SKETCHES FOR BOOK VIII
PLAN OF WAR
CHAPTER I - Introduction
In the chapter on the essence and object of war,
we sketched, in a certain measure, its general conception, and pointed out its
relations to surrounding circumstances, in order to commence with a sound
fundamental idea. We there cast a glance at the manifold difficulties which the
mind encounters in the consideration of this subject, whilst we postponed the
closer examination of them, and stopped at the conclusion, that the overthrow
of the enemy, consequently the destruction of his combatant force, is the chief
object of the whole of the action of war. This put us in a position to show in
the following chapter, that the means which the act of war employs is the
combat alone. In this manner, we think, we have obtained at the outset a
correct point of view.
Having now gone through singly all the principal
relations and forms which appear in military action, but are extraneous to, or
outside of, the combat, in order that we might fix more distinctly their value,
partly through the nature of the thing, partly from the lessons of experience
which military history affords, purify them from, and root out, those vague
ambiguous ideas which are generally mixed up with them, and also to put
prominently forward the real object of the act of war, the destruction of the
enemy’s combatant force as the primary object universally belonging to it; we
now return to War as a whole, as we propose to speak of the Plan of War, and of
campaigns; and that obliges us to revert to the ideas in our first book
In these chapters, which are to deal with the
whole question, is contained strategy, properly speaking, in its most
comprehensive and important features. We enter this innermost part of its
domain, where all other threads meet, not without a degree of diffidence,
which, indeed, is amply justified
If, on the one hand, we see how extremely simple
the operations of war appear; if we hear and read how the greatest generals
speak of it, just in the plainest and briefest manner, how the government and
management of this ponderous machine, with its hundred thousand limbs, is made
no more of in their lips than if they were only speaking of their own persons,
so that the whole tremendous act of war is individualised into a kind of duel;
if we find the motives also of their action brought into connection sometimes
with a few simple ideas, sometimes with some excitement of feeling; if we see
the easy, sure, we might almost say light manner, in which they treat the
subject and now see, on the other hand, the immense number of circumstances
which present themselves for the consideration of the mind; the long, often indefinite,
distances to which the threads of the subject run out, and the number of
combinations which lie before us; if we reflect that it is the duty of theory
to embrace all this systematically, that is with clearness and fullness, and
always to refer the action to the necessity of a sufficient cause, then comes
upon us an overpowering dread of being dragged down to a pedantic dogmatism, to
crawl about in the lower regions of heavy abstruse conceptions, where we shall
never meet any great captain, with his natural coup d’œil. If the result of an
attempt at theory is to be of this kind, it would have been as well, or rather,
it would have been better, not to have made the attempt; it could only bring
down on theory the contempt of genius, and the attempt itself would soon be
forgotten. And on the other hand, this facile coup d’œil of the general, this
simple art of forming notions, this personification of the whole action of war,
is so entirely and completely the soul of the right method of conducting war, that
in no other but this broad way is it possible to conceive that freedom of the
mind which is indispensable if it is to dominate events, not to be overpowered
by them
With some fear we proceed again; we can only do so
by pursuing the way which we have prescribed for ourselves from the first.
Theory ought to throw a clear light on the mass of objects, that the mind may
the easier find its bearings; theory ought to pull up the weeds which error has
sown broadcast; it should show the relations of things to each other, separate
the important from the trifling. Where ideas resolve themselves spontaneously
into such a core of Truth as is called Principle, when they of themselves keep
such a line as forms a rule, Theory should indicate the same
Whatever the mind seizes, the rays of light which
are awakened in it by this exploration amongst the fundamental notions of
things, that is the assistance which Theory affords the mind. Theory can give
no formulas with which to solve problems; it cannot confine the mind’s course
to the narrow line of necessity by Principles set up on both sides. It lets the
mind take a look at the mass of objects and their relations, and then allows it
to go free to the higher regions of action, there to act according to the
measure of its natural forces, with the energy of the whole of those forces
combined, and to grasp the True and the Right, as one single clear idea, which
shooting forth from under the united pressure of all these forces, would seem
to be rather a product of feeling than of reflection.
CHAPTER II - Absolute and Real
War
The Plan of the War comprehends the whole Military
Act; through it that Act becomes a whole, which must have one final determinate
object, in which all particular objects must become absorbed. No war is commenced,
or, at least, no war should be commenced, if people acted wisely, without
saying to themselves, What is to be attained by and in the same; the first is
the final object; the other is the intermediate aim. By this chief
consideration the whole course of the war is prescribed, the extent of the
means and the measure of energy are determined; its influence manifests itself
down to the smallest organ of action.
We said, in the first chapter, that the overthrow
of the enemy is the natural end of the act of War; and that if we would keep
within the strictly philosophical limits of the idea, there can be no other in
reality.
As this idea must apply to both the belligerent
parties, it must follow, that there can be no suspension in the Military Act,
and peace cannot take place until one or other of the parties concerned is
overthrown.
In the chapter on the suspension of the
Belligerent Act, we have shown how the simple principle of hostility applied to
its embodiment, man, and all circumstances out of which it makes a war, is
subject to checks and modifications from causes which are inherent in the
apparatus of war.
But this modification is not nearly sufficient to
carry us from the original conception of War to the concrete form in which it
almost everywhere appears. Most wars appear only as an angry feeling on both
sides, under the influence of which, each side takes up arms to protect
himself, and to put his adversary in fear, and—when opportunity offers, to
strike a blow. They are, therefore, not like mutually destructive elements
brought into collision, but like tensions of two elements still apart which
discharge themselves in small partial shocks.
But what is now the non-conducting medium which
hinders the complete discharge? Why is the philosophical conception not
satisfied? That medium consists in the number of interests, forces, and
circumstances of various kinds, in the existence of the State, which are
affected by the war, and through the infinite ramifications of which the
logical consequence cannot be carried out as it would on the simple threads of
a few conclusions; in this labyrinth it sticks fast, and man, who in great
things as well as in small, usually acts more on the impulse of ideas and
feelings, than according to strictly logical conclusions, is hardly conscious
of his confusion, unsteadiness of purpose, and inconsistency.
But if the intelligence by which the war is
decreed, could even go over all these things relating to the war, without for a
moment losing sight of its aim, still all the other intelligences in the State
which are concerned may not be able to do the same; thus an opposition arises,
and with that comes the necessity for a force capable of overcoming the inertia
of the whole mass—a force which is seldom forthcoming to the full.
This inconsistency takes place on one or other of
the two sides, or it may be on both sides, and becomes the cause of the war
being something quite different to what it should be, according to the
conception of it—a half and half production, a thing without a perfect inner
cohesion.
This is how we find it almost everywhere, and we
might doubt whether our notion of its absolute character or nature was founded
in reality, if we had not seen real warfare make its appearence in this
absolute completeness just in our own times. After a short introduction
performed by the French Revolution, the impetuous Buonaparte quickly brought it
to this point Under him it was carried on without slackening for a moment until
the enemy was prostrated, and the counter stroke followed almost with as little
remission. Is it not natural and necessary that this phenomenon should lead us
back to the original conception of war with all its rigorous deductions?
Shall we now rest satisfied with this idea, and
judge of all wars according to it, however much they may differ from it,—deduce
from it all the requirements of theory?
We must decide upon this point, for we can say
nothing trustworthy on the Plan of War until we have made up our minds whether
war should only be of this kind, or whether it may be of another kind.
If we give an affirmative to the first, then our
Theory will be, in all respects, nearer to the necessary, it will be a clearer
and more settled thing. But what should we say then of all wars since those of
Alexander up to the time of Buonaparte, if we except some campaigns of the
Romans? We should have to reject them in a lump, and yet we cannot, perhaps, do
so without being ashamed of our presumption. But an additional evil is, that we
must say to ourselves, that in the next ten years there may perhaps be a war of
that same kind again, in spite of our Theory; and that this Theory, with a
rigorous logic, is still quite powerless against the force of circumstances. We
must, therefore, decide to construe war as it is to be, and not from pure
conception, but by allowing room for everything of a foreign nature which mixes
up with it and fastens itself upon it—all the natural inertia and friction of
its parts, the whole of the inconsistency, the vagueness and hesitation (or timidity)
of the human mind: we shall have to grasp the idea that war, and the form which
we give it, proceeds from ideas, feelings, and circumstances, which dominate
for the moment; indeed, if we would be perfectly candid we must admit that this
has even been the case where it has taken its absolute character, that is,
under Buonaparte.
If we must do so, if we must grant that war
originates and takes its form not from a final adjustment of the innumerable
relations with which it is connected, but from some amongst them which happen
to predominate; then it follows, as a matter of course, that it rests upon a
play of possibilities, probabilities, good fortune and bad, in which rigorous
logical deduction often gets lost, and in which it is in general a useless,
inconvenient instrument for the head; then it also follows that war may be a
thing which is sometimes war in a greater, sometimes in a lesser degree.
All this, theory must admit, but it is its duty to
give the foremost place to the absolute form of war, and to use that form as a
general point of direction, that whoever wishes to learn something from theory,
may accustom himself never to lose sight of it, to regard it as the natural
measure of all his hopes and fears, in order to approach it where he can, or
where he must.
That a leading idea, which lies at the root of our
thoughts and actions, gives them a certain tone and character, even when the
immediately determining grounds come from totally different regions, is just as
certain as that the painter can give this or that tone to his picture by the
colours with which he lays on his ground.
Theory is indebted to the last wars for being able
to do this effectually now. Without these warning examples of the destructive
force of the element set free, she might have talked herself hoarse to no
purpose; no one would have believed possible what all have now lived to see
realised.
Would Prussia have ventured to penetrate into
France in the year 1798 with 70,000 men, if she had foreseen that the reaction
in case of failure would be so strong as to overthrow the old balance of power
in Europe?
Would Prussia, in 1806, have made war with 100,000
against France, if she had supposed that the first pistol shot would be a spark
in the heart of the mine, which would blow it into the air?
CHAPTER III - A.
Interdependence of the Parts in War
According as we have in view the absolute form of
war, or one of the real forms deviating more or less from it, so likewise
different notions of its result will arise.
In the absolute form, where everything is the
effect of its natural and necessary cause, one thing follows another in rapid
succession; there is, if we may use the expression, no neutral space; there is
on account of the manifold reactionary effects which war contains in itself,* on account of the connection in which, strictly
speaking, the whole series of combats,* follow
one after another, on account of the culminating point which every victory has,
beyond which losses and defeats commence* on
account of all these natural relations of war there is, I say, only one result,
to wit, the final result. Until it takes place nothing is decided, nothing won,
nothing lost. Here we may say indeed: the end crowns the work. In this view,
therefore, war is an indivisible whole, the parts of which (the subordinate
results) have no value except in their relation to this whole. The conquest of
Moscow, and of half Russia in 1812, was of no value to Buonaparte unless it
obtained for him the peace which he desired. But it was only a part of his Plan
of campaign; to complete that Plan, one part was still wanted, the destruction
of the Russian army; if we suppose this, added to the other success, then the
peace was as certain as it is possible for things of this kind to be. This
second part Buonaparte missed at the right time, and he could never afterwards
attain it, and so the whole of the first part was not only useless, but fatal
to him.
To this view of the relative connection of results
in war, which may be regarded as extreme, stands opposed another extreme,
according to which war is composed of single independent results, in which, as
in any number of games played, the preceding has no influence on the next
following; everything here, therefore, depends only on the sum total of the
results, and we can lay up each single one like a counter at play.
Just as the first kind of view derives its truth
from the nature of things, so we find that of the second in history. There are
cases without number in which a small moderate advantage might have been gained
without any very onerous condition being attached to it. The more the element
of war is modified the more common these cases become; but as little as the
first of the views now imagined was ever completely realised in any war, just
as little is there any war in which the last suits in all respects, and the
first can be dispensed with.
If we keep to the first of these supposed views,
we must perceive the necessity of every war being looked upon as a whole from
the very commencement, and that at the very first step forwards, the commander
should have in his eye the object to which every line must converge.
If we admit the second view, then subordinate
advantages may be pursued on their own account, and the rest left to subsequent
events.
As neither of these forms of conception is
entirely without result, therefore theory cannot dispense with either. But it
makes this difference in the use of them, that it requires the first to be laid
as a fundamental idea at the root of everything, and that the latter shall only
be used as a modification which is justified by circumstances.
If Frederick the Great in the years 1742, 1744,
1757, and 1758, thrust out from Silesia and Saxony a fresh offensive point into
the Austrian Empire, which he knew very well could not lead to a new and
durable conquest like that of Silesia and Saxony, it was done not with a view
to the overthrow of the Austrian Empire, but from a lesser motive, namely, to
gain time and strength; and it was optional with him to pursue that subordinate
object without being afraid that he should thereby risk his whole existence.* But if Prussia in 1806, and Austria in 1805, 1809,
proposed to themselves a still more moderate object, that of driving the French
over the Rhine, they would not have acted in a reasonable manner if they had
not first scanned in their minds the whole series of events which either, in
the case of success, or of the reverse, would probably follow the first step,
and lead up to peace. This was quite indispensable, as well to enable them to
determine with themselves how far victory might be followed up without danger,
and how and where they would be in a condition to arrest the course of victory
on the enemy’s side.
They did not do so in a degree commensurate with
their importance, although both Austria and Prussia, judging by their
armaments, felt that storms were brewing in the political atmosphere. They
could not do so because those relations at that time were not yet so plainly
developed as they have been since from history. It is just those very campaigns
of 1805, 1806, 1809, and following ones, which have made it easier for us to
form a conception of modern absolute war in its destroying energy.
Theory demands, therefore, that at the
commencement of every war its character and main outline shall be defined
according to what the political conditions and relations lead us to anticipate
as probable. The more, that according to this probability its character
approaches the form of absolute war, the more its outline embraces the mass of the
belligerent states and draws them into the vortex, so much the more complete
will be the relation of events to one another and the whole, but so much the
more necessary it will also be not to take the first step without thinking what
may be the last.
*Book I., Chapter I.
*Book I., Chapter I.
*Book VII., Chapters IV. and V. (Culminating Point of Victory).
*Had Frederick the Great gained the Battle of Kollen, and taken
prisoners the chief Austrian army with their two field marshals in Prague, it
would have been such a tremendous blow that he might then have entertained the
idea of marching to Vienna to make the Austrian Court tremble, and gain a peace
directly. This, in these times, unparalleled result, which would have been
quite like what we have seen in our day, only still more wonderful and
brilliant from the contest being between a little David and a great Goliath,
might very probably have taken place after the gain of this one battle; but
that does not contradict the assertion above maintained, for it only refers to
what the king originally looked forward to from his offensive. The surrounding
and taking prisoners the enemy’s army was an event which was beyond all
calculation, and which the king never thought of, at least not until the
Austrians laid themselves open to it by the unskilful position in which they
placed themselves at Prague.
An attentive consideration of history shows
wherein the difference of the two cases consists. At the time of the Silesian
War in the eighteenth century, war was still a mere Cabinet affair, in which
the people only took part as a blind instrument; at the beginning of the
nineteenth century the people on each side weighed in the scale. The commanders
opposed to Frederick the Great were men who acted on commission, and just on
that account men in whom caution was a predominant characteristic; the opponent
of the Austrians and Prussians may be described in a few words as the very god
of war himself.
Must not these different circumstances give rise
to quite different considerations? Should they not in the year 1805, 1806, and
1809 have pointed to the extremity of disaster as a very close possibility,
nay, even a very great probability, and should they not at the same time have
led to widely different plans and measures from any merely aimed at the
conquest of a couple of fortresses or a paltry province?
B. On the Magnitude of the
Object of the War, and the Efforts to be Made.
The compulsion which we must use towards our enemy
will be regulated by the proportions of our own and his political demands. In
so far as these are mutually known they will give the measure of the mutual
efforts; but they are not always quite so evident, and this may be a first
ground of a difference in the means adopted by each.
The situation and relations of the states are not
like each other; this may become a second cause.
The strength of will, the character and
capabilities of the governments are as little like; this is a third cause.
These three elements cause an uncertainty in the
calculation of the amount of resistance to be expected, consequently an
uncertainty as to the amount of means to be applied and the object to be
chosen.
As in war the want of sufficient exertion may
result not only in failure but in positive harm, therefore, the two sides
respectively seek to outstrip each other, which produces a reciprocal action.
This might lead to the utmost extremity of
exertion, if it was possible to define such a point. But then regard for the
amount of the political demands would be lost, the means would lose all
relation to the end, and in most cases this aim at an extreme effort would be
wrecked by the opposing weight of forces within itself.
In this manner, he who undertakes war is brought
back again into a middle course, in which he acts to a certain extent upon the
principle of only applying so much force and aiming at such an object in war as
are just sufficient for the attainment of its political object. To make this
principle practicable he must renounce every absolute necessity of a result,
and throw out of the calculation remote contingencies.
Here, therefore, the action of the mind leaves the
province of science, strictly speaking, of logic and mathematics, and becomes,
in the widest sense of the term, an art, that is, skill in discriminating, by
the tact of judgment among an infinite multitude of objects and relations, that
which is the most important and decisive. This tact of judgment consists
unquestionably more or less in some intuitive comparison of things and
relations by which the remote and unimportant are more quickly set aside, and
the more immediate and important are sooner discovered than they could be by
strictly logical deduction.
In order to ascertain the real scale of the means
which we must put forth for war, we must think over the political object both
on our own side and on the enemy’s side; we must consider the power and
position of the enemy’s state as well as of our own, the character of his
government and of his people, and the capacities of both, and all that again on
our own side, and the political connections of other states, and the effect
which the war will produce on those States. That the determination of these
diverse circumstances and their diverse connections with each other is an
immense problem, that it is the true flash of genius which discovers here in a
moment what is right, and that it would be quite out of the question to become
master of the complexity merely by a methodical study, this it is easy to
conceive.
In this sense Buonaparte was quite right when he
said that it would be a problem in algebra before which a Newton might stand
aghast.
If the diversity and magnitude of the
circumstances and the uncertainty as to the right measure augment in a high
degree the difficulty of obtaining a right result, we must not overlook the
fact that although the incomparable importance of the matter does not increase
the complexity and difficulty of the problem, still it very much increases the
merit of its solution. In men of an ordinary stamp freedom and activity of mind
are depressed not increased by the sense of danger and responsibility: but
where these things give wings to strengthen the judgment, there undoubtedly
must be unusual greatness of soul.
First of all, therefore, we must admit that the
judgment on an approaching war, on the end to which it should be directed, and
on the means which are required, can only be formed after a full consideration
of the whole of the circumstances in connection with it: with which therefore
must also be combined the most individual traits of the moment; next, that this
decision, like all in military life, cannot be purely objective but must be
determined by the mental and moral qualities of princes, statesmen, and
generals, whether they are united in the person of one man or not.
The subject becomes general and more fit to be
treated of in the abstract if we look at the general relations in which States
have been placed by circumstances at different times. We must allow ourselves
here a passing glance at history.
Half-civilised Tartars, the Republics of ancient
times, the feudal lords and commercial cities of the Middle Ages, kings of the
eighteenth century, and, lastly, princes and people of the nineteenth century,
all carry on war in their own way, carry it on differently, with different
means, and for a different object.
The Tartars seek new abodes. They march out as a
nation with their wives and children, they are, therefore, greater than any
other army in point of numbers, and their object is to make the enemy submit or
expel him altogether. By these means they would soon overthrow everything
before them if a high degree of civilisation could be made compatible with such
a condition.
The old Republics with the exception of Rome were
of small extent; still smaller their armies, for they excluded the great mass
of the populace: they were too numerous and lay too close together not to find
an obstacle to great enterprises in the natural equilibrium in which small
separate parts always place themselves according to the general law of nature:
therefore their wars were confined to devastating the open country and taking
some towns in order to ensure to themselves in these a certain degree of
influence for the future.
Rome alone forms an exception, but not until the
later period of its history. For a long time, by means of small bands, it
carried on the usual warfare with its neighbours for booty and alliances. It
became great more through the alliances which it formed, and through which
neighbouring peoples by degrees became amalgamated with it into one whole, than
through actual conquests. It was only after having spread itself in this manner
all over Southern Italy, that it began to advance as a really conquering power.
Carthage fell, Spain and Gaul were conquered, Greece subdued, and its dominion
extended to Egypt and Asia. At this period its military power was immense,
without its efforts being in the same proportion. These forces were kept up by
its riches; it no longer resembled the ancient republics, nor itself as it had
been; it stands alone.
Just as peculiar in their way are the wars of
Alexander. With a small army, but distinguished for its intrinsic perfection,
he overthrew the decayed fabric of the Asiatic States; without rest, and
regardless of risks, he traverses the breadth of Asia, and penetrates into
India. No republics could do this. Only a king, in a certain measure his own
condottiere, could get through so much so quickly.
The great and small monarchies of the middle ages
carried on their wars with feudal armies. Everything was then restricted to a
short period of time; whatever could not be done in that time was held to be
impracticable. The feudal force itself was raised through an organisation of
vassaldom; the bond which held it together was partly legal obligation, partly
a voluntary contract; the whole formed a real confederation. The armament and
tactics were based on the right of might, on single combat, and therefore
little suited to large bodies. In fact, at no period has the union of States
been so weak, and the individual citizen so independent. All this influenced
the character of the wars at that period in the most distinct manner. They were
comparatively rapidly carried out, there was little time spent idly in camps,
but the object was generally only punishing, not subduing, the enemy. They
carried off his cattle, burnt his towns, and then returned home again.
The great commercial towns and small republics
brought forward the condottieri. That was an expensive, and therefore, as far
as visible strength, a very limited military force; as for its intensive
strength, it was of still less value in that respect; so far from their showing
anything like extreme energy or impetuosity in the field, their combats were
generally only sham fights. In a word, hatred and enmity no longer roused a
state to personal activity, but had become articles of trade; war lost great
part of its danger, altered completely its nature, and nothing we can say of
the character it then assumed, would be applicable to it in its reality.
The feudal system condensed itself by degrees into
a decided territorial supremacy; the ties binding the State together became
closer; obligations which concerned the person were made subject of
composition; by degrees gold became the substitute in most cases, and the
feudal armies were turned into mercenaries. The condottieri formed the
connecting link in the change, and were therefore, for a time, the instrument
of the more powerful States; but this had not lasted long, when the soldier,
hired for a limited term, was turned into a standing mercenary, and the
military force of States now became an army, having its base in the public
treasury.
It is only natural that the slow advance to this
stage caused a diversified interweaving of all three kinds of military force.
Under Henry IV. we find the feudal contingents, condottieri, and standing army
all employed together. The condottieri carried on their existence up to the
period of the Thirty Years’ War, indeed there are slight traces of them even in
the eighteenth century.
The other relations of the States of Europe at
these different periods were quite as peculiar as their military forces. Upon
the whole, this part of the world had split up into a mass of petty States,
partly republics in a state of internal dissension, partly small monarchies in
which the power of the government was very limited and insecure. A State in
either of these cases could not be considered as a real unity; it was rather an
agglomeration of loosely connected forces. Neither, therefore, could such a
State be considered an intelligent being, acting in accordance with simple
logical rules.
It is from this point of view we must look at the
foreign politics and wars of the Middle Ages. Let us only think of the
continual expeditions of the Emperors of Germany into Italy for five centuries,
without any substantial conquest of that country resulting from them, or even
having been so much as in view. It is easy to look upon this as a fault
repeated over and over again as a false view which had its root in the nature
of the times, but it is more in accordance with reason to regard it as the
consequence of a hundred important causes which we can partially realise in
idea, but the vital energy of which it is impossible for us to understand so vividly
as those who were brought into actual conflict with them. As long as the great
States which have risen out of this chaos required time to consolidate and
organise themselves, their whole power and energy is chiefly directed to that
point; their foreign wars are few, and those that took place bear the stamp of
a State-unity not yet well cemented.
The wars between France and England are the first
that appear, and yet at that time France is not to be considered as really a
monarchy, but as an agglomeration of dukedoms and countships; England, although
bearing more the semblance of a unity, still fought with the feudal
organisation, and was hampered by serious domestic troubles.
Under Louis XI., France made its greatest step
towards internal unity; under Charles VIII. it appears in Italy as a power bent
on conquest; and under Louis XIV. it had brought its political state and its
standing army to the highest perfection.
Spain attains to unity under Ferdinand the
Catholic; through accidental marriage connections, under Charles V., suddenly
arose the great Spanish monarchy, composed of Spain, Burgundy, Germany, and
Italy united. What this colossus wanted in unity and internal political
cohesion, it made up for by gold, and its standing army came for the first time
into collision with the standing army of France. After Charles’s abdication,
the great Spanish colossus split into two parts, Spain and Austria. The latter,
strengthened by the acquisition of Bohemia and Hungary, now appears on the
scene as a great power, towing the German Confederation like a small vessel
behind her.
The end of the seventeenth century, the time of
Louis XIV., is to be regarded as the point in history at which the standing
military power, such as it existed in the eighteenth century, reached its
zenith. That military force was based on enlistment and money. States had
organised themselves into complete unities; and the governments, by commuting
the personal obligations of their subjects into a money payment, had
concentrated their whole power in their treasuries. Through the rapid strides
in social improvements, and a more enlightened system of government, this power
had become very great in comparison to what it had been. France appeared in the
field with a standing army of a couple of hundred thousand men, and the other
powers in proportion.
The other relations of States had likewise
altered. Europe was divided into a dozen kingdoms and two republics; it was now
conceivable that two of these powers might fight with each other without ten
times as many others being mixed up in the quarrel, as would certainly have
been the case formerly. The possible combinations in political relations were
still manifold, but they could be discerned and determined from time to time
according to probability.
Internal relations had almost everywhere settle
down into a pure monarchical form; the rights and influence of privileged
bodies or estates had gradually died away, and the cabinet had become a
complete unity, acting for the State in all its external relations. The time
had therefore come that a suitable instrument and a despotic will could give
war a form in accordance with the theoretical conception.
And at this epoch appeared three new Alexanders
Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII., and Frederick the Great, whose aim was by
small but highly-disciplined armies, to raise little States to the rank of
great monarchies, and to throw down everything that opposed them. If they had
had only to deal with Asiatic States, they would have more closely resembled Alexander
in the parts they acted. In any case, we may look upon them as the precursors
of Buonaparte as respects that which may be risked in war.
But what war gained on the one side in force and
consistency was lost again on the other side.
Armies were supported out of the treasury, which
the sovereign regarded partly as his private purse, or at least as a resource
belonging to the government, and not to the people. Relations with other
states, except with respect to a few commercial subjects, mostly concerned only
the interests of the treasury or of the government, not those of the people; at
least ideas tended everywhere in that way. The cabinets, therefore, looked upon
themselves as the owners and administrators of large estates, which they were
continually seeking to increase without the tenants on these estates being
particularly interested in this improvement. The people, therefore, who in the
Tartar invasions were everything in war, who, in the old republics, and in the
Middle Ages, (if we restrict the idea to those possessing the rights of
citizens,) were of great consequence, were in the eighteenth century,
absolutely nothing directly, having only still an indirect influence on the war
through their virtues and faults.
In this manner, in proportion as the government
separated itself from the people, and regarded itself as the state, war became
more exclusively a business of the government, which it carried on by means of
the money in its coffers and the idle vagabonds it could pick up in its own and
neighbouring countries. The consequence of this was, that the means which the
government could command had tolerably well defined limits, which could be
mutually estimated, both as to their extent and duration; this robbed war of
its most dangerous feature: namely the effort towards the extreme, and the
hidden series of possibilities connected therewith.
The financial means, the contents of the treasury,
the state of credit of the enemy, were approximately known as well as the size
of his army. Any large increase of these at the outbreak of a war was
impossible. Inasmuch as the limits of the enemy’s power could thus be judged
of, a State felt tolerably secure from complete subjugation, and as the State
was conscious at the same time of the limits of its own means, it saw itself
restricted to a moderate aim. Protected from an extreme, there was no necessity
to venture on an extreme. Necessity no longer giving an impulse in that
direction, that impulse could only now be given by courage and ambition. But
these found a powerful counterpoise in the political relations. Even kings in
command were obliged to use the instrument of war with caution. If the army was
dispersed, no new one could be got, and except the army there was nothing. This
imposed as a necessity great prudence in all undertakings. It was only when a
decided advantage seemed to present itself that they made use of the costly
instrument; to bring about such an opportunity was a general’s art; but until
it was brought about they floated to a certain degree in an absolute vacuum,
there was no ground of action, and all forces, that is all designs, seemed to
rest. The original motive of the aggressor faded away in prudence and
circumspection.
Thus war, in reality, became a regular game, in
which Time and Chance shuffled the cards; but in its signification it was only
diplomacy somewhat intensified, a more vigorous way of negotiating, in which
battles and sieges were substituted for diplomatic notes. To obtain some
moderate advantage in order to make use of it in negotiations for peace, was
the aim even of the most ambitious.
This restricted, shrivelled-up form of war
proceeded, as we have said, from the narrow basis on which it was supported.
But that excellent generals and kings, like Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII.,
and Frederick the Great, at the head of armies just as excellent, could not
gain more prominence in the general mass of phenomena that even these men were
obliged to be contented to remain at the ordinary level of moderate results, is
to be attributed to the balance of power in Europe. Now that States had become
greater, and their centres further apart from each other, what had formerly
been done through direct perfectly natural interests, proximity, contact,
family connections, personal friendship, to prevent any one single State among
the number from becoming suddenly great was effected by a higher cultivation of
the art of diplomacy. Political interests, attractions and repulsions developed
into a very refined system, so that a cannon shot could not be fired in Europe
without all the cabinets having some interest in the occurrence.
A new Alexander must therefore try the use of a
good pen as well as his good sword; and yet he never went very far with his
conquests.
But although Louis XIV. had in view to overthrow
the balance of power in Europe, and at the end of the seventeenth century had
already got to such a point as to trouble himself little about the general
feeling of animosity, he carried on war just as it had heretofore been conducted;
for while his army was certainly that of the greatest and richest monarch in
Europe, in its nature it was just like others.
Plundering and devastating the enemy’s country,
which play such an important part with Tartars, with ancient nations, and even
in the Middle Ages, were no longer in accordance with the spirit of the age.
They were justly looked upon as unnecessary barbarity, which might easily be
retaliated, and which did more injury to the enemy’s subjects than the enemy’s
government, therefore, produced no effect beyond throwing the nation back many
stages in all that relates to peaceful arts and civilisation. War, therefore,
confined itself more and more both as regards means and end, to the army
itself. The army with its fortresses, and some prepared positions, constituted
a State in a State, within which the element of war slowly consumed itself. All
Europe rejoiced at its taking this direction, and held it to be the necessary
consequence of the spirit of progress. Although there lay in this an error,
inasmuch as the progress of the human mind can never lead to what is absurd,
can never make five out of twice two, as we have already said, and must again
repeat, still upon the whole this change had a beneficial effect for the
people; only it is not to be denied that it had a tendency to make war still
more an affair of the State, and to separate it still more from the interests
of the people. The plan of a war on the part of the state assuming the
offensive in those times consisted generally in the conquest of one or other of
the enemy’s provinces; the plan of the defender was to prevent this; the
particular plan of campaign was to take one or other of the enemy’s fortresses,
or to prevent one of our own from being taken; it was only when a battle became
unavoidable for this purpose that it was sought for and fought. Whoever fought
a battle without this unavoidable necessity, from mere innate desire of gaining
a victory, was reckoned a general with too much daring. Generally the campaign
passed over with one siege, or if it was a very active one, with two sieges,
and winter quarters, which were regarded as a necessity, and during which, the
faulty arrangements of the one could never be taken advantage of by the other,
and in which the mutual relations of the two parties almost entirely ceased,
formed a distinct limit to the activity which was considered to belong to one
campaign.
If the forces opposed were too much on an
equality, or if the aggressor was decidedly the weaker of the two, then neither
battle nor siege took place, and the whole of the operations of the campaign
pivoted on the maintenance of certain positions and magazines, and the regular
exhaustion of particular districts of country.
As long as war was universally conducted in this
manner, and the natural limits of its force were so close and obvious, so far
from anything absurd being perceived in it, all was considered to be in the
most regular order; and criticism, which in the eighteenth century began to
turn its attention to the field of art in war, addressed itself to details
without troubling itself much about the beginning and the end. Thus there was
eminence and perfection of every kind, and even Field Marshal Daun, to whom it
was chiefly owing that Frederick the Great completely attained his object, and
that Maria Theresa completely failed in hers, notwithstanding that could still
pass for a great General. Only now and again a more penetrating judgment made
its appearance, that is, sound common sense acknowledged that with superior
numbers something positive should be attained or war is badly conducted,
whatever art may be displayed.
Thus matters stood when the French Revolution
broke out; Austria and Prussia tried their diplomatic art of war; this very
soon proved insufficient. Whilst, according to the usual way of seeing things,
all hopes were placed on a very limited military force in 1793, such a force as
no one had any conception of, made its appearance. War had suddenly become
again an affair of the people, and that of a people numbering thirty millions,
every one of whom regarded himself as a citizen of the State. Without entering
here into the details of circumstances with which this great phenomenon was
attended, we shall confine ourselves to the results which interest us at
present. By this participation of the people in the war instead of a cabinet
and an army, a whole nation with its natural weight came into the scale.
Henceforward, the means available the efforts which might be called forth had
no longer any definite limits; the energy with which the war itself might be
conducted had no longer any counterpoise, and consequently the danger for the
adversary had risen to the extreme.
If the whole war of the revolution passed over
without all this making itself felt in its full force and becoming quite
evident; if the generals of the revolution did not persistently press on to the
final extreme, and did not overthrow the monarchies in Europe; if the German
armies now and again had the opportunity of resisting with success, and
checking for a time the torrent of victory, the cause lay in reality in that
technical incompleteness with which the French had to contend, which showed
itself first amongst the common soldiers, then in the generals, lastly, at the
time of the Directory, in the Government itself.
After all this was perfected by the hand of
Buonaparte, this military power, based on the strength of the whole nation,
marched over Europe, smashing everything in pieces so surely and certainly,
that where it only encountered the old fashioned armies the result was not
doubtful for a moment. A re-action, however, awoke in due time. In Spain, the
war became of itself an affair of the people. In Austria, in the year 1809, the
Government commenced extraordinary efforts, by means of Reserves and Landwehr,
which were nearer to the true object, and far surpassed in degree what this
State had hitherto conceived possible, In Russia, in 1812, the example of Spain
and Austria was taken as a pattern, the enormous dimensions of that empire on
the one hand allowed the preparations, although too long deferred, still to
produce effect; and, on the other hand, intensified the effect produced. The
result was brilliant. In Germany, Prussia rose up the first, made the war a
national cause, and without either money or credit, and with a population
reduced one half, took the field with an army twice as strong as that of 1806.
The rest of Germany followed the example of Prussia sooner or later, and
Austria, although less energetic than in 1809, still also came forward with
more than its usual strength. Thus it was that Germany and Russia in the years
1813 and 1814, including all who took an active part in, or were absorbed in
these two campaigns, appeared against France with about a million of men.
Under these circumstances, the energy thrown into
the conduct of the war was quite different; and, although not quite on a level
with that of the French, although at some points timidity was still to be
observed, the course of the campaigns, upon the whole, may be said to have been
in the new, not in the old, style. In eight months the theatre of war was
removed from the Oder to the Seine. Proud Paris had to bow its head for the
first time; and the redoubtable Buonaparte lay fettered on the ground.
Therefore, since the time of Buonaparte, war,
through being first on one side, then again on the other, an affair of the
whole nation, has assumed quite a new nature, or rather it has approached much
nearer to its real nature, to its absolute perfection. The means then called
forth had no visible limit, the limit losing itself in the energy and
enthusiasm of the Government and its subjects. By the extent of the means, and
the wide field of possible results, as well as by the powerful excitement of
feeling which prevailed, energy in the conduct of war was immensely increased;
the object of its action was the downfall of the foe; and not until the enemy
lay powerless on the ground was it supposed to be possible to stop or to come
to any understanding with respect to the mutual objects of the contest.
Thus, therefore, the element of war, freed from
all conventional restrictions, broke loose, with all its natural force. The
cause was the participation of the people in this great affair of State, and
this participation arose partly from the effects of the French Revolution on
the internal affairs of countries, partly from the threatening attitude of the
French towards all nations.
Now, whether this will be the case always in
future, whether all wars hereafter in Europe will be carried on with the whole
power of the States, and, consequently, will only take place on account of
great interests closely affecting the people, or whether a separation of the
interests of the Government from those of the people will gradually again
arise, would be a difficult point to settle; and, least of all, shall we take
upon us to settle it. But every one will agree with us, that bounds, which to a
certain extent existed only in an unconsciousness of what is possible, when
once thrown down, are not easily built up again; and that, at least, whenever
great interests are in dispute, mutual hostility will discharge itself in the
same manner as it has done in our times.
We here bring our historical survey to a close,
for it was not our design to give at a gallop some of the principles on which
war has been carried on in each age, but only to show how each period has had
its own peculiar forms of war, its own restrictive conditions, and its own
prejudices. Each period would, therefore, also keep its own theory of war, even
if every where, in early times, as well as in later, the task had been
undertaken of working out a theory on philosophical principles. The events in
each age must, therefore, be judged of in connection with the peculiarities of
the time, and only he who, less through an anxious study of minute details than
through an accurate glance at the whole, can transfer himself into each
particular age, is fit to understand and appreciate its generals.
But this conduct of war, conditioned by the
peculiar relations of States, and of the military force employed, must still
always contain in itself something more general, or rather something quite
general, with which, above everything, theory is concerned.
The latest period of past time, in which war
reached its absolute strength, contains most of what is of general application
and necessary. But it is just as improbable that wars henceforth will all have
this grand character as that the wide barriers which have been opened to them
will ever be completely closed again. Therefore, by a theory which only dwells
upon this absolute war, all cases in which external influences alter the nature
of war would be excluded or condemned as false. This cannot be the object of
theory, which ought to be the science of war, not under ideal but under real
circumstances. Theory, therefore, whilst casting a searching, discriminating
and classifying glance at objects, should always have in view the manifold
diversity of causes from which war may proceed, and should, therefore, so trace
out its great features as to leave room for what is required by the exigencies
of time and the moment.
Accordingly, we must add that the object which
every one who undertakes war proposes to himself, and the means which he calls
forth, are determined entirely according to the particular details of his
position; and on that very account they will also bear in themselves the
character of the time and of the general relations; lastly, that they are
always subject to the general conclusions to be deduced from the nature of war.
