makesevident the nature of objects; if it brings tobear all over the field of War the light of essentially critical investigation–then it hasfulfilled the chief duties of its province. Itbecomes then a guide to him who wishesto make himself acquainted with War from

663



books; it lights up the whole road for him,facilitates his progress, educates his judg-ment, and shields him from error.

If a man of expertness spends half hislife in the endeavour to clear up an obscuresubject thoroughly, he will probably knowmore about it than a person who seeks tomaster it in a short time. Theory is insti-tuted that each person in succession may

664



not have to go through the same labour of clearing the ground and toiling through hissubject, but may find the thing in order,and light admitted on it. It should educatethe mind of the future leader in War, orrather guide him in his self-instruction, butnot accompany him to the field of battle; just as a sensible tutor forms and enlight-ens the opening mind of a youth without,

665



therefore, keeping him in leading strings allthrough his life.

If maxims and rules result of themselvesfrom the considerations which theory insti-tutes, if the truth accretes itself into thatform of crystal, then theory will not opposethis natural law of the mind; it will rather,if the arch ends in such a keystone, bringit prominently out; but so does this, only

666



in order to satisfy the philosophical law of reason, in order to show distinctly the pointto which the lines all converge, not in or-der to form out of it an algebraical formulafor use upon the battle-field; for even thesemaxims and rules serve more to determinein the reflecting mind the leading outline of its habitual movements than as landmarksindicating to it the way in the act of execu-

667



tion.28. BY THIS POINT OF VIEW THE-

ORY BECOMES POSSIBLE, AND CEASESTO BE IN CONTRADICTION TO PRAC-TICE.

Taking this point of view, there is a pos-sibility afforded of a satisfactory, that is,of a useful, theory of the conduct of War,never coming into opposition with the re-

668



ality, and it will only depend on rationaltreatment to bring it so far into harmonywith action that between theory and prac-tice there shall no longer be that absurddifference which an unreasonable theory, indefiance of common sense, has often pro-duced, but which, just as often, narrow-mindedness and ignorance have used as apretext for giving way to their natural in-

669



capacity.29. THEORY THEREFORE CONSID-

ERS THE NATURE OF ENDS AND MEANS–ENDS AND MEANS IN TACTICS.

Theory has therefore to consider the na-ture of the means and ends.

In tactics the means are the disciplinedarmed forces which are to carry on the con-test. The object is victory. The precise

670



definition of this conception can be betterexplained hereafter in the consideration of the combat. Here we content ourselves bydenoting the retirement of the enemy fromthe field of battle as the sign of victory.By means of this victory strategy gains theobject for which it appointed the combat,and which constitutes its special significa-tion. This signification has certainly some

671



influence on the nature of the victory. Avictory which is intended to weaken the en-emy’s armed forces is a different thing fromone which is designed only to put us in pos-session of a position. The signification of acombat may therefore have a sensible influ-ence on the preparation and conduct of it,consequently will be also a subject of con-sideration in tactics.

672



30. CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH AL-WAYS ATTEND THE APPLICATION OFTHE MEANS.

As there are certain circumstances whichattend the combat throughout, and havemore or less influence upon its result, there-fore these must be taken into considerationin the application of the armed forces.

These circumstances are the locality of 673



the combat (ground), the time of day, andthe weather.

31. LOCALITY.The locality, which we prefer leaving for

solution, under the head of ”Country andGround,” might, strictly speaking, be with-out any influence at all if the combat tookplace on a completely level and uncultivatedplain.

674



In a country of steppes such a case mayoccur, but in the cultivated countries of Eu-rope it is almost an imaginary idea. There-fore a combat between civilised nations, inwhich country and ground have no influ-ence, is hardly conceivable.

32. TIME OF DAY.The time of day influences the combat

by the difference between day and night;675



but the influence naturally extends furtherthan merely to the limits of these divisions,as every combat has a certain duration, andgreat battles last for several hours. In thepreparations for a great battle, it makesan essential difference whether it begins inthe morning or the evening. At the sametime, certainly many battles may be foughtin which the question of the time of day is

676



the victory, that is, the tactical result, asa means to its object, and ultimately thosethings which lead directly to peace. The ap-plication of its means to this object is at thesame time attended by circumstances whichhave an influence thereon more or less.

35. CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH AT-TEND THE APPLICATION OF THE MEANSOF STRATEGY.

678



These circumstances are country and ground,the former including the territory and in-habitants of the whole theatre of war; nextthe time of the day, and the time of the yearas well; lastly, the weather, particularly anyunusual state of the same, severe frost, &c.

36. THESE FORM NEW MEANS.By bringing these things into combina-

tion with the results of a combat, strategy679



gives this result–and therefore the combat–a special signification, places before it a par-ticular object. But when this object is notthat which leads directly to peace, thereforea subordinate one, it is only to be lookedupon as a means; and therefore in strategywe may look upon the results of combats orvictories, in all their different significations,as means. The conquest of a position is such

680



a result of a combat applied to ground. Butnot only are the different combats with spe-cial objects to be considered as means, butalso every higher aim which we may have inview in the combination of battles directedon a common object is to be regarded as ameans. A winter campaign is a combinationof this kind applied to the season.

There remain, therefore, as objects, only681



those things which may be supposed as lead-ing DIRECTLY to peace, Theory investi-gates all these ends and means according tothe nature of their effects and their mutualrelations.

37. STRATEGY DEDUCES ONLY FROMEXPERIENCE THE ENDS AND MEANSTO BE EXAMINED.

The first question is, How does strategy682



arrive at a complete list of these things? If there is to be a philosophical inquiry lead-ing to an absolute result, it would becomeentangled in all those difficulties which thelogical necessity of the conduct of War andits theory exclude. It therefore turns to ex-perience, and directs its attention on thosecombinations which military history can fur-nish. In this manner, no doubt, nothing

683



more than a limited theory can be obtained,which only suits circumstances such as arepresented in history. But this incomplete-ness is unavoidable, because in any case the-ory must either have deduced from, or havecompared with, history what it advanceswith respect to things. Besides, this incom-pleteness in every case is more theoreticalthan real.

684



One great advantage of this method isthat theory cannot lose itself in abstrusedisquisitions, subtleties, and chimeras, butmust always remain practical.

38. HOW FAR THE ANALYSIS OFTHE MEANS SHOULD BE CARRIED.

Another question is, How far should the-ory go in its analysis of the means? Evi-dently only so far as the elements in a sep-

685



arate form present themselves for consid-eration in practice. The range and effectof different weapons is very important totactics; their construction, although theseeffects result from it, is a matter of indiffer-ence; for the conduct of War is not makingpowder and cannon out of a given quan-tity of charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre, of copper and tin: the given quantities for the

686



conduct of War are arms in a finished stateand their effects. Strategy makes use of maps without troubling itself about trian-gulations; it does not inquire how the coun-try is subdivided into departments and provinces,and how the people are educated and gov-erned, in order to attain the best militaryresults; but it takes things as it finds themin the community of European States, and

687



observes where very different conditions havea notable influence on War.

39. GREAT SIMPLIFICATION OF THEKNOWLEDGE REQUIRED.

That in this manner the number of subjects for theory is much simplified, and theknowledge requisite for the conduct of Warmuch reduced, is easy to perceive. The verygreat mass of knowledge and appliances of

688



skill which minister to the action of War ingeneral, and which are necessary before anarmy fully equipped can take the field, unitein a few great results before they are able toreach, in actual War, the final goal of theiractivity; just as the streams of a countryunite themselves in rivers before they fallinto the sea. Only those activities empty-ing themselves directly into the sea of War

689



have to be studied by him who is to conductits operations.

40. THIS EXPLAINS THE RAPID GROWTHOF GREAT GENERALS, AND WHY AGENERAL IS NOT A MAN OF LEARN-ING.

This result of our considerations is infact so necessary,any other would have madeus distrustful of their accuracy. Only thus is

690



explained how so often men have made theirappearance with great success in War, andindeed in the higher ranks even in supremeCommand, whose pursuits had been previ-ously of a totally different nature; indeedhow, as a rule, the most distinguished Gen-erals have never risen from the very learnedor really erudite class of officers, but havebeen mostly men who, from the circum-

691



stances of their position, could not have at-tained to any great amount of knowledge.On that account those who have consid-ered it necessary or even beneficial to com-mence the education of a future General byinstruction in all details have always beenridiculed as absurd pedants. It would beeasy to show the injurious tendency of sucha course, because the human mind is trained

692



by the knowledge imparted to it and thedirection given to its ideas. Only what isgreat can make it great; the little can onlymake it little, if the mind itself does notreject it as something repugnant.

41. FORMER CONTRADICTIONS.Because this simplicity of knowledge req-

uisite in War was not attended to, but thatknowledge was always jumbled up with the

693



whole impedimenta of subordinate sciencesand arts, therefore the palpable oppositionto the events of real life which resulted couldnot be solved otherwise than by ascribing itall to genius, which requires no theory andfor which no theory could be prescribed.

42. ON THIS ACCOUNT ALL USEOF KNOWLEDGE WAS DENIED, ANDEVERYTHING ASCRIBED TO NATURAL

694



or less well according as he has broughtwith him into the world more or less tal-ent in that direction. It cannot be deniedthat these were nearer to the truth thanthose who placed a value on false knowl-edge: at the same time it may easily beseen that such a view is itself but an exag-geration. No activity of the human under-standing is possible without a certain stock

696



of ideas; but these are, for the greater partat least, not innate but acquired, and con-stitute his knowledge. The only questiontherefore is, of what kind should these ideasbe; and we think we have answered it if wesay that they should be directed on thosethings which man has directly to deal within War.

43. THE KNOWLEDGE MUST BE697



MADE SUITABLE TO THE POSITION.Inside this field itself of military activity,

the knowledge required must be differentaccording to the station of the Commander.It will be directed on smaller and more cir-cumscribed objects if he holds an inferior,upon greater and more comprehensive onesif he holds a higher situation. There areField Marshals who would not have shone

698



at the head of a cavalry regiment, and viceversa.

44. THE KNOWLEDGE IN WAR ISVERY SIMPLE, BUT NOT, AT THE SAMETIME, VERY EASY.

But although the knowledge in War issimple, that is to say directed to so few subjects, and taking up those only in their fi-nal results, the art of execution is not, on

699



that account, easy. Of the difficulties towhich activity in War is subject generally,we have already spoken in the first book;we here omit those things which can onlybe overcome by courage, and maintain alsothat the activity of mind, is only simple,and easy in inferior stations, but increasesin difficulty with increase of rank, and in thehighest position, in that of Commander-in-

700



Chief, is to be reckoned among the mostdifficult which there is for the human mind.

45. OF THE NATURE OF THIS KNOWL-EDGE.

The Commander of an Army neither re-quires to be a learned explorer of history nora publicist, but he must be well versed inthe higher affairs of State; he must know,and be able to judge correctly of traditional

701



tendencies, interests at stake, the immedi-ate questions at issue, and the characters of leading persons; he need not be a close ob-server of men, a sharp dissector of humancharacter, but he must know the character,the feelings, the habits, the peculiar faultsand inclinations of those whom he is to com-mand. He need not understand anythingabout the make of a carriage, or the harness

702



of a battery horse, but he must know howto calculate exactly the march of a column,under different circumstances, according tothe time it requires. These are matters theknowledge of which cannot be forced out byan apparatus of scientific formula and ma-chinery: they are only to be gained by theexercise of an accurate judgment in the ob-servation of things and of men, aided by a

703



special talent for the apprehension of both.The necessary knowledge for a high po-

sition in military. action is therefore distin-guished by this, that by observation, there-fore by study and reflection, it is only to beattained through a special talent which asan intellectual instinct understands how toextract from the phenomena of life only theessence or spirit, as bees do the honey from

704



the flowers; and that it is also to be gainedby experience of life as well as by study andreflection. Life will never bring forth a New-ton or an Euler by its rich teachings, but itmay bring forth great calculators in War,such as Conde’ or Frederick.

It is therefore not necessary that, in or-der to vindicate the intellectual dignity of military activity, we should resort to un-

705



truth and silly pedantry. There never hasbeen a great and distinguished Comman-der of contracted mind, but very numerousare the instances of men who, after serv-ing with the greatest distinction in inferiorpositions, remained below mediocrity in thehighest, from insufficiency of intellectual ca-pacity. That even amongst those holdingthe post of Commander-in-Chief there may

706



be a difference according to the degree of their plenitude of power is a matter of course.

46. SCIENCE MUST BECOME ART.Now we have yet to consider one condi-

tion which is more necessary for the knowl-edge of the conduct of War than for anyother, which is, that it must pass completelyinto the mind and almost completely ceaseto be something objective. In almost all

707



other arts and occupations of life the ac-tive agent can make use of truths which hehas only learnt once, and in the spirit andsense of which he no longer lives, and whichhe extracts from dusty books. Even truthswhich he has in hand and uses daily maycontinue something external to himself, If the architect takes up a pen to settle thestrength of a pier by a complicated calcula-

708



tion, the truth found as a result is no em-anation from his own mind. He had firstto find the data with labour, and then tosubmit these to an operation of the mind,the rule for which he did not discover, thenecessity of which he is perhaps at the mo-ment only partly conscious of, but which heapplies, for the most part, as if by mechani-cal dexterity. But it is never so in War. The

709



moral reaction, the ever- changeful form of things, makes it necessary for the chief actorto carry in himself the whole mental appa-ratus of his knowledge, that anywhere andat every pulse-beat he may be capable of giving the requisite decision from himself.Knowledge must, by this complete assimi-lation with his own mind and life, be con-verted into real power. This is the reason

710



why everything seems so easy with men dis-tinguished in War, and why everything isascribed to natural talent. We say natu-ral talent, in order thereby to distinguish itfrom that which is formed and matured byobservation and study.

We think that by these reflections wehave explained the problem of a theory of the conduct of War; and pointed out the

711



way to its solution.Of the two fields into which we have di-

vided the conduct of War, tactics and strat-egy, the theory of the latter contains un-questionably, as before observed, the great-est difficulties, because the first is almostlimited to a circumscribed field of objects,but the latter, in the direction of objectsleading directly to peace, opens to itself an

712



unlimited field of possibilities. Since forthe most part the Commander-in-Chief hasonly to keep these objects steadily in view,therefore the part of strategy in which hemoves is also that which is particularly subject to this difficulty.

Theory, therefore, especially where it com-prehends the highest services, will stop muchsooner in strategy than in tactics at the sim-

713



ple consideration of things, and content it-self to assist the Commander to that insightinto things which, blended with his wholethought, makes his course easier and surer,never forces him into opposition with him-self in order to obey an objective truth.

714



CHAPTER III. ART ORSCIENCE OF WAR

1.–USAGE STILL UNSETTLED(POWER AND KNOWLEDGE. SCIENCE

WHEN MERE KNOWING; ART, WHENDOING, IS THE OBJECT.)THE choice between these terms seems

715



to be still unsettled, and no one seems toknow rightly on what grounds it should bedecided, and yet the thing is simple. Wehave already said elsewhere that ”knowing”is something different from ”doing.” Thetwo are so different that they should noteasily be mistaken the one for the other.The ”doing” cannot properly stand in anybook, and therefore also Art should never

716



be the title of a book. But because wehave once accustomed ourselves to combinein conception, under the name of theory of Art, or simply Art, the branches of knowl-edge (which may be separately pure sci-ences) necessary for the practice of an Art,therefore it is consistent to continue thisground of distinction, and to call everythingArt when the object is to carry out the ”do-

717



ing” (being able), as for example, Art of building; Science, when merely knowledgeis the object; as Science of mathematics,of astronomy. That in every Art certaincomplete sciences may be included is intel-ligible of itself, and should not perplex us.But still it is worth observing that there isalso no science without a mixture of Art. Inmathematics, for instance, the use of figures

718



and of algebra is an Art, but that is onlyone amongst many instances. The reasonis, that however plain and palpable the dif-ference is between knowledge and power inthe composite results of human knowledge,yet it is difficult to trace out their line of separation in man himself.

2. DIFFICULTY OF SEPARATING PER-CEPTION FROM JUDGMENT.

719



(ART OF WAR.)All thinking is indeed Art. Where the

logician draws the line, where the premisesstop which are the result of cognition–where judgment begins, there Art begins. Butmore than this even the perception of themind is judgment again, and consequentlyArt; and at last, even the perception by thesenses as well. In a word, if it is impos-

720



ation and production, there is the provinceof Art; where the object is investigationand knowledge Science holds sway.–Afterall this it results of itself that it is morefitting to say Art of War than Science of War.

So much for this, because we cannot dowithout these conceptions. But now we comeforward with the assertion that War is nei-

722



ther an Art nor a Science in the real signi-fication, and that it is just the setting outfrom that starting-point of ideas which hasled to a wrong direction being taken, whichhas caused War to be put on a par withother arts and sciences, and has led to anumber of erroneous analogies.

This has indeed been felt before now,and on that it was maintained that War is

723



a handicraft; but there was more lost thangained by that, for a handicraft is only aninferior art, and as such is also subject todefinite and rigid laws. In reality the Art of War did go on for some time in the spirit of a handicraft–we allude to the times of theCondottieri–but then it received that direc-tion, not from intrinsic but from externalcauses; and military history shows how lit-

724



tle it was at that time in accordance withthe nature of the thing.

3. WAR IS PART OF THE INTER-COURSE OF THE HUMAN RACE.

We say therefore War belongs not to theprovince of Arts and Sciences, but to theprovince of social life. It is a conflict of great interests which is settled by blood-shed, and only in that is it different from

725



others. It would be better, instead of com-paring it with any Art, to liken it to busi-ness competition, which is also a conflict of human interests and activities; and it is stillmore like State policy, which again, on itspart, may be looked upon as a kind of busi-ness competition on a great scale. Besides,State policy is the womb in which War isdeveloped, in which its outlines lie hidden

726



in a rudimentary state, like the qualities of living creatures in their germs.[]

[] The analogy has become much closersince Clausewitz’s time. Now that the firstbusiness of the State is regarded as the de-velopment of facilities for trade, War be-tween great nations is only a question of time. No Hague Conferences can avert it–EDITOR.

727



4. DIFFERENCE.The essential difference consists in this,

that War is no activity of the will, whichexerts itself upon inanimate matter like themechanical Arts; or upon a living but stillpassive and yielding subject, like the hu-man mind and the human feelings in theideal Arts, but against a living and react-ing force. How little the categories of Arts

728



and Sciences are applicable to such an ac-tivity strikes us at once; and we can un-derstand at the same time how that con-stant seeking and striving after laws likethose which may be developed out of thedead material world could not but lead toconstant errors. And yet it is just the me-chanical Arts that some people would im-itate in the Art of War. The imitation of

729



the ideal Arts was quite out of the ques-tion, because these themselves dispense toomuch with laws and rules, and those hith-erto tried, always acknowledged as insuffi-cient and one-sided, are perpetually under-mined and washed away by the current of opinions, feelings, and customs.

Whether such a conflict of the living, astakes place and is settled in War, is subject

730



to general laws, and whether these are capa-ble of indicating a useful line of action, willbe partly investigated in this book; but somuch is evident in itself, that this, like everyother subject which does not surpass ourpowers of understanding, may be lightedup, and be made more or less plain in itsinner relations by an inquiring mind, andthat alone is sufficient to realise the idea of

731



a THEORY.

CHAPTER IV. METHOD-ICISM

IN order to explain ourselves clearly as tothe conception of method, and method of action, which play such an important part

732



in War, we must be allowed to cast a hastyglance at the logical hierarchy through which,as through regularly constituted official func-tionaries, the world of action is governed.

LAW, in the widest sense strictly ap-plying to perception as well as action, hasplainly something subjective and arbitraryin its literal meaning, and expresses justthat on which we and those things external

733



to us are dependent. As a subject of cog-nition, LAW is the relation of things andtheir effects to one another; as a subjectof the will, it is a motive of action, and isthen equivalent to COMMAND or PROHI-BITION.

PRINCIPLE is likewise such a law foraction, except that it has not the formaldefinite meaning, but is only the spirit and

734



sense of law in order to leave the judgmentmore freedom of application when the di-versity of the real world cannot be laid holdof under the definite form of a law. As the judgment must of itself suggest the cases inwhich the principle is not applicable, thelatter therefore becomes in that way a realaid or guiding star for the person acting.

Principle is OBJECTIVE when it is the735



result of objective truth, and consequentlyof equal value for all men; it is SUBJEC-TIVE, and then generally called MAXIM if there are subjective relations in it, and if it therefore has a certain value only for theperson himself who makes it.

RULE is frequently taken in the senseof LAW, and then means the same as Prin-ciple, for we say ”no rule without excep-

736



tions,” but we do not say ”no law withoutexceptions,” a sign that with RULE we re-tain to ourselves more freedom of applica-tion.

In another meaning RULE is the meansused of discerning a recondite truth in aparticular sign lying close at hand, in or-der to attach to this particular sign the lawof action directed upon the whole truth. Of

737



this kind are all the rules of games of play,all abridged processes in mathematics, &c.

DIRECTIONS and INSTRUCTIONS aredeterminations of action which have an in-fluence upon a number of minor circum-stances too numerous and unimportant forgeneral laws.

Lastly, METHOD, MODE OF ACTING,is an always recurring proceeding selected

738



out of several possible ones; and METHOD-ICISM (METHODISMUS) is that which isdetermined by methods instead of by gen-eral principles or particular prescriptions.By this the cases which are placed undersuch methods must necessarily be supposedalike in their essential parts. As they can-not all be this, then the point is that atleast as many as possible should be; in other

739



words, that Method should be calculated onthe most probable cases. Methodicism istherefore not founded on determined par-ticular premises, but on the average prob-ability of cases one with another; and itsultimate tendency is to set up an averagetruth, the constant and uniform, applica-tion of which soon acquires something of the nature of a mechanical appliance, which

740



in the end does that which is right almostunwittingly.

The conception of law in relation to per-ception is not necessary for the conduct of War, because the complex phenomena of War are not so regular, and the regular arenot so complex, that we should gain any-thing more by this conception than by thesimple truth. And where a simple concep-

741



tion and language is sufficient, to resort tothe complex becomes affected and pedantic.The conception of law in relation to actioncannot be used in the theory of the conductof War, because owing to the variablenessand diversity of the phenomena there is init no determination of such a general natureas to deserve the name of law.

But principles, rules, prescriptions, and742



methods are conceptions indispensable to atheory of the conduct of War, in so far asthat theory leads to positive doctrines, be-cause in doctrines the truth can only crys-tallise itself in such forms.

As tactics is the branch of the conduct of War in which theory can attain the nearestto positive doctrine, therefore these concep-tions will appear in it most frequently.

743



Not to use cavalry against unbroken in-fantry except in some case of special emer-gency, only to use firearms within effectiverange in the combat, to spare the forces asmuch as possible for the final struggle–theseare tactical principles. None of them can beapplied absolutely in every case, but theymust always be present to the mind of theChief, in order that the benefit of the truth

744



contained in them may not be lost in caseswhere that truth can be of advantage.

If from the unusual cooking by an en-emy’s camp his movement is inferred, if theintentional exposure of troops in a combatindicates a false attack, then this way of discerning the truth is called rule, becausefrom a single visible circumstance that con-clusion is drawn which corresponds with the

745



same.If it is a rule to attack the enemy with

renewed vigour, as soon as he begins to lim-ber up his artillery in the combat, then onthis particular fact depends a course of ac-tion which is aimed at the general situa-tion of the enemy as inferred from the abovefact, namely, that he is about to give up thefight, that he is commencing to draw off his

746



ods: in the drill instructions the first pre-dominate, in the field service instructionsthe latter. To these things the real con-duct of War attaches itself; it takes themover, therefore, as given modes of proceed-ing, and as such they must appear in thetheory of the conduct of War.

But for those activities retaining free-dom in the employment of these forces there

748



cannot be regulations, that is, definite in-structions, because they would do away withfreedom of action. Methods, on the otherhand, as a general way of executing dutiesas they arise, calculated, as we have said, onan average of probability, or as a dominat-ing influence of principles and rules carriedthrough to application, may certainly ap-pear in the theory of the conduct of War,

749



provided only they are not represented assomething different from what they are, notas the absolute and necessary modes of ac-tion (systems), but as the best of generalforms which may be used as shorter waysin place of a particular disposition for theoccasion, at discretion.

But the frequent application of meth-ods will be seen to be most essential and

750



unavoidable in the conduct of War, if wereflect how much action proceeds on mereconjecture, or in complete uncertainty, be-cause one side is prevented from learning allthe circumstances which influence the dis-positions of the other, or because, even if these circumstances which influence the de-cisions of the one were really known, thereis not, owing to their extent and the dispo-

751



to suppose the one counteracted by the other,and to base our arrangements only uponwhat is of a general nature and probable; if we reflect lastly that, owing to the increas-ing number of officers as we descend thescale of rank, less must be left to the truediscernment and ripe judgment of individu-als the lower the sphere of action, and thatwhen we reach those ranks where we can

753



look for no other notions but those whichthe regulations of the service and experi-ence afford, we must help them with themethodic forms bordering on those regula-tions. This will serve both as a support totheir judgment and a barrier against thoseextravagant and erroneous views which areso especially to be dreaded in a sphere whereexperience is so costly.

754



Besides this absolute need of methodin action, we must also acknowledge thatit has a positive advantage, which is that,through the constant repetition of a formalexercise, a readiness, precision, and firm-ness is attained in the movement of troopswhich diminishes the natural friction, andmakes the machine move easier.

Method will therefore be the more gen-755



erally used, become the more indispensable,the farther down the scale of rank the po-sition of the active agent; and on the otherhand, its use will diminish upwards, until inthe highest position it quite disappears. Forthis reason it is more in its place in tacticsthan in strategy.

War in its highest aspects consists notof an infinite number of little events, the

756



diversities in which compensate each other,and which therefore by a better or worsemethod are better or worse governed, butof separate great decisive events which mustbe dealt with separately. It is not like a fieldof stalks, which, without any regard to theparticular form of each stalk, will be mowedbetter or worse, according as the mowinginstrument is good or bad, but rather as a

757



group of large trees, to which the axe mustbe laid with judgment, according to the par-ticular form and inclination of each separatetrunk.

How high up in military activity the ad-missibility of method in action reaches nat-urally determines itself, not according toactual rank, but according to things; andit affects the highest positions in a less de-

758



gree, only because these positions have themost comprehensive subjects of activity. Aconstant order of battle, a constant forma-tion of advance guards and outposts, aremethods by which a General ties not onlyhis subordinates’ hands, but also his ownin certain cases. Certainly they may havebeen devised by himself, and may be ap-plied by him according to circumstances,

759



but they may also be a subject of theory,in so far as they are based on the generalproperties of troops and weapons. On theother hand, any method by which definiteplans for wars or campaigns are to be givenout all ready made as if from a machine areabsolutely worthless.

As long as there exists no theory whichcan be sustained, that is, no enlightened

760



treatise on the conduct of War, method inaction cannot but encroach beyond its properlimits in high places, for men employed inthese spheres of activity have not alwayshad the opportunity of educating themselves,through study and through contact withthe higher interests. In the impracticableand inconsistent disquisitions of theoristsand critics they cannot find their way, their

761



sound common sense rejects them, and asthey bring with them no knowledge but thatderived from experience, therefore in thosecases which admit of, and require, a freeindividual treatment they readily make useof the means which experience gives them–that is, an imitation of the particular meth-ods practised by great Generals, by whicha method of action then arises of itself. If

762



we see Frederick the Great’s Generals al-ways making their appearance in the so-called oblique order of battle, the Generalsof the French Revolution always using turn-ing movements with a long, extended line of battle, and Buonaparte’s lieutenants rush-ing to the attack with the bloody energyof concentrated masses, then we recognisein the recurrence of the mode of proceed-

763



ing evidently an adopted method, and seetherefore that method of action can reachup to regions bordering on the highest. Shouldan improved theory facilitate the study of the conduct of War, form the mind and judgment of men who are rising to the high-est commands, then also method in actionwill no longer reach so far, and so much of it as is to be considered indispensable will

764



then at least be formed from theory itself,and not take place out of mere imitation.However pre-eminently a great Commanderdoes things, there is always something subjective in the way he does them; and if hehas a certain manner, a large share of hisindividuality is contained in it which doesnot always accord with the individuality of the person who copies his manner.

765



At the same time, it would neither bepossible nor right to banish subjective me-thodicism or manner completely from theconduct of War: it is rather to be regardedas a manifestation of that influence whichthe general character of a War has uponits separate events, and to which satisfac-tion can only be done in that way if the-ory is not able to foresee this general char-

766



acter and include it in its considerations.What is more natural than that the Warof the French Revolution had its own wayof doing things? and what theory couldever have included that peculiar method?The evil is only that such a manner orig-inating in a special case easily outlives it-self, becausecontinues whilst circumstancesimperceptibly change. This is what theory

767



should prevent by lucid and rational criti-cism. When in the year 1806 the PrussianGenerals, Prince Louis at Saalfeld, Tauentzienon the Dornberg near Jena, Grawert be-fore and Ruechel behind Kappellendorf, allthrew themselves into the open jaws of de-struction in the oblique order of Frederickthe Great, and managed to ruin Hohen-lohe’s Army in a way that no Army was ever

768



ruined, even on the field of battle, all thiswas done through a manner which had out-lived its day, together with the most down-right stupidity to which methodicism everled.

769



CHAPTER V. CRITICISM

THE influence of theoretical principles uponreal life is produced more through criticismthan through doctrine, for as criticism is anapplication of abstract truth to real events,

therefore it not only brings truth of this de-scription nearer to life, but also accustomsthe understanding more to such truths by

770



the constant repetition of their application.We therefore think it necessary to fix thepoint of view for criticism next to that fortheory.

From the simple narration of an histori-cal occurrence which places events in chrono-logical order, or at most only touches ontheir more immediate causes, we separatethe CRITICAL.

771



In this CRITICAL three different oper-ations of the mind may be observed.

First, the historical investigation and de-termining of doubtful facts. This is prop-erly historical research, and has nothing incommon with theory.

Secondly, the tracing of effects to causes.This is the REAL CRITICAL INQUIRY;it is indispensable to theory, for everything

772



which in theory is to be established, sup-ported, or even merely explained, by expe-rience can only be settled in this way.

Thirdly, the testing of the means em-ployed. This is criticism, properly speaking,in which praise and censure is contained.This is where theory helps history, or rather,the teaching to be derived from it.

In these two last strictly critical parts773



of historical study, all depends on tracingthings to their primary elements, that is tosay, up to undoubted truths, and not, as isso often done, resting half-way, that is, onsome arbitrary assumption or supposition.

As respects the tracing of effect to cause,that is often attended with the insupera-ble difficulty that the real causes are notknown. In none of the relations of life does

774



this so frequently happen as in War, whereevents are seldom fully known, and still lessmotives, as the latter have been, perhapspurposely, concealed by the chief actor, orhave been of such a transient and accidentalcharacter that they have been lost for his-tory. For this reason critical narration mustgenerally proceed hand in hand with his-torical investigation, and still such a want

775



of connection between cause and effect willoften present itself, that it does not seem justifiable to consider effects as the neces-sary results of known causes. Here, there-fore,must occur, that is, historical resultswhich cannot be made use of for teaching.All that theory can demand is that the in-vestigation should be rigidly conducted upto that point, and there leave off without

776



drawing conclusions. A real evil springs uponly if the known is made perforce to suf-fice as an explanation of effects, and thus afalse importance is ascribed to it.

Besides this difficulty, critical inquiry alsomeets with another great and intrinsic one,which is that the progress of events in Warseldom proceeds from one simple cause, butfrom several in common, and that it there-

777



fore is not sufficient to follow up a series of events to their origin in a candid and impar-tial spirit, but that it is then also necessaryto apportion to each contributing cause itsdue weight. This leads, therefore, to a closerinvestigation of their nature, and thus acritical investigation may lead into what isthe proper field of theory.

The critical CONSIDERATION, that is,778



the testing of the means, leads to the ques-tion, Which are the effects peculiar to themeans applied, and whether these effectswere comprehended in the plans of the per-son directing?

The effects peculiar to the means lead tothe investigation of their nature, and thusagain into the field of theory.

We have already seen that in criticism779



all depends upon attaining to positive truth;therefore, that we must not stop at arbi-trary propositions which are not allowed byothers, and to which other perhaps equallyarbitrary assertions may again be opposed,so that there is no end to pros and cons;the whole is without result, and thereforewithout instruction.

We have seen that both the search for780



causes and the examination of means leadinto the field of theory; that is, into the fieldof universal truth, which does not proceedsolely from the case immediately under ex-amination. If there is a theory which canbe used, then the critical consideration willappeal to the proofs there afforded, and theexamination may there stop. But where nosuch theoretical truth is to be found, the

781



inquiry must be pushed up to the originalelements. If this necessity occurs often, itmust lead the historian (according to a com-mon expression) into a labyrinth of details.He then has his hands full, and it is impos-sible for him to stop to give the requisiteattention everywhere; the consequence is,that in order to set bounds to his investiga-tion, he adopts some arbitrary assumptions

782



which, if they do not appear so to him, do soto others, as they are not evident in them-selves or capable of proof.

A sound theory is therefore an essentialfoundation for criticism, and it is impossiblefor it, without the assistance of a sensibletheory, to attain to that point at which itcommences chiefly to be instructive, thatis, where it becomes demonstration, both

783



convincing and sans re’plique.But it would be a visionary hope to be-

lieve in the possibility of a theory applicableto every abstract truth, leaving nothing forcriticism to do but to place the case underits appropriate law: it would be ridiculouspedantry to lay down as a rule for criticismthat it must always halt and turn roundon reaching the boundaries of sacred the-

784



ory. The same spirit of analytical inquirywhich is the origin of theory must also guidethe critic in his work; and it can and musttherefore happen that he strays beyond theboundaries of the province of theory andelucidates those points with which he is moreparticularly concerned. It is more likely,on the contrary, that criticism would com-pletely fail in its object if it degenerated

785



into a mechanical application of theory. Allpositive results of theoretical inquiry, all prin-ciples, rules, and methods, are the morewanting in generality and positive truth themore they become positive doctrine. Theyexist to offer themselves for use as required,and it must always be left for judgmentto decide whether they are suitable or not.Such results of theory must never be used in

786



criticism as rules or norms for a standard,but in the same way as the person actingshould use them, that is, merely as aids to judgment. If it is an acknowledged prin-ciple in tactics that in the usual order of battle cavalry should be placed behind in-fantry, not in line with it, still it would befolly on this account to condemn every devi-ation from this principle. Criticism must in-

787



vestigate the grounds of the deviation, andit is only in case these are insufficient thatit has a right to appeal to principles laiddown in theory. If it is further establishedin theory that a divided attack diminishesthe probability of success, still it would be just as unreasonable, whenever there is a di-vided attack and an unsuccessful issue, toregard the latter as the result of the for-

788



mer, without further investigation into theconnection between the two, as where a di-vided attack is successful to infer from itthe fallacy of that theoretical principle. Thespirit of investigation which belongs to crit-icism cannot allow either. Criticism there-fore supports itself chiefly on the results of the analytical investigation of theory; whathas been made out and determined by the-

789



ory does not require to be demonstratedover again by criticism, and it is so deter-mined by theory that criticism may find itready demonstrated.

This office of criticism, of examining theeffect produced by certain causes, and whethera means applied has answered its object,will be easy enough if cause and effect, meansand end, are all near together.

790



If an Army is surprised, and thereforecannot make a regular and intelligent useof its powers and resources, then the effectof the surprise is not doubtful.–If theoryhas determined that in a battle the conver-gent form of attack is calculated to producegreater but less certain results, then thequestion is whether he who employs thatconvergent form had in view chiefly that

791



greatness of result as his object; if so, theproper means were chosen. But if by thisform he intended to make the result morecertain, and that expectation was foundednot on some exceptional circumstances (inthis case), but on the general nature of theconvergent form, as has happened a hun-dred times, then he mistook the nature of the means and committed an error.

792



Here the work of military investigationand criticism is easy, and it will always be sowhen confined to the immediate effects andobjects. This can be done quite at option,if we abstract the connection of the partswith the whole, and only look at things inthat relation.

But in War, as generally in the world,there is a connection between everything

793



which belongs to a whole; and therefore,however small a cause may be in itself, itseffects reach to the end of the act of war-fare, and modify or influence the final re-sult in some degree, let that degree be everso small. In the same manner every meansmust be felt up to the ultimate object.

We can therefore trace the effects of acause as long as events are worth noticing,

794



and in the same way we must not stop atthe testing of a means for the immediateobject, but test also this object as a meansto a higher one, and thus ascend the se-ries of facts in succession, until we cometo one so absolutely necessary in its natureas to require no examination or proof. Inmany cases, particularly in what concernsgreat and decisive measures, the investiga-

795



tion must be carried to the final aim, to thatwhich leads immediately to peace.

It is evident that in thus ascending, atevery new station which we reach a newpoint of view for the judgment is attained,so that the same means which appeared ad-visable at one station, when looked at fromthe next above it may have to be rejected.

The search for the causes of events and796



number of other causes which must at thesame time be kept in view and allowed forin reference to the share which they have inthe course of events, and then eliminated,because the higher the importance of a factthe greater will be the number of separateforces and circumstances by which it is con-ditioned. If we have unravelled the causesof a battle being lost, we have certainly also

798



ascertained a part of the causes of the con-sequences which this defeat has upon thewhole War, but only a part, because theeffects of other causes, more or less accord-ing to circumstances, will flow into the finalresult.

The same multiplicity of circumstancesis presented also in the examination of themeans the higher our point of view, for the

799



higher the object is situated, the greatermust be the number of means employed toreach it. The ultimate object of the Waris the object aimed at by all the Armies si-multaneously, and it is therefore necessarythat the consideration should embrace allthat each has done or could have done.

It is obvious that this may sometimeslead to a wide field of inquiry, in which it

800



is easy to wander and lose the way, and inwhich this difficulty prevails–that a num-ber of assumptions or suppositions must bemade about a variety of things which donot actually appear, but which in all prob-ability did take place, and therefore cannotpossibly be left out of consideration.

When Buonaparte, in 1797,[] at the headof the Army of Italy, advanced from the

801



Tagliamento against the Archduke Charles,he did so with a view to force that Gen-eral to a decisive action before the reinforce-ments expected from the Rhine had reachedhim. If we look, only at the immediate object, the means were well chosen and jus-tified by the result, for the Archduke wasso inferior in numbers that he only madea show of resistance on the Tagliamento,

802



and when he saw his adversary so strongand resolute, yielded ground, and left openthe passages, of the Norican Alps. Now towhat use could Buonaparte turn this fortu-nate event? To penetrate into the heart of the Austrian empire itself, to facilitate theadvance of the Rhine Armies under Moreauand Hoche, and open communication withthem? This was the view taken by Buon-

803



aparte, and from this point of view he wasright. But now, if criticism places itself at a higher point of view–namely, that of the French Directory, which body could seeand know that the Armies on the Rhinecould not commence the campaign for sixweeks, then the advance of Buonaparte overthe Norican Alps can only be regarded asan extremely hazardous measure; for if the

804



Austrians had drawn largely on their RhineArmies to reinforce their Army in Styria, soas to enable the Archduke to fall upon theArmy of Italy, not only would that Armyhave been routed, but the whole campaignlost. This consideration, which attractedthe serious attention of Buonaparte at Vil-lach, no doubt induced him to sign the armisticeof Leoben with so much readiness.

805



[] Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edi-tion, vol. iv. p. 276 et seq.

If criticism takes a still higher position,and if it knows that the Austrians had noreserves between the Army of the ArchdukeCharles and Vienna, then we see that Vi-enna became threatened by the advance of the Army of Italy.

Supposing that Buonaparte knew that806



the capital was thus uncovered, and knewthat he still retained the same superiorityin numbers over the Archduke as he had inStyria, then his advance against the heartof the Austrian States was no longer with-out purpose, and its value depended on thevalue which the Austrians might place onpreserving their capital. If that was so greatthat, rather than lose it, they would ac-

807



cept the conditions of peace which Buon-aparte was ready to offer them, it becamean object of the first importance to threatenVienna. If Buonaparte had any reason toknow this, then criticism may stop there,but if this point was only problematical,then criticism must take a still higher po-sition, and ask what would have followedif the Austrians had resolved to abandon

808



Vienna and retire farther into the vast do-minions still left to them. But it is easy tosee that this question cannot be answeredwithout bringing into the consideration theprobable movements of the Rhine Armieson both sides. Through the decided superi-ority of numbers on the side of the French–130,000 to 80,000–there could be little doubtof the result; but then next arises the ques-

809



tion, What use would the Directory makeof a victory; whether they would follow uptheir success to the opposite frontiers of theAustrian monarchy, therefore to the com-plete breaking up or overthrow of that power,or whether they would be satisfied with theconquest of a considerable portion to serveas a security for peace? The probable resultin each case must be estimated, in order

810



to come to a conclusion as to the probabledetermination of the Directory. Supposingthe result of these considerations to be thatthe French forces were much too weak forthe complete subjugation of the Austrianmonarchy, so that the attempt might com-pletely reverse the respective positions of the contending Armies, and that even theconquest and occupation of a considerable

811



district of country would place the FrenchArmy in strategic relations to which theywere not equal, then that result must nat-urally influence the estimate of the posi-tion of the Army of Italy, and compel itto lower its expectations. And this, it wasno doubt which influenced Buonaparte, al-though fully aware of the helpless conditionof the Archduke, still to sign the peace of

812



Campo Formio, which imposed no greatersacrifices on the Austrians than the loss of provinces which, even if the campaign tookthe most favourable turn for them, theycould not have reconquered. But the Frenchcould not have reckoned on even the moder-ate treaty of Campo Formio, and thereforeit could not have been their object in mak-ing their bold advance if two considerations

813



had not presented themselves to their view,the first of which consisted in the question,what degree of value the Austrians wouldattach to each of the above-mentioned re-sults; whether, notwithstanding the prob-ability of a satisfactory result in either of these cases, would it be worth while to makethe sacrifices inseparable from a continu-ance of the War, when they could be spared

814



those sacrifices by a peace on terms not toohumiliating? The second consideration isthe question whether the Austrian Govern-ment, instead of seriously weighing the pos-sible results of a resistance pushed to ex-tremities, would not prove completely dis-heartened by the impression of their presentreverses.

The consideration which forms the sub-815



ject of the first is no idle piece of subtleargument, but a consideration of such de-cidedly practical importance that it comesup whenever the plan of pushing War tothe utmost extremity is mooted, and by itsweight in most cases restrains the executionof such plans.

The second consideration is of equal im-portance, for we do not make War with

816



an abstraction but with a reality, which wemust always keep in view, and we may besure that it was not overlooked by the boldBuonaparte –that is, that he was keenlyalive to the terror which the appearanceof his sword inspired. It was reliance onthat which led him to Moscow. There itled him into a scrape. The terror of himhad been weakened by the gigantic strug-

817



gles in which he had been engaged; in theyear 1797 it was still fresh, and the secret of a resistance pushed to extremities had notbeen discovered; nevertheless even in 1797his boldness might have led to a negativeresult if, as already said, he had not witha sort of presentiment avoided it by signingthe moderate peace of Campo Formio.

We must now bring these considerations818



to a close– they will suffice to show the widesphere, the diversity and embarrassing na-ture of the subjects embraced in a criticalexamination carried to the fullest extent,that is, to those measures of a great anddecisive class which must necessarily be in-cluded. It follows from them that besides atheoretical acquaintance with the subject,natural talent must also have a great influ-

819



ence on the value of critical examinations,for it rests chiefly with the latter to throwthe requisite light on the interrelations of things, and to distinguish from amongst theendless connections of events those whichare really essential.

But talent is also called into requisitionin another way. Critical examination is notmerely the appreciation of those means which

820



have been actually employed, but also of all possible means, which therefore must besuggested in the first place–that is, must bediscovered; and the use of any particularmeans is not fairly open to censure until abetter is pointed out. Now, however smallthe number of possible combinations maybe in most cases, still it must be admittedthat to point out those which have not been

821



used is not a mere analysis of actual things,but a spontaneous creation which cannot beprescribed, and depends on the fertility of genius.

We are far from seeing a field for greatgenius in a case which admits only of theapplication of a few simple combinations,and we think it exceedingly ridiculous tohold up, as is often done, the turning of a

822



position as an invention showing the highestgenius; still nevertheless this creative self-activity on the part of the critic is necessary,and it is one of the points which essentiallydetermine the value of critical examination.

When Buonaparte on 30th July, 1796,[×] determined to raise the siege of Mantua, inorder to march with his whole force againstthe enemy, advancing in separate columns

823



to the relief of the place, and to beat themin detail, this appeared the surest way tothe attainment of brilliant victories. Thesevictories actually followed, and were after-wards again repeated on a still more bril-liant scale on the attempt to relieve thefortress being again renewed. We hear onlyone opinion on these achievements, that of unmixed admiration.

824



[] Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edi-tion, vol. iv. p. 107 et seq.

At the same time, Buonaparte could nothave adopted this course on the 30th Julywithout quite giving up the idea of the siegeof Mantua, because it was impossible tosave the siege train, and it could not be re-placed by another in this campaign. In fact,the siege was converted into a blockade, and

825



the town, which if the siege had continuedmust have very shortly fallen, held out forsix months in spite of Buonaparte’s victo-ries in the open field.

Criticism has generally regarded this asan evil that was unavoidable, because crit-ics have not been able to suggest any bet-ter course. Resistance to a relieving Armywithin lines of circumvallation had fallen

826



into such disrepute and contempt that itappears to have entirely escaped consider-ation as a means. And yet in the reign of Louis XIV. that measure was so often usedwith success that we can only attribute tothe force of fashion the fact that a hun-dred years later it never occurred to anyone even to propose such a measure. If thepracticability of such a plan had ever been

827



entertained for a moment, a closer consid-eration of circumstances would have shownthat 40,000 of the best infantry in the worldunder Buonaparte, behind strong lines of circumvallation round Mantua, had so littleto fear from the 50,000 men coming to therelief under Wurmser, that it was very un-likely that any attempt even would be madeupon their lines. We shall not seek here to

828



establish this point, but we believe enoughhas been said to show that this means wasone which had a right to a share of consid-eration. Whether Buonaparte himself everthought of such a plan we leave undecided;neither in his memoirs nor in other sourcesis there any trace to be found of his hav-ing done so; in no critical works has it beentouched upon, the measure being one which

829



the mind had lost sight of. The merit of resuscitating the idea of this means is notgreat, for it suggests itself at once to anyone who breaks loose from the trammels of fashion. Still it is necessary that it shouldsuggest itself for us to bring it into consider-ation and compare it with the means whichBuonaparte employed. Whatever may bethe result of the comparison, it is one which

830



should not be omitted by criticism.When Buonaparte, in February, 1814,[×

] after gaining the battles at Etoges, Champ-Aubert, and Montmirail, left Bluecher’s Army,and turning upon Schwartzenberg, beat histroops at Montereau and Mormant, everyone was filled with admiration, because Buon-aparte, by thus throwing his concentratedforce first upon one opponent, then upon

831



another, made a brilliant use of the mis-takes which his adversaries had committedin dividing their forces. If these brilliantstrokes in different directions failed to savehim, it was generally considered to be nofault of his, at least. No one has yet askedthe question, What would have been theresult if, instead of turning from Bluecherupon Schwartzenberg, he had tried another

832



blow at Bluecher, and pursued him to theRhine? We are convinced that it wouldhave completely changed the course of thecampaign, and that the Army of the Allies,instead of marching to Paris, would haveretired behind the Rhine. We do not askothers to share our conviction, but no onewho understands the thing will doubt, atthe mere mention of this alternative course,

833



that it is one which should not be over-looked in criticism.

[] Compare Hinterlassene Werks, 2nd edi-tion. vol. vii. p. 193 et seq.

In this case the means of comparisonlie much more on the surface than in theforegoing, but they have been equally over-looked, because one-sided views have pre-vailed, and there has been no freedom of

834



judgment.From the necessity of pointing out a bet-

ter means which might have been used inplace of those which are condemned has arisenthe form of criticism almost exclusively inuse, which contents itself with pointing outthe better means without demonstrating inwhat the superiority consists. The conse-quence is that some are not convinced, that

835



others start up and do the same thing, andthat thus discussion arises which is withoutany fixed basis for the argument. Militaryliterature abounds with matter of this sort.

The demonstration we require is alwaysnecessary when the superiority of the meanspropounded is not so evident as to leave noroom for doubt, and it consists in the exam-ination of each of the means on its own mer-

836



its, and then of its comparison with the object desired. When once the thing is tracedback to a simple truth, controversy mustcease, or at all events a new result is ob-tained, whilst by the other plan the prosand cons go on for ever consuming eachother.

Should we, for example, not rest contentwith assertion in the case before mentioned,

837



and wish to prove that the persistent pur-suit of Bluecher would have been more ad-vantageous than the turning on Schwartzen-berg, we should support the arguments onthe following simple truths:

1. In general it is more advantageousto continue our blows in one and the samedirection, because there is a loss of timein striking in different directions; and at

838



a point where the moral power is alreadyshaken by considerable losses there is themore reason to expect fresh successes, there-fore in that way no part of the preponder-ance already gained is left idle.

2. Because Bluecher, although weakerthan Schwartzenberg, was, on account of his enterprising spirit, the more importantadversary; in him, therefore, lay the centre

839



of attraction which drew the others alongin the same direction.

3. Because the losses which Bluecherhad sustained almost amounted to a defeat,which gave Buonaparte such a preponder-ance over him as to make his retreat to theRhine almost certain, and at the same timeno reserves of any consequence awaited himthere.

840



4. Because there was no other resultwhich would be so terrific in its aspects,would appear to the imagination in such gi-gantic proportions, an immense advantagein dealing with a Staff so weak and irreso-lute as that of Schwartzenberg notoriouslywas at this time. What had happened tothe Crown Prince of Wartemberg at Mon-tereau, and to Count Wittgenstein at Mor-

841



mant, Prince Schwartzenberg must have knownwell enough; but all the untoward events onBluecher’s distant and separate line fromthe Marne to the Rhine would only reachhim by the avalanche of rumour. The des-perate movements which Buonaparte madeupon Vitry at the end of March, to seewhat the Allies would do if he threatenedto turn them strategically, were evidently

842



done on the principle of working on theirfears; but it was done under far differentcircumstances, in consequence of his defeatat Laon and Arcis, and because Bluecher,with 100,000 men, was then in communica-tion with Schwartzenberg.

There are people, no doubt, who will notbe convinced on these arguments, but at allevents they cannot retort by saying, that

843



”whilst Buonaparte threatened Schwartzen-berg’s base by advancing to the Rhine, Schwartzen-berg at the same time threatened Buon-aparte’s communications with Paris,” be-cause we have shown by the reasons abovegiven that Schwartzenberg would never havethought of marching on Paris.

With respect to the example quoted byus from the campaign of 1796, we should

844



say: Buonaparte looked upon the plan headopted as the surest means of beating theAustrians; but admitting that it was so, stillthe object to be attained was only an emptyvictory, which could have hardly any sensi-ble influence on the fall of Mantua. Theway which we should have chosen would, inour opinion, have been much more certainto prevent the relief of Mantua; but even

845



if we place ourselves in the position of theFrench General and assume that it was notso, and look upon the certainty of success tohave been less, the question then amountsto a choice between a more certain but lessuseful, and therefore less important, victoryon the one hand, and a somewhat less prob-able but far more decisive and importantvictory, on the other hand. Presented in

846



this form, boldness must have declared forthe second solution, which is the reverse of what took place, when the thing was onlysuperficially viewed. Buonaparte certainlywas anything but deficient in boldness, andwe may be sure that he did not see thewhole case and its consequences as fully andclearly as we can at the present time.

Naturally the critic, in treating of the847



means, must often appeal to military his-tory, as experience is of more value in theArt of War than all philosophical truth. Butthis exemplification from history is subjectto certain conditions, of which we shall treatin a special chapter and unfortunately theseconditions are so seldom regarded that ref-erence to history generally only serves toincrease the confusion of ideas.

848



We have still a most important subjectto consider, which is, How far criticism inpassing judgments on particular events ispermitted, or in duty bound, to make useof its wider view of things, and thereforealso of that which is shown by results; orwhen and where it should leave out of sightthese things in order to place itself, as far aspossible, in the exact position of the chief

849



actor?If criticism dispenses praise or censure,

it should seek to place itself as nearly aspossible at the same point of view as theperson acting, that is to say, to collect allhe knew and all the motives on which heacted, and, on the other hand, to leave outof the consideration all that the person act-ing could not or did not know, and above

850



all, the result. But this is only an objectto aim at, which can never be reached be-cause the state of circumstances from whichan event proceeded can never be placed be-fore the eye of the critic exactly as it laybefore the eye of the person acting. A num-ber of inferior circumstances, which musthave influenced the result, are completelylost to sight, and many a subjective motive

851



has never come to light.The latter can only be learnt from the

memoirs of the chief actor, or from his inti-mate friends; and in such things of this kindare often treated of in a very desultory man-ner, or purpusely misrepresented. Criticismmust, therefore, always forego much whichwas present in the minds of those whoseacts are criticised.

852



On the other hand, it is much more dif-ficult to leave out of sight that which criti-cism knows in excess. This is only easy asregards accidental circumstances, that is,circumstances which have been mixed up,but are in no way necessarily related. Butit is very difficult, and, in fact, can neverbe completely done with regard to thingsreally essential.

853



Let us take first, the result. If it has notproceeded from accidental circumstances, itis almost impossible that the knowledge of it should not have an effect on the judgmentpassed on events which have preceded it,for we see these things in the light of thisresult, and it is to a certain extent by itthat we first become acquainted with themand appreciate them. Military history, with

854



all its events, is a source of instruction forcriticism itself, and it is only natural thatcriticism should throw that light on thingswhich it has itself obtained from the consid-eration of the whole. If therefore it mightwish in some cases to leave the result outof the consideration, it would be impossibleto do so completely.

But it is not only in relation to the re-855



sult, that is, with what takes place at thelast, that this embarrassment arises; thesame occurs in relation to preceding events,therefore with the data which furnished themotives to action. Criticism has before it,in most cases, more information on this pointthan the principal in the transaction. Nowit may seem easy to dismiss from the con-sideration everything of this nature, but it

856



is not so easy as we may think. The knowl-edge of preceding and concurrent events isfounded not only on certain information,but on a number of conjectures and sup-positions; indeed, there is hardly any of theinformation respecting things not purely ac-cidental which has not been preceded bysuppositions or conjectures destined to takethe place of certain information in case such

857



should never be supplied. Now is it con-ceivable that criticism in after times, whichhas before it as facts all the preceding andconcurrent circumstances, should not allowitself to be thereby influenced when it asksitself the question, What portion of the cir-cumstances, which at the moment of actionwere unknown, would it have held to beprobable? We maintain that in this case,

858



as in the case of the results, and for thesame reason, it is impossible to disregardall these things completely.

If therefore the critic wishes to bestowpraise or blame upon any single act, he canonly succeed to a certain degree in placinghimself in the position of the person whoseact he has under review. In many cases hecan do so sufficiently near for any practi-

859



cal purpose, but in many instances it is thevery reverse, and this fact should never beoverlooked.

But it is neither necessary nor desirablethat criticism should completely identify it-self with the person acting. In War, as inall matters of skill, there is a certain natu-ral aptitude required which is called talent.This may be great or small. In the first

860



case it may easily be superior to that of thecritic, for what critic can pretend to the skillof a Frederick or a Buonaparte? Therefore,if criticism is not to abstain altogether fromoffering an opinion where eminent talent isconcerned, it must be allowed to make useof the advantage which its enlarged hori-zon affords. Criticism must not, therefore,treat the solution of a problem by a great

861



General like a sum in arithmetic; it is onlythrough the results and through the exactcoincidences of events that it can recognisewith admiration how much is due to the ex-ercise of genius, and that it first learns theessential combination which the glance of that genius devised.

But for every, even the smallest, act of genius it is necessary that criticism should

862



take a higher point of view, so that, hav-ing at command many objective grounds of decision, it may be as little subjective aspossible, and that the critic may not takethe limited scope of his own mind as a stan-dard.

This elevated position of criticism, itspraise and blame pronounced with a fullknowledge of all the circumstances, has in

863



itself nothing which hurts our feelings; itonly does so if the critic pushes himself for-ward, and speaks in a tone as if all the wis-dom which he has obtained by an exhaus-tive examination of the event under consid-eration were really his own talent. Palpableas is this deception, it is one which peo-ple may easily fall into through vanity, andone which is naturally distasteful to oth-

864



ers. It very often happens that althoughthe critic has no such arrogant pretensions,they are imputed to him by the reader be-cause he has not expressly disclaimed them,and then follows immediately a charge of awant of the power of critical judgment.

If therefore a critic points out an errormade by a Frederick or a Buonaparte, thatdoes not mean that he who makes the crit-

865



icism would not have committed the sameerror; he may even be ready to grant thathad he been in the place of these great Gen-erals he might have made much greater mis-takes; he merely sees this error from thechain of events, and he thinks that it shouldnot have escaped the sagacity of the Gen-eral.

This is, therefore, an opinion formed through866



the connection of events, and therefore throughthe RESULT. But there is another quitedifferent effect of the result itself upon the judgment, that is if it is used quite aloneas an example for or against the soundnessof a measure. This may be called JUDG-MENT ACCORDING TO THE RESULT.Such a judgment appears at first sight in-admissible, and yet it is not.

867



a peace at Moscow, there was no alterna-tive but to return–that is, there was noth-ing for him but a strategic defeat. We shallleave out of the question what he did to getto Moscow, and whether in his advance hedid not miss many opportunities of bringingthe Emperor Alexander to peace; we shallalso exclude all consideration of the disas-trous circumstances which attended his re-

869



treat, and which perhaps had their origin inthe general conduct of the campaign. Stillthe question remains the same, for howevermuch more brilliant the course of the cam-paign up to Moscow might have been, stillthere was always an uncertainty whetherthe Emperor Alexander would be intimi-dated into making peace; and then, even if a retreat did not contain in itself the seeds

870



of such disasters as did in fact occur, stillit could never be anything else than a greatstrategic defeat. If the Emperor Alexan-der agreed to a peace which was disadvan-tageous to him, the campaign of 1812 wouldhave ranked with those of Austerlitz, Fried-land, and Wagram. But these campaignsalso, if they had not led to peace, would inall probability have ended in similar catas-

871



trophes. Whatever, therefore, of genius,skill, and energy the Conqueror of the Worldapplied to the task, this last question ad-dressed to fate[] remained always the same.Shall we then discard the campaigns of 1805,1807, 1809, and say on account of the cam-paign of 1812 that they were acts of im-prudence; that the results were against thenature of things, and that in 1812 strategic

872



justice at last found vent for itself in oppo-sition to blind chance? That would be anunwarrantable conclusion, a most arbitrary judgment, a case only half proved, becauseno human, eye can trace the thread of thenecessary connection of events up to the de-termination of the conquered Princes.

[] ”Frage an der Schicksal,”a familiar quo-tation from Schiller.–TR.

873



Still less can we say the campaign of 1812 merited the same success as the oth-ers, and that the reason why it turned outotherwise lies in something unnatural, forwe cannot regard the firmness of Alexanderas something unpredictable.

What can be more natural than to saythat in the years 1805, 1807, 1809, Buon-aparte judged his opponents correctly, and

874



that in 1812 he erred in that point? On theformer occasions, therefore, he was right, inthe latter wrong, and in both cases we judgeby the RESULT.

All action in War, as we have alreadysaid, is directed on probable, not on certain,results. Whatever is wanting in certaintymust always be left to fate, or chance, call itwhich you will. We may demand that what

875



is so left should be as little as possible, butonly in relation to the particular case–thatis, as little as is possible in this one case, butnot that the case in which the least is leftto chance is always to be preferred. Thatwould be an enormous error, as follows fromall our theoretical views. There are casesin which the greatest daring is the greatestwisdom.

876



Now in everything which is left to chanceby the chief actor, his personal merit, andtherefore his responsibility as well, seemsto be completely set aside; nevertheless wecannot suppress an inward feeling of satis-faction whenever expectation realises itself,and if it disappoints us our mind is dissatis-fied; and more than this of right and wrongshould not be meant by the judgment which

877



we form from the mere result, or rather thatwe find there.

Nevertheless, it cannot be denied thatthe satisfaction which our mind experiencesat success, the pain caused by failure, pro-ceed from a sort of mysterious feeling; wesuppose between that success ascribed togood fortune and the genius of the chief a fine connecting thread, invisible to the

878



mind’s eye, and the supposition gives plea-sure. What tends to confirm this idea isthat our sympathy increases, becomes moredecided, if the successes and defeats of theprincipal actor are often repeated. Thus itbecomes intelligible how good luck in Warassumes a much nobler nature than goodluck at play. In general, when a fortunatewarrior does not otherwise lessen our inter-

879



est in his behalf, we have a pleasure in ac-companying him in his career.

Criticism, therefore, after having weighedall that comes within the sphere of humanreason and conviction, will let the resultspeak for that part where the deep myste-rious relations are not disclosed in any vis-ible form, and will protect this silent sen-tence of a higher authority from the noise

880



of crude opinions on the one hand, while onthe other it prevents the gross abuse whichmight be made of this last tribunal.

This verdict of the result must thereforealways bring forth that which human sagac-ity cannot discover; and it will be chiefly asregards the intellectual powers and opera-tions that it will be called into requisition,partly because they can be estimated with

881



the least certainty, partly because their closeconnection with the will is favourable totheir exercising over it an important influ-ence. When fear or bravery precipitates thedecision, there is nothing objective inter-vening between them for our consideration,and consequently nothing by which sagacityand calculation might have met the proba-ble result.

882



We must now be allowed to make a fewobservations on the instrument of criticism,that is, the language which it uses, becausethat is to a certain extent connected withthe action in War; for the critical exam-ination is nothing more than the deliber-ation which should precede action in War.We therefore think it very essential that thelanguage used in criticism should have the

883



same character as that which deliberationin War must have, for otherwise it wouldcease to be practical, and criticism couldgain no admittance in actual life.

We have said in our observations on thetheory of the conduct of War that it shouldeducate the mind of the Commander forWar, or that its teaching should guide hiseducation; also that it is not intended to

884



furnish him with positive doctrines and sys-tems which he can use like mental appli-ances. But if the construction of scientificformulae is never required, or even allow-able, in War to aid the decision on the casepresented, if truth does not appear therein a systematic shape, if it is not found inan indirect way, but directly by the naturalperception of the mind, then it must be the

885



same also in a critical review.It is true as we have seen that, wher-

ever complete demonstration of the natureof things would be too tedious, criticismmust support itself on those truths whichtheory has established on the point. But, just as in War the actor obeys these the-oretical truths rather because his mind isimbued with them than because he regards

886



them as objective inflexible laws, so criti-cism must also make use of them, not asan external law or an algebraic formula, of which fresh proof is not required each timethey are applied, but it must always throwa light on this proof itself, leaving only totheory the more minute and circumstantialproof. Thus it avoids a mysterious, unintel-ligible phraseology, and makes its progress

887



in plain language, that is, with a clear andalways visible chain of ideas.

Certainly this cannot always be com-pletely attained, but it must always be theaim in critical expositions. Such exposi-tions must use complicated forms of scienceas sparingly as possible, and never resortto the construction of scientific aids as of a truth apparatus of its own, but always

888



be guided by the natural and unbiassed im-pressions of the mind.

But this pious endeavour, if we may usethe expression, has unfortunately seldomhitherto presided over critical examinations:the most of them have rather been emana-tions of a species of vanity–a wish to makea display of ideas.

The first evil which we constantly stum-889



ble upon is a lame, totally inadmissible ap-plication of certain one- sided systems asof a formal code of laws. But it is neverdifficult to show the one-sidedness of suchsystems, and this only requires to be doneonce to throw discredit for ever on critical judgments which are based on them. Wehave here to deal with a definite subject,and as the number of possible systems af-

890



ter all can be but small, therefore also theyare themselves the lesser evil.

Much greater is the evil which lies in thepompous retinue of technical terms–scientificexpressions and metaphors, which these sys-tems carry in their train, and which like arabble-like the baggage of an Army brokenaway from its Chief–hang about in all direc-tions. Any critic who has not adopted a sys-

891



tem, either because he has not found one toplease him, or because he has not yet beenable to make himself master of one, will atleast occasionally make use of a piece of one,as one would use a ruler, to show the blun-ders committed by a General. The most of them are incapable of reasoning without us-ing as a help here and there some shreds of scientific military theory. The smallest of

892



these fragments, consisting in mere scien-tific words and metaphors, are often noth-ing more than ornamental flourishes of crit-ical narration. Now it is in the nature of things that all technical and scientific ex-pressions which belong to a system lose theirpropriety, if they ever had any, as soon asthey are distorted, and used as general ax-ioms, or as small crystalline talismans, which

893



have more power of demonstration than sim-ple speech.

Thus it has come to pass that our the-oretical and critical books, instead of beingstraightforward, intelligible dissertations, inwhich the author always knows at least whathe says and the reader what he reads, arebrimful of these technical terms, which formdark points of interference where author and

894



reader part company. But frequently theyare something worse, being nothing but hol-low shells without any kernel. The authorhimself has no clear perception of what hemeans, contents himself with vague ideas,which if expressed in plain language wouldbe unsatisfactory even to himself.

A third fault in criticism is the MISUSEof HISTORICAL EXAMPLES, and a dis-

895



play of great reading or learning. Whatthe history of the Art of War is we havealready said, and we shall further explainour views on examples and on military his-tory in general in special chapters. Onefact merely touched upon in a very cur-sory manner may be used to support themost opposite views, and three or four suchfacts of the most heterogeneous description,

896



brought together out of the most distantlands and remote times and heaped up, gen-erally distract and bewilder the judgmentand understanding without demonstratinganything; for when exposed to the light theyturn out to be only trumpery rubbish, madeuse of to show off the author’s learning.

But what can be gained for practical lifeby such obscure, partly false, confused ar-

897



bitrary conceptions? So little is gained thattheory on account of them has always beena true antithesis of practice, and frequentlya subject of ridicule to those whose soldierlyqualities in the field are above question.

But it is impossible that this could havebeen the case, if theory in simple language,and by natural treatment of those thingswhich constitute the Art of making War,

898



had merely sought to establish just so muchas admits of being established; if, avoidingall false pretensions and irrelevant displayof scientific forms and historical parallels,it had kept close to the subject, and gonehand in hand with those who must conductaffairs in the field by their own natural ge-nius.

899



CHAPTER VI. ON EXAM-PLES

EXAMPLES from history make everythingclear, and furnish the best description of

proof in the empirical sciences. This ap-plies with more force to the Art of Warthan to any other. General Scharnhorst,

900



whose handbook is the best ever writtenon actual War, pronounces historical ex-amples to be of the first importance, andmakes an admirable use of them himself.Had he survived the War in which he fell,[]the fourth part of his revised treatise on ar-tillery would have given a still greater proof of the observing and enlightened spirit inwhich he sifted matters of experience.

901



But such use of historical examples israrely made by theoretical writers; the wayin which they more commonly make useof them is rather calculated to leave themind unsatisfied, as well as to offend theunderstanding. We therefore think it im-portant to bring specially into view the useand abuse of historical examples.

[] General Scharnhorst died in 1813, of 902



a wound received in the battle of Bautzenor Grosz Gorchen–EDITOR.

Unquestionably the branches of knowl-edge which lie at the foundation of the Artof War come under the denomination of em-pirical sciences; for although they are de-rived in a great measure from the natureof things, still we can only learn this verynature itself for the most part from expe-

903



rience; and besides that, the practical ap-plication is modified by so many circum-stances that the effects can never be com-pletely learnt from the mere nature of themeans.

The effects of gunpowder, that great agentin our military activity, were only learnt byexperience, and up to this hour experimentsare continually in progress in order to in-

904



vestigate them more fully. That an ironball to which powder has given a velocity of 1000 feet in a second, smashes every livingthing which it touches in its course is intel-ligible in itself; experience is not requiredto tell us that; but in producing this effecthow many hundred circumstances are con-cerned, some of which can only be learntby experience! And the physical is not the

905



only effect which we have to study, it is themoral which we are in search of, and thatcan only be ascertained by experience; andthere is no other way of learning and ap-preciating it but by experience. In the mid-dle ages, when firearms were first invented,their effect, owing to their rude make, wasmaterially but trifling compared to what itnow is, but their effect morally was much

906



greater. One must have witnessed the firm-ness of one of those masses taught and ledby Buonaparte, under the heaviest and mostunintermittent cannonade, in order to un-derstand what troops, hardened by long prac-tice in the field of danger, can do, when by acareer of victory they have reached the no-ble principle of demanding from themselvestheir utmost efforts. In pure conception no

907



one would believe it. On the other hand, itis well known that there are troops in theservice of European Powers at the presentmoment who would easily be dispersed bya few cannon shots.

But no empirical science, consequentlyalso no theory of the Art of War, can alwayscorroborate its truths by historical proof; itwould also be, in some measure, difficult to

908



support experience by single facts. If anymeans is once found efficacious in War, itis repeated; one nation copies another, thething becomes the fashion, and in this man-ner it comes into use, supported by experi-ence, and takes its place in theory, whichcontents itself with appealing to experiencein general in order to show its origin, butnot as a verification of its truth.

909



But it is quite otherwise if experienceis to be used in order to overthrow somemeans in use, to confirm what is doubtful,or introduce something new; then particu-lar examples from history must be quotedas proofs.

Now, if we consider closely the use of historical proofs, four points of view readilypresent themselves for the purpose.

910



First, they may be used merely as anEXPLANATION of an idea. In every ab-stract consideration it is very easy to bemisunderstood, or not to be intelligible atall: when an author is afraid of this, an ex-emplification from history serves to throwthe light which is wanted on his idea, andto ensure his being intelligible to his reader.

Secondly, it may serve as an APPLICA-911



TION of an idea, because by means of anexample there is an opportunity of show-ing the action of those minor circumstanceswhich cannot all be comprehended and ex-plained in any general expression of an idea;for in that consists, indeed, the differencebetween theory and experience. Both thesecases belong to examples properly speak-ing, the two following belong to historical

912



proofs.Thirdly, a historical fact may be referred

to particularly, in order to support whatone has advanced. This is in all cases suffi-cient, if we have ONLY to prove the POS-SIBILITY of a fact or effect.

Lastly, in the fourth place, from the cir-cumstantial detail of a historical event, andby collecting together several of them, we

913



may deduce some theory, which thereforehas its true PROOF in this testimony it-self.

For the first of these purposes all that isgenerally required is a cursory notice of thecase, as it is only used partially. Historicalcorrectness is a secondary consideration; acase invented might also serve the purposeas well, only historical ones are always to

914



be preferred, because they bring the ideawhich they illustrate nearer to practical life.

The second use supposes a more circum-stantial relation of events, but historical au-thenticity is again of secondary importance,and in respect to this point the same is tobe said as in the first case.

For the third purpose the mere quota-tion of an undoubted fact is generally suf-

915



ficient. If it is asserted that fortified posi-tions may fulfil their object under certainconditions, it is only necessary to mentionthe position of Bunzelwitz[] in support of the assertion.

[] Frederick the Great’s celebrated en-trenched camp in 1761.

But if, through the narrative of a case inhistory, an abstract truth is to be demon-

916



strated, then everything in the case bearingon the demonstration must be analysed inthe most searching and complete manner;it must, to a certain extent, develop itself carefully before the eyes of the reader. Theless effectually this is done the weaker willbe the proof, and the more necessary it willbe to supply the demonstrative proof whichis wanting in the single case by a number of

917



cases, because we have a right to supposethat the more minute details which we areunable to give neutralise each other in theireffects in a certain number of cases.

If we want to show by example derivedfrom experience that cavalry are better placedbehind than in a line with infantry; that itis very hazardous without a decided pre-ponderance of numbers to attempt an en-

918



veloping movement, with widely separatedcolumns, either on a field of battle or in thetheatre of war–that is, either tactically orstrategically–then in the first of these casesit would not be sufficient to specify somelost battles in which the cavalry was on theflanks and some gained in which the cav-alry was in rear of the infantry; and in thetatter of these cases it is not sufficient to

919



appear how far such forms or measures areto be condemned, a point which it is verynecessary to show, for a total condemnationwould be inconsistent with truth.

It has been already said that when acircumstantial detail of facts is impossible,the demonstrative power which is deficientmay to a certain extent be supplied by thenumber of cases quoted; but this is a very

921



dangerous method of getting out of the diffi-culty, and one which has been much abused.Instead of one well-explained example, threeor four are just touched upon, and thus ashow is made of strong evidence. But thereare matters where a whole dozen of casesbrought forward would prove nothing, if,for instance, they are facts of frequent oc-currence, and therefore a dozen other cases

922



with an opposite result might just as eas-ily be brought forward. If any one will in-stance a dozen lost battles in which theside beaten attacked in separate converg-ing columns, we can instance a dozen thathave been gained in which the same orderwas adopted. It is evident that in this wayno result is to be obtained.

Upon carefully considering these differ-923



ent points, it will be seen how easily exam-ples may be misapplied.

An occurrence which, instead of beingcarefully analysed in all its parts, is super-ficially noticed, is like an object seen at agreat distance, presenting the same appear-ance on each side, and in which the detailsof its parts cannot be distinguished. Suchexamples have, in reality, served to support

924



the most contradictory opinions. To someDaun’s campaigns are models of prudenceand skill. To others, they are nothing butexamples of timidity and want of resolution.Buonaparte’s passage across the Noric Alpsin 1797 may be made to appear the noblestresolution, but also as an act of sheer temer-ity. His strategic defeat in 1812 may be rep-resented as the consequence either of an ex-

925



cess, or of a deficiency, of energy. All theseopinions have been broached, and it is easyto see that they might very well arise, be-cause each person takes a different view of the connection of events. At the same timethese antagonistic opinions cannot be rec-onciled with each other, and therefore oneof the two must be wrong.

Much as we are obliged to the worthy926



Feuquieres for the numerous examples in-troduced in his memoirs–partly because anumber of historical incidents have thus beenpreserved which might otherwise have beenlost, and partly because he was one of thefirst to bring theoretical, that is, abstract,ideas into connection with the practical inwar, in so far that the cases brought forwardmay be regarded as intended to exemplify

927



and confirm what is theoretically asserted–yet, in the opinion of an impartial reader, hewill hardly be allowed to have attained theobject he proposed to himself, that of prov-ing theoretical principles by historical ex-amples. For although he sometimes relatesoccurrences with great minuteness, still hefalls short very often of showing that thedeductions drawn necessarily proceed from

928



the inner relations of these events.Another evil which comes from the su-

perficial notice of historical events, is thatsome readers are either wholly ignorant of the events, or cannot call them to remem-brance sufficiently to be able to grasp theauthor’s meaning, so that there is no al-ternative between either accepting blindlywhat is said, or remaining unconvinced.

929



It is extremely difficult to put togetheror unfold historical events before the eyesof a reader in such a way as is necessary,in order to be able to use them as proofs;for the writer very often wants the means,and can neither afford the time nor the req-uisite space; but we maintain that, whenthe object is to establish a new or doubt-ful opinion, one single example, thoroughly

930



analysed, is far more instructive than tenwhich are superficially treated. The greatmischief of these superficial representationsis not that the writer puts his story forwardas a proof when it has only a false title, butthat he has not made himself properly ac-quainted with the subject, and that fromthis sort of slovenly, shallow treatment of history, a hundred false views and attempts

931



at the construction of theories arise, whichwould never have made their appearance if the writer had looked upon it as his duty todeduce from the strict connection of eventseverything new which he brought to mar-ket, and sought to prove from history.

When we are convinced of these difficul-ties in the use of historical examples, and atthe same time of the necessity (of making

932



use of such examples), then we shall alsocome to the conclusion that the latest mili-tary history is naturally the best field fromwhich to draw them, inasmuch as it aloneis sufficiently authentic and detailed.

In ancient times, circumstances connectedwith War, as well as the method of carryingit on, were different; therefore its events areof less use to us either theoretically or prac-

933



tically; in addition to which, military his-tory, like every other, naturally loses in thecourse of time a number of small traits andlineaments originally to be seen, loses incolour and life, like a worn-out or darkenedpicture; so that perhaps at last only thelarge masses and leading features remain,which thus acquire undue proportions.

If we look at the present state of war-934



fare, we should say that the Wars since thatof the Austrian succession are almost theonly ones which, at least as far as arma-ment, have still a considerable similarityto the present, and which, notwithstand-ing the many important changes which havetaken place both great and small, are stillcapable of affording much instruction. It isquite otherwise with the War of the Span-

935



ish succession, as the use of fire-arms hadnot then so far advanced towards perfec-tion, and cavalry still continued the mostimportant arm. The farther we go back,the less useful becomes military history, asit gets so much the more meagre and barrenof detail. The most useless of all is that of the old world.

But this uselessness is not altogether ab-936



solute, it relates only to those subjects whichdepend on a knowledge of minute details,or on those things in which the method of conducting war has changed. Although weknow very little about the tactics in the bat-tles between the Swiss and the Austrians,the Burgundians and French, still we findin them unmistakable evidence that theywere the first in which the superiority of

937



a good infantry over the best cavalry was,displayed. A general glance at the time of the Condottieri teaches us how the wholemethod of conducting War is dependent onthe instrument used; for at no period havethe forces used in War had so much thecharacteristics of a special instrument, andbeen a class so totally distinct from the restof the national community. The memorable

938



way in which the Romans in the secondPunic War attacked the Carthaginan pos-sessions in Spain and Africa, while Hanni-bal still maintained himself in Italy, is amost instructive subject to study, as thegeneral relations of the States and Armiesconcerned in this indirect act of defence aresufficiently well known.

But the more things descend into par-939



ticulars and deviate in character from themost general relations, the less we can lookfor examples and lessons of experience fromvery remote periods, for we have neither themeans of judging properly of correspondingevents, nor can we apply them to our com-pletely different method of War.

Unfortunately, however, it has alwaysbeen the fashion with historical writers to

940



talk about ancient times. We shall not sayhow far vanity and charlatanism may havehad a share in this, but in general we fail todiscover any honest intention and earnestendeavour to instruct and convince, and wecan therefore only look upon such quota-tions and references as embellishments tofill up gaps and hide defects.

It would be an immense service to teach941



the Art of War entirely by historical exam-ples, as Feuquieres proposed to do; but itwould be full work for the whole life of aman, if we reflect that he who undertakesit must first qualify himself for the task bya long personal experience in actual War.

Whoever, stirred by ambition, under-takes such a task, let him prepare himself for his pious undertaking as for a long pil-

942



grimage; let him give up his time, spare nosacrifice, fear no temporal rank or power,and rise above all feelings of personal van-ity, of false shame, in order, according tothe French code, to speak THE TRUTH,THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHINGBUT THE TRUTH.

BOOK III. OF STRATEGY IN GEN-ERAL

943



CHAPTER I. STRATEGY

IN the second chapter of the second book,Strategy has been defined as ”the employ-ment of the battle as the means towardsthe attainment of the object of the War.”

Properly speaking it has to do with nothingbut the battle, but its theory must includein this consideration the instrument of this

944



real activity–the armed force–in itself andin its principal relations, for the battle isfought by it, and shows its effects upon itin turn. It must be well acquainted with thebattle itself as far as relates to its possibleresults, and those mental and moral powerswhich are the most important in the use of the same.

Strategy is the employment of the battle945



to gain the end of the War; it must there-fore give an aim to the whole military ac-tion, which must be in accordance with theobject of the War; in other words, Strategyforms the plan of the War, and to this end itlinks together the series of acts which are tolead to the final decision, that, is to say, itmakes the plans for the separate campaignsand regulates the combats to be fought in

946



each. As these are all things which to agreat extent can only be determined on conjectures some of which turn out incorrect,while a number of other arrangements per-taining to details cannot be made at all be-forehand, it follows, as a matter of course,that Strategy must go with the Army to thefield in order to arrange particulars on thespot, and to make the modifications in the

947



general plan, which incessantly become nec-essary in War. Strategy can therefore nevertake its hand from the work for a moment.

That this, however, has not always beenthe view taken is evident from the formercustom of keeping Strategy in the cabinetand not with the Army, a thing only allow-able if the cabinet is so near to the Armythat it can be taken for the chief head-quarters

948



of the Army.Theory will therefore attend on Strategy

in the determination of its plans, or, as wemay more properly say, it will throw a lighton things in themselves, and on their rela-tions to each other, and bring out promi-nently the little that there is of principle orrule.

If we recall to mind from the first chap-949



ter how many things of the highest impor-tance War touches upon, we may conceivethat a consideration of all requires a raregrasp of mind.

A Prince or General who knows exactlyhow to organise his War according to hisobject and means, who does neither too lit-tle nor too much, gives by that the great-est proof of his genius. But the effects of

950



this talent are exhibited not so much bythe invention of new modes of action, whichmight strike the eye immediately, as in thesuccessful final result of the whole. It isthe exact fulfilment of silent suppositions,it is the noiseless harmony of the whole ac-tion which we should admire, and whichonly makes itself known in the total result.inquirer who, tracing back from the final

951



result, does not perceive the signs of thatharmony is one who is apt to seek for ge-nius where it is not, and where it cannot befound.

The means and forms which Strategyuses are in fact so extremely simple, so wellknown by their constant repetition, that itonly appears ridiculous to sound commonsense when it hears critics so frequently speak-

952



ing of them with high-flown emphasis. Turn-ing a flank, which has been done a thou-sand times, is regarded here as a proof of the most brilliant genius, there as a proof of the most profound penetration, indeedeven of the most comprehensive knowledge.Can there be in the book–world more ab-surd productions?[]

[] This paragraph refers to the works of 953



Lloyd, Buelow, indeed to all the eighteenth-century writers, from whose influence we inEngland are not even yet free.–ED.

It is still more ridiculous if, in additionto this, we reflect that the same critic, in ac-cordance with prevalent opinion, excludesall moral forces from theory, and will notallow it to be concerned with anything butthe material forces, so that all must be con-

954



fined to a few mathematical relations of equi-librium and preponderance, of time and space,and a few lines and angles. If it were noth-ing more than this, then out of such a miser-able business there would not be a scientificproblem for even a schoolboy.

But let us admit: there is no questionhere about scientific formulas and problems;the relations of material things are all very

955



simple; the right comprehension of the moralforces which come into play is more difficult.Still, even in respect to them, it is only inthe highest branches of Strategy that moralcomplications and a great diversity of quan-tities and relations are to be looked for, onlyat that point where Strategy borders onpolitical science, or rather where the twobecome one, and there, as we have before

956



observed, they have more influence on the”how much” and ”how little” is to be donethan on the form of execution. Where thelatter is the principal question, as in the sin-gle acts both great and small in War, themoral quantities are already reduced to avery small number.

Thus, then, in Strategy everything isvery simple, but not on that account very

957



easy. Once it is determined from the re-lations of the State what should and maybe done by War, then the way to it is easyto find; but to follow that way straightfor-ward, to carry out the plan without be-ing obliged to deviate from it a thousandtimes by a thousand varying influences, re-quires, besides great strength of character,great clearness and steadiness of mind, and

958



out of a thousand men who are remarkable,some for mind, others for penetration, oth-ers again for boldness or strength of will,perhaps not one will combine in himself allthose qualities which are required to raisea man above mediocrity in the career of ageneral.

It may sound strange, but for all whoknow War in this respect it is a fact be-

959



yond doubt, that much more strength of will is required to make an important de-cision in Strategy than in tactics. In thelatter we are hurried on with the moment;a Commander feels himself borne along in astrong current, against which he durst notcontend without the most destructive con-sequences, he suppresses the rising fears,and boldly ventures further. In Strategy,

960



where all goes on at a slower rate, there ismore room allowed for our own apprehen-sions and those of others, for objections andremonstrances, consequently also for unsea-sonable regrets; and as we do not see thingsin Strategy as we do at least half of them intactics, with the living eye, but everythingmust be conjectured and assumed, the con-victions produced are less powerful. The

961



consequence is that most Generals, whenthey should act, remain stuck fast in bewil-dering doubts.

Now let us cast a glance at history–uponFrederick the Great’s campaign of 1760, cel-ebrated for its fine marches and manoeu-vres: a perfect masterpiece of Strategic skillas critics tell us. Is there really anything todrive us out of our wits with admiration in

962



the King’s first trying to turn Daun’s rightflank, then his left, then again his right, &c.? Are we to see profound wisdom in this?No, that we cannot, if we are to decide nat-urally and without affectation. What werather admire above all is the sagacity of theKing in this respect, that while pursuing agreat object with very limited means, heundertook nothing beyond his powers, and

963



JUST ENOUGH to gain his object. Thissagacity of the General is visible not only inthis campaign, but throughout all the threeWars of the Great King!

To bring Silesia into the safe harbour of a well- guaranteed peace was his object.

At the head of a small State, which waslike other States in most things, and onlyahead of them in some branches of admin-

964



istration; he could not be an Alexander,and, as Charles XII, he would only, likehim, have broken his head. We find, there-fore, in the whole of his conduct of War,a controlled power, always well balanced,and never wanting in energy, which in themost critical moments rises to astonishingdeeds, and the next moment oscillates qui-etly on again in subordination to the play of

965



the most subtil political influences. Neithervanity, thirst for glory, nor vengeance couldmake him deviate from his course, and thiscourse alone it is which brought him to afortunate termination of the contest.

These few words do but scant justice tothis phase of the genius of the great Gen-eral; the eyes must be fixed carefully on theextraordinary issue of the struggle, and the

966



causes which brought about that issue mustbe traced out, in order thoroughly to un-derstand that nothing but the King’s pene-trating eye brought him safely out of all hisdangers.

This is one feature in this great Com-mander which we admire in the campaign of 1760–and in all others, but in this especially–because in none did he keep the balance

967



even against such a superior hostile force,with such a small sacrifice.

Another feature relates to the difficultyof execution. Marches to turn a flank, rightor left, are easily combined; the idea of keep-ing a small force always well concentratedto be able to meet the enemy on equal termsat any point, to multiply a force by rapidmovement, is as easily conceived as expressed;

968



the mere contrivance in these points, there-fore, cannot excite our admiration, and withrespect to such simple things, there is noth-ing further than to admit that they are sim-ple.

But let a General try to do these thingslike Frederick the Great. Long afterwardsauthors, who were eyewitnesses, have spo-ken of the danger, indeed of the imprudence,

969



of the King’s camps, and doubtless, at thetime he pitched them, the danger appearedthree times as great as afterwards.

It was the same with his marches, underthe eyes, nay, often under the cannon of theenemy’s Army; these camps were taken up,these marches made, not from want of pru-dence, but because in Daun’s system, in hismode of drawing up his Army, in the re-

970



sponsibility which pressed upon him, andin his character, Frederick found that secu-rity which justified his camps and marches.But it required the King’s boldness, deter-mination, and strength of will to see thingsin this light, and not to be led astray andintimidated by the danger of which thirtyyears after people still wrote and spoke. FewGenerals in this situation would have be-

971



lieved these simple strategic means to bepracticable.

Again, another difficulty in execution layin this, that the King’s Army in this cam-paign was constantly in motion. Twice itmarched by wretched cross-roads, from theElbe into Silesia, in rear of Daun and pur-sued by Lascy (beginning of July, beginningof August). It required to be always ready

972



for battle, and its marches had to be organ-ised with a degree of skill which necessar-ily called forth a proportionate amount of exertion. Although attended and delayedby thousands of waggons, still its subsis-tence was extremely difficult. In Silesia,for eight days before the battle of Leignitz,it had constantly to march, defiling alter-nately right and left in front of the enemy:–

973



this costs great fatigue, and entails greatprivations.

Is it to be supposed that all this couldhave been done without producing great fric-tion in the machine? Can the mind of aCommander elaborate such movements withthe same ease as the hand of a land surveyoruses the astrolabe? Does not the sight of the sufferings of their hungry, thirsty com-

974



rades pierce the hearts of the Commanderand his Generals a thousand times? Mustnot the murmurs and doubts which thesecause reach his ear? Has an ordinary manthe courage to demand such sacrifices, andwould not such efforts most certainly de-moralise the Army, break up the bands of discipline, and, in short, undermine its mil-itary virtue, if firm reliance on the great-

975



ness and infallibility of the Commander didnot compensate for all? Here, therefore, itis that we should pay respect; it is thesemiracles of execution which we should ad-mire. But it is impossible to realise all thisin its full force without a foretaste of itby experience. He who only knows Warfrom books or the drill-ground cannot re-alise the whole effect of this counterpoise

976



in action; WE BEG HIM, THEREFORE,TO ACCEPT FROM US ON FAITH ANDTRUST ALL THAT HE IS UNABLE TOSUPPLY FROM ANY PERSONAL EXPE-RIENCES OF HIS OWN.

This illustration is intended to give moreclearness to the course of our ideas, and inclosing this chapter we will only briefly ob-serve that in our exposition of Strategy we

977



shall describe those separate subjects whichappear to us the most important, whetherof a moral or material nature; then proceedfrom the simple to the complex, and con-clude with the inner connection of the wholeact of War, in other words, with the planfor a War or campaign.

OBSERVATION.In an earlier manuscript of the second

978



book are the following passages endorsedby the author himself to be used for thefirst Chapter of the second Book: the pro- jected revision of that chapter not havingbeen made, the passages referred to are in-troduced here in full.

By the mere assemblage of armed forcesat a particular point, a battle there becomespossible, but does not always take place.

979



Is that possibility now to be regarded asa reality and therefore an effective thing?Certainly, it is so by its results, and theseeffects, whatever they may be, can neverfail.

1. POSSIBLE COMBATS ARE ON AC-COUNT OF THEIR RESULTS TO BE LOOKEDUPON AS REAL ONES.

If a detachment is sent away to cut off 980



the retreat of a flying enemy, and the en-emy surrenders in consequence without fur-ther resistance, still it is through the com-bat which is offered to him by this detach-ment sent after him that he is brought tohis decision.

If a part of our Army occupies an en-emy’s province which was undefended, andthus deprives the enemy of very consider-

981



able means of keeping up the strength of his Army, it is entirely through the battlewhich our detached body gives the enemyto expect, in case he seeks to recover thelost province, that we remain in possessionof the same.

In both cases, therefore, the mere possi-bility of a battle has produced results, andis therefore to be classed amongst actual

982



events. Suppose that in these cases the en-emy has opposed our troops with others su-perior in force, and thus forced ours to giveup their object without a combat, then cer-tainly our plan has failed, but the battlewhich we offered at (either of) those pointshas not on that account been without effect,for it attracted the enemy’s forces to thatpoint. And in case our whole undertaking

983



has done us harm, it cannot be said thatthese positions, these possible battles, havebeen attended with no results; their effects,then, are similar to those of a lost battle.

In this manner we see that the destruc-tion of the enemy’s military forces, the over-throw of the enemy’s power, is only to bedone through the effect of a battle, whetherit be that it actually takes place, or that it

984



is merely offered, and not accepted.2. TWOFOLD OBJECT OF THE COM-

BAT.But these effects are of two kinds, direct

and indirect they are of the latter, if otherthings intrude themselves and become theobject of the combat–things which cannotbe regarded as the destruction of enemy’sforce, but only leading up to it, certainly

985



by a circuitous road, but with so much thegreater effect. The possession of provinces,towns, fortresses, roads, bridges, magazines,&c., may be the IMMEDIATE object of abattle, but never the ultimate one. Thingsof this description can never be, looked uponotherwise than as means of gaining greatersuperiority, so as at last to offer battle tothe enemy in such a way that it will be im-

986



possible for him to accept it. Therefore allthese things must only be regarded as in-termediate links, steps, as it were, leadingup to the effectual principle, but never asthat principle itself.

3. EXAMPLE.In 1814, by the capture of Buonaparte’s

capital the object of the War was attained.The political divisions which had their roots

987



in Paris came into active operation, and anenormous split left the power of the Em-peror to collapse of itself. Nevertheless thepoint of view from which we must look atall this is, that through these causes theforces and defensive means of Buonapartewere suddenly very much diminished, thesuperiority of the Allies, therefore, just inthe same measure increased, and any fur-

988



ther resistance then became IMPOSSIBLE.It was this impossibility which produced thepeace with France. If we suppose the forcesof the Allies at that moment diminished toa like extent through external causes;– if thesuperiority vanishes, then at the same timevanishes also all the effect and importanceof the taking of Paris.

We have gone through this chain of ar-989



gument in order to show that this is the nat-ural and only true view of the thing fromwhich it derives its importance. It leadsalways back to the question, What at anygiven moment of the War or campaign willbe the probable result of the great or smallcombats which the two sides might offer toeach other? In the consideration of a planfor a campaign, this question only is de-

990



cisive as to the measures which are to betaken all through from the very commence-ment.

4. WHEN THIS VIEW IS NOT TAKEN,THEN A FALSE VALUE IS GIVEN TOOTHER THINGS.

If we do not accustom ourselves to lookupon War, and the single campaigns in aWar, as a chain which is all composed of

991



battles strung together, one of which alwaysbrings on another; if we adopt the idea thatthe taking of a certain geographical point,the occupation of an undefended province,is in itself anything; then we are very likelyto regard it as an acquisition which we mayretain; and if we look at it so, and not as aterm in the whole series of events, we do notask ourselves whether this possession may

992



not lead to greater disadvantages hereafter.How often we find this mistake recurring inmilitary history.

We might say that, just as in commercethe merchant cannot set apart and placein security gains from one single transac-tion by itself, so in War a single advantagecannot be separated from the result of thewhole. Just as the former must always op-

993



erate with the whole bulk of his means, justso in War, only the sum total will decide onthe advantage or disadvantage of each item.

If the mind’s eye is always directed uponthe series of combats, so far as they can beseen beforehand, then it is always looking inthe right direction, and thereby the motionof the force acquires that rapidity, that is tosay, willing and doing acquire that energy

994



which is suitable to the matter, and whichis not to be thwarted or turned aside byextraneous influences.[]

[] The whole of this chapter is directedagainst the theories of the Austrian Staff in1814. It may be taken as the foundation of the modern teaching of the Prussian Gen-eral Staff. See especially von Kammer.–ED.

995



CHAPTER II. ELEMENTSOF STRATEGY

THE causes which condition the use of thecombat in Strategy may be easily divided

into elements of different kinds, such as themoral, physical, mathematical, geographi-cal and statistical elements.

996



The first class includes all that can becalled forth by moral qualities and effects;to the second belong the whole mass of themilitary force, its organisation, the propor-tion of the three arms, &c. &c.; to thethird, the angle of the lines of operation,the concentric and eccentric movements inas far as their geometrical nature has anyvalue in the calculation; to the fourth, the

997



influences of country, such as commandingpoints, hills, rivers, woods, roads, &c. &c.;lastly, to the fifth, all the means of supply.The separation of these things once for all inthe mind does good in giving clearness andhelping us to estimate at once, at a higheror lower value, the different classes as wepass onwards. For, in considering them sep-arately, many lose of themselves their bor-

998



rowed importance; one feels, for instance,quite plainly that the value of a base of op-erations, even if we look at nothing in itbut its relative position to the line of op-erations, depends much less in that simpleform on the geometrical element of the an-gle which they form with one another, thanon the nature of the roads and the countrythrough which they pass.

999



But to treat upon Strategy according tothese elements would be the most unfortu-nate idea that could be conceived, for theseelements are generally manifold, and inti-mately connected with each other in everysingle operation of War. We should loseourselves in the most soulless analysis, andas if in a horrid dream, we should be forever trying in vain to build up an arch to

1000



connect this base of abstractions with factsbelonging to the real world. Heaven pre-serve every theorist from such an undertak-ing! We shall keep to the world of thingsin their totality, and not pursue our anal-ysis further than is necessary from time totime to give distinctness to the idea whichwe wish to impart, and which has come tous, not by a speculative investigation, but

1001



through the impression made by the reali-ties of War in their entirety.

CHAPTER III. MORAL FORCES

WE must return again to this subject, whichis touched upon in the third chapter of thesecond book, because the moral forces are

1002



amongst the most important subjects in War.They form the spirit which permeates thewhole being of War. These forces fastenthemselves soonest and with the greatestaffinity on to the Will which puts in motionand guides the whole mass of powers, unit-ing with it as it were in one stream, becausethis is a moral force itself. Unfortunatelythey will escape from all book-analysis, for

1003



they will neither be brought into numbersnor into classes, and require to be both seenand felt.

The spirit and other moral qualities whichanimate an Army, a General, or Govern-ments, public opinion in provinces in whicha War is raging, the moral effect of a victoryor of a defeat, are things which in them-selves vary very much in their nature, and

1004



which also, according as they stand with re-gard to our object and our relations, mayhave an influence in different ways.

Although little or nothing can be saidabout these things in books, still they be-long to the theory of the Art of War, asmuch as everything else which constitutesWar. For I must here once more repeat thatit is a miserable philosophy if, according to

1005



the old plan, we establish rules and prin-ciples wholly regardless of all moral forces,and then, as soon as these forces make theirappearance, we begin to count exceptionswhich we thereby establish as it were the-oretically, that is, make into rules; or if weresort to an appeal to genius, which is aboveall rules, thus giving out by implication, notonly that rules were only made for fools, but

1006



also that they themselves are no better thanfolly.

Even if the theory of the Art of War doesno more in reality than recall these things toremembrance, showing the necessity of al-lowing to the moral forces their full value,and of always taking them into considera-tion, by so doing it extends its borders overthe region of immaterial forces, and by es-

1007



tablishing that point of view, condemns be-forehand every one who would endeavour to justify himself before its judgment seat bythe mere physical relations of forces.

Further out of regard to all other so-called rules, theory cannot banish the moralforces beyond its frontier, because the ef-fects of the physical forces and the moralare completely fused, and are not to be de-

1008



composed like a metal alloy by a chemi-cal process. In every rule relating to thephysical forces, theory must present to themind at the same time the share which themoral powers will have in it, if it would notbe led to categorical propositions, at onetime too timid and contracted, at anothertoo dogmatical and wide. Even the mostmatter-of-fact theories have, without know-

1009



ing it, strayed over into this moral king-dom; for, as an example, the effects of a vic-tory cannot in any way be explained with-out taking into consideration the moral im-pressions. And therefore the most of thesubjects which we shall go through in thisbook are composed half of physical, half of moral causes and effects, and we might saythe physical are almost no more than the

1010



wooden handle, whilst the moral are the no-ble metal, the real bright-polished weapon.

The value of the moral powers, and theirfrequently incredible influence, are best ex-emplified by history, and this is the mostgenerous and the purest nourishment whichthe mind of the General can extract fromit.–At the same time it is to be observed,that it is less demonstrations, critical exam-

1011



inations, and learned treatises, than senti-ments, general impressions, and single flash-ing sparks of truth, which yield the seeds of knowledge that are to fertilise the mind.

We might go through the most impor-tant moral phenomena in War, and withall the care of a diligent professor try whatwe could impart about each, either good orbad. But as in such a method one slides

1012



too much into the commonplace and trite,whilst real mind quickly makes its escapein analysis, the end is that one gets im-perceptibly to the relation of things whicheverybody knows. We prefer, therefore, toremain here more than usually incompleteand rhapsodical, content to have drawn at-tention to the importance of the subject ina general way, and to have pointed out the

1013



spirit in which the views given in this bookhave been conceived.

CHAPTER IV. THE CHIEF

MORAL POWERSTHESE are The Talents of the Comman-der; The Military Virtue of the Army; Its

1014



National feeling. Which of these is the mostimportant no one can tell in a general way,for it is very difficult to say anything in gen-eral of their strength, and still more difficultto compare the strength of one with that of another. The best plan is not to undervalueany of them, a fault which human judgmentis prone to, sometimes on one side, some-times on another, in its whimsical oscilla-

1015



tions. It is better to satisfy ourselves of theundeniable efficacy of these three things bysufficient evidence from history.

It is true, however, that in modern timesthe Armies of European states have arrivedvery much at a par as regards disciplineand fitness for service, and that the con-duct of War has–as philosophers would say–naturally developed itself, thereby become

1016



a method, common as it were to all Armies,so that even from Commanders there is noth-ing further to be expected in the way of ap-plication of special means of Art, in the lim-ited sense (such as Frederick the Second’soblique order). Hence it cannot be deniedthat, as matters now stand, greater scope isafforded for the influence of National spiritand habituation of an army to War. A long

1017



peace may again alter all this.[][] Written shortly after the Great Napoleonic

campaigns.The national spirit of an Army (enthusi-

asm, fanatical zeal, faith, opinion) displaysitself most in mountain warfare, where ev-ery one down to the common soldier is leftto himself. On this account, a mountainouscountry is the best campaigning ground for

1018



popular levies.Expertness of an Army through train-

ing, and that well-tempered courage whichholds the ranks together as if they had beencast in a mould, show their superiority in anopen country.

The talent of a General has most roomto display itself in a closely intersected, un-dulating country. In mountains he has too

1019



little command over the separate parts, andthe direction of all is beyond his powers; inopen plains it is simple and does not exceedthose powers.

According to these undeniable electiveaffinities, plans should be regulated.

1020



CHAPTER V. MILITARYVIRTUE OF AN ARMY

THIS is distinguished from mere bravery,and still more from enthusiasm for the busi-

ness of War. The first is certainly a neces-sary constituent part of it, but in the sameway as bravery, which is a natural gift in

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some men, may arise in a soldier as a partof an Army from habit and custom, so withhim it must also have a different directionfrom that which it has with others. It mustlose that impulse to unbridled activity andexercise of force which is its characteristicin the individual, and submit itself to de-mands of a higher kind, to obedience, or-der, rule, and method. Enthusiasm for the

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profession gives life and greater fire to themilitary virtue of an Army, but does notnecessarily constitute a part of it.

War is a special business, and howevergeneral its relations may be, and even if allthe male population of a country, capableof bearing arms, exercise this calling, stillit always continues to be different and sep-arate from the other pursuits which occupy

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the life of man.–To be imbued with a senseof the spirit and nature of this business, tomake use of, to rouse, to assimilate into thesystem the powers which should be activein it, to penetrate completely into the na-ture of the business with the understanding,through exercise to gain confidence and ex-pertness in it, to be completely given upto it, to pass out of the man into the part

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which it is assigned to us to play in War,that is the military virtue of an Army inthe individual.

However much pains may be taken tocombine the soldier and the citizen in oneand the same individual, whatever may bedone to nationalise Wars, and however muchwe may imagine times have changed sincethe days of the old Condottieri, never will

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it be possible to do away with the individ-uality of the business; and if that cannotbe done, then those who belong to it, aslong as they belong to it, will always lookupon themselves as a kind of guild, in theregulations, laws and customs in which the”Spirit of War” by preference finds its ex-pression. And so it is in fact. Even withthe most decided inclination to look at War

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from the highest point of view, it would bevery wrong to look down upon this corpo-rate spirit (e’sprit de corps) which may andshould exist more or less in every Army.This corporate spirit forms the bond of unionbetween the natural forces which are ac-tive in that which we have called militaryvirtue. The crystals of military virtue havea greater affinity for the spirit of a corpo-

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rate body than for anything else.An Army which preserves its usual for-

mations under the heaviest fire, which isnever shaken by imaginary fears, and in theface of real danger disputes the ground inchby inch, which, proud in the feeling of itsvictories, never loses its sense of obedience,its respect for and confidence in its leaders,even under the depressing effects of defeat;

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an Army with all its physical powers, inuredto privations and fatigue by exercise, likethe muscles of an athlete; an Army whichlooks upon all its toils as the means to vic-tory, not as a curse which hovers over itsstandards, and which is always reminded of its duties and virtues by the short catechismof one idea, namely the HONOUR OF ITSARMS;– Such an Army is imbued with the

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true military spirit.Soldiers may fight bravely like the Vende’ans,

and do great things like the Swiss, the Amer-icans, or Spaniards, without displaying thismilitary virtue. A Commander may also besuccessful at the head of standing Armies,like Eugene and Marlborough, without en- joying the benefit of its assistance; we mustnot, therefore, say that a successful War

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without it cannot be imagined; and we drawespecial attention to that point, in order themore to individualise the conception whichis here brought forward, that the idea maynot dissolve into a generalisation and that itmay not be thought that military virtue isin the end everything. It is not so. Militaryvirtue in an Army is a definite moral powerwhich may be supposed wanting, and the

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influence of which may therefore be estimated–like any instrument the power of which maybe calculated.

Having thus characterised it, we proceedto consider what can be predicated of its in-fluence, and what are the means of gainingits assistance.

Military virtue is for the parts, what thegenius of the Commander is for the whole.

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The General can only guide the whole, noteach separate part, and where he cannotguide the part, there military virtue mustbe its leader. A General is chosen by thereputation of his superior talents, the chief leaders of large masses after careful proba-tion; but this probation diminishes as wedescend the scale of rank, and in just thesame measure we may reckon less and less

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upon individual talents; but what is want-ing in this respect military virtue shouldsupply. The natural qualities of a warlikepeople play just this part: BRAVERY, AP-TITUDE, POWERS OF ENDURANCE andENTHUSIASM.

These properties may therefore supplythe place of military virtue, and vice versa,from which the following may be deduced:

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1. Military virtue is a quality of stand-ing Armies only, but they require it themost. In national risings its place is sup-plied by natural qualities, which developthemselves there more rapidly.

2. Standing Armies opposed to standingArmies, can more easily dispense with it,than a standing Army opposed to a nationalinsurrection, for in that case, the troops

1035



are more scattered, and the divisions leftmore to themselves. But where an Armycan be kept concentrated, the genius of theGeneral takes a greater place, and supplieswhat is wanting in the spirit of the Army.Therefore generally military virtue becomesmore necessary the more the theatre of op-erations and other circumstances make theWar complicated, and cause the forces to

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be scattered.From these truths the only lesson to be

derived is this, that if an Army is deficientin this quality, every endeavour should bemade to simplify the operations of the Waras much as possible, or to introduce doubleefficiency in the organisation of the Armyin some other respect, and not to expectfrom the mere name of a standing Army,

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that which only the veritable thing itself can give.

The military virtue of an Army is, there-fore, one of the most important moral pow-ers in War, and where it is wanting, weeither see its place supplied by one of theothers, such as the great superiority of gen-eralship or popular enthusiasm, or we findthe results not commensurate with the ex-

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ertions made.–How much that is great, thisspirit, this sterling worth of an army, thisrefining of ore into the polished metal, hasalready done, we see in the history of theMacedonians under Alexander, the Romanlegions under Cesar, the Spanish infantryunder Alexander Farnese, the Swedes underGustavus Adolphus and Charles XII, thePrussians under Frederick the Great, and

1039



the French under Buonaparte. We mustpurposely shut our eyes against all histori-cal proof, if we do not admit, that the aston-ishing successes of these Generals and theirgreatness in situations of extreme difficulty,were only possible with Armies possessingthis virtue.

This spirit can only be generated fromtwo sources, and only by these two con-

1040



jointly; the first is a succession of campaignsand great victories; the other is, an activ-ity of the Army carried sometimes to thehighest pitch. Only by these, does the sol-dier learn to know his powers. The more aGeneral is in the habit of demanding fromhis troops, the surer he will be that his de-mands will be answered. The soldier is asproud of overcoming toil, as he is of sur-

1041



mounting danger. Therefore it is only inthe soil of incessant activity and exertionthat the germ will thrive, but also only inthe sunshine of victory. Once it becomesa STRONG TREE, it will stand againstthe fiercest storms of misfortune and defeat,and even against the indolent inactivity of peace, at least for a time. It can thereforeonly be created in War, and under great

1042



Generals, but no doubt it may last at leastfor several generations, even under Generalsof moderate capacity, and through consid-erable periods of peace.

With this generous and noble spirit of union in a line of veteran troops, coveredwith scars and thoroughly inured to War,we must not compare the self-esteem andvanity of a standing Army,[] held together

1043



merely by the glue of service-regulations anda drill book; a certain plodding earnestnessand strict discipline may keep up militaryvirtue for a long time, but can never cre-ate it; these things therefore have a certainvalue, but must not be over-rated. Order,smartness, good will, also a certain degreeof pride and high feeling, are qualities of an Army formed in time of peace which are

1044



to be prized, but cannot stand alone. Thewhole retains the whole, and as with glasstoo quickly cooled, a single crack breaks thewhole mass. Above all, the highest spirit inthe world changes only too easily at the firstcheck into depression, and one might sayinto a kind of rhodomontade of alarm, theFrench sauve que peut.–Such an Army canonly achieve something through its leader,

1045



never by itself. It must be led with dou-ble caution, until by degrees, in victory andhardships, the strength grows into the fullarmour. Beware then of confusing the SPIRITof an Army with its temper.

[] Clausewitz is, of course, thinking of the long-service standing armies of his ownyouth. Not of the short-service standingarmies of to-day (EDITOR).

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CHAPTER VI. BOLDNESS

THE place and part which boldness takesin the dynamic system of powers, where itstands opposed to Foresight and prudence,has been stated in the chapter on the cer-

tainty of the result in order thereby to show,that theory has no right to restrict it byvirtue of its legislative power.

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But this noble impulse, with which thehuman soul raises itself above the most formidabledangers, is to be regarded as an active prin-ciple peculiarly belonging to War. In fact,in what branch of human activity shouldboldness have a right of citizenship if not inWar?

From the transport-driver and the drum-mer up to the General, it is the noblest

1048



of virtues, the true steel which gives theweapon its edge and brilliancy.

Let us admit in fact it has in War evenits own prerogatives. Over and above theresult of the calculation of space, time, andquantity, we must allow a certain percent-age which boldness derives from the weak-ness of others, whenever it gains the mas-tery. It is therefore, virtually, a creative

1049



power. This is not difficult to demonstratephilosophically. As often as boldness en-counters hesitation, the probability of theresult is of necessity in its favour, becausethe very state of hesitation implies a loss of equilibrium already. It is only when it en-counters cautious foresight–which we maysay is just as bold, at all events just asstrong and powerful as itself–that it is at

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a disadvantage; such cases, however, rarelyoccur. Out of the whole multitude of pru-dent men in the world, the great majorityare so from timidity.

Amongst large masses, boldness is a force,the special cultivation of which can never beto the detriment of other forces, because thegreat mass is bound to a higher will by theframe-work and joints of the order of battle

1051



and of the service, and therefore is guidedby an intelligent power which is extraneous.Boldness is therefore here only like a springheld down until its action is required.

The higher the rank the more necessaryit is that boldness should be accompaniedby a reflective mind, that it may not be amere blind outburst of passion to no pur-pose; for with increase of rank it becomes

1052



always less a matter of self-sacrifice and morea matter of the preservation of others, andthe good of the whole. Where regulations of the service, as a kind of second nature, pre-scribe for the masses, reflection must be theguide of the General, and in his case indi-vidual boldness in action may easily becomea fault. Still, at the same time, it is a finefailing, and must not be looked at in the

1053



same light as any other. Happy the Armyin which an untimely boldness frequentlymanifests itself; it is an exuberant growthwhich shows a rich soil. Even foolhardiness,that is boldness without an ob ject, is not tobe despised; in point of fact it is the sameenergy of feeling, only exercised as a kind of passion without any co-operation of the in-telligent faculties. It is only when it strikes

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at the root of obedience, when it treats withcontempt the orders of superior authority,that it must be repressed as a dangerousevil, not on its own account but on accountof the act of disobedience, for there is noth-ing in War which is of GREATER IMPOR-TANCE THAN OBEDIENCE.

The reader will readily agree with usthat, supposing an equal degree of discern-

1055



ment to be forthcoming in a certain numberof cases, a thousand times as many of themwill end in disaster through over-anxiety asthrough boldness.

One would suppose it natural that theinterposition of a reasonable object shouldstimulate boldness, and therefore lessen itsintrinsic merit, and yet the reverse is thecase in reality.

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The intervention of lucid thought or thegeneral supremacy of mind deprives the emo-tional forces of a great part of their power.On that account BOLDNESS BECOMESOF RARER OCCURRENCE THE HIGHERWE ASCEND THE SCALE OF RANK,for whether the discernment and the un-derstanding do or do not increase with theseranks still the Commanders, in their several

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stations as they rise, are pressed upon moreand more severely by objective things, byrelations and claims from without, so thatthey become the more perplexed the lowerthe degree of their individual intelligence.This so far as regards War is the chief foun-dation of the truth of the French proverb:–

”Tel brille au second qui s’ e’clipse anpremier.”

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Almost all the Generals who are repre-sented in history as merely having attainedto mediocrity, and as wanting in decisionwhen in supreme command, are men cele-brated in their antecedent career for theirboldness and decision.[]

[] Beaulieu, Benedek, Bazaine, Buller,Melas, Mack. &c. &c.

In those motives to bold action which1059



arise from the pressure of necessity we mustmake a distinction. Necessity has its de-grees of intensity. If it lies near at hand, if the person acting is in the pursuit of his object driven into great dangers in order to es-cape others equally great, then we can onlyadmire his resolution, which still has alsoits value. If a young man to show his skillin horsemanship leaps across a deep cleft,

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then he is bold; if he makes the same leappursued by a troop of head-chopping Janis-saries he is only resolute. But the fartheroff the necessity from the point of action,the greater the number of relations inter-vening which the mind has to traverse; inorder to realise them, by so much the lessdoes necessity take from boldness in action.If Frederick the Great, in the year 1756,

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saw that War was inevitable, and that hecould only escape destruction by being be-forehand with his enemies, it became neces-sary for him to commence the War himself,but at the same time it was certainly verybold: for few men in his position would havemade up their minds to do so.

Although Strategy is only the provinceof Generals-in- Chief or Commanders in the

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higher positions, still boldness in all theother branches of an Army is as little a mat-ter of indifference to it as their other mili-tary virtues. With an Army belonging to abold race, and in which the spirit of bold-ness has been always nourished, very dif-ferent things may be undertaken than withone in which this virtue, is unknown; forthat reason we have considered it in con-

1063



nection with an Army. But our subject isspecially the boldness of the General, andyet we have not much to say about it afterhaving described this military virtue in ageneral way to the best of our ability.

The higher we rise in a position of com-mand, the more of the mind, understand-ing, and penetration predominate in activ-ity, the more therefore is boldness, which

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is a property of the feelings, kept in sub- jection, and for that reason we find it sorarely in the highest positions, but then, somuch the more should it be admired. Bold-ness, directed by an overruling intelligence,is the stamp of the hero: this boldness doesnot consist in venturing directly against thenature of things, in a downright contemptof the laws of probability, but, if a choice

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is once made, in the rigorous adherence tothat higher calculation which genius, thetact of judgment, has gone over with thespeed of lightning. The more boldness lendswings to the mind and the discernment, somuch the farther they will reach in theirflight, so much the more comprehensive willbe the view, the more exact the result, butcertainly always only in the sense that with

1066



greater objects greater dangers are connected.The ordinary man, not to speak of the weakand irresolute, arrives at an exact resultso far as such is possible without oculardemonstration, at most after diligent reflec-tion in his chamber, at a distance from dan-ger and responsibility. Let danger and re-sponsibility draw close round him in everydirection, then he loses the power of com-

1067



prehensive vision, and if he retains this inany measure by the influence of others, stillhe will lose his power of DECISION, be-cause in that point no one can help him.

We think then that it is impossible toimagine a distinguished General without bold-ness, that is to say, that no man can be-come one who is not born with this powerof the soul, and we therefore look upon it

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as the first requisite for such a career. Howmuch of this inborn power, developed andmoderated through education and the cir-cumstances of life, is left when the manhas attained a high position, is the secondquestion. The greater this power still is,the stronger will genius be on the wing,the higher will be its flight. The risks be-come always greater, but the purpose grows

1069



with them. Whether its lines proceed outof and get their direction from a distantnecessity, or whether they converge to thekeystone of a building which ambition hasplanned, whether Frederick or Alexanderacts, is much the same as regards the criti-cal view. If the one excites the imaginationmore because it is bolder, the other pleasesthe understanding most, because it has in

1070



it more absolute necessity.We have still to advert to one very im-

portant circumstance.The spirit of boldness can exist in an

Army, either because it is in the people, orbecause it has been generated in a success-ful War conducted by able Generals. In thelatter case it must of course be dispensedwith at the commencement.

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Now in our days there is hardly any othermeans of educating the spirit of a peoplein this respect, except by War, and thattoo under bold Generals. By it alone canthat effeminacy of feeling be counteracted,that propensity to seek for the enjoyment of comfort, which cause degeneracy in a peo-ple rising in prosperity and immersed in anextremely busy commerce.

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A Nation can hope to have a strong po-sition in the political world only if its char-acter and practice in actual War mutuallysupport each other in constant reciprocalaction.

1073



CHAPTER VII. PERSEVER-ANCE

THE reader expects to hear of angles andlines, and finds, instead of these citizens

of the scientific world, only people out of common life, such as he meets with everyday in the street. And yet the author can-

1074



not make up his mind to become a hair’sbreadth more mathematical than the subject seems to him to require, and he is notalarmed at the surprise which the readermay show.

In War more than anywhere else in theworld things happen differently to what wehad expected, and look differently when near,to what they did at a distance. With what

1075



serenity the architect can watch his workgradually rising and growing into his plan.The doctor although much more at the mercyof mysterious agencies and chances than thearchitect, still knows enough of the formsand effects of his means. In War, on theother hand, the Commander of an immensewhole finds himself in a constant whirlpoolof false and true information, of mistakes

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committed through fear, through negligence,through precipitation, of contraventions of his authority, either from mistaken or cor-rect motives, from ill will, true or false senseof duty, indolence or exhaustion, of acci-dents which no mortal could have foreseen.In short, he is the victim of a hundred thou-sand impressions, of which the most havean intimidating, the fewest an encouraging

1077



tendency. By long experience in War, thetact is acquired of readily appreciating thevalue of these incidents; high courage andstability of character stand proof againstthem, as the rock resists the beating of thewaves. He who would yield to these impres-sions would never carry out an undertaking,and on that account PERSEVERANCE inthe proposed object, as long as there is no

1078



decided reason against it, is a most neces-sary counterpoise. Further, there is hardlyany celebrated enterprise in War which wasnot achieved by endless exertion, pains, andprivations; and as here the weakness of thephysical and moral man is ever disposed toyield, only an immense force of will, whichmanifests itself in perseverance admired bypresent and future generations, can conduct

1079



to our goal.

CHAPTER VIII. SUPERI-ORITY OF NUMBERS

THIS is in tactics, as well as in Strategy, themost general principle of victory, and shallbe examined by us first in its generality, for

1080



which we may be permitted the followingexposition:

Strategy fixes the point where, the timewhen, and the numerical force with whichthe battle is to be fought. By this tripledetermination it has therefore a very essen-tial influence on the issue of the combat. If tactics has fought the battle, if the resultis over, let it be victory or defeat, Strategy

1081



makes such use of it as can be made in ac-cordance with the great object of the War.This object is naturally often a very distantone, seldom does it lie quite close at hand.A series of other objects subordinate them-selves to it as means. These objects, whichare at the same time means to a higher pur-pose, may be practically of various kinds;even the ultimate aim of the whole War

1082



may be a different one in every case. Weshall make ourselves acquainted with thesethings according as we come to know theseparate objects which they come, in con-tact with; and it is not our intention hereto embrace the whole subject by a completeenumeration of them, even if that were pos-sible. We therefore let the employment of the battle stand over for the present.

1083



Even those things through which Strat-egy has an influence on the issue of the com-bat, inasmuch as it establishes the same, toa certain extent decrees them, are not sosimple that they can be embraced in onesingle view. For as Strategy appoints time,place and force, it can do so in practice inmany ways, each of which influences in adifferent manner the result of the combat

1084



as well as its consequences. Therefore weshall only get acquainted with this also bydegrees, that is, through the subjects whichmore closely determine the application.

If we strip the combat of all modifica-tions which it may undergo according to itsimmediate purpose and the circumstancesfrom which it proceeds, lastly if we set asidethe valour of the troops, because that is a

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given quantity, then there remains only thebare conception of the combat, that is acombat without form, in which we distin-guish nothing but the number of the com-batants.

This number will therefore determine vic-tory. Now from the number of things abovededucted to get to this point, it is shownthat the superiority in numbers in a bat-

1086



tle is only one of the factors employed toproduce victory that therefore so far fromhaving with the superiority in number ob-tained all, or even only the principal thing,we have perhaps got very little by it, ac-cording as the other circumstances whichco-operate happen to vary.

But this superiority has degrees, it maybe imagined as twofold, threefold or four-

1087



fold, and every one sees, that by increasingin this way, it must (at last) overpower ev-erything else.

In such an aspect we grant, that thesuperiority in numbers is the most impor-tant factor in the result of a combat, only itmust be sufficiently great to be a counter-poise to all the other co-operating circum-stances. The direct result of this is, that the

1088



greatest possible number of troops shouldbe brought into action at the decisive point.

Whether the troops thus brought aresufficient or not, we have then done in thisrespect all that our means allowed. Thisis the first principle in Strategy, thereforein general as now stated, it is just as wellsuited for Greeks and Persians, or for En-glishmen and Mahrattas, as for French and

1089



Germans. But we shall take a glance at ourrelations in Europe, as respects War, in or-der to arrive at some more definite idea onthis subject.

Here we find Armies much more alike inequipment, organisation, and practical skillof every kind. There only remains a differ-ence in the military virtue of Armies, andin the talent of Generals which may fluctu-

1090



ate with time from side to side. If we gothrough the military history of modern Eu-rope, we find no example of a Marathon.

Frederick the Great beat 80,000 Austri-ans at Leuthen with about 30,000 men, andat Rosbach with 25,000 some 50,000 allies;these are however the only instances of vic-tories gained against an enemy double, ormore than double in numbers. Charles XII,

1091



in the battle of Narva, we cannot well quote,for the Russians were at that time hardly tobe regarded as Europeans, also the princi-pal circumstances, even of the battle, aretoo little known. Buonaparte had at Dres-den 120,000 against 220,000, therefore notthe double. At Kollin, Frederick the Greatdid not succeed, with 30,000 against 50,000Austrians, neither did Buonaparte in the

1092



desperate battle of Leipsic, where he was160,000 strong, against 280,000.

From this we may infer, that it is verydifficult in the present state of Europe, forthe most talented General to gain a victoryover an enemy double his strength. Now if we see double numbers prove such a weightin the scale against the greatest Generals,we may be sure, that in ordinary cases, in

1093



small as well as great combats, an impor-tant superiority of numbers, but which neednot be over two to one, will be sufficientto ensure the victory, however disadvanta-geous other circumstances may be. Cer-tainly, we may imagine a defile which eventenfold would not suffice to force, but insuch a case it can be no question of a battleat all.

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We think, therefore, that under our con-ditions, as well as in all similar ones, thesuperiority at the decisive point is a matterof capital importance, and that this subject, in the generality of cases, is decidedlythe most important of all. The strength atthe decisive point depends on the absolutestrength of the Army, and on skill in mak-ing use of it.

1095



The first rule is therefore to enter thefield with an Army as strong as possible.This sounds very like a commonplace, butstill it is really not so.

In order to show that for a long timethe strength of forces was by no means re-garded as a chief point, we need only ob-serve, that in most, and even in the mostdetailed histories of the Wars in the eigh-

1096



teenth century, the strength of the Armiesis either not given at all, or only inciden-tally, and in no case is any special valuelaid upon it. Tempelhof in his history of the Seven Years’ War is the earliest writerwho gives it regularly, but at the same timehe does it only very superficially.

Even Massenbach, in his manifold criti-cal observations on the Prussian campaigns

1097



of 1793-94 in the Vosges, talks a great dealabout hills and valleys, roads and footpaths,but does not say a syllable about mutualstrength.

Another proof lies in a wonderful notionwhich haunted the heads of many criticalhistorians, according to which there was acertain size of an Army which was the best,a normal strength, beyond which the forces

1098



in excess were burdensome rather than serviceable.[×]

[] Tempelhof and Montalembert are thefirst we recollect as examples –the first in apassage of his first part, page 148; the otherin his correspondence relative to the plan of operations of the Russians in 1759.

Lastly, there are a number of instancesto be found, in which all the available forces

1099



were not really brought into the battle,[×] or into the War, because the superiorityof numbers was not considered to have thatimportance which in the nature of thingsbelongs to it.

[] The Prussians at Jena, 1806. Welling-ton at Waterloo.

If we are thoroughly penetrated with theconviction that with a considerable superi-

1100



ority of numbers everything possible is tobe effected, then it cannot fail that thisclear conviction reacts on the preparationsfor the War, so as to make us appear in thefield with as many troops as possible, andeither to give us ourselves the superiority,or at least to guard against the enemy ob-taining it. So much for what concerns theabsolute force with which the War is to be

1101



conducted.The measure of this absolute force is de-

termined by the Government; and althoughwith this determination the real action of War commences, and it forms an essentialpart of the Strategy of the War, still in mostcases the General who is to command theseforces in the War must regard their abso-lute strength as a given quantity, whether

1102



it be that he has had no voice in fixing it,or that circumstances prevented a sufficientexpansion being given to it.

There remains nothing, therefore, wherean absolute superiority is not attainable,but to produce a relative one at the deci-sive point, by making skilful use of what wehave.

The calculation of space and time ap-1103



pears as the most essential thing to thisend–and this has caused that subject to beregarded as one which embraces nearly thewhole art of using military forces. Indeed,some have gone so far as to ascribe to greatstrategists and tacticians a mental organpeculiarly adapted to this point.

But the calculation of time and space,although it lies universally at the founda-

1104



tion of Strategy, and is to a certain extentits daily bread, is still neither the most dif-ficult, nor the most decisive one.

If we take an unprejudiced glance at mil-itary history, we shall find that the instancesin which mistakes in such a calculation haveproved the cause of serious losses are veryrare, at least in Strategy. But if the con-ception of a skilful combination of time and

1105



space is fully to account for every instanceof a resolute and active Commander beat-ing several separate opponents with one andthe same army (Frederick the Great, Buon-aparte), then we perplex ourselves unnec-essarily with conventional language. Forthe sake of clearness and the profitable useof conceptions, it is necessary that thingsshould always be called by their right names.

1106



The right appreciation of their opponents(Daun, Schwartzenberg), the audacity toleave for a short space of time a small forceonly before them, energy in forced marches,boldness in sudden attacks, the intensifiedactivity which great souls acquire in the mo-ment of danger, these are the grounds of such victories; and what have these to dowith the ability to make an exact calcula-

1107



tion of two such simple things as time andspace?

But even this ricochetting play of forces,”when the victories at Rosbach and Mont-mirail give the impulse to victories at Leuthenand Montereau,” to which great Generalson the defensive have often trusted, is still,if we would be clear and exact, only a rareoccurrence in history.

1108



Much more frequently the relative superiority–that is, the skilful assemblage of superiorforces at the decisive point–has its foun-dation in the right appreciation of thosepoints, in the judicious direction which bythat means has been given to the forcesfrom the very first, and in the resolutionrequired to sacrifice the unimportant to theadvantage of the important–that is, to keep

1109



the forces concentrated in an overpower-ing mass. In this, Frederick the Great andBuonaparte are particularly characteristic.

We think we have now allotted to the su-periority in numbers the importance whichbelongs to it; it is to be regarded as the fun-damental idea, always to be aimed at beforeall and as far as possible.

But to regard it on this account as a nec-1110



essary condition of victory would be a com-plete misconception of our exposition; inthe conclusion to be drawn from it there liesnothing more than the value which shouldattach to numerical strength in the combat.If that strength is made as great as possible,then the maxim is satisfied; a review of thetotal relations must then decide whether ornot the combat is to be avoided for want of

1111



sufficient force.[][] Owing to our freedom from invasion,

and to the condition which arise in our Colo-nial Wars, we have not yet, in England, ar-rived at a correct appreciation of the valueof superior numbers in War, and still adhereto the idea of an Army just ”big enough,”which Clausewitz has so unsparingly ridiculed.(EDITOR.)

1112



CHAPTER IX. THE SUR-PRISE

FROM the subject of the foregoing chapter,the general endeavour to attain a relative

superiority, there follows another endeavourwhich must consequently be just as generalin its nature: this is the SURPRISE of the

1113



enemy. It lies more or less at the founda-tion of all undertakings, for without it thepreponderance at the decisive point is notproperly conceivable.

The surprise is, therefore, not only themeans to the attainment of numerical su-periority; but it is also to be regarded as asubstantive principle in itself, on account of its moral effect. When it is successful in a

1114



high degree, confusion and broken couragein the enemy’s ranks are the consequences;and of the degree to which these multiplya success, there are examples enough, greatand small. We are not now speaking of theparticular surprise which belongs to the at-tack, but of the endeavour by measures gen-erally, and especially by the distribution of forces, to surprise the enemy, which can be

1115



imagined just as well in the defensive, andwhich in the tactical defence particularly isa chief point.

We say, surprise lies at the foundation of all undertakings without exception, only invery different degrees according to the na-ture of the undertaking and other circum-stances.

This difference, indeed, originates in the1116



properties or peculiarities of the Army andits Commander, in those even of the Gov-ernment.

Secrecy and rapidity are the two factorsin this product and these suppose in theGovernment and the Commander- in-Chief great energy, and on the part of the Armya high sense of military duty. With effem-inacy and loose principles it is in vain to

1117



calculate upon a surprise. But so general,indeed so indispensable, as is this endeav-our, and true as it is that it is never whollyunproductive of effect, still it is not theless true that it seldom succeeds to a RE-MARKABLE degree, and this follows fromthe nature of the idea itself. We shouldform an erroneous conception if we believedthat by this means chiefly there is much to

1118



be attained in War. In idea it promisesa great deal; in the execution it generallysticks fast by the friction of the whole ma-chine.

In tactics the surprise is much more athome, for the very natural reason that alltimes and spaces are on a smaller scale.It will, therefore, in Strategy be the morefeasible in proportion as the measures lie

1119



nearer to the province of tactics, and moredifficult the higher up they lie towards theprovince of policy.

The preparations for a War usually oc-cupy several months; the assembly of anArmy at its principal positions requires gen-erally the formation of depot̂s and maga-zines, and long marches, the object of whichcan be guessed soon enough.

1120



It therefore rarely happens that one Statesurprises another by a War, or by the di-rection which it gives the mass of its forces.In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,when War turned very much upon sieges, itwas a frequent aim, and quite a peculiarand important chapter in the Art of War,to invest a strong place unexpectedly, buteven that only rarely succeeded.[]

1121



[] Railways, steamships, and telegraphshave, however, enormously modified the rel-ative importance and practicability of sur-prise. (EDITOR.)

On the other hand, with things whichcan be done in a day or two, a surprise ismuch more conceivable, and, therefore, alsoit is often not difficult thus to gain a marchupon the enemy, and thereby a position, a

1122



point of country, a road, &c. But it is ev-ident that what surprise gains in this wayin easy execution, it loses in the efficacy, asthe greater the efficacy the greater alwaysthe difficulty of execution. Whoever thinksthat with such surprises on a small scale,he may connect great results–as, for exam-ple, the gain of a battle, the capture of animportant magazine–believes in something

1123



which it is certainly very possible to imag-ine, but for which there is no warrant inhistory; for there are upon the whole veryfew instances where anything great has re-sulted from such surprises; from which wemay justly conclude that inherent difficul-ties lie in the way of their success.

Certainly, whoever would consult his-tory on such points must not depend on

1124



sundry battle steeds of historical critics, ontheir wise dicta and self-complacent termi-nology, but look at facts with his own eyes.There is, for instance, a certain day in thecampaign in Silesia, 1761, which, in this re-spect, has attained a kind of notoriety. It isthe 22nd July, on which Frederick the Greatgained on Laudon the march to Nossen, nearNeisse, by which, as is said, the junction

1125



of the Austrian and Russian armies in Up-per Silesia became impossible, and, there-fore, a period of four weeks was gained bythe King. Whoever reads over this occur-rence carefully in the principal histories,[×] and considers it impartially, will, in themarch of the 22nd July, never find this im-portance; and generally in the whole of thefashionable logic on this subject, he will see

1126



nothing but contradictions; but in the pro-ceedings of Laudon, in this renowned periodof manoeuvres, much that is unaccountable.How could one, with a thirst for truth, andclear conviction, accept such historical evi-dence?

[] Tempelhof, The Veteran, Frederick theGreat. Compare also (Clausewitz) ”Hinter-lassene Werke,” vol. x., p. 158.

1127



When we promise ourselves great effectsin a campaign from the principle of surpris-ing, we think upon great activity, rapid res-olutions, and forced marches, as the meansof producing them; but that these things,even when forthcoming in a very high de-gree, will not always produce the desired ef-fect, we see in examples given byGenerals,who may be allowed to have had the great-

1128



est talent in the use of these means, Fred-erick the Great and Buonaparte. The firstwhen he left Dresden so suddenly in July1760, and falling upon Lascy, then turnedagainst Dresden, gained nothing by the wholeof that intermezzo, but rather placed his af-fairs in a condition notably worse, as thefortress Glatz fell in the meantime.

In 1813, Buonaparte turned suddenly1129



from Dresden twice against Bluecher, to saynothing of his incursion into Bohemia fromUpper Lusatia, and both times without inthe least attaining his object. They wereblows in the air which only cost him timeand force, and might have placed him in adangerous position in Dresden.

Therefore, even in this field, a surprisedoes not necessarily meet with great suc-

1130



cess through the mere activity, energy, andresolution of the Commander; it must befavoured by other circumstances. But weby no means deny that there can be suc-cess; we only connect with it a necessity of favourable circumstances, which, certainlydo not occur very frequently, and which theCommander can seldom bring about him-self.

1131



Just those two Generals afford each astriking illustration of this. We take firstBuonaparte in his famous enterprise againstBluecher’s Army in February 1814, when itwas separated from the Grand Army, anddescending the Marne. It would not be easyto find a two days’ march to surprise theenemy productive of greater results thanthis; Bluecher’s Army, extended over a dis-

1132



tance of three days’ march, was beaten indetail, and suffered a loss nearly equal tothat of defeat in a great battle. This wascompletely the effect of a surprise, for if Bluecher had thought of such a near pos-sibility of an attack from Buonaparte[] hewould have organised his march quite differ-ently. To this mistake of Bluecher’s the re-sult is to be attributed. Buonaparte did not

1133



know all these circumstances, and so therewas a piece of good fortune that mixed itself up in his favour.

[] Bluecher believed his march to be cov-ered by Pahlen’s Cossacks, but these hadbeen withdrawn without warning to him bythe Grand Army Headquarters under Schwartzen-berg.

It is the same with the battle of Liegnitz,1134



1760. Frederick the Great gained this finevictory through altering during the night aposition which he had just before taken up.Laudon was through this completely sur-prised, and lost 70 pieces of artillery and10,000 men. Although Frederick the Greathad at this time adopted the principle of moving backwards and forwards in order tomake a battle impossible, or at least to dis-

1135



concert the enemy’s plans, still the alter-ation of position on the night of the 14-15was not made exactly with that intention,but as the King himself says, because theposition of the 14th did not please him.Here, therefore, also chance was hard atwork; without this happy conjunction of theattack and the change of position in thenight, and the difficult nature of the coun-

1136



try, the result would not have been the same.Also in the higher and highest province

of Strategy there are some instances of sur-prises fruitful in results. We shall only citethe brilliant marches of the Great Electoragainst the Swedes from Franconia to Pomera-nia and from the Mark (Brandenburg) tothe Pregel in 1757, and the celebrated pas-sage of the Alps by Buonaparte, 1800. In

1137



the latter case an Army gave up its wholetheatre of war by a capitulation, and in1757 another Army was very near giving upits theatre of war and itself as well. Lastly,as an instance of a War wholly unexpected,we may bring forward the invasion of Sile-sia by Frederick the Great. Great and pow-erful are here the results everywhere, butsuch events are not common in history if we

1138



do not confuse with them cases in which aState, for want of activity and energy (Sax-ony 1756, and Russia, 1812), has not com-pleted its preparations in time.

Now there still remains an observationwhich concerns the essence of the thing. Asurprise can only be effected by that partywhich gives the law to the other; and hewho is in the right gives the law. If we sur-

1139



prise the adversary by a wrong measure,then instead of reaping good results, wemay have to bear a sound blow in return;in any case the adversary need not trou-ble himself much about our surprise, he hasin our mistake the means of turning off theevil. As the offensive includes in itself muchmore positive action than the defensive, sothe surprise is certainly more in its place

1140



with the assailant, but by no means invari-ably, as we shall hereafter see. Mutual sur-prises by the offensive and defensive maytherefore meet, and then that one will havethe advantage who has hit the nail on thehead the best.

So should it be, but practical life doesnot keep to this line so exactly, and thatfor a very simple reason. The moral effects

1141



which attend a surprise often convert theworst case into a good one for the side theyfavour, and do not allow the other to makeany regular determination. We have herein view more than anywhere else not onlythe chief Commander, but each single one,because a surprise has the effect in partic-ular of greatly loosening unity, so that theindividuality of each separate leader easily

1142



comes to light.Much depends here on the general rela-

tion in which the two parties stand to eachother. If the one side through a generalmoral superiority can intimidate and outdothe other, then he can make use of the sur-prise with more success, and even reap goodfruit where properly he should come to ruin.

1143



CHAPTER X. STRATAGEM

STRATAGEM implies a concealed inten-tion, and therefore is opposed to straight-forward dealing, in the same way as wit isthe opposite of direct proof. It has therefore

nothing in common with means of persua-sion, of self- interest, of force, but a greatdeal to do with deceit, because that like-

1144



wise conceals its object. It is itself a de-ceit as well when it is done, but still it dif-fers from what is commonly called deceit, inthis respect that there is no direct breachof word. The deceiver by stratagem leavesit to the person himself whom he is deceiv-ing to commit the errors of understandingwhich at last, flowing into ONE result, sud-denly change the nature of things in his

1145



eyes. We may therefore say, as nit is asleight of hand with ideas and conceptions,so stratagem is a sleight of hand with ac-tions.

At first sight it appears as if Strategyhad not improperly derived its name fromstratagem; and that, with all the real andapparent changes which the whole charac-ter of War has undergone since the time of

1146



the Greeks, this term still points to its realnature.

If we leave to tactics the actual deliveryof the blow, the battle itself, and look uponStrategy as the art of using this means withskill, then besides the forces of the charac-ter, such as burning ambition which alwayspresses like a spring, a strong will whichhardly bends &c. &c., there seems no sub-

1147



jective quality so suited to guide and inspirestrategic activity as stratagem. The generaltendency to surprise, treated of in the fore-going chapter, points to this conclusion, forthere is a degree of stratagem, be it ever sosmall, which lies at the foundation of everyattempt to surprise.

But however much we feel a desire to seethe actors in War outdo each other in hid-

1148



den activity, readiness, and stratagem, stillwe must admit that these qualities showthemselves but little in history, and haverarely been able to work their way to thesurface from amongst the mass of relationsand circumstances.

The explanation of this is obvious, andit is almost identical with the subject mat-ter of the preceding chapter.

1149



Strategy knows no other activity thanthe regulating of combat with the measureswhich relate to it. It has no concern, like or-dinary life, with transactions which consistmerely of words–that is, in expressions, dec-larations, &c. But these, which are very in-expensive, are chiefly the means with whichthe wily one takes in those he practises upon.

That which there is like it in War, plans1150



and orders given merely as make-believers,false reports sent on purpose to the enemy–is usually of so little effect in the strategicfield that it is only resorted to in particularcases which offer of themselves, thereforecannot be regarded as spontaneous actionwhich emanates from the leader.

But such measures as carrying out thearrangements for a battle, so far as to im-

1151



pose upon the enemy, require a considerableexpenditure of time and power; of course,the greater the impression to be made, thegreater the expenditure in these respects.And as this is usually not given for the pur-pose, very few demonstrations, so-called, inStrategy, effect the object for which theyare designed. In fact, it is dangerous todetach large forces for any length of time

1152



merely for a trick, because there is alwaysthe risk of its being done in vain, and thenthese forces are wanted at the decisive point.

The chief actor in War is always thor-oughly sensible of this sober truth, and there-fore he has no desire to play at tricks of agility. The bitter earnestness of necessitypresses so fully into direct action that thereis no room for that game. In a word, the

1153



pieces on the strategical chess-board wantthat mobility which is the element of stratagemand subtility.

The conclusion which we draw, is that acorrect and penetrating eye is a more nec-essary and more useful quality for a Gen-eral than craftiness, although that also doesno harm if it does not exist at the expenseof necessary qualities of the heart, which is

1154



only too often the case.But the weaker the forces become which

are under the command of Strategy, so muchthe more they become adapted for stratagem,so that to the quite feeble and little, forwhom no prudence, no sagacity is any longersufficient at the point where all art seemsto forsake him, stratagem offers itself as alast resource. The more helpless his situ-

1155



ation, the more everything presses towardsone single, desperate blow, the more readilystratagem comes to the aid of his boldness.Let loose from all further calculations, freedfrom all concern for the future, boldnessand stratagem intensify each other, and thuscollect at one point an infinitesimal glim-mering of hope into a single ray, which maylikewise serve to kindle a flame.

1156



CHAPTER XI. ASSEMBLYOF FORCES IN SPACE

THE best Strategy is ALWAYS TO BE VERYSTRONG, first generally then at the deci-

sive point. Therefore, apart from the en-ergy which creates the Army, a work whichis not always done by the General, there

1157



is no more imperative and no simpler lawfor Strategy than to KEEP THE FORCESCONCENTRATED.–No portion is to be sep-arated from the main body unless calledaway by some urgent necessity. On thismaxim we stand firm, and look upon it as aguide to be depended upon. What are thereasonable grounds on which a detachmentof forces may be made we shall learn by de-

1158



grees. Then we shall also see that this prin-ciple cannot have the same general effectsin every War, but that these are differentaccording to the means and end.

It seems incredible, and yet it has hap-pened a hundred times, that troops havebeen divided and separated merely througha mysterious feeling of conventional man-ner, without any clear perception of the rea-

1159



son.If the concentration of the whole force is

acknowledged as the norm, and every divi-sion and separation as an exception whichmust be justified, then not only will thatfolly be completely avoided, but also manyan erroneous ground for separating troopswill be barred admission.

1160



CHAPTER XII. ASSEM-BLY OF FORCES IN TIME

WE have here to deal with a conceptionwhich in real life diffuses many kinds of il-

lusory light. A clear definition and develop-ment of the idea is therefore necessary, andwe hope to be allowed a short analysis.

1161



War is the shock of two opposing forcesin collision with each other, from which itfollows as a matter of course that the strongernot only destroys the other, but carries itforward with it in its movement. This fun-damentally admits of no successive actionof powers, but makes the simultaneous ap-plication of all forces intended for the shockappear as a primordial law of War.

1162



So it is in reality, but only so far as thestruggle resembles also in practice a me-chanical shock, but when it consists in alasting, mutual action of destructive forces,then we can certainly imagine a successiveaction of forces. This is the case in tac-tics, principally because firearms form thebasis of all tactics, but also for other rea-sons as well. If in a fire combat 1000 men

1163



are opposed to 500, then the gross loss iscalculated from the amount of the enemy’sforce and our own; 1000 men fire twice asmany shots as 500, but more shots will takeeffect on the 1000 than on the 500 becauseit is assumed that they stand in closer orderthan the other. If we were to suppose thenumber of hits to be double, then the losseson each side would be equal. From the 500

1164



there would be for example 200 disabled,and out of the body of 1000 likewise thesame; now if the 500 had kept another bodyof equal number quite out of fire, then bothsides would have 800 effective men; but of these, on the one side there would be 500men quite fresh, fully supplied with ammu-nition, and in their full vigour; on the otherside only 800 all alike shaken in their or-

1165



der, in want of sufficient ammunition andweakened in physical force. The assump-tion that the 1000 men merely on accountof their greater number would lose twiceas many as 500 would have lost in theirplace, is certainly not correct; therefore thegreater loss which the side suffers that hasplaced the half of its force in reserve, mustbe regarded as a disadvantage in that origi-

1166



nal formation; further it must be admitted,that in the generality of cases the 1000 menwould have the advantage at the first com-mencement of being able to drive their op-ponent out of his position and force him toa retrograde movement; now, whether thesetwo advantages are a counterpoise to thedisadvantage of finding ourselves with 800men to a certain extent disorganised by the

1167



combat, opposed to an enemy who is notmaterially weaker in numbers and who has500 quite fresh troops, is one that cannot bedecided by pursuing an analysis further, wemust here rely upon experience, and therewill scarcely be an officer experienced inWar who will not in the generality of casesassign the advantage to that side which hasthe fresh troops.

1168



In this way it becomes evident how theemployment of too many forces in combatmay be disadvantageous; for whatever ad-vantages the superiority may give in thefirst moment, we may have to pay dearlyfor in the next.

But this danger only endures as longas the disorder, the state of confusion andweakness lasts, in a word, up to the crisis

1169



which every combat brings with it even forthe conqueror. Within the duration of thisrelaxed state of exhaustion, the appearanceof a proportionate number of fresh troopsis decisive.

But when this disordering effect of vic-tory stops, and therefore only the moral su-periority remains which every victory gives,then it is no longer possible for fresh troops

1170



to restore the combat, they would only becarried along in the general movement; abeaten Army cannot be brought back tovictory a day after by means of a strong re-serve. Here we find ourselves at the sourceof a highly material difference between tac-tics and strategy.

The tactical results, the results withinthe four corners of the battle, and before

1171



its close, lie for the most part within thelimits of that period of disorder and weak-ness. But the strategic result, that is to say,the result of the total combat, of the victo-ries realised, let them be small or great, liescompletely (beyond) outside of that period.It is only when the results of partial com-bats have bound themselves together intoan independent whole, that the strategic re-

1172



sult appears, but then, the state of crisis isover, the forces have resumed their originalform, and are now only weakened to theextent of those actually destroyed (placedhors de combat).

The consequence of this difference is, thattactics can make a continued use of forces,Strategy only a simultaneous one.[]

[] See chaps. xiii., and xiv., Book III and1173



chap. xxix. Book V.–TR.If I cannot, in tactics, decide all by the

first success, if I have to fear the next mo-ment, it follows of itself that I employ onlyso much of my force for the success of thefirst moment as appears sufficient for thatobject, and keep the rest beyond the reachof fire or conflict of any kind, in order to beable to oppose fresh troops to fresh, or with

1174



such to overcome those that are exhausted.But it is not so in Strategy. Partly, as wehave just shown, it has not so much reasonto fear a reaction after a success realised,because with that success the crisis stops;partly all the forces strategically employedare not necessarily weakened. Only so muchof them as have been tactically in conflictwith the enemy’s force, that is, engaged in

1175



partial combat, are weakened by it; conse-quently, only so much as was unavoidablynecessary, but by no means all which wasstrategically in conflict with the enemy, un-less tactics has expended them unnecessar-ily. Corps which, on account of the generalsuperiority in numbers, have either been lit-tle or not at all engaged, whose presencealone has assisted in the result, are after the

1176



decision the same as they were before, andfor new enterprises as efficient as if they hadbeen entirely inactive. How greatly suchcorps which thus constitute our excess maycontribute to the total success is evident initself; indeed, it is not difficult to see howthey may even diminish considerably theloss of the forces engaged in tactical, con-flict on our side.

1177



If, therefore, in Strategy the loss doesnot increase with the number of the troopsemployed, but is often diminished by it, andif, as a natural consequence, the decision inour favor is, by that means, the more cer-tain, then it follows naturally that in Strat-egy we can never employ too many forces,and consequently also that they must be ap-plied simultaneously to the immediate pur-

1178



pose.But we must vindicate this proposition

upon another ground. We have hithertoonly spoken of the combat itself; it is thereal activity in War, but men, time, andspace, which appear as the elements of thisactivity, must, at the same time, be keptin view, and the results of their influencebrought into consideration also.

1179



Fatigue, exertion, and privation consti-tute in War a special principle of destruc-tion, not essentially belonging to contest,but more or less inseparably bound up withit, and certainly one which especially be-longs to Strategy. They no doubt exist intactics as well, and perhaps there in thehighest degree; but as the duration of thetactical acts is shorter, therefore the small

1180



effects of exertion and privation on themcan come but little into consideration. Butin Strategy on the other hand, where timeand space, are on a larger scale, their influ-ence is not only always very considerable,but often quite decisive. It is not at all un-common for a victorious Army to lose manymore by sickness than on the field of battle.

If, therefore, we look at this sphere of 1181



destruction in Strategy in the same manneras we have considered that of fire and closecombat in tactics, then we may well imag-ine that everything which comes within itsvortex will, at the end of the campaign or of any other strategic period, be reduced to astate of weakness, which makes the arrivalof a fresh force decisive. We might thereforeconclude that there is a motive in the one

1182



case as well as the other to strive for thefirst success with as few forces as possible,in order to keep up this fresh force for thelast.

In order to estimate exactly this con-clusion, which, in many cases in practice,will have a great appearancetruth, we mustdirect our attention to the separate ideaswhich it contains. In the first place, we

1183



must not confuse the notion of reinforce-ment with that of fresh unused troops. Thereare few campaigns at the end of which anincrease of force is not earnestly desired bythe conqueror as well as the conquered, andindeed should appear decisive; but that isnot the point here, for that increase of forcecould not be necessary if the force had beenso much larger at the first. But it would be

1184



contrary to all experience to suppose thatan Army coming fresh into the field is tobe esteemed higher in point of moral valuethan an Army already in the field, just asa tactical reserve is more to be esteemedthan a body of troops which has been al-ready severely handled in the fight. Justas much as an unfortunate campaign lowersthe courage and moral powers of an Army, a

1185



successful one raises these elements in theirvalue. In the generality of cases, there-fore, these influences are compensated, andthen there remains over and above as cleargain the habituation to War. We shouldbesides look more here to successful thanto unsuccessful campaigns, because whenthe greater probability of the latter may beseen beforehand, without doubt forces are

1186



wanted, and, therefore, the reserving a por-tion for future use is out of the question.

This point being settled, then the ques-tion is, Do the losses which a force sustainsthrough fatigues and privations increase inproportion to the size of the force, as is thecase in a combat? And to that we answer”No.”

The fatigues of War result in a great1187



measure from the dangers with which everymoment of the act of War is more or less im-pregnated. To encounter these dangers atall points, to proceed onwards with securityin the execution of one’s plans, gives em-ployment to a multitude of agencies whichmake up the tactical and strategic service of the Army. This service is more difficult theweaker an Army is, and easier as its numer-

1188



ical superiority over that of the enemy in-creases. Who can doubt this? A campaignagainst a much weaker enemy will thereforecost smaller efforts than against one just asstrong or stronger.

So much for the fatigues. It is somewhatdifferent with the privations; they consistchiefly of two things, the want of food, andthe want of shelter for the troops, either in

1189



quarters or in suitable camps. Both thesewants will no doubt be greater in propor-tion as the number of men on one spot isgreater. But does not the superiority inforce afford also the best means of spreadingout and finding more room, and thereforemore means of subsistence and shelter?

If Buonaparte, in his invasion of Rus-sia in 1812, concentrated his Army in great

1190



masses upon one single road in a mannernever heard of before, and thus caused pri-vations equally unparalleled, we must as-cribe it to his maxim THAT IT IS IMPOS-SIBLE TO BE TOO STRONG AT THEDECISIVE POINT. Whether in this instancehe did not strain the principle too far is aquestion which would be out of place here;but it is certain that, if he had made a point

1191



of avoiding the distress which was by thatmeans brought about, he had only to ad-vance on a greater breadth of front. Roomwas not wanted for the purpose in Russia,and in very few cases can it be wanted.Therefore, from this no ground can be de-duced to prove that the simultaneous em-ployment of very superior forces must pro-duce greater weakening. But now, suppos-

1192



ing that in spite of the general relief af-forded by setting apart a portion of theArmy, wind and weather and the toils of War had produced a diminution even onthe part which as a spare force had beenreserved for later use, still we must take acomprehensive general view of the whole,and therefore ask, Will this diminution of force suffice to counterbalance the gain in

1193



forces, which we, through our superiorityin numbers, may be able to make in moreways than one?

But there still remains a most impor-tant point to be noticed. In a partial com-bat, the force required to obtain a great re-sult can be approximately estimated with-out much difficulty, and, consequently, wecan form an idea of what is superfluous.

1194



In Strategy this may be said to be impos-sible, because the strategic result has nosuch well-defined object and no such cir-cumscribed limits as the tactical. Thus whatcan be looked upon in tactics as an excessof power, must be regarded in Strategy asa means to give expansion to success, if op-portunity offers for it; with the magnitudeof the success the gain in force increases at

1195



the same time, and in this way the supe-riority of numbers may soon reach a pointwhich the most careful economy of forcescould never have attained.

By means of his enormous numerical su-periority, Buonaparte was enabled to reachMoscow in 1812, and to take that centralcapital. Had he by means of this superi-ority succeeded in completely defeating the

1196



Russian Army, he would, in all probability,have concluded a peace in Moscow whichin any other way was much less attainable.This example is used to explain the idea,not to prove it, which would require a cir-cumstantial demonstration, for which thisis not the place.[]

[] Compare Book VII., second edition,p. 56.

1197



All these reflections bear merely uponthe idea of a successive employment of forces,and not upon the conception of a reserveproperly so called, which they, no doubt,come in contact with throughout, but which,as we shall see in the following chapter, isconnected with some other considerations.

What we desire to establish here is, thatif in tactics the military force through the

1198



mere duration of actual employment suffersa diminution of power, if time, therefore,appears as a factor in the result, this is notthe case in Strategy in a material degree.The destructive effects which are also pro-duced upon the forces in Strategy by time,are partly diminished through their mass,partly made good in other ways, and, there-fore, in Strategy it cannot be an object to

1199



make time an ally on its own account bybringing troops successively into action.

We say on ”its own account,” for the in-fluence which time, on account of other cir-cumstances which it brings about but whichare different from itself can have, indeedmust necessarily have, for one of the twoparties, is quite another thing, is anythingbut indifferent or unimportant, and will be

1200



the subject of consideration hereafter.The rule which we have been seeking to

set forth is, therefore, that all forces whichare available and destined for a strategicobject should be SIMULTANEOUSLY ap-plied to it; and this application will be somuch the more complete the more every-thing is compressed into one act and intoone movement.

1201



But still there is in Strategy a renewalof effort and a persistent action which, asa chief means towards the ultimate success,is more particularly not to be overlooked,it is the CONTINUAL DEVELOPMENTOF NEW FORCES. This is also the subject of another chapter, and we only refer toit here in order to prevent the reader fromhaving something in view of which we have

1202



not been speaking.We now turn to a subject very closely

connected with our present considerations,which must be settled before full light canbe thrown on the whole, we mean the STRATE-GIC RESERVE.

1203



CHAPTER XIII. STRATE-GIC RESERVE

A RESERVE has two objects which are verydistinct from each other, namely, first, the

prolongation and renewal of the combat,and secondly, for use in case of unforeseenevents. The first object implies the util-

1204



and with that object in view is placed inrear, would be only a corps placed out of reach of fire, but under the command andat the disposition of the General Command-ing in the action, and accordingly would bea tactical and not a strategic reserve.

But the necessity for a force ready forunforeseen events may also take place inStrategy, and consequently there may also

1206



be a strategic reserve, but only where un-foreseen events are imaginable. In tactics,where the enemy’s measures are generallyfirst ascertained by direct sight, and wherethey may be concealed by every wood, ev-ery fold of undulating ground, we must nat-urally always be alive, more or less, to thepossibility of unforeseen events, in order tostrengthen, subsequently, those points which

1207



appear too weak, and, in fact, to modifygenerally the disposition of our troops, soas to make it correspond better to that of the enemy.

Such cases must also happen in Strat-egy, because the strategic act is directlylinked to the tactical. In Strategy also manya measure is first adopted in consequenceof what is actually seen, or in consequence

1208



of uncertain reports arriving from day today, or even from hour to hour, and lastly,from the actual results of the combats it is,therefore, an essential condition of strategiccommand that, according to the degree of uncertainty, forces must be kept in reserveagainst future contingencies.

In the defensive generally, but partic-ularly in the defence of certain obstacles

1209



of ground, like rivers, hills, &c., such con-tingencies, as is well known, happen con-stantly.

But this uncertainty diminishes in pro-portion as the strategic activity has less of the tactical character, and ceases almost al-together in those regions where it borderson politics.

The direction in which the enemy leads1210



his columns to the combat can be perceivedby actual sight only; where he intends topass a river is learnt from a few prepara-tions which are made shortly before; theline by which he proposes to invade ourcountry is usually announced by all the news-papers before a pistol shot has been fired.The greater the nature of the measure theless it will take the enemy by surprise. Time

1211



and space are so considerable, the circum-stances out of which the action proceeds sopublic and little susceptible of alteration,that the coming event is either made knownin good time, or can be discovered with rea-sonable certainty.

On the other hand the use of a reservein this province of Strategy, even if one wereavailable, will always be less efficacious the

1212



more the measure has a tendency towardsbeing one of a general nature.

We have seen that the decision of a par-tial combat is nothing in itself, but that allpartial combats only find their complete so-lution in the decision of the total combat.

But even this decision of the total com-bat has only a relative meaning of manydifferent gradations, according as the force

1213



over which the victory has been gained formsa more or less great and important part of the whole. The lost battle of a corps may berepaired by the victory of the Army. Eventhe lost battle of an Army may not only becounterbalanced by the gain of a more im-portant one, but converted into a fortunateevent (the two days of Kulm, August 29 and30, 1813[]). No one can doubt this; but it is

1214



just as clear that the weight of each victory(the successful issue of each total combat) isso much the more substantial the more im-portant the part conquered, and that there-fore the possibility of repairing the loss bysubsequent events diminishes in the sameproportion. In another place we shall haveto examine this more in detail; it suffices forthe present to have drawn attention to the

1215



indubitable existence of this progression.[] Refers to the destruction of Vandamme’s

column, which had been sent unsupportedto intercept the retreat of the Austrians andPrussians from Dresden–but was forgottenby Napoleon.–EDITOR.

If we now add lastly to these two consid-erations the third, which is, that if the per-sistent use of forces in tactics always shifts

1216



the great result to the end of the wholeact,law of the simultaneous use of the forcesin Strategy, on the contrary, lets the princi-pal result (which need not be the final one)take place almost always at the commence-ment of the great (or whole) act, then inthese three results we have grounds suffi-cient to find strategic reserves always moresuperfluous, always more useless, always more

1217



dangerous, the more general their destina-tion.

The point where the idea of a strate-gic reserve begins to become inconsistentis not difficult to determine: it lies in theSUPREME DECISION. Employment mustbe given to all the forces within the space of the supreme decision, and every reserve (ac-tive force available) which is only intended

1218



for use after that decision is opposed tocommon sense.

If, therefore, tactics has in its reservesthe means of not only meeting unforeseendispositions on the part of the enemy, butalso of repairing that which never can beforeseen, the result of the combat, shouldthat be unfortunate; Strategy on the otherhand must, at least as far as relates to the

1219



capital result, renounce the use of these means.As A rule, it can only repair the losses sus-tained at one point by advantages gainedat another, in a few cases by moving troopsfrom one point to another; the idea of prepar-ing for such reverses by placing forces in re-serve beforehand, can never be entertainedin Strategy.

We have pointed out as an absurdity the1220



idea of a strategic reserve which is not to co-operate in the capital result, and as it is sobeyond a doubt, we should not have beenled into such an analysis as we have made inthese two chapters, were it not that, in thedisguise of other ideas, it looks like some-thing better, and frequently makes its ap-pearance. One person sees in it the acme of strategic sagacity and foresight; another re-

1221



jects it, and with it the idea of any reserve,consequently even of a tactical one. Thisconfusion of ideas is transferred to real life,and if we would see a memorable instance of it we have only to call to mind that Prussiain 1806 left a reserve of 20,000 men can-toned in the Mark, under Prince Eugeneof Wurtemberg, which could not possiblyreach the Saale in time to be of any use,

1222



and that another force Of 25,000 men be-longing to this power remained in East andSouth Prussia, destined only to be put ona war-footing afterwards as a reserve.

After these examples we cannot be ac-cused of having been fighting with wind-mills.

1223



CHAPTER XIV. ECONOMYOF FORCES

THE road of reason, as we have said, sel-dom allows itself to be reduced to a mathe-

matical line by principles and opinions. Thereremains always a certain margin. But itis the same in all the practical arts of life.

1224



For the lines of beauty there are no abscis-sae and ordinates; circles and ellipses arenot described by means of their algebraicalformulae. The actor in War therefore soonfinds he must trust himself to the delicatetact of judgment which, founded on naturalquickness of perception, and educated byreflection, almost unconsciously seizes uponthe right; he soon finds that at one time he

1225



must simplify the law (by reducing it) tosome prominent characteristic points whichform his rules; that at another the adoptedmethod must become the staff on which heleans.

As one of these simplified characteristicpoints as a mental appliance, we look uponthe principle of watching continually overthe co-operation of all forces, or in other

1226



words, of keeping constantly in view thatno part of them should ever be idle. Who-ever has forces where the enemy does notgive them sufficient employment, whoeverhas part of his forces on the march–thatis, allows them to lie dead–while the en-emy’s are fighting, he is a bad manager of his forces. In this sense there is a waste of forces, which is even worse than their em-

1227



ployment to no purpose. If there must beaction, then the first point is that all partsact, because the most purposeless activitystill keeps employed and destroys a portionof the enemy’s force, whilst troops com-pletely inactive are for the moment quiteneutralised. Unmistakably this idea is boundup with the principles contained in the lastthree chapters, it is the same truth, but seen

1228



from a somewhat more comprehensive pointof view and condensed into a single concep-tion.

1229



CHAPTER XV. GEOMET-RICAL ELEMENT

THE length to which the geometrical ele-ment or form in the disposition of military

force in War can become a predominantprinciple, we see in the art of fortification,where geometry looks after the great and

1230



the little. Also in tactics it plays a greatpart. It is the basis of elementary tactics,or of the theory of moving troops; but infield fortification, as well as in the theoryof positions, and of their attack, its anglesand lines rule like law givers who have to de-cide the contest. Many things here were atone time misapplied, and others were merefribbles; still, however, in the tactics of the

1231



present day, in which in every combat theaim is to surround the enemy, the geomet-rical element has attained anew a great im-portance in a very simple, but constantlyrecurring application. Nevertheless, in tac-tics, where all is more movable, where themoral forces, individual traits, and chanceare more influential than in a war of sieges,the geometrical element can never attain to

1232



the same degree of supremacy as in the lat-ter. But less still is its influence in Strategy;certainly here, also, form in the dispositionof troops, the shape of countries and statesis of great importance; but the geometricalelement is not decisive, as in fortification,and not nearly so important as in tactics.–The manner in which this influence exhibitsitself, can only be shown by degrees at those

1233



places where it makes its appearance, anddeserves notice. Here we wish more to di-rect attention to the difference which thereis between tactics and Strategy in relationto it.

In tactics time and space quickly dwin-dle to their absolute minimum. If a bodyof troops is attacked in flank and rear bythe enemy, it soon gets to a point where

1234



retreat no longer remains; such a positionis very close to an absolute impossibility of continuing the fight; it must therefore ex-tricate itself from it, or avoid getting intoit. This gives to all combinations aiming atthis from the first commencement a greatefficiency, which chiefly consists in the dis-quietude which it causes the enemy as toconsequences. This is why the geometrical

1235



disposition of the forces is such an impor-tant factor in the tactical product.

In Strategy this is only faintly reflected,on account of the greater space and time.We do not fire from one theatre of war uponanother; and often weeks and months mustpass before a strategic movement designedto surround the enemy can be executed.Further, the distances are so great that the

1236



probability of hitting the right point at last,even with the best arrangements, is but small.

In Strategy therefore the scope for suchcombinations, that is for those resting onthe geometrical element, is much smaller,and for the same reason the effect of an ad-vantage once actually gained at any pointis much greater. Such advantage has timeto bring all its effects to maturity before it

1237



is disturbed, or quite neutralised therein,by any counteracting apprehensions. Wetherefore do not hesitate to regard as anestablished truth, that in Strategy more de-pends on the number and the magnitude of the victorious combats, than on the form of the great lines by which they are connected.

A view just the reverse has been a favouritetheme of modern theory, because a greater

1238



importance was supposed to be thus givento Strategy, and, as the higher functionsof the mind were seen in Strategy, it wasthought by that means to ennoble War, and,as it was said–through a new substitutionof ideas–to make it more scientific. We holdit to be one of the principal uses of a com-plete theory openly to expose such vagaries,and as the geometrical element is the funda-

1239



mental idea from which theory usually pro-ceeds, therefore we have expressly broughtout this point in strong relief.

1240



CHAPTER XVI. ON THESUSPENSION OF THE ACTIN WARFARE

IF one considers War as an act of mutual

destruction, we must of necessity imagineboth parties as making some progress; butat the same time, as regards the existing

1241



moment, we must almost as necessarily sup-pose the one party in a state of expecta-tion, and only the other actually advanc-ing, for circumstances can never be actu-ally the same on both sides, or continue so.In time a change must ensue, from whichit follows that the present moment is morefavourable to one side than the other. Nowif we suppose that both commanders have

1242



a full knowledge of this circumstance, thenthe one has a motive for action, which at thesame time is a motive for the other to wait;therefore, according to this it cannot be forthe interest of both at the same time to ad-vance, nor can waiting be for the interest of both at the same time. This opposition of interest as regards the object is not deducedhere from the principle of general polarity,

1243



and therefore is not in opposition to the ar-gument in the fifth chapter of the secondbook; it depends on the fact that here in re-ality the same thing is at once an incentiveor motive to both commanders, namely theprobability of improving or impairing theirposition by future action.

But even if we suppose the possibility of a perfect equality of circumstances in this

1244



respect, or if we take into account that throughimperfect knowledge of their mutual posi-tion such an equality may appear to thetwo Commanders to subsist, still the differ-ence of political objects does away with thispossibility of suspension. One of the par-ties must of necessity be assumed politicallyto be the aggressor, because no War couldtake place from defensive intentions on both

1245



sides. But the aggressor has the positiveobject, the defender merely a negative one.To the first then belongs the positive action,for it is only by that means that he can at-tain the positive object; therefore, in caseswhere both parties are in precisely similarcircumstances, the aggressor is called uponto act by virtue of his positive object.

Therefore, from this point of view, a1246



suspension in the act of Warfare, strictlyspeaking, is in contradiction with the na-ture of the thing; because two Armies, be-ing two incompatible elements, should de-stroy one another unremittingly, just as fireand water can never put themselves in equi-librium, but act and react upon one an-other, until one quite disappears. Whatwould be said of two wrestlers who remained

1247



clasped round each other for hours withoutmaking a movement. Action in War, there-fore, like that of a clock which is woundup, should go on running down in regularmotion.–But wild as is the nature of Warit still wears the chains of human weak-ness, and the contradiction we see here, viz.,that man seeks and creates dangers whichhe fears at the same time will astonish no

1248



one.If we cast a glance at military history

in general, we find so much the opposite of an incessant advance towards the aim, thatSTANDING STILL and DOING NOTH-ING is quite plainly the NORMAL CON-DITION of an Army in the midst of War,ACTING, the EXCEPTION. This must al-most raise a doubt as to the correctness

1249



of our conception. But if military historyleads to this conclusion when viewed in themass the latest series of campaigns redeemsour position. The War of the French Revo-lution shows too plainly its reality, and onlyproves too clearly its necessity. In these op-erations, and especially in the campaigns of Buonaparte, the conduct of War attained tothat unlimited degree of energy which we

1250



have represented as the natural law of theelement. This degree is therefore possible,and if it is possible then it is necessary.

How could any one in fact justify in theeyes of reason the expenditure of forces inWar, if acting was not the object? Thebaker only heats his oven if he has breadto put into it; the horse is only yoked tothe carriage if we mean to drive; why then

1251



make the enormous effort of a War if welook for nothing else by it but like effortson the part of the enemy?

So much in justification of the generalprinciple; now as to its modifications, as faras they lie in the nature of the thing and areindependent of special cases.

There are three causes to be noticed here,which appear as innate counterpoises and

1252



prevent the over-rapid or uncontrollable move-ment of the wheel-work.

The first, which produces a constant ten-dency to delay, and is thereby a retardingprinciple, is the natural timidity and wantof resolution in the human mind, a kind of inertia in the moral world, but which is pro-duced not by attractive, but by repellentforces, that is to say, by dread of danger

1253



and responsibility.In the burning element of War, ordi-

nary natures appear to become heavier; theimpulsion given must therefore be strongerand more frequently repeated if the motionis to be a continuous one. The mere idea of the object for which arms have been takenup is seldom sufficient to overcome this re-sistant force, and if a warlike enterprising

1254



spirit is not at the head, who feels himself in War in his natural element, as much asa fish in the ocean, or if there is not thepressure from above of some great respon-sibility, then standing still will be the orderof the day, and progress will be the excep-tion.

The second cause is the imperfection of human perception and judgment, which is

1255



greater in War than anywhere, because aperson hardly knows exactly his own posi-tion from one moment to another, and canonly conjecture on slight grounds that of the enemy, which is purposely concealed;this often gives rise to the case of both par-ties looking upon one and the same objectas advantageous for them, while in realitythe interest of one must preponderate; thus

1256



then each may think he acts wisely by wait-ing another moment, as we have alreadysaid in the fifth chapter of the second book.

The third cause which catches hold, likea ratchet wheel in machinery, from time totime producing a complete standstill, is thegreater strength of the defensive form. Amay feel too weak to attack B, from which itdoes not follow that B is strong enough for

1257



an attack on A. The addition of strength,which the defensive gives is not merely lostby assuming the offensive, but also passesto the enemy just as, figuratively expressed,the difference of a + b and a - b is equal to2b. Therefore it may so happen that bothparties, at one and the same time, not onlyfeel themselves too weak to attack, but alsoare so in reality.

1258



Thus even in the midst of the act of War itself, anxious sagacity and the appre-hension of too great danger find vantageground, by means of which they can exerttheir power, and tame the elementary im-petuosity of War.

However, at the same time these causeswithout an exaggeration of their effect, wouldhardly explain the long states of inactivity

1259



which took place in military operations, informer times, in Wars undertaken about in-terests of no great importance, and in whichinactivity consumed nine-tenths of the timethat the troops remained under arms. Thisfeature in these Wars, is to be traced princi-pally to the influence which the demands of the one party, and the condition, and feel-ing of the other, exercised over the conduct

1260



of the operations, as has been already ob-served in the chapter on the essence andobject of War.

These things may obtain such a prepon-derating influence as to make of War a half-and-half affair. A War is often nothing morethan an armed neutrality, or a menacingattitude to support negotiations or an at-tempt to gain some small advantage by small

1261



exertions, and then to wait the tide of cir-cumstances, or a disagreeable treaty obliga-tion, which is fulfilled in the most niggardlyway possible.

In all these cases in which the impulsegiven by interest is slight, and the princi-ple of hostility feeble, in which there is nodesire to do much, and also not much todread from the enemy; in short, where no

1262



powerful motives press and drive, cabinetswill not risk much in the game; hence thistame mode of carrying on War, in which thehostile spirit of real War is laid in irons.

The more War becomes in this mannerdevitalised so much the more its theory be-comes destitute of the necessary firm pivotsand buttresses for its reasoning; the neces-sary is constantly diminishing, the acciden-

1263



tal constantly increasing.Nevertheless in this kind of Warfare, there

is also a certain shrewdness, indeed, its ac-tion is perhaps more diversified, and moreextensive than in the other. Hazard playedwith realeaux of gold seems changed into agame of commerce with groschen. And onthis field, where the conduct of War spinsout the time with a number of small flour-

1264



ishes, with skirmishes at outposts, half inearnest half in jest, with long dispositionswhich end in nothing with positions andmarches, which afterwards are designatedas skilful only because their infinitesimallysmall causes are lost, and common sensecan make nothing of them, here on thisvery field many theorists find the real Art of War at home: in these feints, parades, half

1265



and quarter thrusts of former Wars, theyfind the aim of all theory, the supremacy of mind over matter, and modern Wars appearto them mere savage fisticuffs, from whichnothing is to be learnt, and which must beregarded as mere retrograde steps towardsbarbarism. This opinion is as frivolous asthe objects to which it relates. Where greatforces and great passions are wanting, it is

1266



certainly easier for a practised dexterity toshow its game; but is then the command of great forces, not in itself a higher exercise of the intelligent faculties? Is then that kindof conventional sword-exercise not comprisedin and belonging to the other mode of con-ducting War? Does it not bear the samerelation to it as the motions upon a shipto the motion of the ship itself? Truly it

1267



can take place only under the tacit con-dition that the adversary does no better.And can we tell, how long he may chooseto respect those conditions? Has not thenthe French Revolution fallen upon us in themidst of the fancied security of our old sys-tem of War, and driven us from Chalons toMoscow? And did not Frederick the Greatin like manner surprise the Austrians repos-

1268



ing in their ancient habits of War, and maketheir monarchy tremble? Woe to the cabi-net which, with a shilly-shally policy, and aroutine-ridden military system, meets withan adversary who, like the rude element,knows no other law than that of his intrin-sic force. Every deficiency in energy andexertion is then a weight in the scales infavour of the enemy; it is not so easy then

1269



to change from the fencing posture into thatof an athlete, and a slight blow is often suf-ficient to knock down the whole.

The result of all the causes now adducedis, that the hostile action of a campaigndoes not progress by a continuous, but byan intermittent movement, and that, there-fore, between the separate bloody acts, thereis a period of watching, during which both

1270



parties fall into the defensive, and also thatusually a higher object causes the principleof aggression to predominate on one side,and thus leaves it in general in an advanc-ing position, by which then its proceedingsbecome modified in some degree.

1271



CHAPTER XVII. ON THECHARACTER OF MOD-ERN WAR

THE attention which must be paid to the

character of War as it is now made, has agreat influence upon all plans, especially onstrategic ones.

1272



Since all methods formerly usual wereupset by Buonaparte’s luck and boldness,and first-rate Powers almost wiped out ata blow; since the Spaniards by their stub-born resistance have shown what the gen-eral arming of a nation and insurgent mea-sures on a great scale can effect, in spiteof weakness and porousness of individualparts; since Russia, by the campaign of 1812

1273



has taught us, first, that an Empire of greatdimensions is not to be conquered (whichmight have been easily known before), sec-ondly, that the probability of final successdoes not in all cases diminish in the samemeasure as battles, capitals, and provincesare lost (which was formerly an incontro-vertible principle with all diplomatists, andtherefore made them always ready to enter

1274



service abroad as in its own country;– sinceall these events have shown what an enor-mous factor the heart and sentiments of aNation may be in the product of its politicaland military strength, in fine, since govern-ments have found out all these additionalaids, it is not to be expected that they willlet them lie idle in future Wars, whetherit be that danger threatens their own exis-

1276



tence, or that restless ambition drives themon.

That a War which is waged with thewhole weight of the national power on eachside must be organised differently in prin-ciple to those where everything is calcu-lated according to the relations of standingArmies to each other, it is easy to perceive.Standing Armies once resembled fleets, the

1277



land force the sea force in their relations tothe remainder of the State, and from thatthe Art of War on shore had in it somethingof naval tactics, which it has now quite lost.

1278



CHAPTER XVIII. TENSIONAND REST

The Dynamic Law of WarWE have seen in the sixteenth chapter

of this book, how, in most campaigns, muchmore time used to be spent in standing stilland inaction than in activity.

1279



Now, although, as observed in the pre-ceding chapter we see quite a different char-acter in the present form of War, still it iscertain that real action will always be in-terrupted more or less by long pauses; andthis leads to the necessity of our examiningmore closely the nature of these two phasesof War.

If there is a suspension of action in War,1280



that is, if neither party wills something pos-itive, there is rest, and consequently equi-librium, but certainly an equilibrium in thelargest signification, in which not only themoral and physical war-forces, but all rela-tions and interests, come into calculation.As soon as ever one of the two parties pro-poses to himself a new positive object, andcommences active steps towards it, even if it

1281



is only by preparations, and as soon as theadversary opposes this, there is a tensionof powers; this lasts until the decision takesplace–that is, until one party either givesup his object or the other has conceded itto him.

This decision–the foundation of whichlies always in the combat–combinations whichare made on each side– is followed by a

1282



movement in one or other direction.When this movement has exhausted it-

self, either in the difficulties which had tobe mastered, in overcoming its own internalfriction, or through new resistant forces pre-pared by the acts of the enemy, then eithera state of rest takes place or a new tensionwith a decision, and then a new movement,in most cases in the opposite direction.

1283



This speculative distinction between equi-librium, tension, and motion is more essen-tial for practical action than may at firstsight appear.

In a state of rest and of equilibrium avaried kind of activity may prevail on oneside that results from opportunity, and doesnot aim at a great alteration. Such an ac-tivity may contain important combats–even

1284



pitched battles–but yet it is still of quite adifferent nature, and on that account gen-erally different in its effects.

If a state of tension exists, the effects of the decision are always greater partly be-cause a greater force of will and a greaterpressure of circumstances manifest them-selves therein; partly because everything hasbeen prepared and arranged for a great move-

1285



ment. The decision in such cases resem-bles the effect of a mine well closed andtamped, whilst an event in itself perhaps just as great, in a state of rest, is more orless like a mass of powder puffed away inthe open air.

At the same time, as a matter of course,the state of tension must be imagined indifferent degrees of intensity, and it may

1286



therefore approach gradually by many stepstowards the state of rest, so that at thelast there is a very slight difference betweenthem.

Now the real use which we derive fromthese reflections is the conclusion that ev-ery measure which is taken during a state of tension is more important and more prolificin results than the same measure could be

1287



in a state of equilibrium, and that this im-portance increases immensely in the highestdegrees of tension.

The cannonade of Valmy, September 20,1792, decided more than the battle of Hochkirch,October 14, 1758.

In a tract of country which the enemyabandons to us because he cannot defendit, we can settle ourselves differently from

1288



what we should do if the retreat of the en-emy was only made with the view to a deci-sion under more favourable circumstances.Again, a strategic attack in course of execu-tion, a faulty position, a single false march,may be decisive in its consequence; whilstin a state of equilibrium such errors mustbe of a very glaring kind, even to excite theactivity of the enemy in a general way.

1289



Most bygone Wars, as we have alreadysaid, consisted, so far as regards the greaterpart of the time, in this state of equilibrium,or at least in such short tensions with longintervals between them, and weak in theireffects, that the events to which they gaverise were seldom great successes, often theywere theatrical exhibitions, got up in hon-our of a royal birthday (Hochkirch), often

1290



a mere satisfying of the honour of the arms(Kunersdorf), or the personal vanity of thecommander (Freiberg).

That a Commander should thoroughlyunderstand these states, that he should havethe tact to act in the spirit of them, we holdto be a great requisite, and we have had ex-perience in the campaign of 1806 how farit is sometimes wanting. In that tremen-

1291



dous tension, when everything pressed ontowards a supreme decision, and that alonewith all its consequences should have oc-cupied the whole soul of the Commander,measures were proposed and even partly car-ried out (such as the reconnaissance towardsFranconia), which at the most might havegiven a kind of gentle play of oscillationwithin a state of equilibrium. Over these

1292



blundering schemes and views, absorbingthe activity of the Army, the really neces-sary means, which could alone save, werelost sight of.

But this speculative distinction whichwe have made is also necessary for our fur-ther progress in the construction of our the-ory, because all that we have to say on therelation of attack and defence, and on the

1293



completion of this double-sided act, con-cerns the state of the crisis in which theforces are placed during the tension and mo-tion, and because all the activity which cantake place during the condition of equilib-rium can only be regarded and treated as acorollary; for that crisis is the real War andthis state of equilibrium only its reflection.

BOOK IV THE COMBAT1294



CHAPTER I. INTRODUC-TORY

HAVING in the foregoing book examinedthe subjects which may be regarded as the

efficient elements of War, we shall now turnour attention to the combat as the real ac-tivity in Warfare, which, by its physical and

1295



moral effects, embraces sometimes more sim-ply, sometimes in a more complex manner,the object of the whole campaign. In thisactivity and in its effects these elements musttherefore, reappear.

The formation of the combat is tacticalin its nature; we only glance at it here in ageneral way in order to get acquainted withit in its aspect as a whole. In practice the

1296



minor or more immediate objects give everycombat a characteristic form; these minorobjects we shall not discuss until hereafter.But these peculiarities are in comparisonto the general characteristics of a combatmostly only insignificant, so that most com-bats are very like one another, and, there-fore, in order to avoid repeating that whichis general at every stage, we are compelled

1297



to look into it here, before taking up thesubject of its more special application.

In the first place, therefore, we shall givein the next chapter, in a few words, thecharacteristics of the modern battle in itstactical course, because that lies at the foun-dation of our conceptions of what the battlereally is.

1298



CHAPTER II. CHARAC-TER OF THE MODERNBATTLE

ACCORDING to the notion we have formed

of tactics and strategy, it follows, as a mat-ter of course, that if the nature of the for-mer is changed, that change must have an

1299



influence on the latter. If tactical facts inone case are entirely different from those inanother, then the strategic, must be so also,if they are to continue consistent and rea-sonable. It is therefore important to char-acterise a general action in its modern formbefore we advance with the study of its em-ployment in strategy.

What do we do now usually in a great1300



battle? We place ourselves quietly in greatmasses arranged contiguous to and behindone another. We deploy relatively only asmall portion of the whole, and let it wringitself out in a fire-combat which lasts forseveral hours, only interrupted now and again,and removed hither and thither by separatesmall shocks from charges with the bayo-net and cavalry attacks. When this line

1301



has gradually exhausted part of its war-like ardour in this manner and there re-mains nothing more than the cinders, it iswithdrawn[] and replaced by another.

[] The relief of the fighting line playeda great part in the battles of the Smooth-Bore era; it was necessitated by the foulingof the muskets, physical fatigue of the menand consumption of ammunition, and was

1302



recognised as both necessary and advisableby Napoleon himself.–EDITOR.

In this manner the battle on a modifiedprinciple burns slowly away like wet pow-der, and if the veil of night commands it tostop, because neither party can any longersee, and neither chooses to run the risk of blind chance, then an account is taken byeach side respectively of the masses remain-

1303



ing, which can be called still effective, thatis, which have not yet quite collapsed likeextinct volcanoes; account is taken of theground gained or lost, and of how standsthe security of the rear; these results withthe special impressions as to bravery andcowardice, ability and stupidity, which arethought to have been observed in ourselvesand in the enemy are collected into one sin-

1304



gle total impression, out of which there springsthe resolution to quit the field or to renewthe combat on the morrow.

This description, which is not intendedas a finished picture of a modern battle, butonly to give its general tone, suits for the of-fensive and defensive, and the special traitswhich are given, by the object proposed, thecountry, &c. &c., may be introduced into

1305



it, without materially altering the concep-tion.

But modern battles are not so by ac-cident; they are so because the parties findthemselves nearly on a level as regards mili-tary organisation and the knowledge of theArt of War, and because the warlike ele-ment inflamed by great national interestshas broken through artificial limits and now

1306



flows in its natural channel. Under thesetwo conditions, battles will always preservethis character.

This general idea of the modern battlewill be useful to us in the sequel in moreplaces than one, if we want to estimate thevalue of the particular co-efficients of strength,country, &c. &c. It is only for general,great, and decisive combats, and such as

1307



come near to them that this description standsgood; inferior ones have changed their char-acter also in the same direction but lessthan great ones. The proof of this belongsto tactics; we shall, however, have an op-portunity hereafter of making this subjectplainer by giving a few particulars.

1308



CHAPTER III. THE COM-BAT IN GENERAL

THE Combat is the real warlike activity,everything else is only its auxiliary; let us

therefore take an attentive look at its na-ture.Combat means fighting, and in this the

1309



destruction or conquest of the enemy is theobject, and the enemy, in the particularcombat, is the armed force which stands op-posed to us.

This is the simple idea; we shall returnto it, but before we can do that we mustinsert a series of others.

If we suppose the State and its mili-tary force as a unit, then the most natural

1310



idea is to imagine the War also as one greatcombat, and in the simple relations of sav-age nations it is also not much otherwise.But our Wars are made up of a number of great and small simultaneous or consecutivecombats, and this severance of the activityinto so many separate actions is owing tothe great multiplicity of the relations out of which War arises with us.

1311



In point of fact, the ultimate object of our Wars the, political one, is not alwaysquite a simple one; and even were it so, stillthe action is bound up with such a numberof conditions and considerations to be takeninto account, that the object can no longerbe attained by one single great act but onlythrough a number of greater or smaller actswhich are bound up into a whole; each of

1312



these separate acts is therefore a part of awhole, and has consequently a special object by which it is bound to this whole.

We have already said that every strate-gic act can be referred to the idea of a com-bat, because it is an employment of the mil-itary force, and at the root of that therealways lies the idea of fighting. We maytherefore reduce every military activity in

1313



the province of Strategy to the unit of sin-gle combats, and occupy ourselves with theobject of these only; we shall get acquaintedwith these special objects by degrees as wecome to speak of the causes which producethem; here we content ourselves with say-ing that every combat, great or small, hasits own peculiar object in subordination tothe main object. If this is the case then,

1314



the destruction and conquest of the enemyis only to be regarded as the means of gain-ing this object; as it unquestionably is.

But this result is true only in its form,and important only on account of the con-nection which the ideas have between them-selves, and we have only sought it out to getrid of it at once.

What is overcoming the enemy? Invari-1315



ably the destruction of his military force,whether it be by death, or wounds, or anymeans; whether it be completely or only tosuch a degree that he can no longer con-tinue the contest; therefore as long as weset aside all special objects of combats, wemay look upon the complete or partial de-struction of the enemy as the only object of all combats.

1316



ancillary object alone should be obtained,only an unimportant part of the purpose of the combat is fulfilled. If this assertion iscorrect, then we see that the idea, accord-ing to which the destruction of the enemy’sforce is only the means, and something elsealways the object, can only be true in form,but, that it would lead to false conclusionsif we did not recollect that this destruction

1318



of the enemy’s force is comprised in thatobject, and that this object is only a weakmodification of it. Forgetfulness of this ledto completely false views before the Warsof the last period, and created tendenciesas well as fragments of systems, in whichtheory thought it raised itself so much themore above handicraft, the less it supposeditself to stand in need of the use of the real

1319



instrument, that is the destruction of theenemy’s force.

Certainly such a system could not havearisen unless supported by other false sup-positions, and unless in place of the de-struction of the enemy, other things hadbeen substituted to which an efficacy wasascribed which did not rightly belong tothem. We shall attack these falsehoods when-

1320



ever occasion requires, but we could nottreat of the combat without claiming for itthe real importance and value which belongto it, and giving warning against the errorsto which merely formal truth might lead.

But now how shall we manage to showthat in most cases, and in those of mostimportance, the destruction of the enemy’sArmy is the chief thing? How shall we man-

1321



age to combat that extremely subtle idea,which supposes it possible, through the useof a special artificial form, to effect by asmall direct destruction of the enemy’s forcesa much greater destruction indirectly, or bymeans of small but extremely well-directedblows to produce such paralysation of theenemy’s forces, such a command over theenemy’s will, that this mode of proceed-

1322



ing is to be viewed as a great shorteningof the road? Undoubtedly a victory at onepoint may be of more value than at another.Undoubtedly there is a scientific arrange-ment of battles amongst themselves, evenin Strategy, which is in fact nothing but theArt of thus arranging them. To deny that isnot our intention, but we assert that the di-rect destruction of the enemy’s forces is ev-

1323



erywhere predominant; we contend here forthe overruling importance of this destruc-tive principle and nothing else.

We must, however, call to mind that weare now engaged with Strategy, not withtactics, therefore we do not speak of themeans which the former may have of de-stroying at a small expense a large bodyof the enemy’s forces, but under direct de-

1324



struction we understand the tactical results,and that, therefore, our assertion is thatonly great tactical results can lead to greatstrategical ones, or, as we have already oncebefore more distinctly expressed it, THETACTICAL SUCCESSES are of paramountimportance in the conduct of War.

The proof of this assertion seems to ussimple enough, it lies in the time which ev-

1325



ery complicated (artificial) combination re-quires. The question whether a simple at-tack, or one more carefully prepared, i.e.,more artificial, will produce greater effects,may undoubtedly be decided in favour of the latter as long as the enemy is assumedto remain quite passive. But every care-fully combined attack requires time for itspreparation, and if a counter- stroke by the

1326



enemy intervenes, our whole design may beupset. Now if the enemy should decide uponsome simple attack, which can be executedin a shorter time, then he gains the initia-tive, and destroys the effect of the greatplan. Therefore, together with the expedi-ency of a complicated attack we must con-sider all the dangers which we run duringits preparation, and should only adopt it

1327



if there is no reason to fear that the en-emy will disconcert our scheme. Wheneverthis is the case we must ourselves choosethe simpler, i.e., quicker way, and lower ourviews in this sense as far as the character,the relations of the enemy, and other cir-cumstances may render necessary. If wequit the weak impressions of abstract ideasand descend to the region of practical life,

1328



then it is evident that a bold, courageous,resolute enemy will not let us have time forwide-reaching skilful combinations, and itis just against such a one we should requireskill the most. By this it appears to us thatthe advantage of simple and direct resultsover those that are complicated is conclu-sively shown.

Our opinion is not on that account that1329



the simple blow is the best, but that wemust not lift the arm too far for the timegiven to strike, and that this condition willalways lead more to direct conflict the morewarlike our opponent is. Therefore, far frommaking it our aim to gain upon the enemyby complicated plans, we must rather seekto be beforehand with him by greater sim-plicity in our designs.

1330



If we seek for the lowest foundation-stonesof these converse propositions we find thatin the one it is ability, in the other, courage.Now, there is something very attractive inthe notion that a moderate degree of courage joined to great ability will produce greatereffects than moderate ability with great courage.But unless we suppose these elements ina disproportionate relation, not logical, we

1331



have no right to assign to ability this advan-tage over courage in a field which is calleddanger, and which must be regarded as thetrue domain of courage.

After this abstract view we shall onlyadd that experience, very far from leadingto a different conclusion, is rather the solecause which has impelled us in this direc-tion, and given rise to such reflections.

1332



as a whole but also in each separate combat,and how that principle suits all the formsand conditions necessarily demanded by therelations out of which War springs, the se-quel will show. For the present all that wedesire is to uphold its general importance,and with this result we return again to thecombat.

1334



CHAPTER IV. THE COM-BAT IN GENERAL (CON-TINUATION)

IN the last chapter we showed the destruc-

tion of the enemy as the true object of thecombat, and we have sought to prove bya special consideration of the point, that

1335



this is true in the majority of cases, and inrespect to the most important battles, be-cause the destruction of the enemy’s Armyis always the preponderating object in War.The other objects which may be mixed upwith this destruction of the enemy’s force,and may have more or less influence, weshall describe generally in the next chap-ter, and become better acquainted with by

1336



degrees afterwards; here we divest the com-bat of them entirely, and look upon the de-struction of the enemy as the complete andsufficient object of any combat.

What are we now to understand by de-struction of the enemy’s Army? A diminu-tion of it relatively greater than that on ourown side. If we have a great superiority innumbers over the enemy, then naturally the

1337



same absolute amount of loss on both sidesis for us a smaller one than for him, andconsequently may be regarded in itself as anadvantage. As we are here considering thecombat as divested of all (other) objects,we must also exclude from our considera-tion the case in which the combat is usedonly indirectly for a greater destruction of the enemy’s force; consequently also, only

1338



that direct gain which has been made inthe mutual process of destruction, is to beregarded as the object, for this is an ab-solute gain, which runs through the wholecampaign, and at the end of it will alwaysappear as pure profit. But every other kindof victory over our opponent will either haveits motive in other objects, which we havecompletely excluded here, or it will only

1339



yield a temporary relative advantage. Anexample will make this plain.

If by a skilful disposition we have re-duced our opponent to such a dilemma, thathe cannot continue the combat without dan-ger, and after some resistance he retires,then we may say, that we have conqueredhim at that point; but if in this victory wehave expended just as many forces as the

1340



enemy, then in closing the account of thecampaign, there is no gain remaining fromthis victory, if such a result can be called avictory. Therefore the overcoming the en-emy, that is, placing him in such a positionthat he must give up the fight, counts fornothing in itself, and for that reason cannotcome under the definition of object. Thereremains, therefore, as we have said, nothing

1341



over except the direct gain which we havemade in the process of destruction; but tothis belong not only the losses which havetaken place in the course of the combat,but also those which, after the withdrawalof the conquered part, take place as directconsequences of the same.

Now it is known by experience, that thelosses in physical forces in the course of a

1342



battle seldom present a great difference be-tween victor and vanquished respectively,often none at all, sometimes even one bear-ing an inverse relation to the result, andthat the most decisive losses on the side of the vanquished only commence with the re-treat, that is, those which the conquerordoes not share with him. The weak re-mains of battalions already in disorder are

1343



cut down by cavalry, exhausted men strewthe ground, disabled guns and broken cais-sons are abandoned, others in the bad stateof the roads cannot be removed quickly enough,and are captured by the enemy’s troops,during the night numbers lose their way,and fall defenceless into the enemy’s hands,and thus the victory mostly gains bodilysubstance after it is already decided. Here

1344



would be a paradox, if it did not solve itself in the following manner.

The loss in physical force is not the onlyone which the two sides suffer in the courseof the combat; the moral forces also areshaken, broken, and go to ruin. It is notonly the loss in men, horses and guns, butin order, courage, confidence, cohesion andplan, which come into consideration when

1345



it is a question whether the fight can be stillcontinued or not. It is principally the moralforces which decide here, and in all cases inwhich the conqueror has lost as heavily asthe conquered, it is these alone.

The comparative relation of the physi-cal losses is difficult to estimate in a battle,but not so the relation of the moral ones.Two things principally make it known. The

1346



one is the loss of the ground on which thefight has taken place, the other the superi-ority of the enemy’s. The more our reserveshave diminished as compared with those of the enemy, the more force we have used tomaintain the equilibrium; in this at once,an evident proof of the moral superiority of the enemy is given which seldom fails to stirup in the soul of the Commander a certain

1347



bitterness of feeling, and a sort of contemptfor his own troops. But the principal thingis, that men who have been engaged for along continuance of time are more or lesslike burnt-out cinders; their ammunition isconsumed; they have melted away to a cer-tain extent; physical and moral energies areexhausted, perhaps their courage is brokenas well. Such a force, irrespective of the

1348



diminution in its number, if viewed as anorganic whole, is very different from whatit was before the combat; and thus it is thatthe loss of moral force may be measured bythe reserves that have been used as if it wereon a foot-rule.

Lost ground and want of fresh reserves,are, therefore, usually the principal causeswhich determine a retreat; but at the same

1349



time we by no means exclude or desire tothrow in the shade other reasons, whichmay lie in the interdependence of parts of the Army, in the general plan, &c.

Every combat is therefore the bloodyand destructive measuring of the strengthof forces, physical and moral; whoever atthe close has the greatest amount of bothleft is the conqueror.

1350



the loss of all order and control often makesthe prolongation of resistance by individualunits, by the further punishment they arecertain to suffer, more injurious than usefulto the whole. The spirit of the mass is bro-ken; the original excitement about losing orwinning, through which danger was forgot-ten, is spent, and to the majority dangernow appears no longer an appeal to their

1352



courage, but rather the endurance of a cruelpunishment. Thus the instrument in thefirst moment of the enemy’s victory is weak-ened and blunted, and therefore no longerfit to repay danger by danger.

This period, however, passes; the moralforces of the conquered will recover by de-grees, order will be restored, courage willrevive, and in the majority of cases there

1353



remains only a small part of the superiorityobtained, often none at all. In some cases,even, although rarely, the spirit of revengeand intensified hostility may bring about anopposite result. On the other hand, what-ever is gained in killed, wounded, prison-ers, and guns captured can never disappearfrom the account.

The losses in a battle consist more in1354



killed and wounded; those after the bat-tle, more in artillery taken and prisoners.The first the conqueror shares with the con-quered, more or less, but the second not;and for that reason they usually only takeplace on one side of the conflict, at least,they are considerably in excess on one side.

Artillery and prisoners are therefore atall times regarded as the true trophies of

1355



victory, as well as its measure, because throughthese things its extent is declared beyond adoubt. Even the degree of moral superioritymay be better judged of by them than byany other relation, especially if the numberof killed and wounded is compared there-with; and here arises a new power increas-ing the moral effects.

We have said that the moral forces, beaten1356



to the ground in the battle and in the imme-diately succeeding movements, recover them-selves gradually, and often bear no traces of injury; this is the case with small divisionsof the whole, less frequently with large divi-sions; it may, however, also be the case withthe main Army, but seldom or never in theState or Government to which the Armybelongs. These estimate the situation more

1357



impartially, and from a more elevated pointof view, and recognise in the number of tro-phies taken by the enemy, and their relationto the number of killed and wounded, onlytoo easily and well, the measure of theirown weakness and inefficiency.

In point of fact, the lost balance of moralpower must not be treated lightly because ithas no absolute value, and because it does

1358



not of necessity appear in all cases in theamount of the results at the final close; itmay become of such excessive weight as tobring down everything with an irresistibleforce. On that account it may often becomea great aim of the operations of which weshall speak elsewhere. Here we have still toexamine some of its fundamental relations.

The moral effect of a victory increases,1359



not merely in proportion to the extent of the forces engaged, but in a progressive ratio–that is to say, not only in extent, but also inits intensity. In a beaten detachment orderis easily restored. As a single frozen limb iseasily revived by the rest of the body, so thecourage of a defeated detachment is easilyraised again by the courage of the rest of the Army as soon as it rejoins it. If, there-

1360



fore, the effects of a small victory are notcompletely done away with, still they arepartly lost to the enemy. This is not thecase if the Army itself sustains a great de-feat; then one with the other fall together.A great fire attains quite a different heatfrom several small ones.

Another relation which determines themoral value of a victory is the numerical

1361



relation of the forces which have been inconflict with each other. To beat manywith few is not only a double success, butshows also a greater, especially a more gen-eral superiority, which the conquered mustalways be fearful of encountering again. Atthe same time this influence is in realityhardly observable in such a case. In themoment of real action, the notions of the

1362



actual strength of the enemy are generallyso uncertain, the estimate of our own com-monly so incorrect, that the party superiorin numbers either does not admit the dis-proportion, or is very far from admittingthe full truth, owing to which, he evades al-most entirely the moral disadvantages whichwould spring from it. It is only hereafterin history that the truth, long suppressed

1363



through ignorance, vanity, or a wise discre-tion, makes its appearance, and then it cer-tainly casts a lustre on the Army and itsLeader, but it can then do nothing more byits moral influence for events long past.

If prisoners and captured guns are thosethings by which the victory principally gainssubstance, its true crystallisations, then theplan of the battle should have those things

1364



specially in view; the destruction of the en-emy by death and wounds appears here merelyas a means to an end.

How far this may influence the disposi-tions in the battle is not an affair of Strat-egy, but the decision to fight the battle is inintimate connection with it, as is shown bythe direction given to our forces, and theirgeneral grouping, whether we threaten the

1365



enemy’s flank or rear, or he threatens ours.On this point, the number of prisoners andcaptured guns depends very much, and it isa point which, in many cases, tactics alonecannot satisfy, particularly if the strategicrelations are too much in opposition to it.

The risk of having to fight on two sides,and the still more dangerous position of hav-ing no line of retreat left open, paralyse the

1366



movements and the power of resistance; fur-ther, in case of defeat, they increase theloss, often raising it to its extreme point,that is, to destruction. Therefore, the rearbeing endangered makes defeat more prob-able, and, at the same time, more decisive.

From this arises, in the whole conduct of the War,especially in great and small com-bats, a perfect instinct to secure our own

1367



line of retreat and to seize that of the en-emy; this follows from the conception of vic-tory, which, as we have seen, is somethingbeyond mere slaughter.

In this effort we see, therefore, the firstimmediate purpose in the combat, and onewhich is quite universal. No combat is imag-inable in which this effort, either in its dou-ble or single form, does not go hand in hand

1368



with the plain and simple stroke of force.Even the smallest troop will not throw it-self upon its enemy without thinking of itsline of retreat, and, in most cases, it willhave an eye upon that of the enemy also.

We should have to digress to show howoften this instinct is prevented from goingthe direct road, how often it must yieldto the difficulties arising from more impor-

1369



tant considerations: we shall, therefore, restcontented with affirming it to be a generalnatural law of the combat.

It is, therefore, active; presses everywherewith its natural weight, and so becomes thepivot on which almost all tactical and strate-gic manoeuvres turn.

If we now take a look at the conceptionof victory as a whole, we find in it three

1370



elements:–1. The greater loss of the enemy in phys-

ical power.2. In moral power.3. His open avowal of this by the relin-

quishment of his intentions.The returns made up on each side of

losses in killed and wounded, are never ex-act, seldom truthful, and in most cases, full

1371



of intentional misrepresentations. Even thestatement of the number of trophies is sel-dom to be quite depended on; consequently,when it is not considerable it may also casta doubt even on the reality of the victory.Of the loss in moral forces there is no reli-able measure, except in the trophies: there-fore, in many cases, the giving up the con-test is the only real evidence of the vic-

1372



tory. It is, therefore, to be regarded asa confession of inferiority–as the loweringof the flag, by which, in this particular in-stance, right and superiority are concededto the enemy, and this degree of humilia-tion and disgrace, which, however, must bedistinguished from all the other moral con-sequences of the loss of equilibrium, is anessential part of the victory. It is this part

1373



alone which acts upon the public opinionoutside the Army, upon the people and theGovernment in both belligerent States, andupon all others in any way concerned.

But renouncement of the general objectis not quite identical with quitting the fieldof battle, even when the battle has beenvery obstinate and long kept up; no one saysof advanced posts, when they retire after

1374



an obstinate combat, that they have givenup their object; even in combats aimed atthe destruction of the enemy’s Army, theretreat from the battlefield is not always tobe regarded as a relinquishment of this aim,as for instance, in retreats planned before-hand, in which the ground is disputed footby foot; all this belongs to that part of oursubject where we shall speak of the sepa-

1375



rate object of the combat; here we only wishto draw attention to the fact that in mostcases the giving up of the object is very diffi-cult to distinguish from the retirement fromthe battlefield, and that the impression pro-duced by the latter, both in and out of theArmy, is not to be treated lightly.

For Generals and Armies whose repu-tation is not made, this is in itself one of

1376



the difficulties in many operations, justi-fied by circumstances when a succession of combats, each ending in retreat, may ap-pear as a succession of defeats, without be-ing so in reality, and when that appearancemay exercise a very depressing influence.It is impossible for the retreating Generalby making known his real intentions to pre-vent the moral effect spreading to the public

1377



and his troops, for to do that with effect hemust disclose his plans completely, whichof course would run counter to his principalinterests to too great a degree.

In order to draw attention to the spe-cial importance of this conception of victorywe shall only refer to the battle of Soor,[ ×] the trophies from which were not impor-tant (a few thousand prisoners and twenty

1378



guns), and where Frederick proclaimed hisvictory by remaining for five days after onthe field of battle, although his retreat intoSilesia had been previously determined on,and was a measure natural to his whole sit-uation. According to his own account, hethought he would hasten a peace by themoral effect of his victory. Now althougha couple of other successes were likewise

1379



required, namely, the battle at KatholischHennersdorf, in Lusatia, and the battle of Kesseldorf, before this peace took place, stillwe cannot say that the moral effect of thebattle of Soor was nil.

[] Soor, or Sohr, Sept. 30, 1745; Hen-nersdorf, Nov. 23, 1745; Kealteldorf, Dec.15, 1745, all in the Second Silesian War.

If it is chiefly the moral force which is1380



shaken by defeat, and if the number of tro-phies reaped by the enemy mounts up toan unusual height, then the lost combat be-comes a rout, but this is not the necessaryconsequence of every victory. A rout onlysets in when the moral force of the defeatedis very severely shaken then there often en-sues a complete incapability of further re-sistance, and the whole action consists of

1381



giving way, that is of flight.Jena and Belle Alliance were routs, but

not so Borodino.Although without pedantry we can here

give no single line of separation, because thedifference between the things is one of de-grees, yet still the retention of the concep-tion is essential as a central point to giveclearness to our theoretical ideas and it is a

1382



want in our terminology that for a victoryover the enemy tantamount to a rout, anda conquest of the enemy only tantamountto a simple victory, there is only one andthe same word to use.

1383



CHAPTER V. ON THE SIG-NIFICATION OF THE COM-BAT

HAVING in the preceding chapter exam-

ined the combat in its absolute form, as theminiature picture of the whole War, we nowturn to the relations which it bears to the

1384



other parts of the great whole. First weinquire what is more precisely the significa-tion of a combat.

As War is nothing else but a mutual pro-cess of destruction, then the most naturalanswer in conception, and perhaps also inreality, appears to be that all the powers of each party unite in one great volume and allresults in one great shock of these masses.

1385



There is certainly much truth in this idea,and it seems to be very advisable that weshould adhere to it and should on that ac-count look upon small combats at first onlyas necessary loss, like the shavings from acarpenter’s plane. Still, however, the thingcannot be settled so easily.

That a multiplication of combats shouldarise from a fractioning of forces is a matter

1386



of course, and the more immediate objectsof separate combats will therefore come be-fore us in the subject of a fractioning of forces; but these objects, and together withthem, the whole mass of combats may in ageneral way be brought under certain classes,and the knowledge of these classes will con-tribute to make our observations more in-telligible.

1387



Destruction of the enemy’s military forcesis in reality the object of all combats; butother objects may be joined thereto, andthese other objects may be at the same timepredominant; we must therefore draw a dis-tinction between those in which the destruc-tion of the enemy’s forces is the principalobject, and those in which it is more themeans. The destruction of the enemy’s force,

1388



the possession of a place or the possessionof some object may be the general motivefor a combat, and it may be either one of these alone or several together, in whichcase however usually one is the principalmotive. Now the two principal forms of War, the offensive and defensive, of whichwe shall shortly speak, do not modify thefirst of these motives, but they certainly do

1389



modify the other two, and therefore if wearrange them in a scheme they would ap-pear thus:–

OFFENSIVE. DEFENSIVE. 1. Destruc-tion of enemy’s 1. Destruction of enemy’sforce. force. 2. Conquest of a place. 2.Defence of a place. 3. Conquest of someobject. 3. Defence of some object.

These motives, however, do not seem to1390



embrace completely the whole of the subject, if we recollect that there are reconnais-sances and demonstrations, in which plainlynone of these three points is the object of the combat. In reality we must, therefore,on this account be allowed a fourth class.Strictly speaking, in reconnaissances in whichwe wish the enemy to show himself, in alarmsby which we wish to wear him out, in demon-

1391



strations by which we wish to prevent hisleaving some point or to draw him off to an-other, the objects are all such as can only beattained indirectly and UNDER THE PRE-TEXT OF ONE OF THE THREE OBJECTSSPECIFIED IN THE TABLE, usually of the second; for the enemy whose aim is toreconnoitre must draw up his force as if hereally intended to attack and defeat us, or

1392



drive us off, &c. &c. But this pretendedobject is not the real one, and our presentquestion is only as to the latter; therefore,we must to the above three objects of the of-fensive further add a fourth, which is to leadthe enemy to make a false conclusion. Thatoffensive means are conceivable in connec-tion with this object, lies in the nature of the thing.

1393



On the other hand we must observe thatthe defence of a place may be of two kinds,either absolute, if as a general question thepoint is not to be given up, or relative if it is only required for a certain time. Thelatter happens perpetually in the combatsof advanced posts and rear guards.

That the nature of these different in-tentions of a combat must have an essen-

1394



tial influence on the dispositions which areits preliminaries, is a thing clear in itself.We act differently if our object is merely todrive an enemy’s post out of its place fromwhat we should if our object was to beathim completely; differently, if we mean todefend a place to the last extremity fromwhat we should do if our design is only todetain the enemy for a certain time. In the

1395



first case we trouble ourselves little aboutthe line of retreat, in the latter it is theprincipal point, &c.

But these reflections belong properly totactics, and are only introduced here by wayof example for the sake of greater clearness.What Strategy has to say on the differentobjects of the combat will appear in thechapters which touch upon these objects.

1396



Here we have only a few general observa-tions to make, first, that the importanceof the object decreases nearly in the or-der as they stand above, therefore, that thefirst of these objects must always predomi-nate in the great battle; lastly, that the twolast in a defensive battle are in reality suchas yield no fruit, they are, that is to say,purely negative, and can, therefore, only be

1397



serviceable, indirectly, by facilitating some-thing else which is positive. IT IS, THERE-FORE, A BAD SIGN OF THE STRATE-GIC SITUATION IF BATTLES OF THISKIND BECOME TOO FREQUENT.

1398



CHAPTER VI. DURATIONOF THE COMBAT

IF we consider the combat no longer in itself but in relation to the other forces of War,

then its duration acquires a special impor-tance.This duration is to be regarded to a cer-

1399



tain extent as a second subordinate success.For the conqueror the combat can never befinished too quickly, for the vanquished itcan never last too long. A speedy victoryindicates a higher power of victory, a tardydecision is, on the side of the defeated, somecompensation for the loss.

This is in general true, but it acquiresa practical importance in its application to

1400



those combats, the object of which is a rel-ative defence.

Here the whole success often lies in themere duration. This is the reason why wehave included it amongst the strategic ele-ments.

The duration of a combat is necessar-ily bound up with its essential relations.These relations are, absolute magnitude of

1401



force, relation of force and of the differentarms mutually, and nature of the country.Twenty thousand men do not wear them-selves out upon one another as quickly astwo thousand: we cannot resist an enemydouble or three times our strength as longas one of the same strength; a cavalry com-bat is decided sooner than an infantry com-bat; and a combat between infantry only,

1402



quicker than if there is artillery[] as well;in hills and forests we cannot advance asquickly as on a level country; all this is clearenough.

[] The increase in the relative range of artillery and the introduction of shrapnelhas altogether modified this conclusion.

From this it follows, therefore, that strength,relation of the three arms, and position,

1403



must be considered if the combat is to ful-fil an object by its duration; but to set upthis rule was of less importance to us in ourpresent considerations than to connect withit at once the chief results which experiencegives us on the subject.

Even the resistance of an ordinary Di-vision of 8000 to 10,000 men of all armseven opposed to an enemy considerably su-

1404



perior in numbers, will last several hours,if the advantages of country are not toopreponderating, and if the enemy is onlya little, or not at all, superior in numbers,the combat will last half a day. A Corpsof three or four Divisions will prolong itto double the time; an Army of 80,000 or100,000 to three or four times. Thereforethe masses may be left to themselves for

1405



that length of time, and no separate combattakes place if within that time other forcescan be brought up, whose co-operation min-gles then at once into one stream with theresults of the combat which has taken place.

These calculations are the result of ex-perience; but it is important to us at thesame time to characterise more particularlythe moment of the decision, and consequently

1406



the termination.

CHAPTER VII. DECISIONOF THE COMBAT

No battle is decided in a single moment, al-though in every battle there arise momentsof crisis, on which the result depends. The

1407



loss of a battle is, therefore, a gradual fallingof the scale. But there is in every combat apoint of time

[] Under the then existing conditions of armament understood. This point is of supremeimportance, as practically the whole con-duct of a great battle depends on a correctsolution of this question–viz., How long cana given command prolong its resistance? If

1408



this is incorrectly answered in practice–thewhole manoeuvre depending on it may collapse–e.g., Kouroupatkin at Liao-Yang, Septem-ber 1904.

when it may be regarded as decided, insuch a way that the renewal of the fightwould be a new battle, not a continuation of the old one. To have a clear notion on thispoint of time, is very important, in order to

1409



be able to decide whether, with the promptassistance of reinforcements, the combat canagain be resumed with advantage.

Often in combats which are beyond restora-tion new forces are sacrificed in vain; oftenthrough neglect the decision has not beenseized when it might easily have been se-cured. Here are two examples, which couldnot be more to the point:

1410



When the Prince of Hohenlohe, in 1806,at Jena,[] with 35,000 men opposed to from60,000 to 70,000, under Buonaparte, hadaccepted battle, and lost it–but lost it insuch a way that the 35,000 might be re-garded as dissolved–General Ruchel under-took to renew the fight with about 12,000;the consequence was that in a moment hisforce was scattered in like manner.

1411



[] October 14, 1806.On the other hand, on the same day

at Auerstadt, the Prussians maintained acombat with 25,000, against Davoust, whohad 28,000, until mid-day, without success,it is true, but still without the force be-ing reduced to a state of dissolution with-out even greater loss than the enemy, whowas very deficient in cavalry;–but they ne-

1412



glected to use the reserve of 18,000, un-der General Kalkreuth, to restore the battlewhich, under these circumstances, it wouldhave been impossible to lose.

Each combat is a whole in which thepartial combats combine themselves into onetotal result. In this total result lies the de-cision of the combat. This success need notbe exactly a victory such as we have de-

1413



noted in the sixth chapter, for often thepreparations for that have not been made,often there is no opportunity if the enemygives way too soon, and in most cases thedecision, even when the resistance has beenobstinate, takes place before such a degreeof success is attained as would completelysatisfy the idea of a victory.

We therefore ask, Which is commonly1414



the moment of the decision, that is to say,that moment when a fresh, effective, of coursenot disproportionate, force, can no longerturn a disadvantageous battle?

If we pass over false attacks, which inaccordance with their nature are properlywithout decision, then

1. If the possession of a movable objectwas the object of the combat, the loss of the

1415



same is always the decision.2. If the possession of ground was the

object of the combat, then the decision gen-erally lies in its loss. Still not always, only if this ground is of peculiar strength, groundwhich is easy to pass over, however impor-tant it may be in other respects, can bere-taken without much danger.

3. But in all other cases, when these1416



two circumstances have not already decidedthe combat, therefore, particularly in casethe destruction of the enemy’s force is theprincipal object, the decision is reached atthat moment when the conqueror ceases tofeel himself in a state of disintegration, thatis, of unserviceableness to a certain extent,when therefore, there is no further advan-tage in using the successive efforts spoken

1417



of in the twelfth chapter of the third book.On this ground we have given the strategicunity of the battle its place here.

A battle, therefore, in which the assailanthas not lost his condition of order and per-fect efficiency at all, or, at least, only in asmall part of his force, whilst the oppos-ing forces are, more or less, disorganisedthroughout, is also not to be retrieved; and

1418



just as little if the enemy has recovered hisefficiency.

The smaller, therefore, that part of aforce is which has really been engaged, thegreater that portion which as reserve hascontributed to the result only by its pres-ence. so much the less will any new forceof the enemy wrest again the victory fromour hands, and that Commander who car-

1419



ries out to the furthest with his Army theprinciple of conducting the combat with thegreatest economy of forces, and making themost of the moral effect of strong reserves,goes the surest way to victory. We must al-low that the French, in modern times, espe-cially when led by Buonaparte, have showna thorough mastery in this.

Further, the moment when the crisis-1420



stage of the combat ceases with the con-queror, and his original state of order is re-stored, takes place sooner the smaller theunit he controls. A picket of cavalry pur-suing an enemy at full gallop will in a fewminutes resume its proper order, and thecrisis ceases. A whole regiment of cavalryrequires a longer time. It lasts still longerwith infantry, if extended in single lines of

1421



skirmishers, and longer again with Divisionsof all arms, when it happens by chance thatone part has taken one direction and an-other part another direction, and the com-bat has therefore caused a loss of the orderof formation, which usually becomes stillworse from no part knowing exactly wherethe other is. Thus, therefore, the point of time when the conqueror has collected the

1422



instruments he has been using, and whichare mixed up and partly out of order, themoment when he has in some measure re-arranged them and put them in their properplaces, and thus brought the battle-workshopinto a little order, this moment, we say, isalways later, the greater the total force.

Again, this moment comes later if nightovertakes the conqueror in the crisis, and,

1423



lastly, it comes later still if the country isbroken and thickly wooded. But with re-gard to these two points, we must observethat night is also a great means of pro-tection, and it is only seldom that circum-stances favour the expectation of a success-ful result from a night attack, as on March10, 1814, at Laon,[] where York against Mar-mont gives us an example completely in place

1424



here. In the same way a wooded and brokencountry will afford protection against a re-action to those who are engaged in the longcrisis of victory. Both, therefore, the nightas well as the wooded and broken countryare obstacles which make the renewal of thesame battle more difficult instead of facili-tating it.

[] The celebrated charge at night upon1425



Marmont’s Corps.Hitherto, we have considered assistance

arriving for the losing side as a mere in-crease of force, therefore, as a reinforcementcoming up directly from the rear, which isthe most usual case. But the case is quitedifferent if these fresh forces come upon theenemy in flank or rear.

On the effect of flank or rear attacks1426



so far as they belong to Strategy, we shallspeak in another place: such a one as wehave here in view, intended for the restora-tion of the combat, belongs chiefly to tac-tics, and is only mentioned because we arehere speaking of tactical results, our ideas,therefore, must trench upon the province of tactics.

By directing a force against the enemy’s1427



flank and rear its efficacy may be much in-tensified; but this is so far from being a nec-essary result always that the efficacy may,on the other hand, be just as much weak-ened. The circumstances under which thecombat has taken place decide upon thispart of the plan as well as upon every other,without our being able to enter thereuponhere. But, at the same time, there are in

1428



it two things of importance for our subject: first, FLANK AND REAR ATTACKSHAVE, AS A RULE, A MORE FAVOURABLEEFFECT ON THE CONSEQUENCES OFTHE DECISION THAN UPON THE DE-CISION ITSELF. Now as concerns the re-trieving a battle, the first thing to be ar-rived at above all is a favourable decisionand not magnitude of success. In this view

1429



one would therefore think that a force whichcomes to re-establish our combat is of lessassistance if it falls upon the enemy in flankand rear, therefore separated from us, thanif it joins itself to us directly; certainly, casesare not wanting where it is so, but we mustsay that the majority are on the other side,and they are so on account of the secondpoint which is here important to us.

1430



This second point IS THE MORAL EF-FECT OF THE SURPRISE, WHICH, ASA RULE, A REINFORCEMENT COMINGUP TO RE-ESTABLISH A COMBAT HASGENERALLY IN ITS FAVOUR. Now theeffect of a surprise is always heightened if it takes place in the flank or rear, and anenemy completely engaged in the crisis of victory in his extended and scattered or-

1431



der, is less in a state to counteract it. Whodoes not feel that an attack in flank or rear,which at the commencement of the battle,when the forces are concentrated and pre-pared for such an event would be of littleimportance, gains quite another weight inthe last moment of the combat.

We must, therefore, at once admit thatin most cases a reinforcement coming up on

1432



the flank or rear of the enemy will be moreefficacious, will be like the same weight atthe end of a longer lever, and therefore thatunder these circumstances, we may under-take to restore the battle with the sameforce which employed in a direct attack wouldbe quite insufficient. Here results almostdefy calculation, because the moral forcesgain completely the ascendency. This is

1433



therefore the right field for boldness anddaring.

The eye must, therefore, be directed onall these objects, all these moments of co-operating forces must be taken into consid-eration, when we have to decide in doubt-ful cases whether or not it is still possibleto restore a combat which has taken an un-favourable turn.

1434



If the combat is to be regarded as notyet ended, then the new contest which isopened by the arrival of assistance fusesinto the former; therefore they flow togetherinto one common result, and the first disad-vantage vanishes completely out of the cal-culation. But this is not the case if the com-bat was already decided; then there are tworesults separate from each other. Now if the

1435



assistance which arrives is only of a relativestrength, that is, if it is not in itself alonea match for the enemy, then a favourableresult is hardly to be expected from thissecond combat: but if it is so strong thatit can undertake the second combat with-out regard to the first, then it may be ableby a favourable issue to compensate or evenoverbalance the first combat, but never to

1436



make it disappear altogether from the ac-count.

At the battle of Kunersdorf,[] Frederickthe Great at the first onset carried the leftof the Russian position, and took seventypieces of artillery; at the end of the battleboth were lost again, and the whole resultof the first combat was wiped out of theaccount. Had it been possible to stop at

1437



the first success, and to put off the secondpart of the battle to the coming day, then,even if the King had lost it, the advantagesof the first would always have been a set off to the second.

[] August 12, 1759.But when a battle proceeding disadvan-

tageously is arrested and turned before itsconclusion, its minus result on our side not

1438



only disappears from the account, but alsobecomes the foundation of a greater vic-tory. If, for instance, we picture to our-selves exactly the tactical course of the bat-tle, we may easily see that until it is fi-nally concluded all successes in partial com-bats are only decisions in suspense, whichby the capital decision may not only bedestroyed, but changed into the opposite.

1439



The more our forces have suffered, the morethe enemy will have expended on his side;the greater, therefore, will be the crisis forthe enemy, and the more the superiority of our fresh troops will tell. If now the to-tal result turns in our favour, if we wrestfrom the enemy the field of battle and re-cover all the trophies again, then all theforces which he has sacrificed in obtaining

1440



them become sheer gain for us, and our for-mer defeat becomes a stepping-stone to agreater triumph. The most brilliant featswhich with victory the enemy would haveso highly prized that the loss of forces whichthey cost would have been disregarded, leavenothing now behind but regret at the sac-rifice entailed. Such is the alteration whichthe magic of victory and the curse of defeat

1441



produces in the specific weight of the sameelements.

Therefore, even if we are decidedly su-perior in strength, and are able to repay theenemy his victory by a greater still, it is al-ways better to forestall the conclusion of adisadvantageous combat, if it is of propor-tionate importance, so as to turn its courserather than to deliver a second battle.

1442



Field-Marshal Daun attempted in theyear 1760 to come to the assistance of Gen-eral Laudon at Leignitz, whilst the battlelasted; but when he failed, he did not at-tack the King next day, although he did notwant for means to do so.

For these reasons serious combats of ad-vance guards which precede a battle are tobe looked upon only as necessary evils, and

1443



when not necessary they are to be avoided.[×]

[] This, however, was not Napoleon’s view.A vigorous attack of his advance guard heheld to be necessary always, to fix the en-emy’s attention and ”paralyse his indepen-dent will-power.” It was the failure to makethis point which, in August 1870, led vonMoltke repeatedly into the very jaws of de-

1444



feat, from which only the lethargy of Bazaineon the one hand and the initiative of hissubordinates, notably of von Alvensleben,rescued him. This is the essence of the newStrategic Doctrine of the French GeneralStaff. See the works of Bonnal, Foch, &C.–EDITOR

We have still another conclusion to ex-amine.

1445



If on a regular pitched battle, the deci-sion has gone against one, this does not con-stitute a motive for determining on a newone. The determination for this new onemust proceed from other relations. Thisconclusion, however, is opposed by a moralforce, which we must take into account: itis the feeling of rage and revenge. Fromthe oldest Field-Marshal to the youngest

1446



drummer-boy this feeling is general, and,therefore, troops are never in better spiritsfor fighting than when they have to wipeout a stain. This is, however, only on thesupposition that the beaten portion is nottoo great in proportion to the whole, be-cause otherwise the above feeling is lost inthat of powerlessness.

There is therefore a very natural ten-1447



dency to use this moral force to repair thedisaster on the spot, and on that accountchiefly to seek another battle if other cir-cumstances permit. It then lies in the na-ture of the case that this second battle mustbe an offensive one.

In the catalogue of battles of second-rateimportance there are many examples to befound of such retaliatory battles; but great

1448



battles have generally too many other de-termining causes to be brought on by thisweaker motive.

Such a feeling must undoubtedly haveled the noble Bluecher with his third Corpsto the field of battle on February 14, 1814,when the other two had been beaten threedays before at Montmirail. Had he knownthat he would have come upon Buonaparte

1449



in person, then, naturally, preponderatingreasons would have determined him to putoff his revenge to another day: but he hopedto revenge himself on Marmont, and insteadof gaining the reward of his desire for hon-ourable satisfaction, he suffered the penaltyof his erroneous calculation.

On the duration of the combat and themoment of its decision depend the distances

1450



from each other at which those masses shouldbe placed which are intended to fight INCONJUNCTION WITH each other. Thisdisposition would be a tactical arrangementin so far as it relates to one and the samebattle; it can, however, only be regarded assuch, provided the position of the troops isso compact that two separate combats can-not be imagined, and consequently that the

1451



space which the whole occupies can be re-garded strategically as a mere point. Butin War, cases frequently occur where eventhose forces intended to fight IN UNISONmust be so far separated from each otherthat while their union for one common com-bat certainly remains the principal object,still the occurrence of separate combats re-mains possible. Such a disposition is there-

1452



fore strategic.Dispositions of this kind are: marches

in separate masses and columns, the forma-tion of advance guards, and flanking columns,also the grouping of reserves intended toserve as supports for more than one strate-gic point; the concentration of several Corpsfrom widely extended cantonments, &c. &c.We can see that the necessity for these ar-

1453



rangements may constantly arise, and mayconsider them something like the small changein the strategic economy, whilst the capitalbattles, and all that rank with them are thegold and silver pieces.

1454



CHAPTER VIII. MUTUALUNDERSTANDING AS TOA BATTLE

NO battle can take place unless by mutual

consent; and in this idea, which constitutesthe whole basis of a duel, is the root of acertain phraseology used by historical writ-

1455



ers, which leads to many indefinite and falseconceptions.

According to the view of the writers towhom we refer, it has frequently happenedthat one Commander has offered battle tothe other, and the latter has not acceptedit.

But the battle is a very modified duel,and its foundation is not merely in the mu-

1456



tual wish to fight, that is in consent, but inthe objects which are bound up with thebattle: these belong always to a greaterwhole, and that so much the more, as eventhe whole war considered as a ”combat-unit”has political objects and conditions whichbelong to a higher standpoint. The meredesire to conquer each other therefore fallsinto quite a subordinate relation, or rather

1457



it ceases completely to be anything of itself,and only becomes the nerve which conveysthe impulse of action from the higher will.

Amongst the ancients, and then againduring the early period of standing Armies,the expression that we had offered battle tothe enemy in vain, had more sense in it thanit has now. By the ancients everything wasconstituted with a view to measuring each

1458



other’s strength in the open field free fromanything in the nature of a hindrance,[×] and the whole Art of War consisted in theorganisation, and formation of the Army,that is in the order of battle.

[] Note the custom of sending formalchallenges, fix time and place for action,and ”enhazelug” the battlefield in Anglo-Saxon times.–ED,

1459



Now as their Armies regularly entrenchedthemselves in their camps, therefore the po-sition in a camp was regarded as somethingunassailable, and a battle did not becomepossible until the enemy left his camp, andplaced himself in a practicable country, asit were entered the lists.

If therefore we hear about Hannibal hav-ing offered battle to Fabius in vain, that

1460



tells us nothing more as regards the latterthan that a battle was not part of his plan,and in itself neither proves the physical normoral superiority of Hannibal; but with re-spect to him the expression is still correctenough in the sense that Hannibal reallywished a battle.

In the early period of modern Armies,the relations were similar in great combats

1461



and battles. That is to say, great masseswere brought into action, and managed through-out it by means of an order of battle, whichlike a great helpless whole required a moreor less level plain and was neither suitedto attack, nor yet to defence in a broken,close or even mountainous country. The de-fender therefore had here also to some ex-tent the means of avoiding battle. These re-

1462



lations although gradually becoming modi-fied, continued until the first Silesian War,and it was not until the Seven Years’ Warthat attacksan enemy posted in a difficultcountry gradually became feasible, and of ordinary occurrence: ground did not cer-tainly cease to be a principle of strength tothose making use of its aid, but it was nolonger a charmed circle, which shut out the

1463



natural forces of War.During the past thirty years War has

perfected itself much more in this respect,and there is no longer anything which standsin the way of a General who is in earnestabout a decision by means of battle; he canseek out his enemy, and attack him: if hedoes not do so he cannot take credit for hav-ing wished to fight, and the expression he

1464



offered a battle which his opponent did notaccept, therefore now means nothing morethan that he did not find circumstances ad-vantageous enough for a battle, an admis-sion which the above expression does notsuit, but which it only strives to throw aveil over.

It is true the defensive side can no longerrefuse a battle, yet he may still avoid it by

1465



giving up his position, and the role withwhich that position was connected: this ishowever half a victory for the offensive side,and an acknowledgment of his superiorityfor the present.

This idea in connection with the cartelof defiance can therefore no longer be madeuse of in order by such rhodomontade toqualify the inaction of him whose part it is

1466



to advance, that is, the offensive. The de-fender who as long as he does not give way,must have the credit of willing the battle,may certainly say, he has offered it if he isnot attacked, if that is not understood of itself.

But on the other hand, he who now wishesto, and can retreat cannot easily be forcedto give battle. Now as the advantages to the

1467



aggressor from this retreat are often not suf-ficient, and a substantial victory is a matterof urgent necessity for him, in that way thefew means which there are to compel suchan opponent also to give battle are oftensought for and applied with particular skill.

The principal means for this are–firstSURROUNDING the enemy so as to makehis retreat impossible, or at least so diffi-

1468



cult that it is better for him to accept bat-tle; and, secondly, SURPRISING him. Thislast way, for which there was a motive for-merly in the extreme difficulty of all move-ments, has become in modern times veryinefficacious.

From the pliability and manoeuvring ca-pabilities of troops in the present day, onedoes not hesitate to commence a retreat

1469



even in sight of the enemy, and only somespecial obstacles in the nature of the coun-try can cause serious difficulties in the op-eration.

As an example of this kind the battleof Neresheim may be given, fought by theArchduke Charles with Moreau in the RauheAlp, August 11, 1796, merely with a viewto facilitate his retreat, although we freely

1470



confess we have never been able quite tounderstand the argument of the renownedgeneral and author himself in this case.

The battle of Rosbach[] is another ex-ample, if we suppose the commander of theallied army had not really the intention of attacking Frederick the Great.

[] November 5, 1757.Of the battle of Soor,[] the King himself

1471



says that it was only fought because a re-treat in the presence of the enemy appearedto him a critical operation; at the same timethe King has also given other reasons for thebattle.

[] Or Sohr, September 30, 1745.On the whole, regular night surprises ex-

cepted, such cases will always be of rare oc-currence, and those in which an enemy is

1472



compelled to fight by being practically sur-rounded, will happen mostly to single corpsonly, like Mortier’s at Durrenstein 1809, andVandamme at Kulm, 1813.

1473



CHAPTER IX. THE BATTLE[×]

[] Clausewitz still uses the word ”die Hauptschlacht”but modern usage employs only the word

”die Schlacht” to designate the decisive actof a whole campaign–encounters arising fromthe collision or troops marching towards the

1474



strategic culmination of each portion or thecampaign are spoken of either as ”Treffen,”i.e., ”engagements” or ”Gefecht,” i.e., ”com-bat” or ”action.” Thus technically, Grav-elotte was a ”Schlacht,” i.e., ”battle,” butSpicheren, Woerth, Borny, even Vionvillewere only ”Treffen.”

ITS DECISIONWHAT is a battle? A conflict of the

1475



main body, but not an unimportant oneabout a secondary object, not a mere at-tempt which is given up when we see be-times that our object is hardly within ourreach: it is a conflict waged with all ourforces for the attainment of a decisive vic-tory.

Minor objects may also be mixed up withthe principal object, and it will take many

1476



different tones of colour from the circum-stances out of which it originates, for a bat-tle belongs also to a greater whole of whichit is only a part, but because the essence of War is conflict, and the battle is the con-flict of the main Armies, it is always to beregarded as the real centre of gravity of theWar, and therefore its distinguishing char-acter is, that unlike all other encounters,

1477



it is arranged for, and undertaken with thesole purpose of obtaining a decisive victory.

This has an influence on the MANNEROF ITS DECISION, on the EFFECT OFTHE VICTORY CONTAINED IN IT, anddetermines THE VALUE WHICH THEORYIS TO ASSIGN TO IT AS A MEANS TOAN END.

On that account we make it the sub-1478



ject of our special consideration, and at thisstage before we enter upon the special endswhich may be bound up with it, but whichdo not essentially alter its character if it re-ally deserves to be termed a battle.

If a battle takes place principally on itsown account, the elements of its decisionmust be contained in itself; in other words,victory must be striven for as long as a pos-

1479



sibility or hope remains. It must not, there-fore, be given up on account of secondarycircumstances, but only and alone in theevent of the forces appearing completely in-sufficient.

Now how is that precise moment to bedescribed?

If a certain artificial formation and co-hesion of an Army is the principal condi-

1480



tion under which the bravery of the troopscan gain a victory, as was the case duringa great part of the period of the modernArt of War, THEN THE BREAKING UPOF THIS FORMATION is the decision. Abeaten wing which is put out of joint de-cides the fate of all that was connected withit. If as was the case at another time theessence of the defence consists in an inti-

1481



mate alliance of the Army with the groundon which it fights and its obstacles, so thatArmy and position are only one, then theCONQUEST of AN ESSENTIAL POINTin this position is the decision. It is saidthe key of the position is lost, it cannottherefore be defended any further; the bat-tle cannot be continued. In both cases thebeaten Armies are very much like the bro-

1482



ken strings of an instrument which cannotdo their work.

That geometrical as well as this geo-graphical principle which had a tendencyto place an Army in a state of crystallisingtension which did not allow of the availablepowers being made use of up to the lastman, have at least so far lost their influencethat they no longer predominate. Armies

1483



are still led into battle in a certain order,but that order is no longer of decisive im-portance; obstacles of ground are also stillturned to account to strengthen a position,but they are no longer the only support.

We attempted in the second chapter of this book to take a general view of the na-ture of the modern battle. According to ourconception of it, the order of battle is only

1484



a disposition of the forces suitable to theconvenient use of them, and the course of the battle a mutual slow wearing away of these forces upon one another, to see whichwill have soonest exhausted his adversary.

The resolution therefore to give up thefight arises, in a battle more than in anyother combat, from the relation of the freshreserves remaining available; for only these

1485



still retain all their moral vigour, and thecinders of the battered, knocked-about bat-talions, already burnt out in the destroyingelement, must not be placed on a level withthem; also lost ground as we have elsewheresaid, is a standard of lost moral force; ittherefore comes also into account, but moreas a sign of loss suffered than for the lossitself, and the number of fresh reserves is

1486



always the chief point to be looked at byboth Commanders.

In general, an action inclines in one di-rection from the very commencement, butin a manner little observable. This direc-tion is also frequently given in a very de-cided manner by the arrangements whichhave been made previously, and then it showsa want of discernment in that General who

1487



commences battle under these unfavourablecircumstances without being aware of them.Even when this does not occur it lies in thenature of things that the course of a battleresembles rather a slow disturbance of equi-librium which commences soon, but as wehave said almost imperceptibly at first, andthen with each moment of time becomesstronger and more visible, than an oscillat-

1488



ing to and fro, as those who are misled bymendacious descriptions usually suppose.

But whether it happens that the bal-ance is for a long time little disturbed, orthat even after it has been lost on one sideit rights itself again, and is then lost on theother side, it is certain at all events that inmost instances the defeated General fore-sees his fate long before he retreats, and

1489



that cases in which some critical event actswith unexpected force upon the course of the whole have their existence mostly in thecolouring with which every one depicts hislost battle.

We can only here appeal to the decisionof unprejudiced men of experience, who will,we are sure, assent to what we have said,and answer for us to such of our readers

1490



as do not know War from their own experi-ence. To develop the necessity of this coursefrom the nature of the thing would lead ustoo far into the province of tactics, to whichthis branch of the subject belongs; we arehere only concerned with its results.

If we say that the defeated General fore-sees the unfavourable result usually sometime before he makes up his mind to give

1491



up the battle, we admit that there are alsoinstances to the contrary, because other-wise we should maintain a proposition con-tradictory in itself. If at the moment of each decisive tendency of a battle it shouldbe considered as lost, then also no furtherforces should be used to give it a turn, andconsequently this decisive tendency couldnot precede the retreat by any length of

1492



time. Certainly there are instances of bat-tles which after having taken a decided turnto one side have still ended in favour of theother; but they are rare, not usual; these ex-ceptional cases, however, are reckoned uponby every General against whom fortune de-clares itself, and he must reckon upon themas long as there remains a possibility of aturn of fortune. He hopes by stronger ef-

1493



forts, by raising the remaining moral forces,by surpassing himself, or also by some for-tunate chance that the next moment willbring a change, and pursues this as far ashis courage and his judgment can agree. Weshall have something more to say on thissubject, but before that we must show whatare the signs of the scales turning.

The result of the whole combat consists1494



in the sum total of the results of all partialcombats; but these results of separate com-bats are settled by different considerations.

First by the pure moral power in themind of the leading officers. If a Generalof Division has seen his battalions forcedto succumb, it will have an influence onhis demeanour and his reports, and theseagain will have an influence on the measures

1495



of the Commander-in-Chief; therefore eventhose unsuccessful partial combats which toall appearance are retrieved, are not lostin their results, and the impressions fromthem sum themselves up in the mind of the Commander without much trouble, andeven against his will.

Secondly, by the quicker melting awayof our troops, which can be easily estimated

1496



in the slow and relatively[] little tumultuarycourse of our battles.

[] Relatively, that is say to the shock of former days.

Thirdly, by lost ground.All these things serve for the eye of the

General as a compass to tell the course of the battle in which he is embarked. If wholebatteries have been lost and none of the en-

1497



emy’s taken; if battalions have been over-thrown by the enemy’s cavalry, whilst thoseof the enemy everywhere present impene-trable masses; if the line of fire from hisorder of battle wavers involuntarily fromone point to another; if fruitless efforts havebeen made to gain certain points, and theassaulting battalions each, time been scat-tered by well-directed volleys of grape and

1498



case;–if our artillery begins to reply feeblyto that of the enemy–if the battalions underfire diminish unusually, fast, because withthe wounded crowds of unwounded men goto the rear;–if single Divisions have been cutoff and made prisoners through the disrup-tion of the plan of the battle;–if the line of retreat begins to be endangered: the Com-mander may tell very well in which direc-

1499



tion he is going with his battle. The longerthis direction continues, the more decidedit becomes, so much the more difficult willbe the turning, so much the nearer the mo-ment when he must give up the battle. Weshall now make some observations on thismoment.

We have already said more than oncethat the final decision is ruled mostly by

1500



the relative number of the fresh reserves re-maining at the last; that Commander whosees his adversary is decidedly superior tohim in this respect makes up his mind toretreat. It is the characteristic of modernbattles that all mischances and losses whichtake place in the course of the same canbe retrieved by fresh forces, because the ar-rangement of the modern order of battle,

1501



and the way in which troops are broughtinto action, allow of their use almost gen-erally, and in each position. So long, there-fore, as that Commander against whom theissue seems to declare itself still retains a su-periority in reserve force, he will not give upthe day. But from the moment that his re-serves begin to become weaker than his en-emy’s, the decision may be regarded as set-

1502



tled, and what he now does depends partlyon special circumstances, partly on the de-gree of courage and perseverance which hepersonally possesses, and which may degen-erate into foolish obstinacy. How a Com-mander can attain to the power of estimat-ing correctly the still remaining reserves onboth sides is an affair of skilful practicalgenius, which does not in any way belong

1503



to this place; we keep ourselves to the re-sult as it forms itself in his mind. But thisconclusion is still not the moment of deci-sion properly, for a motive which only arisesgradually does not answer to that, but isonly a general motive towards resolution,and the resolution itself requires still somespecial immediate causes. Of these thereare two chief ones which constantly recur,

1504



that is, the danger of retreat, and the ar-rival of night.

If the retreat with every new step whichthe battle takes in its course becomes con-stantly in greater danger, and if the reservesare so much diminished that they are nolonger adequate to get breathing room, thenthere is nothing left but to submit to fate,and by a well-conducted retreat to save what,

1505



by a longer delay ending in flight and dis-aster, would be lost.

But night as a rule puts an end to allbattles, because a night combat holds outno hope of advantage except under partic-ular circumstances; and as night is bettersuited for a retreat than the day, so, there-fore, the Commander who must look at theretreat as a thing inevitable, or as most

1506



probable, will prefer to make use of the nightfor his purpose.

That there are, besides the above twousual and chief causes, yet many others also,which are less or more individual and not tobe overlooked, is a matter of course; for themore a battle tends towards a complete up-set of equilibrium the more sensible is theinfluence of each partial result in hastening

1507



the turn. Thus the loss of a battery, a suc-cessful charge of a couple of regiments of cavalry, may call into life the resolution toretreat already ripening.

As a conclusion to this subject, we mustdwell for a moment on the point at whichthe courage of the Commander engages ina sort of conflict with his reason.

If, on the one hand the overbearing pride1508



of a victorious conqueror, if the inflexiblewill of a naturally obstinate spirit, if thestrenuous resistance of noble feelings willnot yield the battlefield, where they mustleave their honour, yet on the other hand,reason counsels not to give up everything,not to risk the last upon the game, but toretain as much over as is necessary for anorderly retreat. However highly we must

1509



esteem courage and firmness in War, andhowever little prospect there is of victoryto him who cannot resolve to seek it bythe exertion of all his power, still there is apoint beyond which perseverance can onlybe termed desperate folly, and therefore canmeet with no approbation from any critic.In the most celebrated of all battles, that of Belle-Alliance, Buonaparte used his last re-

1510



serve in an effort to retrieve a battle whichwas past being retrieved. He spent his lastfarthing, and then, as a beggar, abandonedboth the battle-field and his crown.

1511



CHAPTER X. EFFECTSOF VICTORY (continua-tion)

ACCORDING to the point from which our

view is taken, we may feel as much aston-ished at the extraordinary results of somegreat battles as at the want of results in

1512



others. We shall dwell for a moment on thenature of the effect of a great victory.

Three things may easily be distinguishedhere: the effect upon the instrument itself,that is, upon the Generals and their Armies;the effect upon the States interested in theWar; and the particular result of these ef-fects as manifested in the subsequent courseof the campaign.

1513



If we only think of the trifling differencewhich there usually is between victor andvanquished in killed, wounded, prisoners,and artillery lost on the field of battle itself,the consequences which are developed outof this insignificant point seem often quiteincomprehensible, and yet, usually, every-thing only happens quite naturally.

We have already said in the seventh chap-1514



ter that the magnitude of a victory increasesnot merely in the same measure as the van-quished forces increase in number, but ina higher ratio. The moral effects resultingfrom the issue of a great battle are greateron the side of the conquered than on thatof the conqueror: they lead to greater lossesin physical force, which then in turn reacton the moral element, and so they go on

1515



mutually supporting and intensifying eachother. On this moral effect we must there-fore lay special weight. It takes an oppositedirection on the one side from that on theother; as it undermines the energies of theconquered so it elevates the powers and en-ergy of the conqueror. But its chief effect isupon the vanquished, because here it is thedirect cause of fresh losses, and besides it is

1516



homogeneous in nature with danger, withthe fatigues, the hardships, and generallywith all those embarrassing circumstancesby which War is surrounded, therefore en-ters into league with them and increasesby their help, whilst with the conqueror allthese things are like weights which give ahigher swing to his courage. It is thereforefound, that the vanquished sinks much fur-

1517



ther below the original line of equilibriumthan the conqueror raises himself above it;on this account, if we speak of the effects of victory we allude more particularly to thosewhich manifest themselves in the army. If this effect is more powerful in an impor-tant combat than in a smaller one, so againit is much more powerful in a great battlethan in a minor one. The great battle takes

1518



place for the sake of itself, for the sake of the victory which it is to give, and whichis sought for with the utmost effort. Hereon this spot, in this very hour, to conquerthe enemy is the purpose in which the planof the War with all its threads converges,in which all distant hopes, all dim glimmer-ings of the future meet, fate steps in beforeus to give an answer to the bold question.–

1519



This is the state of mental tension not onlyof the Commander but of his whole Armydown to the lowest waggon-driver, no doubtin decreasing strength but also in decreas-ing importance.

According to the nature of the thing, agreat battle has never at any time been anunprepared, unexpected, blind routine ser-vice, but a grand act, which, partly of itself

1520



and partly from the aim of the Commander,stands out from amongst the mass of ordi-nary efforts, sufficiently to raise the tensionof all minds to a higher degree. But thehigher this tension with respect to the is-sue, the more powerful must be the effectof that issue.

Again, the moral effect of victory in ourbattles is greater than it was in the earlier

1521



ones of modern military history. If the for-mer are as we have depicted them, a realstruggle of forces to the utmost, then thesum total of all these forces, of the physicalas well as the moral, must decide more thancertain special dispositions or mere chance.

A single fault committed may be repairednext time; from good fortune and chance wecan hope for more favour on another occa-

1522



sion; but the sum total of moral and phys-ical powers cannot be so quickly altered,and, therefore, what the award of a victoryhas decided appears of much greater impor-tance for all futurity. Very probably, of allconcerned in battles, whether in or out of the Army, very few have given a thought tothis difference, but the course of the battleitself impresses on the minds of all present

1523



in it such a conviction, and the relation of this course in public documents, howevermuch it may be coloured by twisting par-ticular circumstances, shows also, more orless, to the world at large that the causeswere more of a general than of a particularnature.

He who has not been present at the lossof a great battle will have difficulty in form-

1524



ing for himself a living or quite true idea of it, and the abstract notions of this or thatsmall untoward affair will never come up tothe perfect conception of a lost battle. Letus stop a moment at the picture.

The first thing which overpowers the imagination–and we may indeed say, also the understanding–is the diminution of the masses; then theloss of ground, which takes place always,

1525



more or less, and, therefore, on the sideof the assailant also, if he is not fortunate;then the rupture of the original formation,the jumbling together of troops, the risks of retreat, which, with few exceptions may al-ways be seen sometimes in a less sometimesin a greater degree; next the retreat, themost part of which commences at night, or,at least, goes on throughout the night. On

1526



this first march we must at once leave be-hind, a number of men completely worn outand scattered about, often just the bravest,who have been foremost in the fight whoheld out the longest: the feeling of beingconquered, which only seized the superiorofficers on the battlefield, now spreads throughall ranks, even down to the common sol-diers, aggravated by the horrible idea of be-

1527



ing obliged to leave in the enemy’s hands somany brave comrades, who but a momentsince were of such value to us in the bat-tle, and aggravated by a rising distrust of the chief, to whom, more or less, every sub-ordinate attributes as a fault the fruitlessefforts he has made; and this feeling of be-ing conquered is no ideal picture over whichone might become master; it is an evident

1528



truth that the enemy is superior to us; atruth of which the causes might have beenso latent before that they were not to bediscovered, but which, in the issue, comesout clear and palpable, or which was also,perhaps, before suspected, but which in thewant of any certainty, we had to oppose bythe hope of chance, reliance on good for-tune, Providence or a bold attitude. Now,

1529



all this has proved insufficient, and the bit-ter truth meets us harsh and imperious.

All these feelings are widely different froma panic, which in an army fortified by mil-itary virtue never, and in any other, onlyexceptionally, follows the loss of a battle.They must arise even in the best of Armies,and although long habituation to War andvictory together with great confidence in a

1530



Commander may modify them a little hereand there, they are never entirely wantingin the first moment. They are not the pureconsequences of lost trophies; these are usu-ally lost at a later period, and the loss of them does not become generally known soquickly; they will therefore not fail to ap-pear even when the scale turns in the slow-est and most gradual manner, and they con-

1531



stitute that effect of a victory upon whichwe can always count in every case.

We have already said that the numberof trophies intensifies this effect.

It is evident that an Army in this con-dition, looked at as an instrument, is weak-ened! How can we expect that when re-duced to such a degree that, as we said be-fore, it finds new enemies in all the ordinary

1532



difficulties of making War, it will be able torecover by fresh efforts what has been lost!Before the battle there was a real or as-sumed equilibrium between the two sides;this is lost, and, therefore, some externalassistance is requisite to restore it; everynew effort without such external supportcan only lead to fresh losses.

Thus, therefore, the most moderate vic-1533



tory of the chief Army must tend to causea constant sinking of the scale on the op-ponent’s side, until new external circum-stances bring about a change. If these arenot near, if the conqueror is an eager op-ponent, who, thirsting for glory, pursuesgreat aims, then a first-rate Commander,and in the beaten Army a true militaryspirit, hardened by many campaigns are re-

1534



quired, in order to stop the swollen streamof prosperity from bursting all bounds, andto moderate its course by small but reit-erated acts of resistance, until the force of victory has spent itself at the goal of its ca-reer.

And now as to the effect of defeat be-yond the Army, upon the Nation and Gov-ernment! It is the sudden collapse of hopes

1535



stretched to the utmost, the downfall of allself-reliance. In place of these extinct forces,fear, with its destructive properties of ex-pansion, rushes into the vacuum left, andcompletes the prostration. It is a real shockupon the nerves, which one of the two ath-letes receives from the electric spark of vic-tory. And that effect, however different inits degrees, is never completely wanting. In-

1536



stead of every one hastening with a spiritof determination to aid in repairing the dis-aster, every one fears that his efforts willonly be in vain, and stops, hesitating withhimself, when he should rush forward; or indespondency he lets his arm drop, leavingeverything to fate.

The consequence which this effect of vic-tory brings forth in the course of the War

1537



itself depend in part on the character andtalent of the victorious General, but moreon the circumstances from which the vic-tory proceeds, and to which it leads. With-out boldness and an enterprising spirit onthe part of the leader, the most brilliantvictory will lead to no great success, andits force exhausts itself all the sooner on cir-cumstances, if these offer a strong and stub-

1538



born opposition to it. How very differentlyfrom Daun, Frederick the Great would haveused the victory at Kollin; and what differ-ent consequences France, in place of Prus-sia, might have given a battle of Leuthen!

The conditions which allow us to expectgreat results from a great victory we shalllearn when we come to the subjects withwhich they are connected; then it will be

1539



possible to explain the disproportion whichappears at first sight between the magni-tude of a victory and its results, and whichis only too readily attributed to a want of energy on the part of the conqueror. Here,where we have to do with the great bat-tle in itself, we shall merely say that theeffects now depicted never fail to attend avictory, that they mount up with the inten-

1540



sive strength of the victory–mount up morethe more the whole strength of the Armyhas been concentrated in it, the more thewhole military power of the Nation is con-tained in that Army, and the State in thatmilitary power.

But then the question may be asked,Can theory accept this effect of victory asabsolutely necessary?–must it not rather en-

1541



deavour to find out counteracting means ca-pable of neutralising these effects? It seemsquite natural to answer this question in theaffirmative; but heaven defend us from tak-ing that wrong course of most theories, outof which is begotten a mutually devouringPro et Contra.

Certainly that effect is perfectly neces-sary, for it has its foundation in the na-

1542



ture of things, and it exists, even if we findmeans to struggle against it; just as the mo-tion of a cannon ball is always in the direc-tion of the terrestrial, although when firedfrom east to west part of the general veloc-ity is destroyed by this opposite motion.

All War supposes human weakness, andagainst that it is directed.

Therefore, if hereafter in another place1543



we examine what is to be done after the lossof a great battle, if we bring under reviewthe resources which still remain, even in themost desperate cases, if we should expressa belief in the possibility of retrieving all,even in such a case; it must not be sup-posed we mean thereby that the effects of such a defeat can by degrees be completelywiped out, for the forces and means used

1544



to repair the disaster might have been ap-plied to the realisation of some positive object; and this applies both to the moral andphysical forces.

Another question is, whether, throughthe loss of a great battle, forces are notperhaps roused into existence, which oth-erwise would never have come to life. Thiscase is certainly conceivable, and it is what

1545



has actually occurred with many Nations.But to produce this intensified reaction isbeyond the province of military art, whichcan only take account of it where it mightbe assumed as a possibility.

If there are cases in which the fruits of a victory appear rather of a destructive na-ture in consequence of the reaction of theforces which it had the effect of rousing into

1546



CHAPTER XI. THE USEOF THE BATTLE (contin-ued)

WHATEVER form the conduct of War may

take in particular cases, and whatever wemay have to admit in the sequel as neces-sary respecting it: we have only to refer to

1548



the conception of War to be convinced of what follows:

1. The destruction of the enemy’s mil-itary force, is the leading principle of War,and for the whole chapter of positive actionthe direct way to the object.

2. This destruction of the enemy’s force,must be principally effected by means of battle.

1549



3. Only great and general battles canproduce great results.

4. The results will be greatest whencombats unite themselves in one great bat-tle.

5. It is only in a great battle that theGeneral-in-Chief commands in person, andit is in the nature of things, that he shouldplace more confidence in himself than in his

1550



subordinates.From these truths a double law follows,

the parts of which mutually support eachother; namely, that the destruction of theenemy’s military force is to be sought forprincipally by great battles, and their re-sults; and that the chief object of great bat-tles must be the destruction of the enemy’smilitary force.

1551



No doubt the annihilation-principle isto be found more or less in other means–granted there are instances in which throughfavourable circumstances in a minor com-bat, the destruction of the enemy’s forceshas been disproportionately great (Maxen),and on the other hand in a battle, the tak-ing or holding a single post may be predom-inant in importance as an object–but as a

1552



general rule it remains a paramount truth,that battles are only fought with a view tothe destruction of the enemy’s Army, andthat this destruction can only be effectedby their means.

The battle may therefore be regarded asWar concentrated, as the centre of effort of the whole War or campaign. As the sun’srays unite in the focus of the concave mirror

1553



in a perfect image, and in the fulness of their heat; to the forces and circumstancesof War, unite in a focus in the great battlefor one concentrated utmost effort.

The very assemblage of forces in onegreat whole, which takes place more or lessin all Wars, indicates an intention to strike adecisive blow with this whole, either volun-tarily as assailant, or constrained by the op-

1554



posite party as defender. When this greatblow does not follow, then some modifying,and retarding motives have attached them-selves to the original motive of hostility,and have weakened, altered or completelychecked the movement. But also, even inthis condition of mutual inaction which hasbeen the key-note in so many Wars, the ideaof a possible battle serves always for both

1555



parties as a point of direction, a distant fo-cus in the construction of their plans. Themore War is War in earnest, the more itis a venting of animosity and hostility, amutual struggle to overpower, so much themore will all activities join deadly contest,and also the more prominent in importancebecomes the battle.

In general, when the object aimed at is1556



of a great and positive nature, one there-fore in which the interests of the enemy aredeeply concerned, the battle offers itself asthe most natural means; it is, therefore, alsothe best as we shall show more plainly here-after: and, as a rule, when it is evaded fromaversion to the great decision, punishmentfollows.

The positive object belong to the offen-1557



sive, and therefore the battle is also moreparticularly his means. But without exam-ining the conception of offensive and defen-sive more minutely here, we must still ob-serve that, even for the defender in mostcases, there is no other effectual means withwhich to meet the exigencies of his situa-tion, to solve the problem presented to him.

The battle is the bloodiest way of so-1558



lution. True, it is not merely reciprocalslaughter, and its effect is more a killingof the enemy’s courage than of the enemy’ssoldiers, as we shall see more plainly in thenext chapter–but still blood is always itsprice, and slaughter its character as well asname;[] from this the humanity in the Gen-eral’s mind recoils with horror.

[] ”Schlacht”, from schlachten = to slaugh-1559



as if we had already gained much by meretime, although this time owes us nothingat all. This is all mere illusion, but evenas illusion it is something, and the sameweakness which seizes upon the man in ev-ery, other momentous decision may well befelt more powerfully by the General, whenhe must stake interests of such enormousweight upon one venture.

1561



Thus, then, Statesmen and Generals haveat all times endeavoured to avoid the de-cisive battle, seeking either to attain theiraim without it, or dropping that aim un-perceived. Writers on history and theoryhave then busied themselves to discover insome other feature in these campaigns notonly an equivalent for the decision by battlewhich has been avoided, but even a higher

1562



art. In this way, in the present age, it camevery near to this, that a battle in the econ-omy of War was looked upon as an evil, ren-dered necessary through some error com-mitted,a morbid paroxysm to which a regu-lar prudent system of War would never lead:only those Generals were to deserve laurelswho knew how to carry on War withoutspilling blood, and the theory of War–a real

1563



business for Brahmins–was to be speciallydirected to teaching this.

Contemporary history has destroyed thisillusion,[] but no one can guarantee thatit will not sooner or later reproduce itself,and lead those at the head of affairs to per-versities which please man’s weakness, andtherefore have the greater affinity for hisnature. Perhaps, by-andby, Buonaparte’s

1564



campaigns and battles will be looked uponas mere acts of barbarism and stupidity,and we shall once more turn with satisfac-tion and confidence to the dress-sword of obsolete and musty institutions and forms.If theory gives a caution against this, then itrenders a real service to those who listen toits warning voice. MAY WE SUCCEED INLENDING A HAND TO THOSE WHO IN

1565



OUR DEAR NATIVE LAND ARE CALLEDUPON TO SPEAK WITH AUTHORITYON THESE MATTERS, THAT WE MAYBE THEIR GUIDE INTO THIS FIELDOF INQUIRY, AND EXCITE THEM TOMAKE A CANDID EXAMINATION OFTHE SUBJECT.[]

[] On the Continent only, it still pre-serves full vitality in the minds of British

1566



politicians and pressmen.–EDITOR.[] This prayer was abundantly granted–

vide the German victories of 1870.–EDITOR.Not only the conception of War but ex-

perience also leads us to look for a greatdecision only in a great battle. From timeimmemorial, only great victories have ledto great successes on the offensive side inthe absolute form, on the defensive side in

1567



a manner more or less satisfactory. EvenBuonaparte would not have seen the day of Ulm, unique in its kind, if he had shrunkfrom shedding blood; it is rather to be re-garded as only a second crop from the vic-torious events in his preceding campaigns.It is not only bold, rash, and presumptu-ous Generals who have sought to completetheir work by the great venture of a decisive

1568



battle, but also fortunate ones as well; andwe may rest satisfied with the answer whichthey have thus given to this vast question.

Let us not hear of Generals who conquerwithout bloodshed. If a bloody slaughteris a horrible sight, then that is a groundfor paying more respect to War, but notfor making the sword we wear blunter andblunter by degrees from feelings of human-

1569



ity, until some one steps in with one that issharp and lops off the arm from our body.

We look upon a great battle as a prin-cipal decision, but certainly not as the onlyone necessary for a War or a campaign. In-stances of a great battle deciding a wholecampaign, have been frequent only in mod-ern times, those which have decided a wholeWar, belong to the class of rare exceptions.

1570



A decision which is brought about by agreat battle depends naturally not on thebattle itself, that is on the mass of com-batants engaged in it, and on the inten-sity of the victory, but also on a number of other relations between the military forcesopposed to each other, and between the Statesto which these forces belong. But at thesame time that the principal mass of the

1571



force available is brought to the great duel,a great decision is also brought on, the ex-tent of which may perhaps be foreseen inmany respects, though not in all, and whichalthough not the only one, still is the FIRSTdecision, and as such, has an influence onthose which succeed. Therefore a deliber-ately planned great battle, according to itsrelations, is more or less, but always in some

1572



degree, to be regarded as the leading meansand central point of the whole system. Themore a General takes the field in the truespirit of War as well as of every contest,with the feeling and the idea, that is theconviction, that he must and will conquer,the more he will strive to throw every weightinto the scale in the first battle, hope andstrive to win everything by it. Buonaparte

1573



hardly ever entered upon a War withoutthinking of conquering his enemy at once inthe first battle,[] and Frederick the Great,although in a more limited sphere, and withinterests of less magnitude at stake, thoughtthe same when, at the head of a small Army,he sought to disengage his rear from theRussians or the Federal Imperial Army.

[] This was Moltke’s essential idea in his1574



preparations for the War of 1870. See hissecret memorandum issued to G.O.C.s onMay 7. 1870, pointing to a battle on theUpper Saar as his primary purpose.– EDI-TOR.

The decision which is given by the greatbattle, depends, we have said, partly on thebattle itself, that is on the number of troopsengaged, and partly on the magnitude of

1575



the success.How the General may increase its im-

portance in respect to the first point is ev-ident in itself and we shall merely observethat according to the importance of the greatbattle, the number of cases which are de-cided along with it increases, and that there-fore Generals who, confident in themselveshave been lovers of great decisions, have al-

1576



ways managed to make use of the greaterpart of their troops in it without neglectingon that account essential points elsewhere.

As regards the consequences or speakingmore correctly the effectiveness of a victory,that depends chiefly on four points:

1. On the tactical form adopted as theorder of battle.

2. On the nature of the country.1577



3. On the relative proportions of thethree arms.

4. On the relative strength of the twoArmies.

A battle with parallel fronts and with-out any action against a flank will seldomyield as great success as one in which the de-feated Army has been turned, or compelledto change front more or less. In a broken

1578



or hilly country the successes are likewisesmaller, because the power of the blow iseverywhere less.

If the cavalry of the vanquished is equalor superior to that of the victor, then theeffects of the pursuit are diminished, and bythat great part of the results of victory arelost.

Finally it is easy to understand that if 1579



superior numbers are on the side of the con-queror, and he uses his advantage in that re-spect to turn the flank of his adversary, orcompel him to change front, greater resultswill follow than if the conqueror had beenweaker in numbers than the vanquished. Thebattle of Leuthen may certainly be quotedas a practical refutation of this principle,but we beg permission for once to say what

1580



we otherwise do not like, NO RULE WITH-OUT AN EXCEPTION.

In all these ways, therefore, the Com-mander has the means of giving his battle adecisive character; certainly he thus exposeshimself to an increased amount of danger,but his whole line of action is subject tothat dynamic law of the moral world.

There is then nothing in War which can1581



be put in comparison with the great battlein point of importance, AND THE ACMEOF STRATEGIC ABILITY IS DISPLAYEDIN THE PROVISION OF MEANS FORTHIS GREAT EVENT, IN THE SKILFULDETERMINATION OF PLACE AND TIME,AND DIRECTION OF TROOPS, AND ITSTHE GOOD USE MADE OF SUCCESS.

But it does not follow from the impor-1582



tance of these things that they must be of a very complicated and recondite nature;all is here rather simple, the art of com-bination by no means great; but there isgreat need of quickness in judging of cir-cumstances, need of energy, steady resolu-tion, a youthful spirit of enterprise–heroicqualities, to which we shall often have torefer. There is, therefore, but little wanted

1583



here of that which can be taught by booksand there is much that, if it can be taughtat all, must come to the General throughsome other medium than printer’s type.

The impulse towards a great battle, thevoluntary, sure progress to it, must proceedfrom a feeling of innate power and a clearsense of the necessity; in other words, itmust proceed from inborn courage and from

1584



perceptions sharpened by contact with thehigher interests of life.

Great examples are the best teachers,but it is certainly a misfortune if a cloudof theoretical prejudices comes between, foreven the sunbeam is refracted and tintedby the clouds. To destroy such prejudices,which many a time rise and spread them-selves like a miasma, is an imperative duty

1585



of theory, for the misbegotten offspring of human reason can also be in turn destroyedby pure reason.

1586



CHAPTER XII. STRATE-GIC MEANS OF UTILIS-ING VICTORY

THE more difficult part, viz., that of per-

fectly preparing the victory, is a silent ser-vice of which the merit belongs to Strategyand yet for which it is hardly sufficiently

1587



commended. It appears brilliant and full of renown by turning to good account a vic-tory gained.

What may be the special object of a bat-tle, how it is connected with the whole sys-tem of a War, whither the career of victorymay lead according to the nature of circum-stances, where its culminating-point lies–allthese are things which we shall not enter

1588



upon until hereafter. But under any con-ceivable circumstances the fact holds good,that without a pursuit no victory can have agreat effect, and that, however short the ca-reer of victory may be, it must always leadbeyond the first steps in pursuit; and in or-der to avoid the frequent repetition of this,we shall now dwell for a moment on thisnecessary supplement of victory in general.

1589



The pursuit of a beaten Army commencesat the moment that Army, giving up thecombat, leaves its position; all previous move-ments in one direction and another belongnot to that but to the progress of the battleitself. Usually victory at the moment heredescribed, even if it is certain, is still asyet small and weak in its proportions, andwould not rank as an event of any great

1590



positive advantage if not completed by apursuit on the first day. Then it is mostly,as we have before said, that the trophieswhich give substance to the victory beginto be gathered up. Of this pursuit we shallspeak in the next place.

Usually both sides come into action withtheir physical powers considerably deterio-rated, for the movements immediately pre-

1591



ceding have generally the character of veryurgent circumstances. The efforts whichthe forging out of a great combat costs,complete the exhaustion; from this it fol-lows that the victorious party is very littleless disorganised and out of his original for-mation than the vanquished, and thereforerequires time to reform, to collect strag-glers, and issue fresh ammunition to those

1592



who are without. All these things place theconqueror himself in the state of crisis of which we have already spoken. If now thedefeated force is only a detached portion of the enemy’s Army, or if it has otherwise toexpect a considerable reinforcement, thenthe conqueror may easily run into the obvi-ous danger of having to pay dear for his vic-tory, and this consideration, in such a case,

1593



very soon puts an end to pursuit, or at leastrestricts it materially. Even when a strongaccession of force by the enemy is not tobe feared, the conqueror finds in the abovecircumstances a powerful check to the vi-vacity of his pursuit. There is no reason tofear that the victory will be snatched away,but adverse combats are still possible, andmay diminish the advantages which up to

1594



the present have been gained. Moreover, atthis moment the whole weight of all that issensuous in an Army, its wants and weak-nesses, are dependent on the will of theCommander. All the thousands under hiscommand require rest and refreshment, andlong to see a stop put to toil and danger forthe present; only a few, forming an excep-tion, can see and feel beyond the present

1595



moment, it is only amongst this little num-ber that there is sufficient mental vigourto think, after what is absolutely necessaryat the moment has been done, upon thoseresults which at such a moment only ap-pear to the rest as mere embellishments of victory–as a luxury of triumph. But allthese thousands have a voice in the coun-cil of the General, for through the various

1596



steps of the military hierarchy these inter-ests of the sensuous creature have their sureconductor into the heart of the Comman-der. He himself, through mental and bod-ily fatigue, is more or less weakened in hisnatural activity, and thus it happens thenthat, mostly from these causes, purely inci-dental to human nature, less is done thanmight have been done, and that generally

1597



what is done is to be ascribed entirely to theTHIRST FOR GLORY, the energy, indeedalso the HARD- HEARTEDNESS of theGeneral-in-Chief. It is only thus we can ex-plain the hesitating manner in which manyGenerals follow up a victory which superiornumbers have given them. The first pur-suit of the enemy we limit in general to theextent of the first day, including the night

1598



following the victory. At the end of thatperiod the necessity of rest ourselves pre-scribes a halt in any case.

This first pursuit has different naturaldegrees.

The first is, if cavalry alone are employed;in that case it amounts usually more to alarm-ing and watching than to pressing the en-emy in reality, because the smallest obstacle

1599



of ground is generally sufficient to check thepursuit. Useful as cavalry may be againstsingle bodies of broken demoralised troops,still when opposed to the bulk of the beatenArmy it becomes again only the auxiliaryarm, because the troops in retreat can em-ploy fresh reserves to cover the movement,and, therefore, at the next trifling obstacleof ground, by combining all arms they can

1600



make a stand with success. The only ex-ception to this is in the case of an army inactual flight in a complete state of dissolu-tion.

The second degree is, if the pursuit ismade by a strong advance-guard composedof all arms, the greater part consisting nat-urally of cavalry. Such a pursuit generallydrives the enemy as far as the nearest strong

1601



position for his rear-guard, or the next po-sition affording space for his Army. Neithercan usually be found at once, and, there-fore, the pursuit can be carried further; gen-erally, however, it does not extend beyondthe distance of one or at most a coupleof leagues, because otherwise the advance-guard would not feel itself sufficiently sup-ported. The third and most vigorous degree

1602



is when the victorious Army itself contin-ues to advance as far as its physical powerscan endure. In this case the beaten Armywill generally quit such ordinary positionsas a country usually offers on the mere showof an attack, or of an intention to turn itsflank; and the rear-guard will be still lesslikely to engage in an obstinate resistance.

In all three cases the night, if it sets in1603



before the conclusion of the whole act, usu-ally puts an end to it, and the few instancesin which this has not taken place, and thepursuit has been continued throughout thenight, must be regarded as pursuits in anexceptionally vigorous form.

If we reflect that in fighting by night ev-erything must be, more or less, abandonedto chance, and that at the conclusion of

1604



a battle the regular cohesion and order of things in an army must inevitably be dis-turbed, we may easily conceive the reluc-tance of both Generals to carrying on theirbusiness under such disadvantageous condi-tions. If a complete dissolution of the van-quished Army, or a rare superiority of thevictorious Army in military virtue does notensure success, everything would in a man-

1605



ner be given up to fate, which can never befor the interest of any one, even of the mostfool-hardy General. As a rule, therefore,night puts an end to pursuit, even whenthe battle has only been decided shortlybefore darkness sets in. This allows theconquered either time for rest and to rallyimmediately, or, if he retreats during thenight it gives him a march in advance. Af-

1606



ter this break the conquered is decidedlyin a better condition; much of that whichhad been thrown into confusion has beenbrought again into order, ammunition hasbeen renewed, the whole has been put intoa fresh formation. Whatever further en-counter now takes place with the enemy isa new battle not a continuation of the old,and although it may be far from promising

1607



absolute success, still it is a fresh combat,and not merely a gathering up of the debrisby the victor.

When, therefore, the conqueror can con-tinue the pursuit itself throughout the night,if only with a strong advance- guard com-posed of all arms of the service, the effectof the victory is immensely increased, of this the battles of Leuthen and La Belle

1608



Alliance[] are examples.[] Waterloo.The whole action of this pursuit is mainly

tactical, and we only dwell upon it here inorder to make plain the difference whichthrough it may be produced in the effectof a victory.

This first pursuit, as far as the neareststopping-point, belongs as a right to every

1609



conqueror, and is hardly in any way con-nected with his further plans and combina-tions. These may considerably diminish thepositive results of a victory gained with themain body of the Army, but they cannotmake this first use of it impossible; at leastcases of that kind, if conceivable at all, mustbe so uncommon that they should have noappreciable influence on theory. And here

1610



certainly we must say that the example af-forded by modern Wars opens up quite anew field for energy. In preceding Wars,resting on a narrower basis, and altogethermore circumscribed in their scope, there weremany unnecessary conventional restrictionsin various ways, but particularly in this point.THE CONCEPTION, HONOUR OF VIC-TORY seemed to Generals so much by far

1611



the chief thing that they thought the lessof the complete destruction of the enemy’smilitary force, as in point of fact that de-struction of force appeared to them only asone of the many means in War, not by anymeans as the principal, much less as theonly means; so that they the more read-ily put the sword in its sheath the momentthe enemy had lowered his. Nothing seemed

1612



more natural to them than to stop the com-bat as soon as the decision was obtained,and to regard all further carnage as unnec-essary cruelty. Even if this false philosophydid not determine their resolutions entirely,still it was a point of view by which rep-resentations of the exhaustion of all pow-ers, and physical impossibility of continu-ing the struggle, obtained readier evidence

1613



and greater weight. Certainly the sparingone’s own instrument of victory is a vitalquestion if we only possess this one, andforesee that soon the time may arrive whenit will not be sufficient for all that remainsto be done, for every continuation of theoffensive must lead ultimately to completeexhaustion. But this calculation was stillso far false, as the further loss of forces by

1614



a continuance of the pursuit could bear noproportion to that which the enemy mustsuffer. That view, therefore, again couldonly exist because the military forces werenot considered the vital factor. And so wefind that in former Wars real heroes only–such as Charles XII., Marlborough, Eugene,Frederick the Great–added a vigorous pur-suit to their victories when they were deci-

1615



sive enough, and that other Generals usu-ally contented themselves with the posses-sion of the field of battle. In modern timesthe greater energy infused into the conductof Wars through the greater importance of the circumstances from which they have pro-ceeded has thrown down these conventionalbarriers; the pursuit has become an all-importantbusiness for the conqueror; trophies have

1616



on that account multiplied in extent, and if there are cases also in modern Warfare inwhich this has not been the case, still theybelong to the list of exceptions, and are tobe accounted for by peculiar circumstances.

At Gorschen[] and Bautzen nothing butthe superiority of the allied cavalry preventeda complete rout, at Gross Beeren and Den-newitz the ill-will of Bernadotte, the Crown

1617



Prince of Sweden; at Laon the enfeebledpersonal condition of Bluecher, who was thenseventy years old and at the moment con-fined to a dark room owing to an injury tohis eyes.

[] Gorschen or Lutzen, May 2, 1813; GrossBeeren and Dennewitz, August 22, 1813;Bautzen. May 22, 1913; Laon, March 101813.

1618



But Borodino is also an illustration tothe point here, and we cannot resist say-ing a few more words about it, partly be-cause we do not consider the circumstancesare explained simply by attaching blame toBuonaparte, partly because it might appearas if this, and with it a great number of similar cases, belonged to that class whichwe have designated as so extremely rare,

1619



cases in which the general relations seizeand fetter the General at the very beginningof the battle. French authors in particular,and great admirers of Buonaparte (Vaudan-court, Chambray, Se’gur), have blamed himdecidedly because he did not drive the Rus-sian Army completely off the field, and usehis last reserves to scatter it, because thenwhat was only a lost battle would have been

1620



a complete rout. We should be obliged todiverge too far to describe circumstantiallythe mutual situation of the two Armies; butthis much is evident, that when Buonapartepassed the Niemen with his Army the samecorps which afterwards fought at Borodinonumbered 300,000 men, of whom now only120,000 remained, he might therefore wellbe apprehensive that he would not have enough

1621



left to march upon Moscow, the point onwhich everything seemed to depend. Thevictory which he had just gained gave himnearly a certainty of taking that capital,for that the Russians would be in a con-dition to fight a second battle within eightdays seemed in the highest degree improba-ble; and in Moscow he hoped to find peace.No doubt the complete dispersion of the

1622



Russian Army would have made this peacemuch more certain; but still the first con-sideration was to get to Moscow, that is,to get there with a force with which heshould appear dictator over the capital, andthrough that over the Empire and the Gov-ernment. The force which he brought withhim to Moscow was no longer sufficient forthat, as shown in the sequel, but it would

1623



have been still less so if, in scattering theRussian Army, he had scattered his own atthe same time. Buonaparte was thoroughlyalive to all this, and in our eyes he standscompletely justified. But on that accountthis case is still not to be reckoned amongstthose in which, through the general rela-tions, the General is interdicted from fol-lowing up his victory, for there never was in

1624



his case any question of mere pursuit. Thevictory was decided at four o’clock in theafternoon, but the Russians still occupiedthe greater part of the field of battle; theywere not yet disposed to give up the ground,and if the attack had been renewed, theywould still have offered a most determinedresistance, which would have undoubtedlyended in their complete defeat, but would

1625



have cost the conqueror much further blood-shed. We must therefore reckon the Battleof Borodino as amongst battles, like Bautzen,left unfinished. At Bautzen the vanquishedpreferred to quit the field sooner; at Borodinothe conqueror preferred to content himself with a half victory, not because the decisionappeared doubtful, but because he was notrich enough to pay for the whole.

1626



Returning now to our subject, the de-duction from our reflections in relation tothe first stage of pursuit is, that the energythrown into it chiefly determines the valueof the victory; that this pursuit is a secondact of the victory, in many cases more im-portant also than the first, and that strat-egy, whilst here approaching tactics to re-ceive from it the harvest of success, exer-

1627



cises the first act of her authority by de-manding this completion of the victory.

But further, the effects of victory arevery seldom found to stop with this firstpursuit; now first begins the real career towhich victory lent velocity. This course isconditioned as we have already said, by otherrelations of which it is not yet time to speak.But we must here mention, what there is of

1628



a general character in the pursuit in orderto avoid repetition when the subject occursagain.

In the further stages of pursuit, again,we can distinguish three degrees: the sim-ple pursuit, a hard pursuit, and a parallelmarch to intercept.

The simple FOLLOWING or PURSU-ING causes the enemy to continue his re-

1629



treat, until he thinks he can risk anotherbattle. It will therefore in its effect sufficeto exhaust the advantages gained, and be-sides that, all that the enemy cannot carrywith him, sick, wounded, and disabled fromfatigue, quantities of baggage, and carriagesof all kinds, will fall into our hands, but thismere following does not tend to heightenthe disorder in the enemy’s Army, an ef-

1630



fect which is produced by the two followingcauses.

If, for instance, instead of contentingourselves with taking up every day the campthe enemy has just vacated, occupying justas much of the country as he chooses toabandon, we make our arrangements so asevery day to encroach further, and accord-ingly with our advance- guard organised for

1631



the purpose, attack his rear-guard every timeit attempts to halt, then such a course willhasten his retreat, and consequently tendto increase his disorganisation.–This it willprincipally effect by the character of contin-uous flight, which his retreat will thus as-sume. Nothing has such a depressing influ-ence on the soldier, as the sound of the en-emy’s cannon afresh at the moment when,

1632



after a forced march he seeks some rest; if this excitement is continued from day today for some time, it may lead to a completerout. There lies in it a constant admissionof being obliged to obey the law of the en-emy, and of being unfit for any resistance,and the consciousness of this cannot do oth-erwise than weaken the moral of an Army ina high degree. The effect of pressing the en-

1633



emy in this way attains a maximum when itdrives the enemy to make night marches. If the conqueror scares away the discomfitedopponent at sunset from a camp which has just been taken up either for the main bodyof the Army, or for the rear-guard, the con-quered must either make a night march, oralter his position in the night, retiring fur-ther away, which is much the same thing;

1634



the victorious party can on the other handpass the night in quiet.

The arrangement of marches, and thechoice of positions depend in this case alsoupon so many other things, especially onthe supply of the Army, on strong naturalobstacles in the country, on large towns, &c.&c., that it would be ridiculous pedantry toattempt to show by a geometrical analysis

1635



how the pursuer, being able to impose hislaws on the retreating enemy, can compelhim to march at night while he takes hisrest. But nevertheless it is true and prac-ticable that marches in pursuit may be soplanned as to have this tendency, and thatthe efficacy of the pursuit is very much en-chanced thereby. If this is seldom attendedto in the execution, it is because such a

1636



procedure is more difficult for the pursu-ing Army, than a regular adherence to or-dinary marches in the daytime. To startin good time in the morning, to encampat mid-day, to occupy the rest of the dayin providing for the ordinary wants of theArmy, and to use the night for repose, isa much more convenient method than toregulate one’s movements exactly according

1637



to those of the enemy, therefore to deter-mine nothing till the last moment, to starton the march, sometimes in the morning,sometimes in the evening, to be always forseveral hours in the presence of the enemy,and exchanging cannon shots with him, andkeeping up skirmishing fire, to plan ma-noeuvres to turn him, in short, to makethe whole outlay of tactical means which

1638



such a course renders necessary. All thatnaturally bears with a heavy weight on thepursuing Army, and in War, where thereare so many burdens to be borne, men arealways inclined to strip off those which donot seem absolutely necessary. These ob-servations are true, whether applied to awhole Army or as in the more usual case,to a strong advance-guard. For the rea-

1639



sons just mentioned, this second methodof pursuit, this continued pressing of theenemy pursued is rather a rare occurrence;even Buonaparte in his Russian campaign,1812, practised it but little, for the rea-sons here apparent, that the difficulties andhardships of this campaign, already threat-ened his Army with destruction before itcould reach its object; on the other hand,

1640



the French in their other campaigns havedistinguished themselves by their energy inthis point also.

Lastly, the third and most effectual formof pursuit is, the parallel march to the im-mediate object of the retreat.

Every defeated Army will naturally havebehind it, at a greater or less distance, somepoint, the attainment of which is the first

1641



purpose in view, whether it be that failingin this its further retreat might be compro-mised, as in the case of a defile, or that it isimportant for the point itself to reach it be-fore the enemy, as in the case of a great city,magazines, &c., or, lastly, that the Army atthis point will gain new powers of defence,such as a strong position, or junction withother corps.

1642



Now if the conqueror directs his marchon this point by a lateral road, it is evidenthow that may quicken the retreat of thebeaten Army in a destructive manner, con-vert it into hurry, perhaps into flight.[] Theconquered has only three ways to counter-act this: the first is to throw himself in frontof the enemy, in order by an unexpectedattack to gain that probability of success

1643



which is lost to him in general from his po-sition; this plainly supposes an enterpris-ing bold General, and an excellent Army,beaten but not utterly defeated; therefore,it can only be employed by a beaten Armyin very few cases.

[] This point is exceptionally well treatedby von Bernhardi in his ”Cavalry in FutureWars.” London: Murray, 1906.

1644



The second way is hastening the retreat;but this is just what the conqueror wants,and it easily leads to immoderate efforts onthe part of the troops, by which enormouslosses are sustained, in stragglers, brokenguns, and carriages of all kinds.

The third way is to make a detour, andget round the nearest point of interception,to march with more ease at a greater dis-

1645



tance from the enemy, and thus to renderthe haste required less damaging. This lastway is the worst of all, it generally turnsout like a new debt contracted by an insol-vent debtor, and leads to greater embarrass-ment. There are cases in which this courseis advisable; others where there is nothingelse left; also instances in which it has beensuccessful; but upon the whole it is cer-

1646



tainly true that its adoption is usually influ-enced less by a clear persuasion of its beingthe surest way of attaining the aim thanby another inadmissible motive– this mo-tive is the dread of encountering the enemy.Woe to the Commander who gives in tothis! However much the moral of his Armymay have deteriorated, and however wellfounded may be his apprehensions of being

1647



at a disadvantage in any conflict with theenemy, the evil will only be made worse bytoo anxiously avoiding every possible risk of collision. Buonaparte in 1813 would neverhave brought over the Rhine with him the30,000 or 40,000 men who remained afterthe battle of Hanau,[] if he had avoided thatbattle and tried to pass the Rhine at Mannheimor Coblenz. It is just by means of small

1648



combats carefully prepared and executed,and in which the defeated army being onthe defensive, has always the assistance of the ground–it is just by these that the moralstrength of the Army can first be resusci-tated.

[] At Hanau (October 30, 1813), the Bavar-ians some 50,000 strong threw themselvesacross the line of Napoleon’s retreat from

1649



Leipsic. By a masterly use of its artillerythe French tore the Bavarians asunder andmarched on over their bodies.–EDITOR.

The beneficial effect of the smallest suc-cesses is incredible; but with most Generalsthe adoption of this plan implies great self-command. The other way, that of evadingall encounter, appears at first so much eas-ier, that there is a natural preference for its

1650



adoption. It is therefore usually just thissystem of evasion which best, promotes theview of the pursuer, and often ends with thecomplete downfall of the pursued; we must,however, recollect here that we are speakingof a whole Army, not of a single Division,which, having been cut off, is seeking to jointhe main Army by making a de’tour; in sucha case circumstances are different, and suc-

1651



cess is not uncommon. But there is one con-dition requisite to the success of this race of two Corps for an object, which is that a Di-vision of the pursuing army should followby the same road which the pursued hastaken, in order to pick up stragglers, andkeep up the impression which the presenceof the enemy never fails to make. Bluecherneglected this in his, in other respects unex-

1652



ceptionable, pursuit after La Belle Alliance.Such marches tell upon the pursuer as

well as the pursued, and they are not advis-able if the enemy’s Army rallies itself uponanother considerable one; if it has a distin-guished General at its head, and if its de-struction is not already well prepared. Butwhen this means can be adopted, it actsalso like a great mechanical power. The

1653



tune, the conqueror need not hesitate aboutdividing his forces in order to draw intothe vortex of destruction everything withinreach of his Army, to cut off detachments,to take fortresses unprepared for defence,to occupy large towns, &c. &c. He may doanything until a new state of things arises,and the more he ventures in this way thelonger will it be before that change will take

1655



place. is no want of examples of brilliantresults from grand decisive victories, andof great and vigorous pursuits in the warsof Buonaparte. We need only quote Jena1806, Ratisbonne 1809, Leipsic 1813, andBelle- Alliance 1815.

1656



CHAPTER XIII. RETREATAFTER A LOST BATTLE

IN a lost battle the power of an Army isbroken, the moral to a greater degree than

the physical. A second battle unless freshfavourable circumstances come into play, wouldlead to a complete defeat, perhaps, to de-

1657



struction. This is a military axiom. Ac-cording to the usual course the retreat iscontinued up to that point where the equi-librium of forces is restored, either by rein-forcements, or by the protection of strongfortresses, or by great defensive positionsafforded by the country, or by a separationof the enemy’s force. The magnitude of thelosses sustained, the extent of the defeat,

1658



but still more the character of the enemy,will bring nearer or put off the instant of this equilibrium. How many instances maybe found of a beaten Army rallied again ata short distance, without its circumstanceshaving altered in any way since the bat-tle. The cause of this may be traced tothe moral weakness of the adversary, or tothe preponderance gained in the battle not

1659



having been sufficient to make lasting im-pression.

To profit by this weakness or mistakeof the enemy, not to yield one inch breadthmore than the pressure of circumstances de-mands, but above all things, in order tokeep up the moral forces to as advantageousa point as possible, a slow retreat, offeringincessant resistance, and bold courageous

1660



counterstrokes, whenever the enemy seeksto gain any excessive advantages, are abso-lutely necessary. Retreats of great Generalsand of Armies inured to War have always re-sembled the retreat of a wounded lion, suchis, undoubtedly, also the best theory.

It is true that at the moment of quittinga dangerous position we have often seen tri-fling formalities observed which caused a

1661



waste of time, and were, therefore, attendedwith danger, whilst in such cases everythingdepends on getting out of the place speed-ily. Practised Generals reckon this maxima very important one. But such cases mustnot be confounded with a general retreat af-ter a lost battle. Whoever then thinks by afew rapid marches to gain a start, and moreeasily to recover a firm standing, commits

1662



a great error. The first movements shouldbe as small as possible, and it is a maxim ingeneral not to suffer ourselves to be dictatedto by the enemy. This maxim cannot be fol-lowed without bloody fighting with the en-emy at our heels, but the gain is worth thesacrifice; without it we get into an acceler-ated pace which soon turns into a headlongrush, and costs merely in stragglers more

1663



men than rear-guard combats, and besidesthat extinguishes the last remnants of thespirit of resistance.

A strong rear-guard composed of pickedtroops, commanded by the bravest General,and supported by the whole Army at criti-cal moments, a careful utilisation of ground,strong ambuscades wherever the boldnessof the enemy’s advance-guard, and the ground,

1664



afford opportunity; in short, the prepara-tion and the system of regular small battles,–these are the means of following this prin-ciple.

The difficulties of a retreat are naturallygreater or less according as the battle hasbeen fought under more or less favourablecircumstances, and according as it has beenmore or less obstinately contested. The bat-

1665



tle of Jena and La Belle-Alliance show howimpossible anything like a regular retreatmay become, if the last man is used upagainst a powerful enemy.

Now and again it has been suggested[] todivide for the purpose of retreating, there-fore to retreat in separate divisions or eveneccentrically. Such a separation as is mademerely for convenience, and along with which

1666



concentrated action continues possible andis kept in view, is not what we now referto; any other kind is extremely dangerous,contrary to the nature of the thing, andtherefore a great error. Every lost battleis a principle of weakness and disorganisa-tion; and the first and immediate desidera-tum is to concentrate, and in concentrationto recover order, courage, and confidence.

1667



The idea of harassing the enemy by separatecorps on both flanks at the moment whenhe is following up his victory, is a perfectanomaly; a faint-hearted pedant might beoverawed by his enemy in that manner, andfor such a case it may answer; but where weare not sure of this failing in our opponent itis better let alone. If the strategic relationsafter a battle require that we should cover

1668



ourselves right and left by detachments, somuch must be done, as from circumstancesis unavoidable, but this fractioning must al-ways be regarded as an evil, and we are sel-dom in a state to commence it the day afterthe battle itself.

[] Allusion is here made to the works of Lloyd Bullow and others.

If Frederick the Great after the battle1669



of Kollin,[] and the raising of the siege of Prague retreated in three columns that wasdone not out of choice, but because the po-sition of his forces, and the necessity of cov-ering Saxony, left him no alternative, Buon-aparte after the battle of Brienne,[] sentMarmont back to the Aube, whilst he him-self passed the Seine, and turned towardsTroyes; but that this did not end in disaster,

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was solely owing to the circumstance thatthe Allies, instead of pursuing divided theirforces in like manner, turning with the onepart (Bluecher) towards the Marne, whilewith the other (Schwartzenberg), from fearof being too weak, they advanced with ex-aggerated caution.

[] June 19, 1757.[] January 30, 1814.

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CHAPTER XIV. NIGHTFIGHTING

THE manner of conducting a combat atnight, and what concerns the details of its

course, is a tactical subject; we only exam-ine it here so far as in its totality it appearsas a special strategic means.

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Fundamentally every night attack is onlya more vehement form of surprise. Now atthe first look of the thing such an attack ap-pears quite pre-eminently advantageous, forwe suppose the enemy to be taken by sur-prise, the assailant naturally to be preparedfor everything which can happen. What aninequality! Imagination paints to itself apicture of the most complete confusion on

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the one side, and on the other side the as-sailant only occupied in reaping the fruitsof his advantage. Hence the constant cre-ation of schemes for night attacks by thosewho have not to lead them, and have noresponsibility, whilst these attacks seldomtake place in reality.

These ideal schemes are all based on thehypothesis that the assailant knows the ar-

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rangements of the defender because theyhave been made and announced beforehand,and could not escape notice in his recon-naissances, and inquiries; that on the otherhand, the measures of the assailant, beingonly taken at the moment of execution, can-not be known to the enemy. But the lastof these is not always quite the case, andstill less is the first. If we are not so near

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the enemy as to have him completely un-der our eye, as the Austrians had Frederickthe Great before the battle of Hochkirch(1758), then all that we know of his po-sition must always be imperfect, as it isobtained by reconnaissances, patrols, infor-mation from prisoners, and spies, sourceson which no firm reliance can be placed be-cause intelligence thus obtained is always

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more or less of an old date, and the posi-tion of the enemy may have been altered inthe meantime. Moreover, with the tacticsand mode of encampment of former times itwas much easier than it is now to examinethe position of the enemy. A line of tentsis much easier to distinguish than a line of huts or a bivouac; and an encampment on aline of front, fully and regularly drawn out,

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also easier than one of Divisions formed incolumns, the mode often used at present.We may have the ground on which a Di-vision bivouacs in that manner completelyunder our eye, and yet not be able to arriveat any accurate idea.

But the position again is not all that wewant to know the measures which the de-fender may take in the course of the com-

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bat are just as important, and do not by anymeans consist in mere random shots. Thesemeasures also make night attacks more diffi-cult in modern Wars than formerly, becausethey have in these campaigns an advantageover those already taken. In our combatsthe position of the defender is more tem-porary than definitive, and on that accountthe defender is better able to surprise his

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adversary with unexpected blows, than hecould formerly.[]

[] All these difficulties obviously becomeincreased as the power of the weapons inuse tends to keep the combatants furtherapart.–EDITOR.

Therefore what the assailant knows of the defensive previous to a night attack,is seldom or never sufficient to supply the

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want of direct observation.But the defender has on his side another

small advantage as well, which is that heis more at home than the assailant, on theground which forms his position, and there-fore, like the inhabitant of a room, will findhis way about it in the dark with more easethan a stranger. He knows better where tofind each part of his force, and therefore can

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more readily get at it than is the case withhis adversary.

From this it follows, that the assailantin a combat at night feels the want of hiseyes just as much as the defender, and thattherefore, only particular reasons can makea night attack advisable.

Now these reasons arise mostly in con-nection with subordinate parts of an Army,

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rarely with the Army itself; it follows thata night attack also as a rule can only takeplace with secondary combats, and seldomwith great battles.

We may attack a portion of the enemy’sArmy with a very superior force, consequentlyenveloping it with a view either to take thewhole, or to inflict very severe loss on itby an unequal combat, provided that other

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circumstances are in our favour. But sucha scheme can never succeed except by agreat surprise, because no fractional part of the enemy’s Army would engage in such anunequal combat, but would retire instead.But a surprise on an important scale exceptin rare instances in a very close country, canonly be effected at night. If therefore wewish to gain such an advantage as this from

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the faulty disposition of a portion of the en-emy’s Army, then we must make use of thenight, at all events, to finish the preliminarypart even if the combat itself should notopen till towards daybreak. This is there-fore what takes place in all the little enter-prises by night against outposts, and othersmall bodies, the main point being invari-ably through superior numbers, and getting

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round his position, to entangle him unex-pectedly in such a disadvantageous combat,that he cannot disengage himself withoutgreat loss.

The larger the body attacked the moredifficult the undertaking, because a strongforce has greater resources within itself tomaintain the fight long enough for help toarrive.

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On that account the whole of the en-emy’s Army can never in ordinary cases bethe object of such an attack for although ithas no assistance to expect from any quar-ter outside itself, still, it contains withinitself sufficient means of repelling attacksfrom several sides particularly in our day,when every one from the commencement isprepared for this very usual form of attack.

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Whether the enemy can attack us on severalsides with success depends generally on con-ditions quite different from that of its beingdone unexpectedly; without entering hereinto the nature of these conditions, we con-fine ourselves to observing, that with turn-ing an enemy, great results, as well as greatdangers are connected; that therefore, if weset aside special circumstances, nothing jus-

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tifies it but a great superiority, just such aswe should use against a fractional part of the enemy’s Army.

But the turning and surrounding a smallfraction of the enemy, and particularly inthe darkness of night, is also more practica-ble for this reason, that whatever we stakeupon it, and however superior the force usedmay be, still probably it constitutes only a

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limited portion of our Army, and we cansooner stake that than the whole on the riskof a great venture. Besides, the greater partor perhaps the whole serves as a supportand rallying-point for the portion risked,which again very much diminishes the dan-ger of the enterprise.

Not only the risk, but the difficulty of execution as well confines night enterprises

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to small bodies. As surprise is the realessence of them so also stealthy approachis the chief condition of execution: but thisis more easily done with small bodies thanwith large, and for the columns of a wholeArmy is seldom practicable. For this reasonsuch enterprises are in general only directedagainst single outposts, and can only be fea-sible against greater bodies if they are with-

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out sufficient outposts, like Frederick theGreat at Hochkirch.[] This will happen sel-domer in future to Armies themselves thanto minor divisions.

[] October 14, 1758.In recent times, when War has been car-

ried on with so much more rapidity andvigour, it has in consequence often happenedthat Armies have encamped very close to

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each other, without having a very strongsystem of outposts, because those circum-stances have generally occurred just at thecrisis which precedes a great decision.

But then at such times the readiness forbattle on both sides is also more perfect;on the other hand, in former Wars it wasa frequent practice for armies to take upcamps in sight of each other, when they had

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no other object but that of mutually hold-ing each other in check, consequently fora longer period. How often Frederick theGreat stood for weeks so near to the Aus-trians, that the two might have exchangedcannon shots with each other.

But these practices, certainly more favourableto night attacks, have been discontinued inlater days; and armies being now no longer

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Carl Von Clausewitz-On War Mobile

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