FROM
Karl von Clausewitz was bom in Germany in 1780 and joined the Prussian army in 1792. He studied military science in Berlin under Scharnhorst and took part in the disastrous campaign of Jena in 1806 as aide to Prince August. On release from captivity he became one of the leaders of Prussian army reform, entered Russian service and played an active part in the 1812 campaign and in the negotiations which led to Prussia's defection to the Allies. He returned to Prussian service and was chief of staff of an army corps during the Waterloo campaign.
After the peace he was appointed administrative head of the Prussian War College in 1818 with the rank of general and devoted his time to historical studies and to writing his major work, On War. He died of cholera in 1831 and his works were published by his widow.
His writings were found in sealed packets with a note: "Should the work be interrupted by my death, then what is found can only be called a mass of conceptions not brought into form . . . open to endless misconceptions." His writings influenced Lenin and Foch, among others.
Let us accompany the novice to the battlefield. As we approach, the thunder of the cannon becoming plainer and plainer is soon followed by the howling of shot, which attracts the attention of the inexperienced. Balls begin to strike the ground close to us, before and behind. We hasten to the hill where stands the General and his numerous Staff. Here the close striking of the cannon balls and the bursting of shells is so frequent that the seriousness of life makes itself visible through the youthful picture of imagination. Suddenly someone known to us falls—a shell strikes amongst the crowd and causes some mild panic: we begin to feel that we are no longer perfectly at ease and collected; even the bravest is at least to some degree confused.
Now, a step farther into the battle which is raging before us like a scene in the theatre, we get to the nearest General of Division; here ball follows
Karl von Clausewitz
ball, and the noise of our own guns increases the confusion. From the General of Division to the Brigadier. He, a man of acknowledged bravery, keeps carefully behind a rising ground, a house or tree—a sure sign of increasing danger. Grape rattles on the roofs of the houses and in the fields; cannon balls howl over us, and plough the air in all directions, and soon there is a frequent whistling of musket balls. A step farther towards the troops, to that sturdy infantry which for hours has maintained its firmness under this heavy fire; here the air is filled with the hissing of balls which announce their proximity by a short sharp noise as they pass within an inch of the ear, the head or the breast.
To add to all this, compassion strikes the beating heart with pity at the sight of the maimed and fallen. The young soldier cannot reach any of these different strata of danger without feeling that the light of reason does not move here in the same medium, that it is not refracted in the same manner as in speculative contemplation. Indeed, he must be a very extraordinary man who, under these impressions for the first time, does not lose the power of making any instantaneous decisions. It is true that habit soon blunts such impressions; in half an hour we begin to be more or less indifferent to all that is going on around us; but an ordinary character never attains to complete coolness and the natural elasticity of mind; and so we perceive that here again ordinary qualities will not suffice—a thing which gains truth the wider the sphere of activity which is to be filled.
Enthusiastic, stoical, natural bravery, great ambition, or also long familiarity with danger—much of all this there must be if all the effects produced in this resistant medium are not to fall short of that which may appear, to the student, only the ordinary standard.
* * *
Formerly by the term "Art of War" or "Science of War" nothing was understood but the totality of those branches of knowledge and those appliances of skill occupied with material things. . . .
In the art of sieges we first perceive a certain degree of guidance of the combat, something of the action of the intellectual faculties upon the material forces placed under their control, but generally only so far that it very soon embodied itself again in new material forms, such as approaches, trenches, counter-approaches, batteries, etc. . . .
Afterwards tactics attempted to give to the mechanism of its joints the character of a general disposition, built upon the peculiar properties of the instrument, which character leads indeed to the battlefield, but instead of leading to the free activity of the mind, leads to an Army made like an automaton by its rigid formations and orders of battle, which, movable only by the words of command, is intended to unwind its activities like a piece of clock-work.
As contemplation on War continually increased, and its history every day assumed more of a critical character, the urgent want appeared of the
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support of fixed maxims and rules, in order that in the controversies naturally arising about military events the war of opinions might be brought to some one point. . . . There arose, therefore, an endeavour to establish maxims, rules, and even systems for the conduct of War. . . .
All these attempts at theory are only to be considered in their analytical part as progress in the province of truth but in their synthetical part, in their precepts and rules, they are quite unserviceable.
They strive after determinate quantities, whilst in War all is undetermined, and the calculation has always to be made with varying quantities.
They direct the attention only upon material forces, while the whole action is penetrated throughout by intelligent forces and their effects.
They only pay regard to activity on one side, whilst War is a constant state of reciprocal action, the effects of which are mutual.
All that was not attain ble by such miserable philosophy, the offspring of partial views, lay outside the precincts of science and was the field of genius, which raises itself above rules. . . .
Every theory becomes infinitely more difficult from the moment it touches on the province of moral quantities.
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A swift and vigorous assumption of the offensive—the flashing sword of vengeance—is the most brilliant point in the defensive; he who does not at once think of it at the right moment, or rather he who does not from the first include this transition in his idea of the defensive will never understand the superiority of the defensive as a form of War.
* * *
If we reflect upon the commencement of War philosophically the conception of War does not originate properly with the offensive, as that form has for its absolute object, not so much fighting as the taking possession of something. The idea of war arises first by the defensive , for that form has the battle for its direct object, as warding off and fighting plainly are one and the same. The warding off is directed entirely against the attack; therefore supposes it, necessarily; but the attack is not directed against the warding off; it is directed upon something else—the taking possession ; consequently does not presuppose the warding off. It lies, therefore, in the nature of things, that the party who first brings the element of War into action, the party from whose point of view two opposite parties are first conceived, also established the first laws of War, and that party is the defender. We are not speaking of any individual cases; we are only dealing with a general, an abstract case, which theory imagines in order to determine the course it is to take.
* * *
Karl von Clausewitz
If we cast a glance at military history in general, we find so much the opposite of an incessant advance towards the aim, that standing still, and doing nothing is quite plainly the normal condition of an Army in the midst of War, acting is the exception. This must also raise a doubt as to the correctness of our conception. But ... in the campaigns of Napoleon, the conduct of War attained to that unlimited degree of energy which we have represented as the natural law of the element. This degree is therefore possible, and if it is possible then it is necessary.
* * *
War belongs not to the province of Arts and Sciences, but to the province of social life. It is a conflict of great interests, which is settled by bloodshed, and only in that is it different from others. It would be better, instead of comparing it with any Art, to liken it to business competition, which is also a conflict of human interests and activities; and it is still more like State policy, which, again, on its part, may be looked upon as a kind of business competition on a great scale. Besides, State policy is the womb in which War is developed, in which its outlines lie hidden in a rudimentary state, like the qualities of living creatures in their germs.
If war belongs to policy, it will naturally take its character from thence. If policy is grand and powerful, so also will be the War, and this may be carried to the point at which War attains its absolute form.
It is true the political element does not sink deep into the details of War. Sentries are not planted, patrols do not make their rounds from political considerations; but small as is its influence in this respect, it is great in the formation of a plan for a whole War, of a campaign, and often even for a battle. . . .
In one word, the Art of War in its highest point of view is policy, but no doubt, a policy which fights battles instead of writing notes.
According to this view, to leave a great military enterprise, or the plan for one, to a purely military judgment and decision is a distinction which cannot be allowed, and is even prejudicial; indeed, it is an irrational proceeding to consult professional soldiers on the plan of War, that they may give a purely military opinion upon what the Cabinet ought to do . . . the leading outlines of a war are always determined by the Cabinet, that is ... by a political, not a military, organ. . . .
Therefore, once more: War is an instrument of policy; it must necessarily bear its character; it must measure with its scale; the conduct of War, in its great features, is therefore policy itself, which takes up the sword in place of the pen, but does not on that account cease to think according to its own laws.
* * *
The best strategy is always to be very strong, first generally then at the decisive point. Therefore, apart from the energy which creates the Army, a
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work which is not always done by the General, there is no more imperative and no simpler law of Strategy than to keep the forces concentrated. No portion is to be separated from the main body unless called away by some urgent necessity. On this maxim we stand firm, and look upon it as a guide to be depended upon.
* * *
The only means of destroying the enemy's armed force is by combat, but this may be done in two ways, (1) directly, (2) indirectly, through a combination of combats. If therefore the battle is the chief means, still it is not the only means. The capture of a fortress or of a portion of territory is in itself really a destruction of the enemy's force and it may also lead to a still greater destruction and therefore, also, be an indirect means.
These means are generally estimated at more than they are worth —they have seldom the value of a battle; besides which it is always to be feared that the disadvantageous position to which they lead will be overlooked; they are seductive through the low price which they cost.
We must always consider means of this description as small investments, from which only small profits are to be expected; as means suited only to very limited State relations and weak motives. Then they are certainly better than battles without a purpose—than victories the results of which cannot be realised to the full.
STENDHAL
FROM
Marie-Henri Beyle, who took the pseudonym of Stendhal, was born in France in 1783 and after abandoning college studies, obtained a commission in the army. After taking part in Napoleon's Italian campaign, he resigned and started to write plays, became an unsuccessful grocer, and rejoined the army on the quartermaster's staff. As such he took part in the Russian campaign. After the war he lived in Italy until he was expelled by the Austrians for suspected espionage. He settled in France in poor circumstances until he was appointed French consul in Italy after the 1830 Revolution. He died in 1842 soon after at last achieving fame with The Charterhouse of Parma, in addition to many other works.
The young Italian hero, in search of glory, is caught up in the battle of Waterloo, amid the confusion. . . .
We must admit that our hero was very little of a hero at that moment. However, fear came to him only as a secondary consideration; he was principally shocked by the noise, which hurt his ears. The escort broke into a gallop; they crossed a large batch of tilled land which lay beyond the canal. And this field was strewn with dead.
"Red-coats! red-coats!" the hussars of the escort exclaimed joyfully, and at first Fabrizio did not understand; then he noticed that as a matter of fact almost all these bodies wore red uniforms. One detail made him shudder with horror; he observed that many of these unfortunate red-coats were still alive; they were calling out, evidently asking for help, and no one stopped to give it them. Our hero, being most humane, took every possible care that his horse should not tread upon any of the red-coats. The escort halted; Fabrizio, who was not paying sufficient attention to his military duty, galloped on, his eyes fixed on a wounded wretch in front of him.
"Will you halt, you young fool!" the serjeant shouted after him. Fabrizio discovered that he was twenty paces on the generals' right front, and precisely in the direction in which they were gazing through their
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glasses. As he came back to take his place behind the other hussars, who had halted a few paces in rear of them, he noticed the biggest of these generals who was speaking to his neighbour, a general also, in a tone of authority and almost of reprimand; he was swearing. Fabrizio could not contain his curiosity; and, in spite of the warning not to speak, given him by his friend the gaoler's wife, he composed a short sentence in good French, quite correct, and said to his neighbour:
"Who is that general who is chewing up the one next to him?"
"Gad, it's the Marshal!"
"What Marshal?"
"Marshal Ney, you fool!" I say, where have you been serving?"
Fabrizio, although highly susceptible, had no thought of resenting this insult; he was studying, lost in childish admiration, the famous Prince de la Moskowa, the "Bravest of the Brave."
Suddenly they all moved off at full gallop. A few minutes later Fabrizio saw, twenty paces ahead of him, a ploughed field the surface of which was moving in a singular fashion. The furrows were full of water and the soil, very damp, which formed the ridges between these furrows kept flying off in little black lumps three or four feet into the air. Fabrizio noticed as he passed this curious effect; then his thoughts turned to dreaming of the Marshal and his glory. He heard a sharp cry close to him; two hussars fell struck by shot; and, when he looked back at them, they were already twenty paces behind the escort. What seemed to him horrible was a horse streaming with blood that was struggling on the ploughed land, its hooves caught in its own entrails; it was trying to follow the others: its blood ran down into the mire.
"Ah! So I am under fire at last!" he said to himself. "I have seen shots fired!" he repeated with a sense of satisfaction. "Now I am a real soldier." At that moment, the escort began to go hell for leather, and our hero realised that it was shot from the guns that was making the earth fly up all round him. He looked vainly in the direction from which the balls were coming, he saw the white smoke of the battery at an enormous distance, and, in the thick of the steady and continuous rumble produced by the artillery fire, he seemed to hear shots discharged much closer at hand: he could not understand in the least what was happening.
At that moment, the generals and their escort dropped into a little road filled with water which ran five feet below the level of the fields.
The Marshal halted and looked again through his glasses. Fabrizio, this time, could examine him at his leisure. He found him to be very fair, with a big red face. "We don't have any faces like that in Italy," he said to himself. "With my pale cheeks and chestnut hair, I shall never look like that," he added despondently. To him these words implied: "I shall never be a hero." He looked at the hussars; with a solitary exception, all of them had yellow
Stendhal
moustaches. If Fabrizio was studying the hussars of the escort, they were all studying him as well. Their stare made him blush, and, to get rid of his embarrassment, he turned his head towards the enemy. They consisted of widely extended lines of men in red, but, what greatly suprised him, these men seemed to be quite minute. Their long files, which were regiments or divisions, appeared no taller than hedges. A line of red cavalry were trotting in the direction of the sunken road along which the Marshal and his escort had begun to move at a walk, splashing through the mud. The smoke made it impossible to distinguish anything in the direction in which they were advancing; now and then one saw men moving at a gallop against this background of white smoke.
Suddenly, from the direction of the enemy, Fabrizio saw four men approaching hell for leather. “Ah! We are attacked," he said to himself; then he saw two of these men speak to the Marshal. One of the generals on the latter's staff set off at a gallop towards the enemy, followed by two hussars of the escort and by the four men who had just come up. After a little canal which they all crossed, Fabrizio found himself riding beside a serjeant who seemed a good-natured fellow. “I must speak to this one," he said to himself, “then perhaps they'll stop staring at me." He thought for a long time.
"Sir, this is the first time that I have been present at a battle," he said at length to the serjeant. “But is this a real battle?"
"Something like . . ."
The escort moved on again and made for some divisions of infantry. Fabrizio felt quite drunk; he had taken too much brandy, he was rolling slightly in his saddle: he remembered most opportunely a favourite saying of his mother's coachman: "When you've been lifting your elbow, look straight between your horse's ears, and do what the man next you does." The Marshal stopped for some time beside a number of cavalry units which he ordered to charge; but for an hour or two our hero was barely conscious of what was going on round about him. He was feeling extremely tired, and when his horse galloped he fell back on the saddle like a lump of lead.
Suddenly the serjeant called out to his men: “Don't you see the Emperor, curse you!" Whereupon the escort shouted: "Vive I'Empereur !"at the top of their voices. It may be imagined that our hero stared till his eyes started out of his head, but all he saw was some generals galloping, also followed by an escort. The long floating plumes of horsehair which the dragoons of the bodyguard wore on their helmets prevented him from distinguishing their faces. “So I have missed seeing the Emperor on a field of battle, all because of those cursed glasses of brandy!" This reflexion brought him back to his senses.
They went down into a road filled with water, the horses wished to drink.
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"So that was the Emperor who went past then?" he asked the man next to him.
"Why, surely, the one with no braid on his coat. How is it you didn't see him?" his comrade answered kindly. Fabrizio felt a strong desire to gallop after the Emperor's escort and embody himself in it. What a joy to go really to war in the train of that hero! It was for that that he had come to France. "I am quite at liberty to do it," he said to himself, "for after all I have no other reason for being where I am but the will of my horse, which started galloping after these generals."
What made Fabrizio decide to stay where he was was that the hussars, his new comrades, seemed so friendly towards him; he began to imagine himself the intimate friend of all the troopers with whom he had been galloping for the last few hours. He saw arise between them and himself that noble friendship of the heroes of Tasso and Ariosto. If he were to attach himself to the Emperor's escort, there would be fresh acquaintances to be made, perhaps they would look at him askance, for these other horsemen were dragoons, and he was wearing the hussar uniform like all the rest that were following the Marshal. The way in which they now looked at him set our hero on a pinnacle of happiness; he would have done anything in the world for his comrades; his mind and soul were in the clouds.
—C. K. Scott-Moncrieff (translator)