A History of Strategy (9 page)

These underlying philosophical differences cause Clausewitz to recommend the use of maximum force, the Chinese of minimum force. In turn, the Chinese emphasis on minimum force leads to a greater emphasis on trickery of every sort than Clausewitz, with his realistic assessment of such factors as uncertainty and friction, regards as practicable. Had the two sides met, then Sun Tzu and Co. would undoubtedly have accused Clausewitz of overemphasizing brute strength, which in turn means encouraging stupidity and barbarism. Clausewitz on his part would have replied that the kind of super-sophisticated warfare advocated by them was intellectually attractive but, alas, often unrealistic and sometimes dangerous as excessive maneuvering provided the enemy with opportunities to “cut off one’s head.” None of this is to deny that, in practice, Western warfare often made use of stratagems whereas Chinese warfare could be quite as bloody and brutal as its Western counterpart. Indeed it could be more so, given that necessity has no limits and that questions regarding the law of war
a la
Bonet would have made the sages put on a contemptuous smile.

These considerations explain why Clausewitz and the Chinese were able to transcend their own time and place. Still, inevitably, their reputations had their ups and downs. Outside China itself, where Sun Tzu and Confucius served as the basis for the state-run examination system, the Chinese writings were particularly popular during the eighteenth century craze for
chinoiserie
as well as after the Chinese Revolution in 1949. There are currently at least
five
different English translations of Sun Tzu on the market. As for Clausewitz, after being greatly venerated during the nineteenth century he was often regarded as “too philosophical” during the first half of the twentieth. His nadir probably came during the early years of the nuclear era when he was relegated to the sidelines, only to make an impressive comeback after 1973, when a new English translation appeared and the Arab-Israeli war encouraged people to think about large scale conventional warfare.

More ups and downs are to be expected. One recent historian even speaks of the “Grand Old Tradition of Clausewitz-Bashing.” Yet is it likely that, when all the rest are forgotten, Sun Tzu and Clausewitz will still be read and studied by those who seek to achieve a serious theoretical understanding of war. Considering that even the “modern” Clausewitz is now almost two hundred years old, this constitutes high praise indeed.

An aspect of Clausewitz’s thought not yet discussed in these pages, and which distinguishes it from virtually all his predecessors, is the way he approached history. As we saw, the Chinese classics were written between 400 and 200 BC. The background was a semi-mythological past regarded as superior to the present. With the exception of Vegetius, who resembles the Chinese in this respect, in the extant treatises written by ancient military theorists a sense of historical change is almost entirely lacking. The same is true of the Byzantine and medieval texts. Severely practical, the former are really little more than handbooks. They are interested solely in the present, and exclude any hint concerning the possibility that the past has been, or the future could be, different. The latter are usually aware of the glorious if idolatrous past. But somehow they manage to combine this awareness with a complete disregard for the immense differences that separated their own times from those of, say, Vegetius.

The position of “modern” Western authors from Machiavelli on is more complicated. Regarding themselves as emerging from centuries of barbarism, the men of the fifteenth century were acutely aware of their own inferiority
vis à vis
the ancient world in every field, the military one included. Accordingly, for them it was a question not so much of seeking innovation as of recovering and assimilating the achievements of that world. No one was more representative of these attitudes than Machiavelli, to whom the very idea of outdoing his admired Romans would have been sacrilege. But it was equally evident in his successors. Throughout the eighteenth century, most writers on military affairs insisted that the best authors to study were Frontinus and Vegetius and, among historians, Polybius, Caesar, and Livy. Thus Joly de Maizeroy not only translated the Byzantine classics from the Greek but was regarded as the leading expert on ancient warfare, a subject on which he wrote several specialized studies. Both von Bülow and Berenhorst begin their works by comparing ancient warfare with that of the modern age.

And yet, even with von Bülow, the situation began to change. For von Bülow this was because the ancient textbooks had absolutely nothing to say about strategy, precisely the field to which he himself had made the greatest contribution, of which he was understandably proud. That also accounts for the fact that, as with Jomini, “the ancients” are not even mentioned in Clausewitz's book. Another, perhaps more important factor, was the overall intellectual climate in which Clausewitz and Jomini wrote. As the Enlightenment gave way to the Romantic Movement, philosophers such as Vico and Hegel began propagating a view of history which emphasized the “otherness” of the past rather than its essential similarity with the present. Up until then history had been seen as a record of the same thing happening again and again. That was just why centuries-old events could serve as a source for practical “lessons.” Now it was transformed into the record of change. In general, the more historically distant the period, the greater the gulf that separated it from what came later on.

This is not the place to follow the transformation of history, a subject better left to specialized students of that subject. Suffice it to say that, by the time Clausewitz did his main work in the 1820’s, it had been fully accomplished. Previously most of the authors here discussed had assumed that, since history was essentially unchanging, war too had unchanging principles. However, to Clausewitz, whose approach was “historicist,” this was much less evident. In Book VIII of
vom Kriege
he comes very close to saying that, since each period made war in a manner corresponding to its social and political characteristics, a single theory of war applicable to all times and places might not be possible at all.

Clausewitz saw himself as a practical soldier writing for other practical soldiers (the first edition of his book was sold by subscription). Hence he was in some doubt as to how far back one could go in one’s quest for rules, lessons, principles, and examples. Whether, in other words, “modern” history began with the campaigns of Frederick the Great; or with the end of the War of the Spanish Succession; or with the Peace of Westphalia which had marked the construction of the modern European State. Be that as it may, he felt quite certain that, since only recent events were at all like the present, the further back one went the less useful the things one could find. His own writings on military history only go as far back as Gustavus Adolphus. Previous wars, such as those of the Tartars and the middle ages, are mentioned only to emphasize their “otherness.” As to the ancient authors, they are entirely ignored. None is even allowed to make his appearance on the pages of
On War.

Even ignoring the contemporary revolution in historical thought, it was becoming all too clear that the old tried-and-true methods for thinking about war would no longer suffice. Between 217 BC, when Ptolemy IV had confronted Antiochus III at Raffia, and Leipzig in 1813 the maximum number of men who had confronted each other in battle had scarcely grown. It is true that, at some point located approximately three-quarters through the time that separated the first from the second of these battles, firearms in the form of muskets and cannon had largely taken over from edged weapons. Even so, battle remained very much what it had always been. In other words, a question of men standing up, at a certain carefully defined time and space (battles tended to be over in a few hours and seldom took up more than a few square kilometers), in relatively tight formations (throughout the eighteenth century there had been an intense debate on the relative merits of the column versus the line), and fighting each other in full view of each other. Thus Napoleon towards the end of his career was able to boast of having commanded in no fewer than sixty “pitched battles” (
battailes rangèes
). A phrase that speaks for itself.

By the middle of the nineteenth century, these parade-like clashes were becoming obsolete. New, quick-firing weapons started making their appearance from about 1830 on. The outcome was to make the amount of firepower which could be produced per unit and per minute leap upwards as well as leading to dramatic improvements in accuracy and range. These developments made it questionable whether men would still be able to fight while standing on their feet and confronting each other in a relatively tight formation. As one might expect, a period of experimentation followed, nowhere more so than in the United States. There, during the Civil War, commanders who had never previously been in charge of large units and amateurish troops less bound to the past than many of their professional colleagues across the Atlantic did not hesitate to break formation, seek shelter, and adopt camouflage clothing when they thought doing so could save their lives. Confining our view to written military thought, however, one of the first and most important authors who attempted to come to grips with the new phenomenon was a French officer, Charles Jean Jacques Joseph Ardant du Picq.

In one sense, as he says, the work of du Picq represented a reaction against the geometrical approach of von Bülow and Jomini. Conversely, though he does not mention them, he followed Berenhorst and Clausewitz. Like them, he considered that the key to war was to be found not in any clever maneuvers, let alone geometrical formula, but in the heart of man. Much more than Clausewitz in particular, who served explicit warning against indulging in mere idle talk about the last-named subject, he was prepared to try and look into the factors which rendered that heart at least partly immune to the terror of battle. Du Picq saw considerable active service in the Crimea, Syria and Algeria. Hence he was under no illusion that it could be rendered anywhere near
completely
immune.

Trying to find out what made men fight, du Picq resorted to two different methods. One was detailed studies of ancient warfare when battles had been “simple and clear” and sources, in the form of Polybius, impeccable. The other was a questionnaire which he sent out to his fellow officers. This enabled him to interview them very closely about the way their men behaved in combat and the factors which influenced them. In any event, the Franco-Prussian War broke out, and du Picq himself was killed before he received many answers. Not that it mattered, for by that time most of his
Battle Studies
were largely complete and his mind had been made up.

Fighting against non-European peoples, du Picq had witnessed the power of military organization at first hand. Had not Napoleon said that, whereas one Mamluk was the equal of three Frenchmen, a hundred Frenchmen could confidently take on five times their number in Mamluks? Individual men were often cowards; however, having trained together and standing together in formation, they were transformed. A new social force, known as cohesion, made its appearance as comrade sustained comrade and mutual shame prevented each one from running away.

To paraphrase, four men who do not know each other will hesitate to confront a lion. But once they know each other and feel they can trust each other they will do so without fear.
That
, rather than any clever evolutions which it might carry out, was the secret of the ancient Greek and Macedonian phalanx in which men, packed closely together in their ranks and files, sustained each other and, if necessary, physically pushed each other into battle while preventing any escape. The phalanx was, however, if anything too closely packed. As a result, those in front had no way to break away and rest from their ordeal. In the meantime, those in the rear were almost as exposed to the fury of battle as their comrades in front. The chequerboard formation of the Roman legion was much better. Made up of carefully placed smaller units, and arrayed in three successive lines (
acies
), it enjoyed all the advantages of the phalanx. All this, while still enabling the majority of combatants to catch their breath and recuperate between bouts of fighting.

Now to the really decisive question: namely, how to ensure that men did not break in front of the five rounds per minute which could be directed at them by contemporary weapons. Du Picq’s answer was that greater reliance should be placed upon skirmishers, and that “every officer should be reduced who does not utilize them to some degree.” Skirmishers, however, should be closely controlled. There was no point in sending them so far ahead that, feeling isolated, they would merely hide or run. Controlling the skirmishers was the job of the battalion commander (since the battalion was the largest unit whose commander could still be in direct touch with the rank and file during battle, du Picq tended to disregard the activities of more senior officers). To enable him to do so the size of the battalions should be cut down by one third, from six to four companies. As one battalion engaged in skirmishing another ought to be left standing close by, sustaining its sister in the manner of the Roman maniples. The contemporary view of gaps in the line as dangerous was mistaken; on the contrary, and still in the manner of the Roman maniples, such gaps had to be deliberately used in order to enable some battalions to advance towards the enemy and the remainder to rest. Care should be taken that the supporting troops belong to the same units as the skirmishers, and
vice versa
. Any attempt to make troops fire on command should be discouraged.

During his lifetime the work of du Picq, whose professional career was anything but extraordinary, drew little attention. This, however, changed during the late 1890s. At that time the French Army, having recovered from the defeat of 1870–71, began looking for a method by which it might one day attack and defeat the superior German Army so as to regain Alsace-Lorraine.
Battle Studies
was disinterred, and its author turned into the patron-saint of the
Furor Galicus
School of warfighting. Good organization, unit cohesion, thorough training, firm command, patriotism, and the alleged native qualities of the French soldier were to turn him into an irresistible fighting animal. After all, had not Ammianus Marcelinus in the fourth century AD described his ancestors as “tall of stature, fair and ruddy, terrible for the fierceness of their eyes, fond of quarreling, and overbearing insolence”? In the autumn of 1914 that approach, complete with the famous
pantalons
rouges
, led straight into the muzzles of the waiting German machine guns. But for this du Picq, who had always emphasized the power of the defense and who had spent much of his professional career worrying lest modern soldiers would
not
be able to confront modern fire, can scarcely be blamed.