A Coup d’Oeil at the Great Commanders
Definitions, axioms, pet theories, and checklists abound, but leadership, like sex, is a doing thing.
—Henry G. Gole, “Leadership in Literature”
OUR SUBJECT IS Menschenführung, one of those clumsy-precise German words, which means “leading human beings.” As historian and retired air force general Montgomery Meigs observes, “There seems to be no real conclusive body of thought on what makes a good general. So as a start point, study of the leadership attributes of generals, past and present, should be useful. Historians and commentators alike usually cite character as the essential ingredient of enlightened senior leadership, especially of military leaders.”1 Meigs goes on to propose four qualities of character for great commanders: intellect, energy, selflessness, and humanity. While these are without question essential, we might add decisiveness and speed on the battlefield, as well as the ability to both maximize one’s own strengths while minimizing those of the enemy. Almost all the generals discussed in this work were at the cusp of a change in warfare and were often responsible for bringing about that change. But let’s examine Meigs’s more traditional list of attributes.
MEIGS SAYS THAT INTELLECT is the basis of competence, intuition, and will. Few of the generals considered here were products of institutions of higher learning (Meigs himself went to West Point); they all learned their craft through experience. Some, especially the most recent subjects, commented on their appreciation of history. Han Xin had the writings of Sun Tzu to which to turn for advice, while Belisarius had the writings of Vegetius.2 The others learned what they knew from actual combat, as well as from whatever commanders they may have served under or against. Alexander learned from his father, Hannibal from his, Scipio from Hannibal, Žižka from his experience against the Teutonic Knights, Marlborough from Turenne, and so forth.
I would argue that what Meigs means by intellect should include another abstraction—“vision.” This quality might include not only a willingness to use new weaponry (Scipio, Oda Nobunaga, Jan Žižka, Gustavus Adolphus) or even tactical innovations (Epaminondas, Frederick), but the oft-mentioned coup d’oeil—the ability to sum up the terrain, the opposition, and the correct offensive moves in a matter of moments. Can such a quality be learned? Perhaps—if one were to study the masters and look at the maps of their battlefields, or walk the battlefields and see what the generals saw, or look at any terrain and decide as quickly as possible where the lay of the land would help or hinder an offense or a defense. Acquiring this quality would probably require regularly war-gaming, a late development in learning to command.
The heart of the coup d’oeil is the ability quickly to determine an enemy’s center of gravity, which means, in the strategic sense, choosing the enemy army as opposed to being locked on a fixed objective. In the tactical sense, it often means knowing how to find and eliminate the enemy commander. That certainly was Alexander’s consistent goal, and Epaminondas’s when Cleombrotus was killed at Leuctra. As I discuss below, knowing an enemy’s weakness is often the center of gravity.
One also has to include imagination under intellect, meaning not only introducing new tactics but employing methods that almost exceed the conception of adversaries. The citizens of Tyre, for example, were certain that their island city and its walls were impervious to attack—until Alexander built a mole more than half a mile long from the shore, and developed weapons and siege engines to operate from ships against those walls. Long Ju, likewise, could not imagine that Han Xin would build a dam to entice him across the Wei River, only to have much of his army drowned and the rest isolated.
Second, we must consider energy, which is best displayed in the commander’s involvement with the troops, during peacetime but more particularly during war. Before the battle, the generals covered in this book were in motion with their armies if not marching in the ranks, and whenever possible were scouting the battlefield before the fighting started. Jan Žižka was planning deployments even when he was blind. Whether they arrived in wagons or on horseback or by footslogging, they were in the field and in view. To accomplish what he did, Subedei needed to keep up with his troops’ rapid movements. Leadership means not merely leading but being seen leading. Sitting in headquarters is not an option. To make his point, Meigs quotes General Matthew Ridgeway, who guided UN forces in Korea after Douglas MacArthur was relieved of his command: “A basic element in troop leadership is the responsibility of the commander to be where the crisis of action is going to happen.”3
Energy is of course vital if one is going to actively be involved in the fighting, as Alexander was in all of his battles. Caesar certainly illustrated it at Alesia. And Belisarius seemed to be everywhere during the siege of Rome—coordinating troops, civilians, and construction when he wasn’t firing arrows at Ostrogoth riders from the walls or leading cavalry operations. Even when not in actual combat, the general needs to be in a position to act and react. Wellington was always described as being where the action was hottest. One regular observation of Napoleon’s declining days involved the lack of energy he demonstrated in comparison with early in his career. His physical ailments kept him from the Waterloo battlefield at its most important juncture.
Meigs’s third quality, selflessness, is best illustrated when commanders place themselves in harm’s way to achieve victory. As we’ve seen, most of the commanders in this book spent time in the field with their troops and sometimes suffered their privations, but without exception all of them were on or near the battlefield when the action started. From Epaminondas to Marlborough they were often engaging in combat themselves—as we’ve seen with Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar, and Belisarius in particular. Meigs observes that Marlborough was not “worrying about his own skin when he placed himself in danger at Ramillies and Oudenarde.”4
Those who held themselves back from swinging a sword or firing a musket (Oda, Frederick, Napoleon, Wellington) were on the field, watching and directing the action and within arrow or gun range. In the political arena, some of these men were willing to act from behind the scenes, but the battlefield is a different kind of arena. A commander must truly be willing to sacrifice himself, as J. F. C. Fuller once wrote: “Death is the bandmaster of War, and unless all, from general to drummer boy, follow the beat of his baton, harmony must eventually give way to discord.”5
The last of Meigs’s qualities of greatness is humanity. As he expresses this quality, “The difference between winning and not winning lies often in the faith of the unit in their leader and in their ability together to persevere through that last final push that breaks the enemy’s will. To engender that faith, generals must have a human touch and a feel for the troops.”6 Meigs’s “human touch” may not be what most people would call humanity—concern about the lives and conditions of others. Yet it is how the soldiers under one’s command would define it. Alexander and Napoleon were renowned for identifying individual soldiers by name and praising their performances. Napoleon in particular offered quick rewards for exemplary service. His comment on what men would do for a scrap of ribbon reveals a certain cynicism; on the other hand, he knew that that scrap of ribbon translated into status and often rank and monetary advancement. Oda exhibited little concern for the welfare of his individual soldiers, but by instituting the widespread use of ashigaru he offered a way for peasants to rise in status through military service.
Hannibal could not appeal to his veterans’ sense of national pride—many were mercenaries and far from home—so he appealed to their personal pride by setting the example. The humanity these generals showed is what motivates all good soldiers: it binds individuals together and creates cohesion; it is the basis of brotherhood. Hannibal was a soldier’s soldier; what man under him could do less? Žižka didn’t let blindness keep him from the battlefield, and his men served him with greater devotion because of it.
Further, Žižka had a religious motivation that was unique among the commanders in this book. Religion played a remarkably small role in their fighting lives, it seems. Alexander may have viewed himself as divine, but was hardly intent on spreading Greek religion. Belisarius was a champion of Justinian, who was as well known for his religious reforms in the Byzantine Empire as for his foreign policy, but neither seems to have used “God and country” in motivating the troops. Gustavus, as a champion of the Protestant cause in the Thirty Years War, was probably the only other commander here whose faith in God inspired him in battle. Indeed just before his final cavalry charge he commented, “The Lord God is my armor.”
Those are Meigs’s elements. Other military thinkers have outlined other qualities, most of them connected in some way. U.S. Air Force colonel John Boyd believes that decisiveness is key to military victory and devised the so-called OODA loop: “observe,” “orient,” “decide,” and “act.”7
This has to be done again and again as the battle develops and done faster than the enemy can. This also incorporates some of the aspects of “vision” discussed above—the coup d’oeil during which the commander chooses a deployment or method of attack, particularly one his opponent least expects. Decisiveness shows itself in battle by the commander’s knowing when and where to strike. At Austerlitz, Napoleon not only set up the battlefield deployment but knew precisely where the enemy weak point would appear and when to launch his striking force.
The generals discussed here were quick to issue the necessary orders, knowing their men could and would implement them. Alexander could throw himself into the battle assured that his subordinates would do their jobs. Hannibal at Cannae could face an army far superior in numbers because he knew his men and because he had developed a bold plan. Han Xin could do the same at Jingxing. Though he did not have a close relationship with his relatively new troops, he could anticipate their abilities. At both Ramillies and Oudenarde, Marlborough demonstrated the ability to plan and deploy—almost on the run—even as his enemy was deploying simultaneously. None of these commanders ever exhibited hesitation. Even on defense, they knew when to seize the opportunity to counterattack.
Related to decisiveness is of course speed, a quality perhaps best demonstrated at the operational level. Whichever general can get his men to a battlefield before the enemy expects them has a distinct advantage. Sometimes this means the general gets to choose his battleground and create an ambush, like Hannibal at Lake Trasimene. Belisarius reached Rome so quickly the Ostrogoths had to abandon the city, setting up the yearlong siege. Subedei paced his withdrawal in order to set up the ambush at the Kalkha River. Žižka had enough time to read the ground and deploy at Sudomer before the imperial forces attacked. At Hohenfriedberg and Leuthen, Frederick got to the field before his enemy was fully deployed and created a surprise attack. So did Marlborough at the Schellenberg and Subedei at the Sajo River. The result is often a smaller casualty count for both sides, as was not the case at Lutzen, Blenheim, and Waterloo.
Speed in battle can be just as important. Epaminondas’s deep phalanx running across the plain at Leuctra caught the Spartans in midmaneuver. Alexander began the battle at the Issus late in the day, before the Persians could read and react. Oda surprised Imagawa’s army at Okehazama by rushing into his camp in the immediate wake of a hailstorm. Žižka broke out of his encirclement at Kutna Hora by striking in the dead of night against an unprepared Sigismund. Frederick’s rapid redeployment at Rossbach caught the French cavalry and infantry completely unawares. Napoleon’s rapid redeployment of troops at Rivoli beat back one uncoordinated Austrian attack after another until he could launch his counteroffensive.
In the end every great commander recognizes relative strengths and weaknesses—whether in a coup d’oeil, or over time. This applies to new tactics or weaponry, which can play a part in overturning an enemy’s strength. For example, the deep phalanx at Leuctra broke the “invincible” Spartan force. The Persian chariots proved useless against the sarissas and discipline of Alexander’s formations. Pompey’s large cavalry force had no better luck against Caesar’s smaller mixed cavalry and light infantry using their pila as stabbing spears instead of javelins. Oda’s matchlocks broke the Takeda cavalry, just as the Hussite hand cannons helped to defeat the imperial knights—their armor became a liability once they were unhorsed. Žižka also negated the superior numbers of his enemies by deploying his forces in such a way that the enemy was obliged to fight on a narrow front. Gustavus’s lighter artillery tore apart the imperial tercios, as did his quicker-firing musketeers. Napoleon’s army was famous for its artillery; Wellington negated its effectiveness by employing the reverse slope at many of his battles in Spain, and most notably at Waterloo.
Connected to assessing strengths and weaknesses is using them to outmaneuver or outthink an opponent. Alexander played on—indeed relied upon—the Persians’ sense of security in their positions at all of his battles with them. At Ilipa, Scipio negated the usually devastating effect of the Carthaginian elephants by means of a complex maneuver that placed cavalry and light infantry nearest them, so the elephants’ size and strength were negated by swarms of arrows and javelins from the more mobile Roman forces. Frederick’s classic outflanking move at Leuthen made moot the entire Austrian army position.
Conversely, the weakness of using Hussite peasants for soldiers became a strength when they proved far more mobile—able to use their wagons and farm implements for military purposes—and far more motivated than their opponents. The use of smaller forces to divert larger ones is probably the most effective way of benefiting from weakness. Han Xin’s smaller force backed up against the Wu River at Jingxing focused the enemy attention away from the cavalry thrust to the rear. The Mongol tactic of the feigned retreat was always to give the impression of weakness or defeat.
Perhaps even more important than the coup d’oeil is the ability to foresee an opposing commander’s moves. Sun Tzu wrote, “Know yourself and know your enemy and in a hundred battles you will not be defeated.” This is the most consistently illustrated characteristic of the generals in this study.
It helps of course when an opponent is predictable or overconfident, as were the Roman generals Hannibal faced—Tiberius Longus at the Trebia River and Flaminius at Lake Trasimene; much the same Roman attitude resulted in the slaughter at Cannae. Belisarius took advantage of the overzealous Persian cavalry at Dara to strike both their attacking forces in flank or rear. Žižka knew that once the armored knights deployed they would not shy away from attacking his peasant wagenburgs, and thus defeated them multiple times. Subedei’s opponents never caught on to the feigned retreat. Oda knew Takeda would throw his cavalry at him at Nagashino. Marlborough knew at Blenheim and Ramillies that the enemy would use villages as strong points, so he held them there and broke through weakly held portions of their lines elsewhere. At Rossbach Frederick took advantage of a command divided between two generals who were both sure of their abilities. And perhaps no commanders in any battle in history were as manipulated as the Russian and Austrian emperors at Austerlitz (though Mack at Ulm is in the running for the honor). Finally, Wellington’s conversation with Picton just before Waterloo was a telling illustration of taking advantage of enemy habits: “Well, here they come in the same old way.” “Yes, and we shall beat them in the same old way.”
CAN THE STUDY OF THESE GREAT CAPTAINS confer any advantages today at the tactical and grand tactical levels of combat? Without question. At heart, whatever the abstraction that might have applied to their thinking, the actions taken by these great commanders of the past involve terrain and the deployments and are mainly boots-on-the-ground concepts. New technology does not make irrelevant history’s lessons. As George Patton wrote to his son: “To be a successful soldier you must know history. Read it objectively.… What you must know is how man reacts. Weapons change, but the men who use them change not at all.”8